# Arts of the Working Class > Arts of the Working Class is a multilingual publishing program at the intersection of art, society, poverty and wealth. Sold on the streets, vendors keep 100% of the revenues. Public Ghost content for AI and LLM tooling. This file includes a bounded export of public pages first, then recent public posts. Append `.md` to any post or page URL to get the content in Markdown (for example, `/example-post.md`). ## Pages ### About this site URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/about/ Last updated: 2026-05-28T16:55:01.000Z Arts of the Working Class is an independent publication launched in May 2026 by María Inés Plaza Lazo. If you subscribe today, you'll get full access to the website as well as email newsletters about new content when it's available. Your subscription makes this site possible, and allows Arts of the Working Class to continue to exist. Thank you! ### Access all areas By signing up, you'll get access to the full archive of everything that's been published before and everything that's still to come. Your very own private library. ### Fresh content, delivered Stay up to date with new content sent straight to your inbox! No more worrying about whether you missed something because of a pesky algorithm or news feed. ### Meet people like you Join a community of other subscribers who share the same interests. --- ### Start your own thing Enjoying the experience? Get started for free and set up your very own subscription business using [Ghost](https://ghost.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), the same platform that powers this website. ### Subscriptions URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/membership/ Last updated: 2026-09-04T09:41:30.000Z Arts of the Working Class (*AWC*) is transitioning to an online archive and subscription-based structure. Over the coming months, three forms of subscriptions will define this system: Readers, Partners, and Redistributors. These subscriptions sustain the production and circulation of a multilingual publishing project holding a critical lens to art, society, wealth, and poverty. ### Contacts URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/contact/ Last updated: 2026-07-29T15:21:59.000Z ### María Inés Plaza Lazo Founder, Publisher Contact for media partnerships, advertisements and collaborations. mi@artsoftheworkingclass.org ### Amelie Jakubek Admin and Project Manage Contact for legal and administrative inquiries. hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org / admin@artsoftheworkingclass.org ### Dalia Maini Editor-in-Chief Contact for editorial inquiries and co-working space. dm@artsoftheworkingclass.org ### Laurentiou Dragota Distribution and Membership Lead Contact for membership, distribution, and subscription. distro@artsoftheworkingclass.org ### People URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/people/ Last updated: 2026-07-29T14:24:30.000Z ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/07/pawel-czerwinski-_9dSF0Hwitw-unsplash-3-1.jpg) ### Focus URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/tags/ Last updated: 2026-07-29T14:24:14.000Z [![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/07/pawel-czerwinski-_9dSF0Hwitw-unsplash-10.jpg)](https://google.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ### FAQ URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/faq/ Last updated: 2026-07-28T20:03:29.000Z #### Do I need to pay to read? No. Many of our online features remain freely accessible. At the same time, Arts of the Working Class (AWC) is not costless to produce. Every issue depends on a network of labor, care, and financial contributions that make its circulation possible. #### What do these memberships support? All memberships contribute to the conditions under which AWC exists: printing, distribution, vendor income, contributor fees, editorial work, translation, website maintenance, and the circulation of voices across art, society, wealth, and poverty. #### How does membership work? Membership is not a paywall. Some articles remain freely available, while others are reserved for members. If you are not a member, you can still unlock individual articles for as little as €1, with no subscription required. Membership simply offers ongoing access while helping sustain the work behind the publication. It is less about purchasing content than contributing to the conditions that allow it to exist. #### What does "Supporter" mean? A "Supporter" membership contributes approximately the value of the newspaper sold on the street. It acknowledges that every issue has already been written, edited, printed, carried, and distributed by people whose labor makes its circulation possible. It helps stabilize circulation. #### What does direct support of editorial, distribution, and organizational infrastructure mean? Unlike many cultural publications, AWC receives limited structural funding and relies heavily on memberships, donations, subscriptions, partnerships, collaborations, and advertising to sustain its activities. The publication’s model depends on the circulation of tens of thousands of printed copies through vendors who retain 100% of their sales revenues.Support contributes to printing and production costs, contributor fees, editorial labor, translation and copyediting, distribution logistics, storage and shipping, website maintenance, public programs and events, the development of new partnerships and circulation networks.Infrastructure is often invisible. This support helps keep it functioning. #### What does "Partner" mean? The "Partner" membership is designed for institutions that make knowledge publicly accessible. It does not offer sponsorship in the promotional sense. It is a distribution agreement that extends access through public and collective infrastructures. #### What does "Redistributor" mean? A "Redistributor" membership contributes according to capacity rather than consumption. It strengthens the publication’s economic resilience while contributing experience, networks, and strategic advice. #### What are tailored communication campaigns? Rather than standard commercial advertising, tailored campaigns are developed collaboratively with "Redistributors". Campaigns may include visibility across print and digital publications, newsletters, and institutional formats developed with AWC. Every collaboration is developed individually rather than through a standardized marketing model. #### What is the AWC co-working space? The AWC co-working space provides temporary access to workspace, meetings, and collaborative environments within the publication’s network. Availability varies throughout the year and is coordinated directly with the editorial team. The space is understood as infrastructure rather than as a private benefit. #### How can "Redistributors" steward the material conditions that allow the publication to exist? AWC is held by a fragile infrastructure of labor, printing, distribution, editorial work, storage, administration, fundraising, translation, and care. Stewardship means helping maintain those conditions without seeking ownership over them. Some contributors provide financial support. Others provide space, expertise, networks, institutional access, equipment, or logistical support. The goal is not to direct the publication, but to help ensure that it remains independent, accessible, and able to take risks. #### What is the difference between a membership and a subscription? A subscription is a transaction via Shopify through which you receive the publication. A membership is participation in the infrastructure that makes the publication possible. Subscriptions provide issues. Memberships sustain circulation. Members can choose to do both. #### Where does the money go? Membership contributions support the material chain that allows the publication to circulate: printing, distribution, contributor fees, editorial work, and the maintenance of the infrastructure behind the newspaper. Although vendors retain 100% of their sales revenues, the publication indirectly supports many vendors and distributors who face structural economic precarity, marginalization, and/or dependence on social support systems. #### What data does AWC collect? We collect only what is necessary for the publication to function: email address (for membership and communication), membership status, basic interaction data (such as newsletter opens and clicks), and payment processing information (handled by Stripe).We do not collect biographies, construct user profiles, or engage in behavioral advertising. #### Why is any data collected at all? Because circulation requires infrastructure. If the publication is to move between readers, vendors, institutions, and collaborators, it requires at least minimal technical record-keeping: an address to communicate with, a status to designate membership level, and a record of contribution. Data is collected for logistical purposes only. #### Who has access to this data? Only the editorial and administrative team responsible for operating the publication, along with the service providers necessary to process memberships and payments (Ghost and Stripe). No third-party advertising networks are involved. #### Is data used for advertising or profiling? No. Arts of the Working Class does not operate through targeted advertising, behavioral profiling, or data-extraction business models. **Membership is a way of holding together the uneven material conditions that allow beauty, struggle, and thought to circulate without being organized according to privilege and scarcity.** ### Media Kit URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/media-kit/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T20:52:34.000Z [Media Kit 2026mediakit2026-update-1.pdf2 MBdownload-circle](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/content/files/2026/07/mediakit2026-update-1.pdf "Download") ### Advertise URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/advertise/ Last updated: 2026-06-18T15:48:51.000Z Advertise ### Contribute URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/contribute/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T20:57:28.000Z ### Art for the many, not for the few. **PITCH TO AWC** **TAKE YOUR PART IN THE ART** AWC is a platform for everyone interested in discussions of arts and society, wealth and poverty. We welcome pitches from all corners of your mind. If you want to share your voice, please consider the guidelines below: ***HOW TO ORIENTATE YOURSELF*** Please read the paper in print or online version prior to sending a pitch. Through that you will get a sense of what we publish. We are interested in how art can be a tool for social justice, the politics of the art world, political action from the ground up as well as global politics from the perspective of the arts. Arts of the Working Class’ print newspaper is edited thematically. The program of 2021 is set and should you wish to contribute please be aware that we can only consider relevant topics. The online platform gives space to experiment with themes, format and length, complexities and simplicities. We welcome stories from around the globe in every language. Our editors on staff are currently able to edit your text in English, German, and Spanish. Should you wish to write in another language, please let us know and we can reach out to our international network for assistance in the editing process. We are an art publication but do not wish to speak exclusively to and with those who are educated in the arts (International Art English & Artspeak): write simply and write well. ***WHEN YOU PITCH*** \*Write in a maximum of two paragraphs, what you are looking for, what your text is trying to channel, and which outcome is the one you are expecting. \*Introduce yourself (in a few sentences, a short bio). If you’ve never written for us before, include links or attach writing samples. Reveal Bias if you are working for an institution, a PR firm, if you are writing on a friend’s solo show, if you are affiliated to a political movement, if your submission is related to the interests of third parties in general, please let us know. ***WHEN YOU SUBMIT A COMPLETED PIECE*** \*Introduce the piece and yourself in the body of your email (see above), with the piece attached. \*If the piece was previously published elsewhere, please let us know when and where, with links if applicable. \*Include relevant dates for a show/film screening/etc. in your pitch, as well as a link to a page with more info about it. Tell us if you’re simultaneously pitching the same story elsewhere. ***WHEN WE ACCEPT YOUR PITCH AND YOUR CONTRIBUTION IS READY*** \*Every contribution requires an image, videos and links according to what the text is dealing with.Images (high res, with photo credit and caption), Videos (link) - AWC editorial maintains the right to choose which images are published. \*Send us your invoice (please find below how much we can offer). Examples of pieces we are interested in: ***Review:*** These are usually tied to world news and cultural events. They can vary in length: a shorter piece may cover a rally or protest, while a longer piece may go more in depth, by adding context to an event or with more reporting and research on a particular news story. Pictures will have to be attached. Timeliness is important — we want to publish soon after the event happens. ***Revisit:*** We are excited to begin publishing online more timely reviews than our bi-monthly paper allows. We are interested in visual art shows and events, performances, commercial literature and film, sound art and happenings. ***Calendar:*** We prefer to run exhibition reviews while shows are still open or events to come. Book or film reviews can be written about a piece from any time period through our current lens. ***Reconsider:*** This format is an alternative model for art criticism that is not focused on "rating" an exhibition or institution but rather focuses on a more holistic approach on the typologies of the art exhibited and how it relates to the ecosystem in which it is embedded. This reconsiderationRevision takes into account that works of art, or criticism, are never the product of a single person but a collective process, built upon a foundation of certain social dynamics and preconditions. ***Letters of Workers and Notes on Cities:*** We have two sections available online; Letters from Workers and Notes on Cities which allow for the writer to take a more personal approach to the current event taking place.Generally it is a diary style work capturing the mise-en-scene that is missing from cursory news reporting or a traditional review format. This piece is also accompanied by visual evidence in the form of your photos, screenshots, posters or youtube playlists. These pieces must be pitched at least a month in advance and will rely on your submitted writing samples. ***Letters of Workers:*** This format should focus on a particular industry or job from the inside, and form connections with broader labour movements or philosophies. How does your work make you feel? Will your job exist in 50 years? What does your commute look like? Are your co-workers down to unionize or are they just trying to go for a business lunch? ***Notes on Cities:*** This takes after the format of other online art publications who do a diary segment. Please take our readers into your urban space, populated by characters and connected ever more by infinite facebook events and public transit lines. This is a chance to promote smaller scenes and cities as well as new formations in the quickly gentrifying magnates. What does Art in this city look like? Where do people gather? What do you want to eat? Who are you going to meet? ***Opinion piece:*** You’ve probably noticed that AWC is strongly opinionated. Our writers ever-more so. But it’s important to make sure those opinions are well-researched and argued. Don't feel constricted to the classic op-ed format but do not copy and paste your Reddit rant into a word document and send it through. ***Miscellaneous:*** We are especially excited about the aforementioned categories but don’t hesitate to try something else. We love a well researched essay, a funny piece, and are interested in displaying different formats (Comics? Videos? Photo Essay?). AWC online is an opportunity to expand the expression of workers inside and outside the arts. Dream big with us! Submit your pitches to ***hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org*** with the subject line: Online Pitch, and a working title. ### Support URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/support/ Last updated: 2026-06-18T15:48:51.000Z Support ### Partnerships URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/partnerships/ Last updated: 2026-06-18T15:48:51.000Z Partnerships ### Stockists URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/stockists/ Last updated: 2026-06-18T15:48:51.000Z Stockists ### Pick Up Stations URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/pick-up-stations/ Last updated: 2026-09-25T10:32:30.000Z *For anyone who would like to sell AWC on the streets.* ### Arts of the Working Class can be sold by anyone on the streets. Pick-up stations are low-threshold social and cultural spaces where AWC copies are stocked, allowing vendors to collect them for street sale. All revenue from sales remains with the vendor. The suggested street price is €2.50 per copy. There is no limit on the number of copies a vendor can pick up; we simply ask that each vendor stays mindful of the needs of others, so everyone has fair access. No appointment is needed. You're welcome to just show up at one of our pick-up locations below. Alternatively, get in touch with us to arrange a delivery. **Pick-up locations in Berlin** **Neukolln** \> [AWC Co-Working](https://maps.app.goo.gl/WEJkUAssCw6EUKG46?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \>[FixPunkt Druckausgleich](https://maps.app.goo.gl/RtDzgY1qMgCp5qZY8?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Kreuzberg** \> [FixPunkt e.V. // Kreuzberg](https://maps.app.goo.gl/p72cKE1hhp4UcUHQ6?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \> [Gitschiner - 15](https://maps.app.goo.gl/vcPQxDnzqwh5W8XD8?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \> [FixPunkt Kotti](https://maps.app.goo.gl/wiAmvcvPLFEwhzHA8?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Wedding** \> [Mühlenstube](https://maps.app.goo.gl/nNdy8aB8cxpSiff78?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Tempelhof** \>[Drogennotdienst](https://maps.app.goo.gl/h4agpA4YPnP4ngRg7?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Moabit** \>[Birkenstube](https://maps.app.goo.gl/BZU5Uo4BGSuyL4Fy9?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Fridrichsain** \>[FixPunkt e.V. // Mobil Team](https://maps.app.goo.gl/mnmy3DQu21amtcYp7?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Mitte** \>[ACUD Macht Neu](https://maps.app.goo.gl/vui3eVmMYDnqjdSQ8?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Pick-up locations in Frankfurt** \>[SYNNIKA](https://maps.app.goo.gl/SzXx9TwVJW8nCBgq5?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **How it works** \> Show up at a pick-up location and collect your copies. No appointment needed. \> Sell the magazine on the street at the suggested price of €2.50 per copy. \> Keep 100% of the revenue from your sales. \>Return whenever you need to restock, keeping in mind other vendors' needs. **In case of further inquiries, contact** distro@artsoftheworkingclass.org **\*\*** **VENDORS CHAT** The AWC Vendors Chat is a virtual space where vendors stay informed about new issues, share their selling experiences, and let us know when pick-up spots run empty. The chat is mainly conducted in English and German, but we're also able to respond to inquiries in Spanish, Italian, and Romanian. [Join here](https://chat.whatsapp.com/I7nldKTqFl8JYdXf2RUdA2?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) or scan the QR code below to join. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/07/Screenshot-2021-05-14-at-16__ResizedImageWzIwMCwxOTld.01.33--1-.png) *Feel free to share with others in need!* ### Calls for Collaborations URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/calls-for-collaborations/ Last updated: 2026-07-07T21:00:06.000Z ### Transformers: 2026 Editorial Cycle *Transformers:* All they ever wanted was to save the world. As a disruptive desire, it echoes through every crisis: from ancient myths to climate revolt—and even in sugarcoated action films. Yet every attempt at salvation carries a shadow. It risks domination. The impulse to decide what the world should be and who deserves to inherit it is never innocent. We’re told capitalism is the only system available, that there’s no alternative. Yet those who labor and live together under oppression know that the forces of change reside in one another, in restless togetherness. Alternatives quietly multiply in kitchens, strikes, and shared gardens, and in collective study, mutual aid, and borderless solidarities. Change is not a slogan. It is a practice, strengthened through endurance, conflict, tenderness, and the refusal to stand alone. The work of thinkers, artists, and practitioners shows that saviourism is a fantasy so seductive that it traps the very people who cling to it, blinding them to their own dependency. This editorial cycle imagines futures beyond the confines of “the human” while holding firmly to our responsibilities in this world. We move toward futures where technology and ecology are shaped by care rather than conquest, where economic balance is practiced (not promised), and fairness is designed (not symbolized). Understanding one another becomes the daily work of survival and dignity. For the 2026 issues, Energy, Organisms, Global Players, and Ancient Battles, we seek submissions for a section dedicated to work that helps expand our editorial sensibilities. Unlike our last open call, which welcomed finished texts, this year we’re inviting pitches to be developed in collaboration with AWC editors as part of a mutual process of transformation. **ISSUE 41: ENERGY** Release: Early April 2026 Call it a vibe, call it spirit—energy isn’t a metaphor. It’s breath, tremor, heat, rhythm, exhaustion, devotion. It’s the charge that animates life and the friction that exhausts it. Energy is quantifiable in physics: the capacity to perform work, transferred between bodies in perpetual transaction. It’s in constant motion, kinetic energy propelling objects forward, potential energy coiled in stillness, electromagnetic waves carrying light and information. Civilization is an energy experiment: humanity's story of capturing, converting, and channeling force from one form into another. It is exercised across spiritual lineages: prana, qi, spirito santo, kaddish, all the goddesses and celestial beings that embody cosmic entanglements in our terrestrial life. Energy flows also through social systems as power, extracted, hoarded, transferred, refused. It circulates through bodies as labor, desire, and depletion. It charges acts of creation: the artist's hand converting internal voltage into form, the musician translating vibration into feeling, the writer metabolizing experience into language, and the spiritual practitioner tracing a legacy of the soul. We invite explorations of what sets life in motion and what drains it dry. From electrical grids to laborious technologies, from the spiritual charge of resistance to exhaustion weaponized against the vulnerable, how does energy move through our relationships with each other and the world? Who supplies power, and who refuses the grid? How is vitality extracted from land, labor, and bodies? What forms of energy emerge as insurgent forces circulating outside official channels: solidarity, refusal, mutual aid, creative rupture? **Suggested Formats** \>Reportage on energy infrastructures, logistic networks, and resource extraction \>Poetic meditations or scores on rhythm, grief, or spiritual endurance \>Critical analysis of the institutional cultural battery and its countering spectacle \>Testimonies of burnout, recuperation, or collective stamina **Proposal Length:** 200 words **Preferred Languages:** All accepted, and Spanish, Quechua, and Hebrew are particularly encouraged **Addressed to:** Relational Scientists, (Pata)Physicians, Spiritual Practitioners, Body Workers ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/07/havin-al-sindy-In-the-Aftermath-2024-2-channel-video-Sculpture-Drawings-Performance__ResizedImageWzYwMCw1MjNd-1.png) Fig.1 **ISSUE 42: ORGANISMS** Release: End of June 2026 The Gaia hypothesis suggests that living things and the nonliving environment work together as a single, self-regulating system that keeps Earth habitable. Formulated by scientists James Lovelock and Lynn Margulis in the 1970s, it reframes Earth as a living entanglement, where biosphere and evolution shape global temperature, ocean chemistry, atmospheric composition, and the very possibility of habitability. But Gaia is not in equilibrium: it is precarious, transformative, and opportunistic. In late-stage capitalism, life is forced to thrive in ruins. As Anna Tsing writes, capitalism doesn't just destroy, it leaves behind disturbed landscapes where new ecologies take hold. Matsutake mushrooms fruit in forests scarred by logging and war. Bacteria adapt to warming, acidifying oceans. Hybrid species colonize polluted wetlands. Collectives of care emerge from economic abandonment. These are not signs of resilience within capitalism's logic. They are evidence of survival despite the wreckage—indifferent to market value, thriving through contamination rather than purity. Survival is entanglement: porous, multispecies, unruly. We seek contributions on organisms that thrive in spite of their conditions: microbiomes that blur the boundaries of self, weeds reclaiming industrial sites, and communities thriving in the margins, remembering life is stronger than exploitation. We ask: What interdependent worlds emerge in sites of industrial or ecological collapse? How do organisms without fixed boundaries—fungi, bacteria, and viral ecosystems—challenge capitalist logics of the individual, the autonomous, the extractable? What does it mean to thrive in contamination, to value what capital deems worthless? How do precarious ecologies teach us forms of survival that capital cannot commodify or control? What multispecies entanglements reveal capitalism as only one (failing) arrangement among many ways of being alive? **Suggested Formats** \>Field notes from contaminated landscapes, Anthropocene ruins, or climate frontlines \>Scientific storytelling about microbiomes, mycorrhizal networks, adaptive species, or symbiotic systems \>Lyric essays on physical vulnerability, infection, digestion, interdependence, or permeability \>Visual documentation of hybrid ecosystems, feral ecologies, or collaborative survival projects \>Speculative biology imagining multispecies futures beyond capitalist extraction **Proposal Length:** 200 words **Preferred Languages:** All accepted, particularly Kurdish, German, and Turkish, are particularly encouraged **Addressed to:** School Students ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/07/afield_Photos-by-Veerle-Vercauteren__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0MDBd.jpg) Fig.2 **ISSUE 43: GLOBAL PLAYERS** Release: Early September 2026 The Global Minotaur for Yanis Varoufakis is the beastly system that sucks up the world’s surplus capital and labor via financial dominance, military force, and the hegemony of the dollar. They operate under a dual system: a financialized core where wealth multiplies through asset speculation and rent extraction, and a periphery still bound to traditional exploitation, labeled as countries “on the way to development.” Others remain outside the equation entirely, serving as wealth reservations for those who imposed the game. Global crises are never evenly distributed. The real actors—finance, tech monopolies, and sovereign wealth funds—are engineered to escape accountability. Now, the Minotaur has evolved through techno-feudalism: owning the digital commons and extracting rents from cloud serfs who generate infrastructure value they can never possess, Big Tech platforms function as global feudal lords. In this system, algorithmic governance replaces democratic control. The resulting collapse of international legal accountability should be our departure point to understand how geopolitics are framed today. Cloud capital replaces market competition, and over the past four years, imperialist axes have reshaped the notion of territorial sovereignty, as capital finally flows completely independent of nations. We seek analyses of these global choreographies: How do financial and technological systems evade accountability? Who plays, who gets played, who breaks the rules, and who rewrites them entirely? From transnational lab or networks and algorithmic governance to migrant routes and data extraction, these are not separate crises but mechanisms of the same system feeding the Minotaur. We demand a planetary imagination rooted in redistribution: the reclaiming of commons, the dismantling of digital fiefdoms, the refusal of our role as tribute. **Suggested Formats** \>Investigative journalism on debt, trade networks, or techno-feudalism \>First-person accounts of migration, displacement, or border-crossing \>Analytical essays on algorithmic governance or platform capitalism \>Photo essays mapping resource extraction, labor flows, or financial architectures \>Policy critiques proposing redistributive alternatives **Proposal Length:** 200 words **Images:** Up to 1 image may be included **Languages:** All accepted, particularly Farsi, Chinese, and French, are particularly encouraged **Addressed to:** Activists, economists, asylum seekers ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/07/Citra-Sasmita-Altar-of-The-Divine-Awakening-2023-Acrylic-on-traditional-Kamasan-canvas-55__ResizedImageWzYwMCw2NTld.5-x-57.5cm.-Image-from-Yeo-Workshop.jpg) Fig.3 **ISSUE 44: ANCIENT BATTLES** Release: End of November 2026 Under racial capitalism, battles are waged over epistemologies and resources. For millennia, Indigenous cosmologies operated under fundamentally different logics than capitalism: cyclical time rather than progress, reciprocity rather than extraction, kinship with non-human worlds rather than dominion over nature. These were not utopias. Indigenous societies practiced their own hierarchies and violence, sometimes entwined with feudal or colonial accumulation. The past teaches us that relational worlds are never simple, and we can trace ways of living that resist extraction, domination, and erasure. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes of the “Honorable Harvest,” protocols ensuring that taking from the earth requires asking permission, taking only what you need, and giving something in return. Ailton Krenak challenges the separation of nature and culture, arguing that rivers and forests are relations, not resources. Leanne Betasamosake Simpson recovers biskaabiiyang: peeling back colonial layers to practice planetary governance and land relations beneath. Ubuntu, “I am because we are,” embedded personhood within relational webs, rejecting the bounded individual that capitalism requires. Aboriginal Dreaming tracks encoded law, ecology, and kinship into the landscape itself, making land inseparable from memory and obligation. To deprogram this conquest logic is to ask: What pre-capitalist struggles shape our contemporary instincts? How do indigenous, ancestral, or mythic practices inform present resistance? What comes after our struggle against capitalism ends? What epistemologies and practices were targeted for elimination precisely because they made capitalism impossible? We seek contributions that revisit ancestral conflicts—not to romanticize them, but to recover what conquest tried to annihilate: survival without profit, community without borders, conflict without domination, peace as a practice sustained by environmental and social justice rather than absence of war. What comes after capitalism may require recollecting what other worlds felt and looked like, how they organized care, how they ended wars, how they lived with disagreement without demanding sameness. **Suggested Formats** \>Historical excavations, relics of forgotten revolts, cosmologies, or commons \>Mythic retellings connecting ancient conflicts to contemporary struggles \>Oral histories or intergenerational dialogues on memory and resistance \>Visual meditations on ritual, territory, or sacred landscapes \>Speculative futures imagining post-capitalist peace **Deadline for proposal:** September 15th **Proposal Length:** 200 words **Languages:** All accepted, particularly Hindi, Arabic, and Urdu, are particularly encouraged **Addressed to:** Historians, storytellers, indigenous communities, students of mythology **General Submission Guidelines** **Submission Deadline** February 28, 2026 **Pitch Requirements** Abstract length: 200 words Include a 50-word bio and a brief statement about your connection to the theme Submit as a PDF file **Note on Formats** The formats are specific to each issue. While we encourage submissions that fit their guidelines, we also welcome hybrid, experimental, or cross-genre proposals that push the boundaries of conventional forms. **Selection Criteria** We prioritize marginalized voices and embodied experiences. We welcome works that challenge dominant Western-centric narratives and support multilingual content, collaborating with translators when needed. **Fees and Remuneration** Submitting a pitch is open to everyone. Selected contributions will be remunerated upon publication, following editorial evaluation and development with the AWC team. **Send your pitch to** Dalia Maini dm@artsoftheworkingclass.org ### Co-Working Space URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/co-working-space/ Last updated: 2026-07-28T20:57:04.000Z ### Spaces for Artists, Writers, and Publishers. \- Update: The opportunity to inhabit the space with us is directed towards Berlin locals! - Arts of the Working Class (AWC) is thrilled to announce the opening of its new space in Berlin-Neukölln (NK) at Schillerpromenade 10\. It is dedicated to supporting artists who are on low-income, who have been defunded, and/or come from a migration background, as well as writers and publishers in need of short-term to mid-term workspace. Our goal is to foster a welcoming community where collective work, culture, and artistic practices can thrive in an environment that values respect, plurality, and equality. We have been able to move in thanks to the generous support of the Schöpflin Foundation. **About** The AWC space—including our headquarters, office, archive, and exhibition room—will serve as a hub for our vendors, contributors, partners, and the wider community. Regular exhibitions, workshops, and events will be organized in alignment with Arts of the Working Class's editorial work and in collaboration with the local community. These activities are designed to foster dialogue and exchange, enriching the collective cultural production. **Available Spaces** **Individual Room:** Suitable for one person; available for up to six months (September 2024-February 2025 / March-August 2025). **Collective Room:** Accommodates up to five members; available for up to six months (September 2024-February 2025 or March-August 2025). **Facilities and Amenities** Each room is equipped with desks, lamps, and Wi-Fi. We provide wooden chairs and benches, but you are welcome to bring your own comfortable seating. The office is on the ground floor and fully wheelchair accessible. Two bathrooms and a small communal kitchen are also available. The space is offered free of charge under the principles of the commons: users are expected to care for the space and to contribute to the community's well-being. AWC retains overall responsibility for the space. While it is free to use, donations—whether in time, effort, or any currency—are encouraged to help to sustain the initiative. **How to Apply** To apply for an individual or collective room, please submit a single document including: **Introduction (up to 250 words):** tell us about yourself and your work. **Proposal (up to 250 words):** describe your intended use of the space and how it aligns with AWC's mission. **Room and Timeframe Preference:** Indicate your preferred room (e.g., individual or collective) and timeframe (e.g., September-February or March-August). **Eligibility** **This opportunity is open to:** Low-income or defunded artists, writers, and publishers Community builders, activists, and cultural workers Individuals or collectives from marginalized communities **Deadline for Applications** Please submit your application by **September 6.** Applicants will be notified by **September 13.** For inquiries or further information, please contact us at dm@artsoftheworkingclass.org. **We look forward to welcoming you!** ### Vendors URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/vendors/ Last updated: 2026-06-18T15:48:52.000Z Vendors ### Institutions URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/institutions/ Last updated: 2026-06-23T20:53:10.000Z #### Basel Art Institute HGK FHNW Ausstellungsraum Klingental Kulturstiftung Basel H. Geiger Kunsthalle Basel Kunstmuseum Basel #### Berlin Allianz Kulturstiftung Archenhold Observatory Atelier Gardens (BUFA) Berliner Kältehilfe Berliner Obdachlosenhilfe e.V. Bildungswerk Berlin der Heinrich-Böll-Stiftung e.V. Cabinet Callie\\'s Fluentum Freie Universität Seminarzentrum Gropius Bau Hamburger Bahnhof Hamburger Bahnhof – Museum für Gegenwart Haus am Waldsee Haus der Kulturen der Welt Kunstbibliothek KW Institute for Contemporary Art Maxim Gorki Theatre Museum Berlin-Karlshorst Museum Frieder Burda Salon Berlin nGbK Rosa Luxemburg Stiftung Schaubühne Schinkel Pavillon Silent green Kulturquartier UdK Berlin UdK Konzertsaal Berlin Volksbühne Berlin ZK/U - Center for Art and Urbanistics #### Munich Gasteig Haus der Kunst Kunstverein München Lenbachhaus Literaturhaus München Lothringer 13 Halle NS-Dokumentationszentrum Villa Stuck ### Supporters URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/supporters/ Last updated: 2026-06-18T15:48:52.000Z Supporters ### Contributions URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/contributions/ Last updated: 2026-09-16T14:54:46.000Z ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/07/pawel-czerwinski-_9dSF0Hwitw-unsplash-4-1.jpg) ### Print Issues URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/print-issues/ Last updated: 2026-06-27T18:48:48.000Z _No content available._ ## Posts ### While weaving the flowers, I imagined myself standing in the midst of them URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/while-weaving-the-flowers-i-imagined-myself-standing-in-the-midst-of-them/ Last updated: 2026-10-21T13:03:23.000Z A knot has memory. No matter how hard you try to straighten it, the yarn still keeps its bends and it curves back to the shapes it once held. A carpet holds the memory of the lost garden the way the yarn holds the memory of the knot. After more than fifty years of global itinerancy, Anna Boghiguian’s visual philosophy has been drawn at last into Armenia’s dense web of carpets. The Cairo-born Armenian-Canadian artist first visited Armenia during the mid-1990s and in July 2025 was invited by AHA collective for a month-long residency in the country. That residency became the blueprint for “Weaving Culture” at the National Gallery of Armenia. Boghiguian is known for her site-specific investigations into how peoples, (his)stories, ideas, and materials meet, and how struggles relate. In her cartography of Armenia, entanglements of colonialism, labor, and mythology are found in the materiality of the warp and weft collectively crafted by six women, Anush Abrahamyan, Lena Arakelyan, Alyona Zakharian, Milena Ordiyants, Naira Hovsepyan, and Aida Hambardzumyan, who were forcibly displaced from Nagorno-Karabakh (Artsakh) between 2020 and 2023 after a war, a blockade, and a final military offensive were carried out by Azerbaijan. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Weaving-Culture_Anna-Boghiguian_Piruza-Khalapyan_AHA-collective.jpg) Weaving Culture. Anna Boghiguian, Piruza Khalapyan, AHA collective The exhibition ties the nomadic history of the woven object to the geopolitical vulnerability of the country, and the nation’s long (and continuous) history of exile. It also teases the question of return. According to the political scientist Veronika Zablotsky, diasporic return to Armenia should not be read simply as an ethnic nationalist project, but one that is designed to discipline, educate, and refashion Armenians into liberal subjects, laboring individuals, social entrepreneurs, and human capital. Here, a diasporic artist “returns” to Armenia, a country she was never a resident of. Her fifty years of itinerancy did not end in homecomings so much as it invited Armenia to become errant and fluid. Beyond the social impact – the way the exhibition centers displaced labor, creates new relations of production, and the visibility it brings (eventually) – the exhibition simultaneously unsettles the desire to return to pure origins by positioning the experience of displacement as a central part of the homeland itself. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Weaving-Culture_Anna-Boghiguian_National-Gallery-of-Armenia_1.jpg) Weaving Culture. Anna Boghiguian at National Gallery of Armenia To sustain this argument throughout the exhibition, the floor holds almost no weight. Almost all the woven objects and drawings either hang on the walls or from the ceiling. Across three gallery spaces, the exhibition brings together 37 carpets and tapestries made over a period of nine months between 2025 and 2026, as well as interviews with the weavers, materials from the weaving and dyeing processes, and a video interview with Boghiguian recorded during her residency in Armenia. Rather than simply telling the nomadic tale of this ancient craft, Boghiguian and the weavers bring it to life through the invention of “Watercolor Carpets,” as curator Nairi Khachadourian calls them. The geometric designs of the traditional tapestries have been replaced by semi-figurative drawings materialized using more than two hundred distinct dyes. The result is a woven fluid ground that embraces the challenges of constantly shifting shapes, and which eschews easy legibility. The first gallery offers a prelude to the landscapes of Armenia. Outlined goats climb crimson rocks, a trail of cattle merging with the landscape that surrounds them; multi-coloured mountains rush into each other. The Armenian carpets and tapestries have always carried traces of land and agricultural life. Here the quadrilateral forms of the land are interspersed with open shapes representing indigo skies that merge with the earth. A large carpet shows a kneeling mythic character of a female figure planting a flower beneath dangling suns and stars with her tongue sticking out. Titled *Meghri, the Earth Rises*, this unworldly figure has been suggested in the exhibition text as a protector of the land. Perhaps she embodies a collective consciousness inscribed by a historically fragile territory with a constant need for care and resilience. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Weaving-Culture---National-Gallery---21-May---Daniil-Primak-38-1.jpg) Weaving Culture. Anna Boghiguian at National Gallery of Armenia. ©Daniil Primak Moving on to the second gallery, the scenery shifts into a hanging garden: a flower garden, saplings, snails resting under a tree. On a smaller tapestry, my eyes note a snake coiled around a pomegranate plant, seducing a man to take a bite. Dyeing materials such as roots of madder, imported cochineal, rinds of pomegranate, indigo, walnut bark, and salt sit on a plinth. The colors of the land meet the wounds of exile and tales of return. They are narrated by flying snails and migratory birds. The stork is a repeated motif, a bird which has a special place in the local mythology, cherished for its return after long travels, bringing news of home, hope, and prosperity. The central piece here is the large carpet *Listen to the sound of nature, its music is truth,* which is shown back-to-back with its original drawing. A giant ear, another familiar motif from the artist’s *oeuvre*, appears in a vivacious abstract landscape in which a figure is seated underneath a tree. The lines of thought twist around lines of a rural polyphony. “Every nomadic people has had carpets,” I hear coming from the TV screen in the next room, where the artist and the curator talk in a video interview. They discuss the crucial role that the figure of the bard (“Ashugh” in Armenian) plays in transmitting stories through their open-ended and exploratory journeys. The artist longs for times when people would sit and listen to the stories of bards and encounter visions which had previously stayed in the shadows. For Boghiguian, this circular and unbounded exchange of knowledge is disappearing in this waning stage of global democracy. This suspended garden relates an exile’s myth-making to the material reality of the state. One might argue that within this interpretation, a certain aestheticization of exile is at play. If exile is so deeply interlaced with the land, does the show risk reading the traumatic experience of displacement as mythic and timeless**,** rather than a plight imposed by actual perpetrators with a continuous colonial agenda?The risk becomes even sharper in relation to Armenia, a nation shaped by repeated historical ruptures caused by many waves of displacement and genocide. This landlocked territory in the South Caucasus is today a meeting point for waves of migration, of both Armenians and non-Armenians, engendered by recent conflicts in the Middle East, as well as repatriates arriving from the diaspora in the West. Perhaps the work aims to highlight the fragility of settled existence itself. Instead of homecoming, the woven objects and the stories about them are inviting Armenia to join its own diaspora(s), where loss is both in the past and, potentially, the future. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Weaving-Culture_Anna-Boghiguian_Sevak-Thomasians_2.jpg) Weaving Culture. Anna Boghiguian at National Gallery of Armenia. Photo: Sevak Thomasians The third room traces the experience of uprootedness towards transcendence. This elevated spiritual aspect of the practice of weaving is attested by one of the weavers who says: “The higher the weft rises, the more I free myself from my fears.” The tapestries depict angels in conversation, three alchemist figures with hands on their eyes – perhaps seeing the world with their inner light – and metamorphoses of birds becoming angels, and vice versa. The only work on the ground shows a series of trees in a valley of imaginative colors. *Trees have memory* testifies to how memory itself becomes the shaky ground of displaced thought. *“*While weaving the flowers, I imagined myself standing in the midst of them. I love nature very much. Our house in Artsakh was in the lap of nature. From the window, I could see fir trees and flowers. Now, I am weaving those same flowers. With every knot made, there is a great sense of devotion; you devote yourself to the carpet.”So says Naira Hovsepyan in one of the testimonies present in the space. This passage reminded me of the cultural theorist Esther Peeren’s observation of how displacement unsettles the particular constructions of time-space through which a community understands its surroundings and positions itself in them. Here, the homeland is not only distant, but it is also past (or passed). By leaving behind the home in space and in time, the meditative process of weaving grows into an active practice of re-membering. It whispers that perhaps what is lost is not only the place but also the haunted present moment. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Weaving-Culture---National-Gallery---21-May---Daniil-Primak-03_resized.jpg) Weaving Culture. Anna Boghiguian at National Gallery of Armenia. ©Daniil Primak The logic of return as development asserts straight lines: arrivals, investments, and linear projections. In “Weaving Culture”, the knot offers a different logic: one of torsion and vitality tied by hands of women whose homes were taken, and an accompanying logic of stories which hold together what remains. Weaving joins the terrestrial to the extraterrestrial, the colors of the land and the wounds of exile, the homeland to its diaspora(s). // ### Ver cómo cae la sombra URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/ver-como-cae-la-sombra/ Last updated: 2026-10-20T10:15:29.000Z Esta posibilidad aparece hacia la mitad de una conversación con Ana María Millán y Gala Porras-Kim a propósito de «Museum as Sundial», la exposición del Van Abbemuseum que recupera una condición inscrita en la arquitectura original del museo su relación con el sol— para pensar formas de orientación en un presente atravesado por transformaciones tecnológicas, sociales y ecológicas. Un reloj de sol parece ofrecer una tecnología elemental para orientarnos. Pero incluso su gesto aparentemente sencillo de saber qué hora es presupone un propósito. ¿Y si, en lugar de utilizar la sombra para obtener una respuesta, el propósito fuera simplemente observar cómo cae? Para Gala Porras-Kim, no son necesariamente les artistas quienes determinan el tiempo de una exposición: las propias obras tienen temporalidades, ritmos y condiciones que exceden la intención autoral. En *Asymptote towards an ambiguous horizon* de Porras-Kim, por ejemplo, superpone el paisaje actual de Göbekli Tepe con su cielo de hace 12.000 años: dos tiempos que comparten un horizonte sin llegar a tocarse. En otra obra, la luz solar reflejada por una superficie de latón deja —o puede no dejar— una huella imperceptible sobre la pared. Su realización depende de algo que el museo no puede controlar: que lo toque el sol directamente. Millán piensa esas temporalidades como “manecillas en tensión”: fuerzas capaces de desplazar las capas arqueológicas, espaciales e institucionales del museo. En *Desierto* de Millán, un videojuego multijugador local poblado por gusanos que excavan bajo tierra, el juego se convierte a su vez en una tecnología de desorientación. No necesariamente hay que ganar, llegar a algún sitio o encontrar algo. Excavar permite atravesar capas: desde *Cyclonopedia* de Reza Negarestani hasta las tierras raras y las infraestructuras de fabricación de microchips de ASML que conectan Eindhoven con cadenas extractivas globales. La conversación que sigue se desplaza así entre escalas radicalmente distintas: doce mil años y una tarde perdida; constelaciones y microchips; conservación museística y videojuegos; el tiempo de un cuerpo y el tiempo de un objeto. En lugar de oponer simplemente lo antiguo a lo tecnológico, o la lentitud a la velocidad, Millán y Porras-Kim preguntan qué sucede cuando dejamos de medir el tiempo exclusivamente según su productividad. **María Inés Plaza Lazo:** **La propuesta es bastante irreverente: imaginar que una infraestructura institucional pueda funcionar como un reloj de sol. Pero al mismo tiempo establece un vínculo con una tecnología ancestral que todavía organiza nuestra relación con el mundo. Quisiera empezar precisamente ahí. Si el museo funciona como un reloj de sol, ¿son les artistas quienes deciden qué hora es?** Gala Porras-Kim: Hay diferentes niveles desde los que interpretar la muestra. Como artista, una está invitada a presentar obras que son distintas de la exposición en sí. Hay un programa curatorial construido por el museo y por la institución. Nosotres hacemos las obras en el taller y después esas obras son contextualizadas dentro de las exposiciones que hace el museo. En esta muestra específicamente, hay una propuesta del equipo curatorial, una manera de mirar el museo, y a partir de ahí han buscado artistas cuyas obras puedan iluminar distintas partes de lo que eso significa. No hay una sola versión. Entonces, volviendo a tu pregunta sobre si somos les artistas quienes definimos cómo se lee el tiempo: yo diría que no. Las obras mismas tienen su propia temporalidad. Tengo dos obras en esta exposición y cada una opera en tiempos distintos. El sujeto de la obra tiene su propio clima, su propia temporalidad. Yo tengo una relación temporal con la obra y la exposición tiene también sus propios ritmos. No es simplemente que yo, como autora, decida cuál va a ser su tiempo. Ana María Millán: La muestra hace una clara relación entre imaginarios arqueológicos y juego a propósito de la cercanía con el sitio arqueológico de Tiel que era un reloj solar. Tanto el juego como el reloj solar son marcadores. Determinan conductas, papeles, roles. Determinan un tiempo y espacio también. El juego sucede en un lugar y en un tiempo específicos. Tiene reglas que funcionan solamente allí, en ese momento. Esa deslocalización puede producir una especie de movimiento telúrico. Y allí también está la relación entre juego y arqueologia. En relación a tu pregunta pienso en las obras como las manecillas, las lineas de un reloj. Unas apuntan hacia un lado, otras hacia otro y aparecen esas tensiones. Quizá el museo quiera ser el marcador que es el reloj, pero son las obras las que apuntan a crear tensión y es la gente quien dice sí acepta esos marcadores o no. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/ana-maria-millan--desert.01.jpg) Ana Maria Millan, Videogame still from Desert, 2023-2026 Image courtesy of the artist **María Inés Plaza Lazo: Me interesa esa imagen de las manecillas porque, en un reloj de sol, las manecillas en cierto sentido son producidas por el movimiento de la luz. Y estos relojes solo funcionan gracias a las sombras. Gala, ¿cómo aparecen la luz y la sombra en tu trabajo?** Gala Porras-Kim: No pienso en la luz y la sombra como una oposición. Me interesa más pensarlas como momentos transgresivos. También pienso en la función de la obra como otro tipo de iluminación. Una tiene una idea más o menos flotando y espera que, cuando esa idea reaccione con un objeto, produzca alguna reacción en el público. Es una iluminación del pensamiento: otra forma de ver las cosas. Una de las obras que presento en la exposición es una escultura de latón que tiene que ubicarse en relación con una ventana, de manera que reciba los rayos del sol. La luz rebota sobre ella y produce un dibujo que no es inmediatamente perceptible sobre la pared. A medida que la luz se mueve, va quemando muy lentamente su superficie. Es una obra bastante impredecible. Una vez la mostré en Ucrania durante el invierno y estuvo nublado prácticamente durante toda la exposición. La obra no dejó el rastro que quizá se esperaba. Pero eso no significa que no haya funcionado. La obra consiste también en establecer unos parámetros suficientemente abiertos para que algo pueda aparecer o no. No todo está controlado. **María Inés Plaza Lazo: Tu segunda obra introduce otra escala temporal completamente distinta.** Gala Porras-Kim: Sí. Es una serie de doce dibujos que representan el transcurso de un día en Göbekli Tepe, en Turquía, un sitio arqueológico de hace aproximadamente 12.000 años. Cuando leí sobre Göbekli Tepe por primera vez, me interesó que su descubrimiento hubiera desplazado la cronología que se utilizaba para explicar ciertos aspectos de la evolución humana. Hasta entonces, se creía que los seres humanos de finales de la última glaciación no tenían la capacidad de construir estructuras monumentales tan complejas. Un solo sitio arqueológico podía reorganizar una estructura temporal que parecía establecida. Algunas interpretaciones proponían que el lugar había sido construido y orientado en relación con determinadas constelaciones. En ese momento trabajaba con un colega astrónomo y le pregunté si era posible comprobar cómo se veía el cielo desde esas coordenadas hace 12.000 años. En un planetario se pueden introducir las coordenadas, la dirección y la fecha para reconstruirlo. Los dibujos tienen entonces dos partes. Abajo aparecen doce vistas, tomadas cada dos horas, de cómo se ve Göbekli Tepe actualmente; para eso utilicé Google Earth. Arriba aparecen las constelaciones tal como se habrían visto en aquella época. La obra se llama *Asymptote towards an ambiguous horizon*. Una asíntota es una línea a la que una curva se aproxima indefinidamente sin llegar a tocarla. Los dibujos contienen también dos tiempos distintos: el suelo contemporáneo y el cielo de aquella época. Se encuentran visualmente en el horizonte, pero nunca llegan realmente a tocarse. **María Inés Plaza Lazo:** **Ana María, tú también trabajas con cosas que no terminan de encajar en los sistemas destinados a contenerlas o explicarlas. ¿Qué se vuelve posible cuando se desbordan esas categorías?** ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Asymptote_Towards_An_Ambiguous_Horizon_2pm-2020.jpg) Gala Porras-Kim, “Asymptote Towards An Ambiguous Horizon (2am),” 2020\. © Gala Porras-Kim, courtesy KADIST Ana María Millán: Se vuelve posible precisamente que las sombras afloren, se vuelven posibles las tensiones, se vuelve posible la agencia. Muchos de mis trabajos recientes salen de juegos de rol que yo organizo. Las personas traen avatares o personalidades para poder jugar y ahí se produce una deslocalización. Entra a jugar el inconsciente, mientras yo, como artista, enmarco la situación: construyo una especie de “mantel verde” metafórico para que pueda suceder sin que todo se desparrame. En esta exposición presento *Desierto*, un videojuego relacionado también con los juegos de *mining*. Los personajes son gusanos: empiezan en la superficie y van excavando hasta llegar a la capa última que es una masa negra (petróleo) que es finalmente la fuerza de la máquina de guerra. En el recorrido del juego aparecen alusiones a discursos políticos, a la historia de una mina de carbón en Colombia, a libros, entre ellas *Cyclonopedia* de Reza Negarestani. Es un *multiplayer* local, un juego que la gente puede jugar allí mismo, y para jugarlo también hace falta cierta oscuridad. Un juego que pide la estructura prestada de un one person shooter para recorrer el suelo y llegar hasta la masa que yace debajo de él. Pero hay otra capa. En Eindhoven está ASML, la empresa que fabrica las máquinas utilizadas para producir microchips. Entonces la pieza empieza a hacer un guiño a todo el problema de las tierras raras, y a las fuerzas motrices que impulsan su búsqueda ahora (y siempre) con los asentamientos ilegales, con la ocupación de tierras ajenas, con la subida de gobiernos preparados para que esto pase precisamente en lugares donde se encuentran estos elementos. Los museos suelen estar muy enfocados en el objeto. A mí me interesa preguntar cuáles son las *fuerzas motrices*: ¿qué fuerzas han llevado a esos objetos hasta allí? ¿Qué movimientos han llevado a una empresa, o a toda una industria, a buscar esas tierras raras, dónde y cómo? Y lo que hace posible ese desborde del que hablas en tu pregunta, el desborde del destinatario (temporal) de la pieza, que es el Museo y con el cual Gala ha planteado también un diálogo crítico y a la vez una relación, en mi caso es quizá el involucramiento consciente de una fuerza que va más allá de mi y es la gente, precisamente como sistema, y la capacidad que tenemos en colectivo de hacer estallar desde dentro cualquier manifestación de poder desmedido y de autogobernarnos. **María Inés Plaza Lazo:** **Eso introduce una contradicción interesante. GPS, algoritmos, inteligencia artificial y otras tecnologías nos prometen formas de orientación cada vez más precisas, pero esa precisión depende de enormes redes materiales y extractivas. Frente a ellas, un reloj de sol parece ridículamente rudimentario: depende del lugar, del clima y del sol. ¿Qué puede ofrecernos una tecnología imprecisa que esos sistemas supuestamente universales no pueden?** Gala Porras-Kim: Creo que una de las cosas que puede hacer la exposición es aflojar la asociación entre el sol, los elementos y una lectura exclusivamente científica. Los enfoques institucionales suelen estar muy apretados. No sé si el museo por sí mismo puede aflojarse. Más bien creo que intenta encontrar salidas a través del arte y de las obras. En ese sentido, pienso la exposición casi como una metaobra: personas que conocen muy bien el contexto institucional y que, a través de nuestras obras, intentan salir de algunos de sus propios procesos. Pienso mucho, por ejemplo, en la conservación. Hay reglas sobre cómo proteger una obra materialmente, sobre que no debe recibir luz directa porque se va a dañar; hay métodos establecidos para divulgar información o enseñar al público. Existe toda una coreografía previamente construida y las personas que trabajan dentro de ella no necesariamente tienen mucha libertad para modificarla. La obra puede servir para aflojar esa coreografía. Quizá no físicamente, pero sí para escapar mentalmente. O temporalmente. Ana María Millán: Ahí les artistas tenemos también una responsabilidad: producir esa tensión. Es un territorio que se ha trabajado y que se ha ganado. Si hay muches artistas jalando y moviendo algo, el timón se mueve un poco. Y allí va el señalamiento al tiempo en tensión de las manecillas del reloj. En ese sentido, hay entre esas tecnologías que tú describes un estudio de sistemas de control que a la final se alimentan a sí mismos (sea una sistema de seres , de organizaciones o de máquinas) y en ese sentido la cibernética y su historia nos da muchas luces al respecto. Y mirar desde allí también estos sitios arqueológicos como el sitio arqueológico de Tiel al que la exposición hace clara referencia, como un sistema en el que quizá mucho trabajo humano estuvo involucrado. **María Inés Plaza Lazo:** **Un reloj de sol también obliga a esperar. No entrega información instantáneamente; hay que esperar a que ocurra el movimiento. ¿La lentitud tiene para ustedes algún interés político o discursivo?** Ana María Millán: En el juego de rol que a veces hago previo a los videojuegos puede pasar algo o puede no pasar nada. Puede producir una pieza o puede no producir depende de las personas que deciden estar allí. El espacio del juego, donde podemos olvidarnos precisamente de los sistemas identitarios -que la gran máquina digital produce-, y donde podemos deslocalizarnos de nosotros mismos es uno de los pocos espacios de libertad que aún tenemos. Y en esa medida es político. Los videojuegos se han usado claramente para entrenamientos de guerra, para crear ecocámaras, para instrumentalizar y la llamada gamificación se usa hasta en los colegios para preparar una sociedad tecno-feudal pero la gente se une, la gente ralentiza, las personas se organizan también en esas plataformas y hacemos lo que en sindicalismo se podría decir operación tortuga, a propósito de la lentitud como algo político. Gala Porras-Kim: La lentitud es completamente relativa. Lo que para mí es lento es muy distinto de la lentitud de un objeto dentro de un museo. Incluso en mi propia vida no es estable: hoy puedo hacer algo más lentamente que mañana. Por eso me cuesta pensar la lentitud como un valor en sí mismo. Además, cuando hablamos de un reloj de sol, seguimos pensando que tiene que cumplir una función: algo va a suceder y estamos esperando que suceda, más rápido o más despacio. Tiene que producir un resultado. Muchas de mis obras no las pienso desde un propósito al que necesariamente tengan que llegar. Si lo haces, aparece inmediatamente la ansiedad: ¿sirvió o no sirvió? La obra tiene otro tiempo. No le importa si tú estás ocupada hoy. Pensar en diferentes escalas temporales me ayuda a cambiar el punto desde el que entendemos qué significa “rápido” o “lento”, sin decir que uno es mejor que el otro. Tiene mucho que ver con cuál es la meta. Si dices: “Me dio pereza hacer lo que tenía que hacer y me puse a caminar por ahí sin ninguna meta”, ese caminar también puede tener otro propósito. Con el reloj de sol parece que todo existe para responder una sola pregunta: ¿qué hora es? Pero podemos reajustar cuál es el resultado. En vez de que el propósito sea saber qué hora es, quizá el propósito puede ser simplemente ver cómo cae la sombra. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/ana-maria-millan--desert.04.jpg) Ana Maria Millan, Videogame still from Desert, 2023-2026 Image courtesy of the artist **María Inés Plaza Lazo:** **Esa suspensión me lleva también hacia la conservación. El museo parte muchas veces de la premisa de que la supervivencia de un objeto es incuestionablemente deseable. ¿Qué deberíamos permitir que desaparezca?** Gala Porras-Kim: Las cosas no necesariamente desaparecen. Cambian de forma. Muchas preguntas sobre el museo se plantean como oposiciones: si históricamente se hizo algo de una manera, entonces ahora habría que deshacerlo haciendo exactamente lo contrario. A mí no me interesa necesariamente hacer desaparecer esa historia, sino reconocer las otras versiones del objeto que siguen existiendo. Que un objeto exista dentro de un contexto histórico y museológico no significa que sus otras versiones hayan desaparecido. Siguen ahí. La pregunta es cómo crear contextos en los que esas otras formas de existencia puedan reconocerse más fácilmente. Esas versiones pueden estar en contradicción o pueden apoyarse entre sí. Primero habría que entender qué relación tienen antes de decidir que una está mal y hay que deshacerla. Y pueden ser infinitas, porque dependen de la posición desde la que se mira. Los hongos ven la colección de una manera diferente. Los espíritus la ven de otra. Los árboles tienen otra relación con los objetos de madera del museo. Todas esas perspectivas pueden existir dentro del mismo objeto. No debería haber necesariamente una jerarquía entre ellas. La forma en que el museo organiza esas relaciones dice mucho sobre el propósito de la propia institución. Hace cien años ese propósito era diferente; dentro de cincuenta años también lo será. No hay que dejarlo tan cerrado. Ana María Millán: Para mí se trata de poder ver toda esa amplitud de relaciones y de fuerzas motrices históricas. Para poder verlo, hay algo que el juego también permite: mantener el deseo. El deseo es una relación. Es como un fuego interno, que permite la contemplación. El arte necesita ese momento de echarse un poco hacia atrás, ralentizar y contemplar. Pero al mismo tiempo necesitamos mantener el deseo como un fuego vivo para poder ver esas múltiples relaciones y esas fuerzas motrices. Si no, se estancara la historia y nos estancamos también nosotres. El reloj se para. El fascismo hace precisamente lo contrario: convierte el deseo en una fuerza militar. Petrifica el objeto, y transforma ese deseo en fuerza armamentista y una máquina de muerte.. **María Inés Plaza Lazo:** **Quisiera terminar invirtiendo entonces la pregunta. ¿Qué trata nuestra sociedad global como desechable que, para ustedes, merecería un plan de conservación de más de cien años?** Gala Porras-Kim: Cuando dices “conservar”, inmediatamente pienso en cosas físicas, y me cuesta pensar en un objeto concreto. Pero hay algo que se está volviendo desechable: los momentos sin propósito. Con tanta tecnología, cada vez pasamos menos tiempo en presencia de otras personas sin estar haciendo algo productivo. Todo tiene que tener una finalidad. Una reunión es para hacer esto; nos encontramos porque tenemos que conseguir aquello. Creo que merece la pena preservar algo tan sencillo como sentarse físicamente al lado de alguien sin ningún propósito. En ese espacio pueden pasar cosas orgánicamente. A medida que nos separamos físicamente, lo que también estamos desechando es nuestra relación con nuestra condición animal. No somos solamente cabeza. Hay cosas que el cuerpo necesita en relación con otros cuerpos, aunque no sepamos exactamente cuáles son. Eso es algo que personalmente echo mucho de menos: simplemente estar ahí con gente sin tener un propósito predispuesto. // ### Love Is Not the Answer URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/love-is-not-the-answer/ Last updated: 2026-10-16T14:39:15.000Z The problem with love in art is that its current practices repeatedly assert that love is political without ever locating the politics. A Marxist-Feminist lens can give it back its relation to the world rather than keeping it a private sentiment: care keeps being labor; intimacy and commodification are opposites; art is dependent on invisible reproductive work; and there is an awkward but productive fact in a festival staged through commercial galleries asking whether anything can escape exchange value. It also makes the questions less deferential and allows the answers to acknowledge contradictions instead of dissolving them into “connection”, “sharing”, and “care”. **I want to start with Alexandra Kollontai, who said that “essentially, love is a profoundly social emotion. That feels important to state today. It recognizes the rights and integrity of the other’s personality, as well as steadfast mutual support and sensitive sympathy.” In this spirit, why love, why now, and what does it bring to the table?** AFF & CL: We did not want love to function simply as the optimistic opposite of the current geopolitical conditions or as consolation. What interested us, and the participating galleries, was whether love could instead become a way of examining the world today. In that sense, LOVE, all in caps, is less an answer than a pressure applied to the present. Love is universal. Universally understood, yet so personal. Every year, it is curated by inviting international curators to respond to a distinct theme in the form of an exhibition to reflect on the most pressing issues of our time. The theme is collectively chosen by the participating galleries, who are also the ones proposing different topics and ideas. Collectively, when the theme of LOVE, in capital letters as we write it across our communications, was voted on, we all thought it was very interesting, in a moment where politics are characterized by militarization, xenophobia, and fear, to approach the problem antithetically, hoping this might prove a response or a tool to observe the present. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/FELIX-GAUDLITZ_fig-1957_2026_What-can-I-do-now-with-this-great-useless-machine-of-my-love_Installation-view.jpg) Jason Dodge, What can I do now with this great useless machine of my love. Installation view at FELIX-GAUDLITZ **Love is not only a theme or a feeling, not a politics of the heart or a politics of charity, but a verb: it incites action. What does it mean for you, as curated by’s directors, to use love as a curatorial method, rather than simply a subject the works address?** **AFF:** Curating is necessarily relational. It begins with an attachment to art and to artists, but also with the responsibility of facilitating somebody else’s vision. It means giving time and attention to something that is not entirely yours and accepting a degree of responsibility for the conditions in which it becomes public. **CL:** The Latin word *curare* offers a useful point of departure: to care, to take care of, to attend to. Love as a curatorial method—and one for exhibition-making—means listening closely to artists and their ideas and facilitating the conditions for their visions to unfold. It is a practice of connection and making space for meaningful encounters between people, ideas, and works. **Could you walk us through how this took shape in this edition, perhaps through a specific decision?** **AFF:** For this 17th edition of the Festival, and our second as Directors, we have put collaboration and exchange with Vienna’s cultural landscape at the heart of our vision to make it a truly city-wide initiative. We are thrilled to be working closely with mumok (the Museum of Modern Art of the Ludwig Wien Institute), which is serving as our headquarters for the entire festival and hosting our opening weekend press conference and breakfast. This close partnership is just one reflection of our spirit of love and sharing. **CL:** This intersection informed the artist- and curator-led tours, where cultural workers accompany audiences through the participating galleries, as well as the podcast series reflecting on curated by’s history. We were interested in creating situations in which the festival could be encountered not only as a sequence of objects in spaces, but as a network of relationships. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/2026_09_16_Gianni-Manhattan_000175_30x40.jpg) Valentin Noujaïm, Silent Choir. Curated by OdessaWarren. Installation view: GIANNI MANHATTAN, Vienna (2026). Photo:kunstdokumentation.com, courtesy the artist and GIANNI MANHATTAN **Kollontai’s radical proposition was that love changes when the social relations around it change. So rather than asking simply how each curator “interpreted” LOVE, I’m interested in what kinds of love the exhibitions actually produced: possessive love, romantic love, solidarity, grief, kinship, eroticism, dependency, care. Where did those definitions begin to conflict with one another?** **AFF:** The responses were very different, which mattered to us. Some exhibitions approached romantic or toxic love; others dealt with familial attachment, social care, grief, longing, or forms of collective relation. **CL:** Each exhibition approached love from a different position, reflecting how complex and open the subject remains—politically, socially, and emotionally. As \[the poet\] Ariana Reines writes, “Love is an experience, not an object.” There is much to experience across the many interpretations and manifestations of this broad topic. **Were there works that changed the temperature of that argument for you personally—where love stopped being the festival’s conceptual frame and became something materially strange, difficult, or seductive, resisting an easy or redemptive reading of love?** ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Croy_Nielsen_Lenke_Rothman_hud-lien_detail_1982_kunstdokumentation.com.jpg) Lenke Rothman, hud-lien detail (1982) at Croy Nielsen **AFF:** I would draw \[attention\] to the sacred quality of Valentin Noujaïm’s sculptures at GIANNI MANHATTAN and the extraordinary assemblages of Lenke Rothman at Croy Nielsen. Ian Wilson’s work at Martin Janda places artistic exchange itself at the center; at Exile, David Medalla’s posthumously discovered print blocks introduce questions of absence and of what survives; and Rosemary Mayer’s balloons, *Connections (Vienna)*, in Jason Dodge’s exhibition at FELIX GAUDLITZ make connections simultaneously physical and fragile. These works interested me because love does not necessarily appear in them as an image. It can exist as a structure between things: presence and absence, one person and another, an object and a memory. **CL:** Many did, and in very different ways. Beyond the works Attilia has already mentioned, I would highlight the opening-weekend performances, which were particularly important in this regard. Adam Christensen, Jason Dodge and Sudden Wealth, and Ja Jess introduced a bodily, temporal, and ephemeral register, shifting “love” from a conceptual frame toward something more contingent, sensorial, and experiential. **I want to stay with the darker side of this. There is a tendency, particularly within cultural institutions, to make love synonymous with healing, community, and repair. But love is not inherently emancipatory. It can be possessive, disciplinary, fetishistic, even violent. Which works for you refused the fantasy that love necessarily redeems us?** **AFF:** The photographs of Hudinilson Jr. at Hubert Winter in the exhibition curated by Theo-Mario Coppola keep returning to me. **CL:** I would add Giorgos Tigkas at Krobath, where sensuality and desire take on an ambiguous, fetishistic quality. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/GiorgosTigkas2.jpg) Giorgos Tigkas at Krobath **Zooming out to the stakes of the show as a whole: much of what is shaping our environments right now—from climate catastrophe to technological acceleration and militarization—is, in my view, the result of an ongoing lovelessness for the world. What vision was aimed to incite, resist, or cultivate through the exhibitions?** AFF & CL: To respond to this question, we would like to cite Ariana Reines, who wrote a beautiful essay to accompany the Festival: "If you don’t know anything about love, try everything else, learn everything else that you can. You should find love enters your world naturally, organically—guiding and influencing what you do. But if you still don’t feel it—and many of us are too demoralized these days to feel much of anything—then you can lick Love’s plates by reading poetry. An inherently epistolary art form, the lyric poem is practically made of friendship, of Eros, of Agape. It is made of the other—it is full to overflowing with everything it isn’t. Intoxicated with these enormities, the substance of poetry’s just a few words strung together. Hardly anything at all. But it changes your heartbeat, reorients your soul, makes it possible to breathe when before you were suffocating, makes it possible to go on living in the face of unimaginable pain, gives you even the tiniest spark, all you need to overcome a feeling of deadness, the sensation of being widowed or abandoned in a reality that seems to be abdicating its every treasure to nonsense before even realizing what and why." **So perhaps the measure of the festival is not whether audiences leave feeling “loved”, but whether their relation to something has shifted. What kind of experience did you want to produce?** **CL:** Perhaps an unexpected sense of connection. **AFF:** Catharsis. // ### A life that we live with all the beings around us URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-life-that-we-live-with-all-the-beings-around-us/ Last updated: 2026-10-13T12:47:52.000Z Iliada Charalambous’ *Tools for Assembly*, curated by Giulia Menegale, opened at Lateral in Rome on September 18th. The exhibition develops from *True Counterpower*, an ongoing research project she initiated with Serda Demir through a series of assemblies at the Van Abbemuseum, and subsequently expanded through workshops, collectively produced banners, and *Reading Counterpower*, a reading group engaging with texts produced within revolutionary movements and radical organisations. Since 2024, the group has been developing into a confederated network connecting groups in Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and The Hague. At Lateral, archival materials, texts, annotated fabrics, a mural, and the *Reading Counterpower Protocol* comprise different moments of this process, giving tangible form to practices whose substance lies largely in the relations and situations through which they unfold, without fixing them into complete or self-contained forms. The objects on display retain traces of these processes, allowing what has been learned to become available beyond the particular encounters from which it emerged. The fabrics used during the reading groups make this process especially tangible. In the sessions, Charalambous often brings large cloths printed with the text to be discussed, which participants annotate collectively as they read. Quotations, notes, and reactions accumulate directly on the surface, gradually holding the content and the traces of changing relations among the people using it. Charalambous recalls that participants initially wrote very small, limiting themselves to discrete areas of the cloth; as the sessions continued, the writing grew and spread. The altered scale of the annotations registers an increasing familiarity with the shared surface itself, a growing willingness to intervene, overlap, and occupy more space, to leave something for others to encounter. Across *Reading Counterpower* sessions, learning takes place not only through the texts being read but through the repeated use of a material held in common. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Screenshot-2026-10-12-at-17.05.09.png) Tools for Assembly, Reading Counterpower. Iliada Charalambous at Lateral Roma. Photo: Roberto Apa. The timing of the exhibition’s opening was more than adventitious: on the same evening two days of mobilization around the occupied space of Spin Time began. Between 29 and 30 July, a fire in the occupied former INPDAP, the Italian public social security and welfare institute dedicated to civil servants and public administration employees, building known as Spin Time in Via Santa Croce in Gerusalemme in Rome led to its evacuation and judicial seizure. Around four hundred people who had lived there were suddenly unable to return home. For days, many slept outside the building or in emergency accommodation while the municipality attempted to negotiate its purchase from Investire SGR, the company managing the property. When that first negotiation failed, residents were progressively moved into temporary accommodation, dispersing a community that for thirteen years had organized housing together with cultural activities, mutual aid, and social services. The demonstration called for September 19th did not concern only the possibility of re-entering a building. Bringing together housing movements, social and cultural spaces, trade unions, associations, students, migrants, and political organizations, it explicitly connected the future of Spin Time to the financialization of housing, as well as to a different idea of the city and society, and of who should have the power to shape the city and, with it, the terms of collective life. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/WhatsApp-Image-2026-10-12-at-13.03.31--2-.jpeg) Reading Counterpower at Spin Time, a session mediated by Iliada Charalambous, in collaboration with Giulia Menegale and 10 documents (Ginevra Ludovici, Flavio Michele). Credits: Giulia Menegale. On the day of the opening, Lateral also hosted the first Roman session of *Reading Counterpower*, followed on Sunday, September 20th, by another at the Spin Time post. This first encounter made the energy around the project palpable. Taking a text by the Community of Squatted Prosfygika as a starting point, the discussion moved across a wide range of questions, from material concerns to more ideological disagreements, through moments of agreement and of confrontation, showing how, once a struggle is encountered in its concrete complexity, the material and the ideological cannot be cleanly pulled apart. What I found most compelling was engaging with a text grounded in the concrete struggle of the Community of Squatted Prosfygika, detailing its administrative structures and how they relate to and coordinate with one another, the organization of collective self-defense, and forms of political struggle, the organizational and decision-making processes that shape its everyday functioning, and the mechanisms of internal review—with all the difficulties and contradictions these entail. The discussion that followed around terms such as *struggle* and *commune* was particularly revealing of the distance between a language grounded in specific political histories and traditions and the more theoretical and relational vocabulary through which political questions tend to be addressed in contemporary art. There was something particularly valuable about remaining with the discomfort of a text that made its political affiliations explicit, and in allowing those positions to be discussed, questioned, and contested on their own terms. In his account of how common spaces are produced and kept open to newcomers, the architect and activist Stavros Stavrides discusses comparability and translatability as crucial strategies for expanding commoning, through which differences among subjects and practices—as well as experiences and forms of knowledge—can enter into relation without being organized according to fixed taxonomies or reduced to common denominators. (1) For Stavrides, this openness depends on the terms of comparison and translation remaining themselves open to negotiation and revision by those involved, so that what enters into common can be reshaped through the relation rather than absorbed into a pre-existing framework. The work of *Reading Counterpower* actualizes these processes and concerns into the group’s self-organization as well as its relation to the texts it reads. Rather than presenting knowledge as something to be transmitted intact, Charalambous asks us to interrogate what can be learned from one struggle and applied elsewhere, what remains specific to the conditions in which it emerged, and what changes in the process. Reading is understood less as an individual encounter with a text than as an organizing practice, one in which ideas are tested collectively and gradually become entangled with the conditions, disagreements, and experiences of the people discussing them. The knowledge produced through these meetings remains difficult to separate from the procedures through which it developed, and it is precisely this entanglement that the exhibition attempts to hold rather than resolve. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/WhatsApp-Image-2026-10-12-at-13.03.32.jpeg) Spint Time. Photo: Giulia Menegale. The accompanying publication, co-curated and produced with 10 documents, makes this movement across situations more explicit by bringing together texts selected on the basis of conversations with activist groups in the city, allowing them to take on a further function in relation to the conditions and place of their reading. Finally, the movement between the local character of particular struggles and a transnational horizon is developed further by the mural that dominates the back wall, which gathers and recombines symbols drawn from the political movements encountered through the texts read during the sessions—from the struggle for Palestinian liberation and the Sudanese revolution to the Black Panther Party and the Kurdish Freedom Movement—translating the principles, references, and struggles underpinning the project into a new visual form. Each of these symbols remains legible through the specific iconographic traditions from which it derives, yet the mural subjects them to a process of aesthetic and thereby political recomposition through which their encounter generates an iconography that belongs fully to none of them in isolation. In that recomposition, solidarity acquires a form that is neither inherited from a common genealogy nor secured by a prior political identity, but instead is produced through the relationships among struggles, the representation of a possible new internationalist political subject. Keeping the question of continuity in mind, while broadening the scope once again to encompass the context in which Charalambous’s work is being encountered, the crisis surrounding Spin Time helps us address another element inherent in the practices and values underpinning *Reading Counterpower*. An assembly acquires duration through the possibility of returning to a place, assuming responsibility for it, and building routines and forms of interdependence that accumulate through sustained coexistence. Once those conditions are destabilized, collective continuity becomes inseparable from the power to determine where and how that collective life can continue. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/_DSC0699.jpg) Installation view: Tools for Assembly. Iliada Charalambous at Lateral Roma. Photo: Roberto Apa. The fire of 29 July and the subsequent judicial seizure prevented Spin Time’s residents from returning to the building without dissolving the organization that had developed there. For several weeks, Via Santa Croce in Gerusalemme became an improvised extension of the sealed building. Tents spread across the street around tables where meals were shared; residents, volunteers, and people organized food and medical assistance while musicians played, films were screened, and children continued to spend time together, alongside assemblies and the daily work of finding accommodation for almost four hundred displaced people. Stavrides’s account of threshold space gives this experience a more precise spatial and political form. For Stavrides, thresholds separate and connect at the same time, for their porosity allows commoning to extend beyond an enclosed group and to remain open to newcomers, while common space itself is produced through practices that shape both the relations among its users and the spatial conditions of their encounter. (2) Translating hosting practices, knowledge, and mutual obligations formed through thirteen years of occupation into another setting, the street outside Spin Time temporarily acquired this threshold function, allowing Spin Time to persist as a collective formation while making the struggle over the conditions of that continuity publicly visible. In contemporary cities, land and buildings increasingly function as assets whose valuation incorporates expectations of future income and appreciation alongside their present use. In his influential text on “the right to the city”, David Harvey locates the structural basis of this process in the relation between capitalist accumulation and urbanization. (3) Surplus capital is repeatedly fixed in housing, infrastructure, and real estate through investments whose long duration requires credit and the anticipation of future returns, the financialization of which intensifies this dynamic by changing the form in which property enters circuits of accumulation. Urban development, therefore, continually remakes the spatial conditions from which further valorization becomes possible. Spin Time’s description of Rome as increasingly falling into the hands of landlords, real estate funds, hotels, short-term rentals, and luxury residences points exactly in this direction. As noted, the building is held by the Fondo Immobili Pubblici, created in 2004 as Italy’s first real-estate investment fund based on a sale-and-lease-back operation involving public property, and managed by Investire SGR for institutional and private capital. Investire has emphasized that, in the case of Spin Time, it administers third-party assets belonging predominantly to pension institutions and insurance companies and is legally required to manage those assets accordingly. (4) The same property meanwhile has been materially and socially remade through years of inhabitation, services, cultural activity, mutual support, and political organization. The collective production of use, however, does not in itself confer ownership, an enforceable claim on the asset, nor a formal position within the institutional structure through which decisions over its disposal are made. The fund, by contrast, organizes legally recognized claims over the property and places its management within fiduciary obligations towards its participants. The distinction is, therefore, also a question of urban power, because the ability to decide the future of an individual property contributes, cumulatively, to determining how space is allocated across the city, which receives material support and which can be displaced when competing forms of valorization acquire greater institutional force. The political force of Harvey’s demand for “greater democratic control over the production and utilization of the surplus” lies here. (5) When investment, property, and finance help determine how urban value is produced and realized, control over their deployment also helps determine which existing uses can persist, which are displaced, and which forms of collective life can acquire material duration. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/_DSC0725.jpg) Reading Counterpower Protocol, Tools for Assembly. Iliada Charalambous at Lateral Roma. Photo: Roberto Apa. Seen from this perspective, one of the strongest aspects of *Tools for Assembly* lies in the way it attends to what remains from collective processes as well as how it attends to the material reproduction of its community. The reading group, the annotated fabrics, the publication, and the Protocol all attempt to retain something from processes that cannot be transferred in their entirety. What they preserve is not the experience itself, but elements that may become operative again: a method of reading, a form of notation, a procedure for organizing discussion, a political text whose terms can be reopened elsewhere. Their usefulness depends precisely on the fact that they require another situation, another group, and another set of conditions in order to acquire meaning again. Read together, Spin Time and *Reading Counterpower* return the right to the city to the level of practice, where occupying, maintaining, and transforming a space also means producing the social relations through which collective life can endure. Self-organization is exercised through the bodies that gather, the labor that keeps an infrastructure available, and the forms of coordination through which people learn to think and act together, making the city itself a terrain of collective use and transformation. The internationalist dimension of the project grows from this material grounding, through alliances that keep methods, political knowledge and forms of organization in circulation while safeguarding their relation to the struggles from which they emerged while making them available for new collective uses elsewhere. A copy of the *Reading Counterpower Protocol* is also included in the exhibition space, a document developed through the project that articulates the principles and procedures through which *Reading Counterpower* can be convened and adapted in different contexts. The guidelines contained in the Protocol are particularly interesting insofar as they convey the degree of intentionality and commitment involved in self-organisation, together with the work of negotiation and collective responsibility it entails, without effacing its situated and generative character. The acquisition of the Protocol by the Van Abbemuseum introduces a further complication, though not necessarily a contradiction, as a tool developed through collective research and concerned with counterpower becomes part of a museum collection, together with the archive that records the conditions of its emergence and the texts read. Once acquired, the Protocol gains a form of material continuity that the collective situations in which it is practiced cannot necessarily guarantee. Yet that continuity is secured by giving it a new institutional status as something owned, classified, and conserved, potentially fixing a procedure whose form had previously remained dependent on use, revision, and the relations through which it was enacted. Musealisation nevertheless can provide forms of protection for knowledge produced from below, especially when that knowledge remains embedded in practices, relations, and partially systematized archives that are easily dispersed or erased. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/WhatsApp-Image-2026-10-12-at-13.03.33.jpeg) Spint Time. Photo: Giulia Menegale. Under conditions of growing censorship and the deliberate removal of political histories, vocabularies, and records from public circulation, preserving these materials also means preserving the possibility of reconstructing the practices and forms of organization through which that knowledge was produced. Contemporary art has become increasingly capable of receiving, translating and circulating the languages of counterpower. Texts, methods, vocabularies, and forms of organization move through exhibitions, publications, collections and public programs with considerable mobility. At the same time, the spaces in which counterpower can actually be practiced remain exposed to pressures that are far less discursive and far less addressed within the system: for example, rent, property, eviction, legal uncertainty, and the erosion of the infrastructures required for collective life. The exhibition’s location at Lateral makes this asymmetry materially legible. As a self-organized project space in Appio Latino whose program extends beyond exhibition-making into exchange, production, and research, Lateral forms part of the urban ecology on which such collective practices depend while remaining exposed to the same pressures of precarity, rent, and uncertain continuity that affect the spaces through which collective life is organized. Against this background, *Tools for Assembly* reminds us that counterpower does not persist through language alone, but through places where relations can gather density, acquire duration, and become capable of acting on the conditions around them. Carving out such spaces in the city, and keeping them available to collective use despite the pressures that seek to displace them, is part of how another idea of life, society, and collectivity is materially lived and organized. \* The title is derived from a passage in Iliada Charalambous’ poem *To comrades near by and far away* (2025), included in the publication *Tools for Assembly: A Reader*, edited by Ginevra Ludovici, Flavio Michele, and Giulia Menegale. // **Footnotes** (1) Stavros Stavrides, *Common Space: The City as Commons* (Zed Books, 2016), 42-44. (2) Stavrides, *Common Space*, 2–5, 54–55. (3) David Harvey, “The Right to the City,” *New Left Review* 53 (September–October 2008): 23–40, esp. 24–30. (4) Investire SGR, “Fondo Immobili Pubblici,” Investire SGR, accessed 30 September 2026\. Investire describes FIP as the first Italian real-estate investment fund promoted by the Ministry of Economy and Finance, and the first sale-and-lease-back operation involving public property. See also Investire SGR, statement of August 7, 2026, reported in “Spin Time, Investire SGR: ‘Non ci sono le condizioni di legalità e sicurezza,’” *DIRE*, August 7, 2026, where the company states that the assets involved are managed on behalf predominantly of pension institutions and insurance companies, and that the SGR is required to act in the exclusive interest of the fund’s participants. (5) Harvey, “The Right to the City,” 37. ### The Languages We Don’t Yet Have URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-languages-we-dont-yet-have/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:10:05.000Z An alphabet can carry an empire. An accent can open a door or close it. A memory can change in the telling—or remain without words. In this conversation at the Soft Power Festival, moderated by Hanno Hauenstein, Havîn Al-Sîndy, Céline Semaan, and Slavs & Tatars (represented by Payam Sharifi) examine language as a material through which power is exercised and belonging is negotiated. From the politics of writing systems to the expectations placed on artists working across languages, they ask what becomes visible through translation, what disappears, and who determines the terms of understanding. Their positions do not settle into agreement. Sharifi, co-founder of Slavs and Tatars, approaches scripts as forms of hospitality and challenges the assumption that everything must be accessible in English. Semaan draws on displacement, family archives, and her work across art, writing, and media to explore translation’s possibilities and limits. Al-Sîndy asks a prior question: what happens when a language has already been altered by violence and the demand to become legible to others? For her, the difficulty extends into the body, its sounds, and the knowledge carried between people. The discussion also turns its scrutiny on the festival’s own premise. Can soft power be redirected towards liberation without reproducing the methods it opposes? And can art help develop a language for experiences that inherited political vocabularies struggle to describe? **Hanno Hauenstein:** We’re speaking against a backdrop in which people are trying to define what culture is, what counts as legitimate culture, and what doesn’t. It’s wonderful that Anahita and everyone involved in this festival have given us space to discuss these questions openly; which is something that isn’t necessarily taken for granted, especially in a time when words such as genocide to describe the situation in Gaza continue to be be delegitimized and policed in Germany At the same time, language also just seems increasingly reduced these days. I see AI slop everywhere; it is something very vulgar and becoming ubiquitous. That is part of the context of this conversation, as well. Let me introduce our speakers. Payam Sharifi is a co-founder of Slavs and Tatars, the artist collective whose work addresses the vast region between the former Berlin Wall and the Great Wall of China. Languages, alphabets, and ways of deciphering cultural expression are central to its practice. Céline Semaan is an artist, writer, and founder of the independent media platform *Everything Is Political*. Her memoir, *A Woman Is a School*, explores questions of war, displacement, and memory. Language is also central to her work in this exhibition. Havîn Al-Sîndy works at the intersection of the body, memory, war, and displacement. Her work here addresses organ theft in the context of Kurdistan, and language is at its core as well. Let’s begin with you, Payam: why, actually, are Slavs and Tatars so obsessed with alphabets? **Slavs and Tatars:** We tend to think of alphabets as innocent: an aleph looks like an aleph, an A like an A, and a B like a B. But if you look at their histories, alphabets accompany empires. The Latin alphabet travelled with Christianity, the Arabic alphabet with Islam. In the region we work with, Cyrillic was associated first with Orthodox Christianity and later with Soviet colonisation in Central Asia and the Caucasus. When the Soviets changed the writing systems of Muslim populations, part of the intention was to separate people from their attachment to Islam. These communities weren’t necessarily speaking Arabic; many spoke Turkic languages but used Arabic script. There was even a movement to Romanise Russian, because Cyrillic itself was considered marked by Christianity, and this was an atheist revolution. Over the past century or two, the Latin alphabet has also become a vehicle for secularisation. Turkey’s alphabet reform under Atatürk is another example. **Hanno:** How does that history resonate today? Why bring it into the present through works such as the carpet which you can see over there? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/B0240660-1.jpg) Slavs & Tatars, **Sanft Power*, 2022\. Photo: Roman März **Slavs and Tatars:** One principle of Slavs and Tatars has always been to do what other people aren’t doing. In more than twenty years, I don’t think we’ve used the term “decolonisation” in our work. Not because it isn’t important, but because I would rather do it than keep talking about it. We have focused on the margins of the Muslim, Russian-speaking, and Turkic-speaking worlds, giving those places a platform rather than producing discourse about the act of doing so. People who use non-Latin scripts are constantly transcribing and transliterating. Yet everyone talks about translation, and almost nobody thinks about transliteration. **Hanno:** Could you explain what you mean by that? **Slavs and Tatars:** Transliteration changes the script without changing the language. When I send a message in Russian, for example, I sometimes write it in Latin letters rather than switching my phone’s keyboard to Cyrillic. I can write Cyrillic; I just don’t always do it. There is a disputed linguistic theory that we inhabit “script worlds.” We tend to think about linguistic worlds, but less about the ways communication is shaped by living within a Latin, Cyrillic, or Arabic-script world. **Céline Semaan:** That resonates with me. I speak Arabic fluently, but I don’t read or write it. I was displaced at a young age, and when I returned to Beirut as a teenager, I didn’t feel able to learn its written form. I describe myself as an illiterate Arabic-speaking woman, which is painful. I use Arabish all the time: Arabic written in Latin letters. I take the letters I know from English or French and use them to write Arabic. **Hanno:** The language of decolonisation has become somewhat all-encompassing in the art world. However, this often comes *without* institutions giving up power – or allowing the very people who have been and continue to be affected by colonialism to define their own narratives. Does that resonate with your work in relation to Kurdistan, Lebanon, or Palestine? **Havîn Al-Sîndy:** With Kurdish, I think we have to begin earlier. Arabic literature and calligraphy have a recognised place in Western culture. With Kurdish, we have to begin with the experience of a forbidden language: one you are prevented from speaking or hearing. How do you talk about a language when its presence has been denied, when it survives in the body, in singing, and in forms that may not be recorded? What interests me now is how Kurdish itself is changing. We search for Western theories through which to understand it and make it visible. In that process, letters, dialects, and accents are altered or overlooked. Visibility can reproduce the very patterns of colonisation we claim to oppose. The debate is not only about which form of Kurdish should be dominant—Kurmanji, Sorani, Bahdini, Zaza, and others—but which will make us most legible to Western theorists. **Hanno:** Are you saying that something gets lost in the effort to fit into a Western framework? **Havîn:** It is about internalising the demand for visibility. People turn to Hannah Arendt or Foucault while neglecting their own philosophical traditions and Sufism. Dengbêj singing, for example, carries an archive of Kurdish language. Yet poems, rhymes, and verses are being changed to make them more understandable to a Western audience. This also changes the body. The tongue changes. People lose ways of rolling an R, making a sound, carrying a tone or a trill. Art should address not only the fact that a language has been violated, but how the body changes through the sounds of another language. **Hanno:** Céline, can you relate to that, given your own work? **Céline:** For me, decolonisation is not a metaphor. I’m thinking of the essay of that title, by Eve Tuck \[and K. Wayne Yang\]. \[1\] It insists on decolonisation’s relationship to Indigenous land and sovereignty. In the contexts of Palestine and Lebanon, I also think about return: the land’s relationship with its Indigenous people. That doesn’t mean there is no room for people who arrive through migration or other histories, but sovereignty cannot simply disappear from the discussion. When we say “decolonise your hair” or “decolonise design,” what do we mean? Is it enough to use Arabic letters or write from right to left? I want to return to the political proposition at the root of the word. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/B0240746.jpg) Havîn Al-Sîndy, **Gûrçikê min — Pieces – in transition*, 2025 and Slavs & Tatars, **Duck’s Blood*, 2024\. Photo: Roman März **Havîn:** I want to ask about “land back,” because the phrase shows how language can shape our thinking about colonisation. There are cultures, including nomadic cultures, whose relationship to land does not begin with possessing it. When we use that phrase, do we risk returning to geography and borders? In the Kurdish archives I work with, I encounter the return of people, culture, language, bodies, and food. I don’t necessarily encounter the same terminology. We need to recognise when we are describing experience through words inherited from an existing theory. Take Rojava. I hear it described everywhere as a “model.” But it is not a model. **Hanno:** Where do you hear that language? In mainstream media? **Havîn:** In the media, on panels, in theoretical writing. Calling it a model turns it into a standard for describing democracy or resistance. What happens if we admit that we don’t yet have the language to describe it? Recognising that we are trapped within a language can be productive. It means there is work to do. **Hanno:** Do I understand correctly that this kind of discourse can impose a vocabulary on colonised people that they may not want or affirm? **Céline:** I understand the point slightly differently, if I may. “Land back,” spoken in English, can sound as though land is a commodity. That is precisely the understanding the movement challenges. Thank you for raising it, because otherwise someone could ask: what distinguishes Indigenous relations to land from colonial ownership if we use the same terms for both? English is my third language. It can be very limiting when I try to express these cultural relationships. We search for words and cannot find exactly what we need. As an immigrant and someone who has been displaced, I have spent my life translating culture. A friend once said to me that design is translation too: an arrow tells you where to go, a warning symbol communicates a situation visually. I chose to write *A Woman Is a School* in English because I wanted to reach a particular audience and communicate cultural subtleties from my region. But the book also confronts the stubbornness of English and the ways it limits what I can say. **Havîn:** My point isn’t only about English. I encounter the difficulty within Kurdish theory too. We are trying to describe experiences for which the available language is insufficient. I’m tired of every new form of fascism being described as the same as something that came before. I’m not saying earlier theories are wrong or should be discarded. But we also need new language, texts, and theory. That is why the term “soft power” interests and unsettles me. What are we doing with it here? What does its softness conceal about the processes that precede war? I speak seven languages, but I still struggle to describe certain experiences in Kurdish, German, or English. I learned English from SpongeBob, so you can imagine the difficulty. We need the humility to say: we do not yet have the language to describe this. A curator once told me that I would have a difficult time in the art world because she couldn’t identify what I was doing. She said the work seemed to happen before the art object. I said, “Yes—then you have the language.” She replied, “No, I still can’t write about it.” We laughed, and I found that exchange beautiful. For me, it is no longer only about producing an artwork. The work needs a language too, or in ten years we may realise we have repeated the language of the colonisers. **Hanno:** Let me jump on this point regarding your discomfort with the term “soft power”. What is this about? The association with cultural diplomacy as a state practice, allegedly opposed to war? **Havîn:** How do you say *Verschleierung*? **Hanno:** Concealment. **Havîn:** Yes. That is the question: what the language conceals, including in Germany’s own ways of speaking. **Hanno:** We’re having this discussion in English because this is the language we share, the smallest common denominator if you will. But that choice, of course, brings hierarchies of its own. Perhaps this panel should have been multilingual. **Slavs and Tatars:** Honestly, yes. You could have spoken French, you could have spoken Kurdish. **Céline:** I could also speak Arabic. **Hanno:** The problem is that I couldn’t translate everything. **Slavs and Tatars:** You don’t necessarily have to. English flattens things. We recognise that Kurdish and many other languages are under threat. But we underestimate the pressure on major languages too. German and Persian each have roughly 140 million speakers—or perhaps 100 to 120 million for German, and a similar number for Persian. Those are rough estimates. \[2\] Yet in Germany and Austria, humanities researchers increasingly write in English. What happens to German as a language of thought over time? I call English a plague of a language. We should stop speaking it whenever we can. Germans often switch to English because they think it is polite. But how will someone learn German if you always switch? And is it necessarily hospitable? It can also keep someone from becoming part of the society. I would like people to speak German in a hospitable sense, not a nationalist one. **Hanno:** Let me play devil’s advocate on this point, though. English *does,* after all, enable wide-ranging communication across cultural differences. It allows this conversation to happen. That may be a cliché, but there is truth to it. Still, there are hierarchies embedded in how a language is used, where it is used, and which language someone chooses to address you in. Sinthujan Varatharajah and Moshtari Hilal have written about this in the context of Berlin. Would you say there is a form of resistance in refusing translation? If so, how does that show up in your work? **Slavs and Tatars:** Very little of our work uses English. In Venice in 2019, we showed a series of panels—fifteen, I think—with perhaps six different languages, including Georgian, Russian, and Arabic. \[3\] A *Financial Times* critic described the work, shown next to Rosemarie Trockel’s, as typical biennial art and completely illegible. It was the only time I wrote a letter to an editor. I found it revealing that a work could contain six or seven languages and be considered illegible because none was English. \[4\] Seeing your script in a space can be a welcome. Someone encounters an Armenian and thinks: this is mine; this space belongs to me too. Language can be a form of hospitality, but you have to be deliberate about it. **Hanno:** The dominance of English also reflects imperial power, including the power of the United States. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/B0240750.jpg) Havîn Al-Sîndy, **Gûrçikê min — Pieces – in transition*, 2025\. Photo: Roman März **Havîn:** But we also have to be honest about how dependent the art world’s economic systems are on English. For me, translation isn’t forbidden. Sometimes it is necessary, and I love translating metaphor between languages. But we need to ask an earlier question: which languages and forms of knowledge are recognised in the first place? If Kurdish has already been changed by violence and by the demand that I represent myself in a particular way, what exactly am I translating? Has a translation already taken place within my own language? Who has shaped it, and who gets to translate it again? I often leave my films untranslated, but not simply to mark them as belonging to one community. I want to address the ways languages change through violence, sometimes without our recognising that it is happening. Translation is becoming easier technically, including through AI. But what happens to the knowledge formed between people and languages? Kurdish changes through its relationship with Persian, and vice versa. That shared knowledge is what I worry about losing. **Hanno:** Is your art an attempt to preserve such knowledge? **Havîn:** Finally the artist is being asked about the art. **Hanno:** Your work opened a history I personally knew very little about, to be honest. This incredibly brutal history of organ trade in Kurdistan. Could you elaborate on this? **Havîn:** The forced removal of organs from Kurdish people under Saddam Hussein’s regime is an untold story. As sculptures, my kidneys are made of clay from Kurdistan. The clay itself already carries a kind of situatedness — it comes from there, from that ground, while the actual kidneys I'm talking about were taken to Germany. It's almost a reversal: this time the material stays in place, but it takes on the form of what was taken away. The sculptures are motorised. They move very slightly, like breathing — something organic, almost alive, but also mechanically produced. That mattered to me: that you're not sure whether you're looking at an injury or a form of continuing to live. This movement is my attempt to make audible or visible language that doesn't yet exist in that form. And that's exactly where it also feels orphaned. A kidney that breathes, but without the body it belonged to. And there's also the other side: the person who stays behind and continues to live with only one kidney. That person carries a scar, and this scar also needs a language — not just a medical one that says "something was removed here," but one that can hold the act of continuing to live itself. The scar is proof that something happened, but it doesn't tell you how it happened, under what coercion, with what fear. **Hanno:** To clarify: organs were taken from Kurdish people and sent to recipients in Germany, who were not necessarily aware of the intense violence involved in this process. **Havîn:** Yes. What interests me is also how the state violence was minimised: the idea that someone could survive with one kidney was used to suggest that no harm had been done to the people. The accounts describe state representatives arriving at homes and demanding a kidney, leaving a family to decide who would give it. But this history could not be spoken about openly. When people refer to it, they say, “The thing happened.” They don’t name it. That is where the question of language begins for this work. **Hanno:** I wasn’t aware of this before encountering the artwork. Céline, how does this relationship between language and memory resonate with your practice? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/B0240765.jpg) Céline Semaan, **A Woman is a School*. Photo: Roman März **Céline:** When I encountered Havîn’s work, I asked why she had chosen the kidney. Our conversation moved into how memories change when we speak about them. I asked whether that meant memory could be understood as fiction. There was something freeing in that thought, because my work involves personal mythology: collecting fragments of memory and making a language from images. I write books and essays, but in my visual practice I work with images and symbols. I’m interested in a language without words. The mural here brings together found archives and personal photographs. Some images belong to a collective political archive, taken by photojournalists—often foreigners photographing war in our countries. Others come from a box of photographs I salvaged from our home in Lebanon, which was bombed in the 1980s. We have very few of these physical traces. Working with them can feel like inventing a story, because I cannot always remember exactly what happened. Surviving war means living with interruptions in memory. In my book, I describe a “mountain of shame,” with memories hidden behind it. Extracting family stories can feel like pulling a tooth. They don’t emerge when you want them to. Sometimes a question is met with rage: how dare you ask? It took me forty years to gather those stories, and I had to do it gently. When I assembled the manuscript, I asked permission to share them. Some were removed because they were for us, not for the world. Respecting that distinction mattered. There is also a fluidity of identity between Lebanon and Palestine, where these borders were drawn in the 1960s and 1970s. These borders are fake; there are no borders between Palestine and Lebanon. \[5\] **Hanno:** Many Palestinian refugees have lived in Lebanon for decades, of course. **Céline:** Yes, but I mean more than displacement. I’m talking about a continuity of land and life that cannot be separated so neatly into national categories. Borders also create barriers in how we speak and think. In the United States, I encounter people who are beginning to understand Palestine but disconnect it from Lebanon, Syria, or Jordan. They want a single, clear designation. I’m trying to explain a relationship that crosses those distinctions. **Hanno:** Your work reaches across art, writing, but also media, including the independent outlet *Everything Is Political*. How do you navigate those formats? Does art allow something that journalism – with its inherent obligations to factual precision and tayloring content to specific audiences – does not? **Céline:** Art is language. It lets us think aloud, experiment, and make mistakes. We live under intense scrutiny. A mistake can destroy a career or a life. I don’t mean simply saying something politically incorrect. I mean trying things, blurring the boundaries between identities and languages. Artistic practice needs room for that. This festival brings people together to explore “soft power,” a term that ultimately means the CIA. The CIA is a soft power engine: it works with media and art, and it funds art. Who funds art in the United States? The CIA, through many different foundations. That is why Slow Factory doesn’t have any of those funds: we can’t just obey them. \[6\] **Slavs and Tatars:** I would take a more sentimental position. For me, the masters of soft power are the French. **Hanno:** What do you mean? **Slavs and Tatars:** When I arrived in Germany, I spoke German with an Iranian accent. Then I wondered what would happen if I used my French accent instead. I started saying *ich* more like *ish*, and suddenly people on the phone treated me like a bourgeois gentleman. Doors opened. That is extraordinary: the prestige a language can retain. People still aspire to Frenchness, and French culture continues to carry enormous influence. **Havîn:** We hear all the time that French or Italian accents are beautiful. Why don’t we say how beautiful a Lebanese accent is? **Slavs and Tatars:** Exactly. Soft power works through desire: how people want to dress, eat, or make love. Germany has a very different relationship to that. **Céline:** It’s called a French kiss, not a German kiss. **Slavs and Tatars:** Germany likes to imagine that everything rests on facts and rationalism. Soft power involves seduction, public relations, a kind of massaging of the message. **Havîn:** But isn’t that also part of Germany’s postwar history? **Slavs and Tatars:** I think Germany is afraid of soft power—or of charisma. **Céline:** There is a history behind that fear. Hitler invested heavily in charisma and propaganda. **Havîn:** I’m thinking about the softness of the language used to describe rebuilding after the war, bringing in migrant workers, and working together. Or *Erinnerungskultur*. **Hanno:** What Germany calls Memory Culture…. **Havîn:** Yes. What does that term contain? What does its apparent softness do? For me, that too is a process of soft power. **Hanno:** I hear two different meanings of ‘soft power’ in the room. One seems to concern the attempt to persuade others of our right to express ourselves. The other concerns states exercising influence through soft power instead of hard power. Germany may lack the cultural glamour you describe, Payam, but wouldn’t you agree that – for example – its Goethe-Institutes around the world are attempts to extend its cultural influence. **Slavs and Tatars:** My first encounter with the German language was at the Goethe-Institut in Almaty in 2011\. A curator took me there on a Tuesday evening, and it was packed. I asked to see the Alliance Française and the British Council, where much less seemed to be happening. It was smart. But I read it in commercial terms too: teach German to people in a resource-rich country who may later become decision-makers, and who will they do business with? **Céline:** I was being provocative. I believe in it too. **Slavs and Tatars:** Everything we’re doing here is soft power. **Céline:** I also question myself. Am I using similar methods, but for my people and my own purposes? Slow Factory has become an engine with the ability to influence culture. We have repeatedly seen ideas we put into circulation reach the mainstream. It took years of work to develop that influence. I believe Slow Factory is a soft power engine for good that isn’t funded by anything, contrary to the stories people make up. Sometimes people send me messages saying, “You’re the CIA!” I say, “No, I wish—I’m not. I swear we’re poor.” \[8\] **Havîn:** We are not being funded at the moment. **Céline:** Recently, we spoke about Gloria Steinem being part of the CIA, and then it was everywhere. \[9\] That makes us pace ourselves and ask how we want to contribute to culture. We need to step back and think about the power we have. In 2021, we published a post about Palestine that said: “It’s not that complicated; it’s colonialism.” It went viral. The familiar response had been, “It’s complicated; you need to understand both sides.” We wanted to challenge that framework by naming occupation and the foreign powers supporting it. After 7 October, we produced around a thousand designs over the following year, often with ten to twenty slides each. It was an enormous amount of work. At some point, we had to ask: are we still working with soft power? Are we producing propaganda? How do we contribute culturally without mimicking the oppressor? Occupation wounds the imagination. We can end up wanting precisely what the dominant culture teaches us to want: the Birkin bag, the Chanel shoes, the big house. I want those things too. I watch the women on reality television and think: they seem so comfortable; everything seems fine. Then I have to stop and ask whether I’m allowing my imagination to be colonised as well. Working with imagination is part of the task. **Havîn:** But look at what has happened in this conversation. We have taken a term with a particular history and begun using it to describe our own political situations. Are we still talking about the same kind of power? We cannot simply assume that a term travels unchanged into Palestine or Kurdistan. We have to ask which power we mean. That returns us to what art can do. I don’t want to romanticise it. Art is deeply entangled with capitalism, and we also need to examine the far right’s involvement in museums, galleries, and the art market. But art can help us work with new languages. We can let go of inherited ideas of what art must be and ask what language the present requires. That is one possibility of bringing music, performance, journalism, and media together in a festival like this. We haven’t even begun to discuss social media or Instagram. // Sources and editorial notes The numbered notes distinguish the speakers’ recollections and assertions from independently documented information. They do not turn the dialogue into a claim that every statement has been verified. Dates, estimates, and disputed assertions requested for restoration remain visible in the conversation; corrections appear here rather than being silently attributed to the speakers. \[1\] “Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor.” The complete reference is: Tuck, Eve, and K. Wayne Yang. 2012\. “Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor.” *Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society* 1 (1): 1–40\. Both authors are confirmed by the journal and the article’s first page. The article argues that decolonization concerns the repatriation of Indigenous land and life and should not serve as a general metaphor for other projects of social improvement. Yang’s name has been supplied in brackets in the dialogue. Sources: [journal record](https://jps.library.utoronto.ca/index.php/des/article/view/18630?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and [full article](https://jps.library.utoronto.ca/index.php/des/article/download/18630/15554?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[2\] German and Persian speaker populations. Payam’s changing figures are retained as estimates, not verified totals. A meaningful comparison needs the same reference year and a distinction between first-language and additional-language speakers; Persian also requires clarity about the inclusion of Iranian Persian, Dari, and Tajik. Germany’s Federal Foreign Office cited approximately 100 million native German speakers in a 2012 speech; this is a dated native-speaker estimate, not a current total. A secondary compilation for Persian reports approximately 127 million total speakers using estimates dated 2020–2024, but its underlying figures were not independently verified for this edit. Neither source establishes that both languages each have 140 million speakers on a comparable basis. Sources: [Cornelia Pieper, Federal Foreign Office, 21 November 2012](https://www.auswaertiges-amt.de/en/newsroom/news/121121-stm-p-pressehandbuch-252602?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org); [“Persian language,” Wikipedia, population summary and references](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persian%5Flanguage?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). The dialogue’s figures should remain explicitly approximate. \[3\] Venice, 2019: work, panels, and languages. Slavs and Tatars’ participation in the 2019 Venice Biennale is confirmed by the Biennale’s official participant record. A contemporary exhibition report identifies *Tranny Tease (pour Marcel)*(2009–2016) in the Giardini and *Dillio Plaza* in the Arsenale. The artist’s project page describes *Tranny Tease* as a series of vacuum-formed panels exploring transliteration. These sources establish the participation and identify the panel work, but do not establish that the Venice installation comprised fifteen panels or exactly six or seven languages, nor confirm the complete language inventory. Those details remain Payam’s expressly uncertain recollection. Sources: [La Biennale di Venezia, artist entry, 2019](https://www.labiennale.org/en/art/2019/partecipants/slavs-and-tatars?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org); [Slavs and Tatars, *Tranny Tease*](https://www.slavsandtatars.com/cycles/regions-d-etre/tranny-tease?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org); [Mohammad Salemy, “58th Venice Biennale: May You Live In Interesting Times,” *Ocula*, 24 May 2019](https://ocula.com/magazine/reports/58th-venice-biennale-may-you-live-in-interest/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[4\] Lebanon–Palestine border chronology. The reference to the 1960s and 1970s is incorrect if it means the original delineation of the boundary between Lebanon and Mandatory Palestine. That boundary developed through Anglo-French agreements in 1920–1923, with the definitive agreement approved on 7 March 1923\. Later armistice arrangements and the UN’s Blue Line belong to different stages of this history. The original dates remain in the dialogue so the correction is transparent. Céline’s assertion that the border is “fake” expresses her political understanding of a continuity of land, identity, and life; it is distinct from the historical question of when the boundary was drawn. Source: [Khalil Gemayel, “The Palestine–Lebanon Border,” Institute for Palestine Studies / PalQuest](https://www.palquest.org/en/highlight/37742/palestine-lebanon-border?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[5\] CIA cultural funding: historical evidence and present-day allegations. Covert CIA involvement in cultural activity during the Cold War is documented, including its support for the Congress for Cultural Freedom. The CIA’s own historical account describes the organisation’s covert origins and its cultural activities. That history does not, by itself, substantiate the broader present-tense assertion that the CIA funds US art through many foundations today, or establish intelligence links for any particular current foundation. No evidence supplied with the transcript or located for this edit establishes those contemporary claims or the asserted reason Slow Factory lacks such funding. They remain Céline’s allegations and interpretation. Sources: [Michael Warner, “Origins of the Congress for Cultural Freedom, 1949–1950,” CIA, *Studies in Intelligence* 38 (5)](https://www.cia.gov/resources/csi/studies-in-intelligence/archives/vol-38-no-5/origins-of-the-congress-for-cultural-freedom-1949-1950/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org); [“The Culture of Funding Culture: The CIA and the Congress for Cultural Freedom,” Cambridge University Press](https://www.cambridge.org/core/books/intelligence-studies-in-britain-and-the-us/culture-of-funding-culture-the-cia-and-the-congress-for-cultural-freedom/6C52FBAFE2C92D03B970C3CFDE68C766?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[6\] Slow Factory’s funding status. “Isn’t funded by anything” is retained as Céline’s statement at the conversation, not an independently verified financial assessment. It should not be read as proof that Slow Factory has never had external support. In August 2023, *Teen Vogue* reported announced H&M support for Slow Factory’s Open Edu programme in 2023–2024 through an employee activism fund. This announcement does not establish funds actually disbursed, the organisation’s finances at the time of the talk, or any CIA connection. Source: [“Slow Factory Says H&M Employees Voted to Support Their Five-Year Plan,” *Teen Vogue*, 30 August 2023](https://www.teenvogue.com/story/handm-and-slow-factory-announce-a-new-five-year-sustainability-effort?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Slow Factory also publicly solicits donations for its educational work: [Open Edu](https://slowfactory.earth/open-edu?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Current funding and the intended scope of Céline’s statement require dated records or clarification. Havîn’s separate interjection has been restored without assuming whom “we” denotes. \[7\] Gloria Steinem. There is documented historical substance to this reference: Steinem worked with the CIA-funded Independent Research Service, which organised American participation in international youth festivals during the Cold War. “Being part of the CIA” is the speaker’s broad wording; the more precise description is her work with that CIA-funded organisation. Markos Kounalakis discussed this history in an article published by USC’s Center on Public Diplomacy on 29 October 2015, well before the recent social-media discussion recalled here. That establishes earlier public discussion, but neither confirms nor disproves Slow Factory’s role in renewing attention. Source: [Markos Kounalakis, “The Feminist Was a Spy,” USC Center on Public Diplomacy](https://uscpublicdiplomacy.org/blog/feminist-was-spy?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Céline’s account of her platform’s influence remains her own; it has not been independently measured. *Editorial disclaimer: This transcript has been edited for grammar, clarity, and length. Bracketed additions and numbered notes are editorial interventions, not words spoken at the event. Sources substantiate only the points identified in the notes; disputed or unverified claims remain attributed to the speakers.* ### Care Work is Grief Work URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/care-work-is-grief-work/ Last updated: 2026-10-07T14:13:36.000Z There is no speaking about grief without speaking about volume. In the opening scene of *The Human Mourning*, José Revueltas describes death as sitting on a chair, waiting to enter the body of an ill young girl.(1) As she sits, her volume morphs, changing colors. Here, death is not dying but the materialization of the father’s grief – occupying space, resting on a surface – in the moment he fully realizes his daughter is going to die. Revueltas' description buzzes in my head, not only because it captures the moment grief becomes physically tangible but also because it pins down the exact instant the possibility of loss emerges – grief does not appear when we lose something, but rather when we recognize loss as inevitable. I have returned to this passage lately, particularly after attending the last session of the ‘Climate Forum III: Towards Change Practices: Poetics and Operations’. Curator Yolande Zola Zoli van der Heide and multi-hyphenate artist G presented recent research developments from Regenerative Time – one of four research threads in the upcoming collection presentation at the Van Abbemuseum, that, among other themes, explores how death can figure in a heritage institution. And how can death figure in an institution that promises immortality after works are acquired for the collection? If objects enter a museum collection to live forever, must they not die first? Are archives not our graveyards? Like Revueltas’ text, G’s practice is generative in relation to these questions. Her work explores the volume of grief and its many expressions – the shape of absence, the gesture of contouring what is lost. Yolande’s practice, in turn, often deploys speculative narratives as a tool for recasting artworks away from traditional readings – away from claims of universal value, asserting that history is always negotiated. Yolande has invited G to develop, alongside the museum’s conservation team, an addendum to the existing conservation protocol, based on a series of case studies that explore the many ways (beyond material decay) in which an artwork can ‘die’. Additionally, G is to score a series of ceremonies to both celebrate and mourn artworks, and to mediate this transition – attention to ritual insists that grief cannot be expedited. ![](https://internationaleonline.org/site/assets/files/77699/what_would_it_be_if_the_things_you_cannot_see_and_only_feel_would_be_in_3d_continued-_work_in_progress_-_2024-_gs_studio.1800x900.webp) G, *WHAT WOULD IT BE IF THE THINGS YOU CANNOT SEE AND ONLY FEEL WOULD BE IN 3D*, 2024, (Work in progress), G's Studio, EKWC. Courtesy the artist. Within the framework of a heritage institution, the task the project brings forth has both research and speculative latitude. A regenerative approach to time invites an expanded understanding of objecthood, recognizing that artworks can die means acknowledging that they also live – that they have lovers, detractors, and relationships unfolding over time, punctuated by ceremonial appreciation. And it involves a structural questioning of the museum’s collecting practices, which lean toward accumulative preservation as a means of denying mortality. Is this refusal to let go itself a form of grief? Is there potential for renewal in the process of release? Attendees at the online presentation at the Climate Forum III were asked to bring an object they felt represented them and were willing to let go of. In a previous in-person edition of the presentation, these items were laid on a table. When reminded that they might actually have to part with them, attendees quickly reclaimed what they couldn’t afford to lose. When projected onto the logic of conservation work, this anecdote prompts a reflection on what loss can trigger. Even as they care for objects, conservators are perpetually grieving them. Grief must sit in the conservator’s chair because, in order to prevent possible loss, their task is to assume that loss is always possible, to search for evidence that death is a diligent creature. Conservation, then, is inherently speculative labour, operating in the realm of preventative measures for a future change of state. Or as Jane Henderson observes, much of conservation work is guided by the question: ‘Is my object being damaged in a way I currently cannot see, but someone might detect in the future with equipment I don’t yet possess?’(2) If successful conservation delivers benefits for the future, how are these objects alive in the present? May we, propelled by anticipatory mourning, deprive our artworks from living a rich public life? ![](https://internationaleonline.org/site/assets/files/77701/art_-_2024-_video_still-_g-_3_minutes_20_seconds.1800x900.webp) G, **ART*, 2024, video, 3 minutes 20 seconds. Courtesy the artist. And yet, speculative vigilance collides with the growing burden of accumulation in a shrinking museum storage space. G plays a run-and-gun video, musicalized to drum and bass and shot at the museum’s storage, where stacked crates tower over the cameraperson in a mazy configuration. From this paradoxical articulation follows the project’s critique of the value system sustaining the presumed common horizon of cultural heritage. What feels easier to let go of? What do we rush to retrieve from the table? Who stands behind “we”? To uncommon histories we must uncommon futures, says Yolande – who are we keeping all this for? Regenerative time calls for a conservation practice that holds as much as it releases, cradles transition, belly laughs while mourning and allows itself some time. If only a minute. If only an hour. If only a day. For all ages. (3) // This article was originally published in [L'Internationale](https://internationaleonline.org/contributions/dispatch-care-work-is-grief-work/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) on the 18th November 2024\. Republishing courtesy of Van Abbemuseum. [Collection as Cosmos — Van Abbemuseum](https://vanabbemuseum.nl/en/see-and-do/exhibitions/collection-as-cosmos?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) Yolande Zola Zoli van der Heide, “When a Museum and Its People Align” **Footnotes** (1) For death is not dying, but what precedes dying, what immediately precedes it, when it has not yet entered the body but is there, still and white, black, violet, bruised, seated on the nearest chair. My translation. José Revueltas, *El luto humano*, México: Editorial México, 1943, p.10. (2) Jane Henderson, ‘Beyond Lifetimes: Who Do We Exclude When We Keep Things for the Future?’, J*ournal of the Institute of Conservation 43*, no. 3, 2020, p.198. (3)Yolande Zola Zoli van der Heide (ed.), *G’s Grief-Sad-Feeling-Weird-Out-of-This-World Coloring Book*, Eindhoven: Van Abbemuseum, 2022. ### The promise and the necessity of Intercommunalism URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-promise-and-the-necessity-of-intercommunalism/ Last updated: 2026-10-05T10:05:13.000Z *I met Delio Vasquez in Marseille, at a Palestinian-led restaurant on the occasion of the launch of his book “*[Huey P. Newton: I Am We](https://www.politybooks.com/bookdetail?book%5Fslug=huey-p-newton-i-am-we--9781509543335&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)” *(Polity Books). By listening to him speak that evening, I kept returning to questions I wanted to ask at more length. I thought to reach out, and what follows is the conversation that came out of it: on Newton's legacy, on state repression then and now, and on what it means to keep the work of remembering alive.* **Dalia Maini:** Your book *Huey P. Newton: I Am We* has finally been released by Polity. I understand your interest in the Black Panther Party is a long-standing one. What drew you to Huey's work in particular, and what obstacles did you meet along the way to publication? **Delio Vasquez:** I was introduced to the Black Panther Party when I was young, through references in underground and political hip-hop. I read a few books in my late teens and early twenties, by Panthers and about Panthers, but I wasn't pursuing it as a study, not until my PhD. I ended up studying at the place where Huey Newton did his PhD, back in 1980, and I came to understand the lack of representation of his past presence there. There was a kind of avoidance of his legacy, in part because of his struggles later in life. And very few scholars had taken up the study of not just his life but his intellectual production in the decades since the sixties, despite his fame and prominence. While I was there, several things fell into my hands. I didn't go in intending to study Newton's thought, but many opportunities came to me. I had very lucky encounters with people connected to him, or connected to others connected to him. Despite writing a dissertation about something else altogether, I decided it was important to write this book. And I was well positioned to do it. I tend to be more empathetic towards criminalized people because I grew up poor in the Bronx. I also studied philosophy, so I could navigate some of Newton's denser writings. It's still challenging even though the book is published, because people who work on Panther history and related histories are subject to state repression, in subtle ways and in overbearing ways. I've had conversations with colleagues who work on related matters, and we both say: there are a lot of stories we could tell. And that's just as scholars, not organizers or people in prominent political positions. **Dalia Maini:** I read Huey's autobiography, *Revolutionary Suicide*, and I was lucky enough to hear you speak about him. He strikes me as a polymath, someone who understood the contradiction of seeking emancipation within that society and who analyzed oppression at every level. Why do you think a figure so fundamental to the Panthers' political project has been so marginalized, including in the cultural sphere? **Delio Vasquez:** First of all, former Panthers are still subject to repression today. Their children are subject to surveillance. There are Panthers still in prison on false convictions, most prominently Mumia Abu-Jamal, who has been in prison for over four decades. So the state's project of targeting Panthers is ongoing, and it's not surprising that if real-life Panthers are repressed, their memory is too. I tried to edit the Wikipedia article on Huey Newton, and my edits were immediately replaced with accounts from sources written by police officers. That stuff is managed in a very intentional way. But the most important reason his legacy remains marginalized is the relevance of his ideas: the free medical programs, the strategies for dealing with globalization and high technological development, which is what we're seeing today, and the strategies for developing liberated territories based in land and mutual aid, structured so that people can defend themselves but also interlink transnationally with others. These were relevant then and arguably more relevant now. The state, capital, patriarchy and white supremacy are invested in suppressing people's capacity to understand their own conditions and organize to liberate themselves. Another part is that Newton, late in his life, fell into a tragic mental illness, which manifested even in interpersonal violence towards his comrades, allies and loved ones. Despite his brilliance as a theorist, people on the left have found it hard to make sense of this contradiction. I devote a whole chapter to it. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and, at a certain point, characterized as dealing with psychosis. A central part of my argument is that this did not develop from natural or genetic conditions. He developed it in his thirties, althoughstatistically people who develop those symptoms do so in their late teens and early twenties. Rather, Newton was subject, as were thousands of other people in this period, to psychiatric torture and human experimentation designed to target his cognitive functions. I go into detail about other Panthers who had these things done to them, about the thousands of people in the US, about the 189 researchers involved, funded by the CIA under the mantra of MK Ultra and other headings. In the early seventies there were congressional hearings about this. Even to talk about it today, people think it's a conspiracy theory. But the conspiracy is how something that had congressional hearings could have its memory so suppressed decades later. What was done to Newton forces us to grapple with the capacities of the state in that period to disrupt social movements, and with the reverberations today. **Dalia Maini:** Newton was subject to a diffuse form of state control. How did that repression work in his time, and do you see its echoes now? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Screenshot-2026-10-02-at-14.33.17-1.png) Art by Black Panther Party Minister of Culture Emory Douglas: U.S. president Gerald depicted as a puppet controlled by transnational corporations **Delio Vasquez:** Back then the Panthers and their allies were subject to assassination and to mass disinformation campaigns. If I'm a Panther and you're a Panther and we're sending letters to each other, they were intercepted and replaced with false letters to make us distrust each other. Things escalated to a level of violence within the party as a result. There were mass raids. Even very mainstream allies of the Panthers were harassed, lost their jobs, had mental health crises. Mainstream white liberal supporters had their lives destroyed. And then there's the cognitive warfare imposed on figures like Newton. Angela Davis talks in her autobiography about encountering these kinds of things, and, as I mentioned, other Panthers as well. I talk about the contemporary repercussions in an essay I recently published, “Huey P. Newton: From the Life of the Mind to the Revolutionary Struggle Against Tyranny Today,” drawing on Dr. Orisanmi Burton's book *Tip of the Spear*. Contemporary bioethicists, philosophers, and military theorists use the word neurowarfare to describe what these forms of repression look like for targeted individuals today. **Dalia Maini:** There is a continuity here. By looking at how Huey was targeted, we can understand how Black and Brown people are still harmed today, perhaps not in prison but in the workplace, and how that compounds with disability, neurodivergence, or gender identity. His proposals, intercommunalism and the smaller-scale changes that could lead to it, feel even more urgent under the Trump administration, which is again diffusely targeting Black and Brown bodies. Do you see his ideas spilling into contemporary activist movements, or are they still being undermined? **Delio Vasquez:** Newton had a diagnosis of the world as he understood it in 1970, and a strategy for how to deal with it. This theory he called intercommunalism. The broader global analysis was that nation-states would have less power, because more decisions would be made by a global capitalist elite, the idea of the one percent. Nationalism would no longer be adequate as a vehicle of liberation. The example I think of most clearly is Greece many years ago, where even after electing an anarchist, they couldn't put in place policies to protect people from neoliberal austerity, because of the influence of global capital. Then think about movements like the Zapatistas in Mexico, or Rojava for a while, where people organized not at the level of the nation-state but at a local, regional level, and from there shared their strategies with other peoples seeking autonomy. Newton had an analysis of this decades before. He also argued that this global regime is increasingly defined by military empire. The US today has over 800 military bases in the world. And perhaps most importantly, he argued that the capitalist drive to integrate technology would have irreversible effects. First, automation would displace the working class, throwing more people into precarity. Then there would be what he called cybernation, a model of governance in which states integrate computers into decision-making. And ultimately technocracy, where decisions get made by a subset of technical workers who can no longer be called workers, because they become so distant from the rest of the population. So we would have to develop a new theory of our existence. Society can no longer be thought of as producing things in order to survive, where your worth is measured in the labor you produce. Here he was very influenced by James Boggs, a Black anti-capitalist from Detroit, and his partner Grace Lee Boggs. That's the pessimistic picture. But Newton, being a dialectical thinker, always saw these conditions of oppression as the very grounds for people to exercise agency and organize. The solution is for people to organize locally and insist on the connection to land and on our ability to sustain ourselves, whether through food sovereignty, or expropriating in order to sustain our communities, or collectivizing our labor. The Panthers created free food programs, free medical programs, their own schools, and they did this without any money to start, from the collective labor of people who saw that what they were doing would bring about their liberation. And this is the point I try to repeat: the Panthers knew they could not bring about a revolution themselves. They were only a group of radicals. Social transformation can only be brought about by the mass of the people, who have to decide: I can run a medical program myself, I can find a space to house people. Newton believed that oppressed people are in the prime position to act from that place. Once you're at the bottom of society, you realize you can only rely on yourself and those around you. You can't count on elites who, at a certain point, are sociopathic in their treatment of others. So he was optimistic that despite everything arrayed against us, we can build the world we want. **Dalia Maini:** Newton was a prophetic figure: much of what he observed globally has come to pass. I think brilliant figures like him have a peculiar relationship with time, as if they have lived both the future and the past, which may be why many of them are drawn to spiritualism. But we are now in that future, one of global techno-governance… **Delio Vasquez:** Technofascism. **Dalia Maini:** Yes, global technofascism and rule by a few. How do we build intersectional solidarity under these conditions, with so much segregation between classes? What do we need to hospice? And how do we bring together those who chose to radicalize and those born into the struggle? I don't expect a fixed answer, but I think the strategy for the present is worth asking about. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/10/Screenshot-2026-10-05-at-11.58.41.png) Left to right: chairperson Elaine Brown, Huey P. Newton, and bodyguard Robert Bay **Delio Vasquez:** About Newton's seemingly prophetic analyses: he didn't believe he was a prophet. He understood what he was doing as an application of dialectical materialism, the idea that everything is in flux and has within it tensions that eventually produce other conditions. For him, understanding the rise of technological society was a matter of understanding the contradiction between capital's desire to maximize profit and the objectification of the worker. He integrated other ideas too: empiricism and rationalism, philosophical skepticism, ideas of flux and phenomena. There's a chapter on this in the book, and on how it connected to his experiences in solitary confinement. There's another thread, and it makes some sense to me too. The way people of African descent talk about our ancestors: I think of Huey as an ancestor, someone whose legacy I've tried to help repair. Ancestors aren't in the past; they're in the present. Resonance is a good word. Newton's brilliance and how he was harmed are both so relevant today. He would say the fact that I was tortured itself has within it a positive element that, over time, will overtake the negative. The whole package of his life, the good and the bad, is a lesson for us. That feels like a spiritual insight. Now, on privilege, sacrifice and solidarity. If there's anything we've learned from the history of fascism, it's that whatever comes for me today will come for you tomorrow. Before the Nazis imprisoned Jewish people, Romani people, and queer people, they were putting political activists- communists, socialists, anarchists- in the concentration camps. And before that, they put in there the class of people called criminals. Because we lack empathy for poor people, most of whom are committing crimes against property, we couldn't understand the threat to us. Think about that from an abolitionist perspective. Huey argued that even though people in the third world may suffer the most, it is arguably the people in the first world who are the most colonized, culturally and psychologically. Part of that colonization is the inability to suffer with the suffering of others, to see their experience as connected to your own: the alienation of human from human, human from nature, divided by race, gender, sexuality, ability. For Newton, everyone's well-being is tied together. White people need Black people to help them grasp what they're disconnected from, and Black people need white people's allyship to overcome this technofascist condition. Just to use that binary; we can use any other. **Dalia Maini:** If I remember well, when white people asked to join the Panthers, they were told to organize their own militant group. I find that strategy interesting because it asks you to examine how oppressive you are within your own community. **Delio Vasquez:** The Panthers believed each community has particular struggles to work through, and that people in those communities often, though not always, have the most insight into them. At the same time, the Panthers worked with everybody. They said they'd ally with anyone who would ally with them: Indigenous people, the gay liberation movement, the Dalit Panthers in India, the Polynesian Panthers in New Zealand. So we shouldn't mistake a focus on the problems in your community for separatism. The Panthers were absolutely against that. **Dalia Maini:** I'd add that Europe is the laboratory of the Enlightenment, and modernity shaped the idea of blackness through the slave trade. So white subjectivity itself is formed through colonization. Maybe that goes even deeper than we've said. To return to Newton: in the last chapters, "The Life of the Mind, the Politics of the Street," you address his spiritual upbringing. I believe political life and spiritual life need each other. Can you tell us about his spiritual practice, including his connection to Ubuntu, and how it shaped his politics? **Delio Vasquez:** A common understanding is that the Panthers were atheists, because of their Marxism. They were robustly Marxist, but not dogmatically. They drew from decolonial and anarchist thought, and they were part of the origins of Black feminist thought. And the party was seemingly anti-religious early on. But that's not the full picture. Newton was the son of a pastor and was deeply influenced by his father's courage in speaking the truth in the racist South. He was inspired by certain texts in the Bible, which he understood through the frame of existentialism, Ecclesiastes in particular. He would return to the Bible for inspiration while also critiquing the madness in it, to use his words. And there's a crux to his thought, grounded in dignity, agency, the will to will towards freedom, that has a spiritual core. When Newton came out of prison in 1970, after three years as a political prisoner, he sought to reintegrate the Panthers with the Black church, which during slavery and after has been the most consistent institution in the Black community. He realized you can't take an anti-religious position and alienate so much of the community by not grasping the importance of the church in giving people strength against the brutalities of slavery. There's a resonance between his belief in the will and the empowerment that comes from faith: if you're incarcerated and you seemingly have support from no one, you can find within yourself the ability to overcome. In practice, many church leaders supported the Panthers even in their so-called atheist phase. The first free breakfast program was run out of a church. The title of the book is *Huey P. Newton: I Am We*, given the centrality of that phrase to his thought. His belief, grounded in the African concept of Ubuntu, is that I am only possible because of my relationship to everyone else: the inseparable connection between self and other, between all life, and more than that, the animate and the inanimate. Newton also grounded these ideas in Western philosophy. He integrated post-structuralism, such as Derrida's analysis of language, and drew on theoretical physics to critique the subject-object distinction. So he was invested in a broader monism, and in the notion of flux for understanding the world. **Dalia Maini:** To close: this summer, during the heatwave, laborers in the south of Italy, many of them Black and Brown, occupied churches simply to find somewhere cool. It made me think of how such places can still offer community against all odds, and can be subverted for it. **Delio Vasquez:** Thank you so much. It's been great. And thank you for reaching out, and for coming to the talk in Marseille. **Dalia Maini:** Thanks to you, Delio; it was inspiring. May your work keep proliferating! // ### Racist by Design URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/racist-by-design/ Last updated: 2026-09-28T11:00:53.000Z *Over the past couple of years, Western liberal democracies have exposed their racist roots by moving from managing racism discursively to deploying it as open policy: the Trump administration has abolished DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) programs and defunded Black studies, ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) has carried out mass raids, and AfD (Alternative für Deutschland) rhetoric has been normalized in Germany.* *I approached artist, writer, and editor Will Fredo Furtado after reading on Instagram about their request for support in finding publishers, funding, and references to develop a book proposal that names, historicizes, and connects deaths and harms sharing a common root: institutional violence against racialized people. The following conversation opens up that framework, with the intention of making visible and denouncing the racist structures of cultural institutions in Germany and the West at large, and with the hope of raising interest in publishing the book.* ***Your research connects deaths that appear unrelated on the surface under the frame of "institutional violence," all of them affecting racialized people. Can you explain the thread that ties these cases together?*** Having navigated institutions as an artist, student, lecturer, and journalist, I have had experiences and witnessed behaviors showing that the white, cis, heterosexual, wealthy, able-bodied Christian male remains the basis of whiteness and the ideal in institutions. This structure is still held by the Enlightenment, which both gave rise to the idea of universal rights and gave racism its modern "scientific" form. Thinkers from Bernier and Buffon to Hume, Kant, and Voltaire classified humanity into ranked races, lending intellectual authority to slavery and empire. The gap between professed equality and practiced hierarchy is the inheritance of today's institutions. These ideals translate into institutional violence when institutions falsely present themselves as neutral. Institutional violence occurs first when institutions make no provisions, such as DEI practices, to prevent discrimination, and second through resistance, negligence, and sabotage toward people who complain about discrimination when it occurs. Western institutions (academies, museums, and cultural centers) are not always organizations that aim to practice and produce democracy, as they often claim. Rather, they are primarily places of capital creation and accumulation, or they are entrusted with keeping the status quo. In Germany, for example, the Free Palestine movement in particular has made clear that institutions are severely shaped and restricted by governments' political and financial interests. Institutions are also dependent on donations from private founders and patrons, whose political and financial interests influence how they function in an even more obscure manner. My research looks at how this kind of compulsory whiteness shows up in the way marginalized people, especially Black people, are mistreated by design, from application to exit. ***As you point out, institutions built on histories of extraction continue to carry colonial logics into their present-day structures, even where formal reforms have been enacted. How is this violent inheritance visible, and what does it produce at the epistemic and cultural level?*** Interestingly, some contested evidence points out that the [museum](https://news.artnet.com/art-world/art-bites-first-museum-labels-2467975?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and the [university](https://research.com/universities-colleges/oldest-university-in-the-world?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) are Asian and African inventions, respectively, so even the concept of the Western institution was stolen from non-white peoples. It is no surprise, then, that Western institutions were built on a basis of extraction akin to the plantation, or that [Zionists](https://artreview.com/artists-curators-and-museum-workers-sign-open-letter-to-palais-de-tokyo/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) are big art patrons. This violent inheritance is visible in the numbers. In the UK, for instance, 65% of postgraduates in art and design are women, but 68% of the artists represented at top London commercial galleries are men. In the same country, only 8% of creative workers are working class. Artists in 18 major US museums are 85% white and 87% male, while work by Black American women accounts for 0.5% of acquisitions in 31 US museums, despite Black women making up 6.6% of the population. In art production, marginalized people tend to receive more institutional support when they create work perceived as typical of their social group. You will notice, for example, that Western institutions tend to show more figurative than abstract art by Black artists. On an epistemic level, racialized artists are often expected to make art about their racial oppression, which reasserts their subjection and can harm the mental health of the artists and the communities they aim to represent. This is so prevalent in the Global Majority that it is known as "NGO art." ***Last August, within days of each other, Cambridge professor Jason Arday died by suicide following a sustained media assault, and EOTO (Each One Teach One), a Berlin-based BIPOC-led collective, was forced by an organized racist campaign to cancel a Black children's event at the Volksbühne summer pool. In both instances, the institution declined to take accountability, laying bare how "inclusion" without an actual anti-racist politics is mere managed exposure to harm. These are extreme and legible cases. Can you speak to the far more numerous, less visible ways institutional harm operates: the slow violence of the everyday alongside the complicity of the headline?*** The problem starts with people in institutions thinking and behaving as if racism were an interpersonal issue rather than a structural one that dictates how every aspect of life functions and how some people prosper while others barely survive. This ignorance benefits those who profit from whiteness and the hierarchies it imposes, so acknowledging it is discouraged. Institutions tend to remedy racism with tokenistic representation and, adding insult to injury, the people who benefit from whiteness are usually the ones who define what constitutes racism. This has been exacerbated by highly funded white supremacists who [promote racism in universities](https://www.thenerve.news/p/epstein-billionaires-eugenics-project-harvard-academia-john-brockman?%5Fbhlid=89fbd5e9bf9e78e2cd80ad5f267537121f9f5bfe&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and [museums](https://hyperallergic.com/protest-targets-whitney-museum-board-ties-after-canceled-performance/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). The examples you mention received more press because of the institutions' renown, but they show the basis of the racism that affects racialized people in institutions, starting with the double standard. Jason Arday was held to a higher standard than other professors: every aspect of his life was scrutinized, and the moment several white people doubted his credentials, he lost the institution's support despite zero evidence of misconduct. Meanwhile, other white male professors get away with plagiarizing their own students' papers. Working in these industries while Black means you will more often be ignored, discredited, and denied the benefit of the doubt; be easily demonized; and receive less support, kindness, solidarity, and grace, and the list goes on. The testimonials I have been gathering for years show that, day to day, racialized people in institutions are held to a much higher standard and must work overtime to keep up. They are given fewer resources and opportunities and are limited to topics deemed more fitting for racialized people. On top of that, and perhaps more taxing, are the constant racist microaggressions from staff, colleagues, and superiors. In addition, capitalist ideals such as meritocracy, individualism, overwork, competition, tokenism, and capital accumulation contribute to the detriment of marginalized people's health. For example, I investigated a student protest at a German university where students collectively complained about the racism they endured. Over three days, they collected more than 50 reports from students who had experienced racist discrimination at the university. These were put on posters plastered across the campus and shown on a screen at the entrance. In their open letter, the students made specific demands to push the institution to address its racism problem. These included establishing an intersectional anti-discrimination office staffed by full-time professionals with expertise and lived experience of the respective forms of discrimination, in line with § 13 of Germany's General Equal Treatment Act (AGG); accessibility for all disabled people in all departments; and a critical examination of course content and teaching methods on racism and all other forms of discrimination before the start of each semester. The university ignored all 19 demands and faced no consequences. This shows that discrimination takes place because the university willfully allows it, despite legislation, while knowing exactly what to do to end it. ***In this regard, your book proposal traces how racialized bodies are debilitated by institutional racism, linking questions of health directly to the politics of inclusion and exclusion. What emerges is something like a logic of social Darwinism internal to the institution itself, where survival is reserved for those most willing, or most able, to assimilate. Can you talk about how this plays out concretely, in the bodies and health of the people you write about?*** An important part of my research consists of scientific findings showing how racism deteriorates mental and physical health. These findings help explain how, when marginalized people work themselves to exhaustion or self-medicate to live up to the double standard or to survive racism, the consequences can include injuries, slipped discs, exhaustion, substance abuse, depression, cancer, and suicide. In her book *Complaint!* (2021), Sara Ahmed explains that the simple act of making a complaint at an institution can result in back pain or irregular menstrual periods, owing to the institution's resistance and negligence. Many of the artists I interviewed revealed that the stress they work under has resulted in depression, anxiety, burnout, and addiction. This is unfortunately standard across the arts, but for racialized or marginalized people it can have fatal consequences. While racism may be the primary marker of exclusion, it is always connected to other social parameters, so the further you are from the "Enlightenment ideal," the more exposed you are to institutional harm. Many of the racialized people I interview or study, for example, are also working class. To give one example of many, I interviewed a female artist, a working-class migrant who is the first artist in her family and has worked in the European art industry for 20 years. She explained that the conditions she has had to work under were appalling: galleries that claimed to support emerging artists expected her to pay for transport, production, and technical materials. As a marginalized artist, she constantly had to advocate for herself just to have basic equipment for her exhibitions, even at larger institutions, and was called a "bitch" or "difficult" for doing so. Her privileged white male colleagues did not go through the same ordeal. She has had to work herself to exhaustion to sustain her career, which has resulted in two burnouts. The stress of her workload made her depressed, led to her hospitalization, broke up her long-term relationship, and left her with chronic pain. ***How do you articulate the relationship between public shaming and the structural forms of institutional violence (administrative neglect, silent exclusion, bureaucratic attrition) that rarely make the news?*** There are two important dimensions at play here: the public and the institution. The public can call out injustice and demand change, which can be very galvanizing. Yet many people stay silent in the face of injustice for fear of reprisal or of losing any amount of privilege. The responsibility, though, lies with the institution, which must not stay in the realm of "thoughts and prayers" and instead must examine its own racist structures and undo them. In the case of the Volksbühne, it was very painful and disappointing to witness its reaction to the racism EOTO received. Putting up a banner saying "fickt euch" ("fuck you") was irresponsible and immature, and it showed a lack of care and consideration for the Black community in Germany and an unawareness of the dimensions of racism. But even when racial discrimination is exposed in the news, there are no consequences whatsoever, and that is exactly the problem. When you are Black, the racism starts before you even enter the institution. At the entrance, for instance, you are racially profiled by security, which has happened to other Black and brown colleagues and to me on multiple occasions. This racism follows you throughout your career, all the way to the top, precisely because even when there are measures against racism, they are not enforced. Sara Ahmed calls these "non-performatives." Shortly before he died of cancer at age 55, the internationally revered Nigerian curator Okwui Enwezor described the racism he endured while leading a major German museum, to absolutely no avail: "I observe very well how I am devalued culturally. In the way people talk about me, the way communication from official places targets me, it also finds an echo in the newspapers. There I read that the next director has to speak German. On the other hand, I am reproached for not mastering the German language. This is frighteningly overemphasized. Some people do not even bother to pronounce my name correctly, but they demand that I speak German." ***How do well-intentioned actors, and sometimes artists themselves, end up as instruments of institutional violence without recognizing themselves as such? And in your view, what is the minimal intervention, the smallest structural change, that could begin to interrupt that reproduction?*** Hegemony and capitalism have turned artists into very compliant people. Speaking up for justice can cost you work opportunities in an already precarious industry, so most artists don't speak up. As Sara Ahmed says, when you point out a problem, you become the problem, and that can affect your career. But as Timothy Snyder and Audre Lorde have respectively noted, anticipatory compliance and silence will not save you. Even the best of us who claim to be neutral or against institutional violence can perpetuate it if we don't move through the world aware of how racism works. This happens because we are not encouraged to question the institutions we have inherited: the moment we do, we realize we have to change almost everything about them, including the architecture of the buildings, which is too often ableist because, from the point of view of whiteness, heritage is more important than accessibility and objects are more important than people. Practitioners working with and in institutions become instruments of violence when they don't know how racism affects everyone differently or are unwilling to act on it. Ending racism in institutions requires awareness, accountability, difficult conversations, acting on guilt, and making plans for change and executing them in tandem with, and with feedback from, racialized people. It is hard work, but at some point we have to decide whether we want to put in the work or prefer to see marginalized people suffer and die at alarming rates. Institutions, especially in Europe, tend not to have any DEI practices or policies beyond representation, so the smallest structural change could start there. ***I'm interested in your own position within institutions that bear significant responsibility for reproducing colonial and racial structures. Where do you locate yourself inside these systems, and what has occupying that position cost you personally?*** As a poor, Black, queer, and neurodivergent practitioner, I resonate with many of the harrowing stories of burnout and injury that I feature in the book. However, I have been able to avoid sacrificing myself to the point of no recovery. When it comes to standing up to institutions, within my capacities, I have always been very vocal: a "Backtalker" in Kimberlé Crenshaw's words and a "Feminist Killjoy" in Sara Ahmed's. But it has been crucial to enter the fight for justice with like-minded people. Raising awareness of racism and whiteness, especially when unrequested and in a style not deemed "professional," has cost me work relationships and opportunities. At the same time, it has shown me which of my colleagues are serious about working toward an equitable world, and that has saved me precious energy that I can channel into justice work. ***Your proposal gestures toward building spaces (collectives, community organizations, informal networks) outside the reach of institutional pressure. But what would accountability from within an institution actually look like, as distinct from simply constructing parallel spaces to withdraw into?*** My proposal centers on marginalized people who enter institutions under the false impression that they are neutral places. The aim of my book is to equip those most vulnerable to institutional violence. It is not aimed at institutions, because they have the means and the responsibility to ensure that marginalized people are also cared for and to make the appropriate changes. Nonetheless, if institutions are truly interested in accountability, they can follow examples such as the [Museum für Moderne Kunst](https://www.mmk.art/en/whats-on/cameron-rowland?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (MMK), which investigated its role in slavery. Instead of making exhibitions about it, as the MMK did, they could do what [the Guardian](https://www.theguardian.com/news/2023/mar/28/guardian-owner-apologises-founders-transatlantic-slavery-scott-trust?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) has promised: invest £10m in a program of restorative justice, with millions dedicated specifically to descendant communities affected by the newspaper's founders' role in transatlantic slavery. Choosing exit over transformation is a very personal decision; not everyone has the ability or the means to leave this unfair system. Those who make it out alive may have fewer resources but much more health and peace of mind, as well as the freedom to start something different, often with and for other people. // Will Fredo Furtado is looking for support to further this research and a publisher for this book. They have never published a book, nor has anyone in their family or immediate social circle, so they are asking their wider network for support. If you work in or near publishing, or have something to contribute to the research, here is how you can help: \>Suggest agents or publishers who might be interested in the proposal. \>Recommend the proposal directly to a person or organization in publishing. \>Offer feedback on the proposal and, later, the manuscript. \>Email your own or others' experiences of negligence inside institutions. \>Email your own or others' alternative actions outside institutions. \>Support financially on [GoFundMe](https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-me-publish-a-book-about-surviving-institutions?attribution%5Fid=sl:82ba7a4a-38b5-4ada-b4dc-04a490379465&lang=en%5FUS&ts=1790589260&utm%5Fcampaign=man%5Fsharesheet%5Fdash&utm%5Fcontent=amp30-treatment-7&utm%5Fmedium=customer&utm%5Fsource=copy%5Flink). How to reach them: Email: contact@willfredo.cc / Instagram: @willwalidfredo / Medium: will247.medium.com / Website: [willfredo.cc](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://willfredo.cc&sa=D&source=editors&ust=1790592696397422&usg=AOvVaw2FNEckEXbnT95GnMktPgbP) ### Image Politics of Touching, Observing, and Recording URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/image-politics-of-touching-observing-and-recording/ Last updated: 2026-10-02T12:06:53.000Z **June Drevet:** How can we, through photography and film, enter into relation with the world, with history, and with other people? That's a question that connects the two of us. Since the documentary turn, the documentary has once again been widely criticized, given that pointing a camera at a person or a web of relations always carries something violent: it can objectify or neutralize, tearing people/voices/stories out of their contexts. The camera has been accused of being a central tool of generalization. To approach this issue, let's talk about the surface of the image—that is, about questions of representation, use, and conditions, as well as about the materiality and technologies involved in observing, recording, and holding on to stories about ourselves and others. What's so exciting about the two mixed-media installations we'll be showing in Stuttgart—to which you will also add a third—is that the stories you tell involve your identity and your observation, but they aren't only yours. **Vanessa Amoah Opoku:** As a human, I have to reflect on my own position, the position from which I tell stories about myself and the world. I come from a working-class family. With such a background, your position in society is never self-evident, but it is something you feel early on. Neither going to art school nor not dropping out was self-evident. The first thing that engaging with my own positionality gave me as an aspiring artist was the sense of legitimacy to have a place at all. At first, this legitimation had nothing to do with speaking about myself. What struck me more was that I saw myself represented by people with a similar history, and that was very important to me. The first time that I took my own family history as a starting point was in Bricks and Cement Don't Make a House. Prior to that, I always resisted telling personal stories. I always had someone else read texts aloud. I never spoke myself because I wanted to maintain a distance and go beyond mere representation. As a marginalized artist, you often show your work in those places where exclusion is happening most directly—where most of the people are not marginalized. That's an uncomfortable tension: having to negotiate beforehand how much of yourself you show, how vulnerable to make yourself. At the same time, it's absolutely central to my practice that there is a radical relationality, that I want to touch people on an emotional level, and that requires me to open up and show myself. Whatever medium I use to tell stories about the world or my environment, I need a medium that makes my presence within the entire construct visible. Positionality doesn't have to be renegotiated every single time; it's automatically built into the medium. I learned that from the artist Tina Bara, who was my professor. She frequently uses a series of self-portraits, but sometimes the camera briefly pans to a mirror, allowing us to see both the protagonist and Bara herself. For me, that's what the LiDAR scan does: how I move has a significant impact on the result, meaning my body is inscribed into the medium. This early sense of one's position in society—a sense of class consciousness—is for me the precondition for being able to effectively tell stories with and about others. In my case, this path—from a cacao farm in Ghana, via an education in Hungary, to an artistic practice, teaching, and research in Germany and Switzerland—took two generations. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Vanessa-Amoah-Opoku_Synthesizing-Realities_4_ifa_STG-2.jpg) Exhibition view. Vanessa Amoah Opoku. Synthesizing Realities. ifa Gallery Stuttgart, 2026 © ifa, photo: Dominique Brewing **JD:** Absolutely, and at the same time I think that our different ways of working provide different possibilities for deploying class consciousness. In art criticism, the format itself is language, and language is a way of creating discourse. Language allows me to intervene in discourse much more directly: an article can be taken up at the next symposium, developed further at a conference or cited in a lecture. That gives it a different kind of leverage compared to making art, where the work first has to pass through layers of mediation before it becomes discursively effective. And we can deploy, carry out, mark, or inscribe the question of positionality quite differently too. **VAO:** How do you deal with that in your writing? **JD:** For example, in the beginning I always built in a note on the conditions under which I write or under which a given text came into being. That's how I learned institutional critique; I noticed that it is necessary to connect content with structure and conditions. But the social misalignments repeat themselves. I can't point out the same problem every single time. I think this pointing-out has, over time, migrated further and further into the underlying structures, similar to what happens for you. As an editor, I can respond to this concern even more directly. I ask myself each time: How do I invite authors? How do I shape collaboration? Or how do I approach a set of themes? And, I think the discourse has, fortunately, become much more complex. I think that every debate—if we see it through to the end together with all the parties involved—gives us something to learn. **VAO:** Yes, it only works together. This question of facilitation, by which I mean how we (jointly) make a space possible, is absolutely essential. So how do curators see their role such that it is possible at all to exhibit the work—when it is made accessible to the public—in a space that opens itself up? **JD:** Exactly! Mediation is also one of our responsibilities because artists shouldn't have to explain their work. In particular, they don't have to respond artistically to every piece of criticism; that's what institutions are for. Otherwise, individuals would censor themselves. In recent years, artists have become more political; put positively, they've allowed themselves to let criticism in. But because of that, they're also frequently expected to take a position on and speak out about particular things. **VAO:** I would still say that's also a co-creation. It gets interesting once the process and the exchange become part of the work itself. The focus is on relational work: the circumstances under which a work is framed and curated, just as much as in the practice itself. How I work with places and people, and how I make myself visible in doing so. That takes a great deal of time. I need it so that the people I work with have agency over how they're recorded and shown—and so that I can really connect with the places I work, instead of just capturing them quickly. **JD:** What I've noticed is that your works aren't there to point out conditions. Quite the reverse: conditions serve as the basis for the works or for the qualities that define the artistic practice itself. Either it's a collaboration, a long-term project, or it's working with certain materials and technologies. Can you say, briefly, how do you understand the conditions inherent to the technologies and materials you use, and how do you respond to them? Which conditions feed into your choice of tools and which influence things in terms of image? **VAO:** This decision about materials is like a chain reaction. How an image finally comes about has to do with so many loops that are so interlocked with one another that I couldn't possibly put it all together from the beginning. It's a process that develops over many iterations. That's why I work with installation. For me, it's a way of keeping things mobile so that new combinations can happen. **JD:** Yes—with different logics and dynamics pulling in different directions. Some things become visible through the processes that weren't visible before, and some things are made unreadable in order to produce a different kind of visibility. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/6_robert_schittko_copyright-6-1.jpg) Installation view: **Thresholds of Engineered Life*, Installation view, MARS, Frankfurt, 2025 © Vanessa Amoah Opoku, Photo: Robert Schittko **VAO:** Making infrastructure visible, yes. I have to become conscious of every technology and every material—how it came about, the conditions under which they were produced, their historical significance—so that the decision is made consciously, not out of impulse. On the material level, I often work with different things, but they keep coming back whenever they can fulfill a function. On the technology level, it always comes back to the same tools: field recorder, camera, LiDAR scanner. They're all sensing technologies that capture something physically present over time, not through a single, closed-off image. **JD:** In previous curatorial projects, I've repeatedly engaged with works in which the embodied camera plays a role; a strategy used by feminist filmmakers like Chantal Akerman, Agnès Varda, or Barbara Hammer. The embodied camera is, on the one hand, one that makes the artist's movement visible but also—you spoke earlier about Tina Bara's influence—brings you, as the artist, into the image. Do you also think of the LiDAR scanner and the infrared camera as a kind of embodied camera? **VAO:** Yes. I'd say both the camera and the scanner are embodied. The LiDAR scan depends inherently on the movement I make; an image only comes into being through movement. I never use a tripod when I'm filming—it's always handheld. The image stabilization compensates for the movements I make with my body without it making me or the device invisible. That's not a contradiction for me but a tension I want: my breath stays visible precisely because the stabilization can never fully smooth it out. When I tell a story about coloniality, I have to be aware of how weaving has been used in that context, historically and today. When I make a work about bodies, I have to become aware of what wax has meant historically in the process of making death masks while also being aware of the structure of exploitation involved in how humans keep bees for their beeswax. The infrastructure behind it is essential to the logic of the work. Recording is, for me, an active practice: a signal is sent out and reflected. It is just as important to me that reception is active too. Not passive consumption but making one's own decisions: to step into this space, to open oneself up to the theme or the story, to decide how deep to go, whether to sit down, to pick something up. That is also true for the people I work with and their agency. When I do scans, the person can move and thereby make themselves less visible or more blurred. In both cases, it is less that they are people observing or being observed and more that they are "user-designers." **JD:** That's interesting because it's actually not easy to reverse that and become agents again when these technologies are owned by companies. It isn't possible to use smart technology with an awareness of where and when you leave data traces. When I think of the optimistic texts about the internet in the 1990s, immateriality seemed to represent unseen opportunities. Everyone had the feeling, regardless of their background, that they could see some potential in it for themselves. Today, that's completely changed. We're realizing that the possibilities have been capitalized to such an extent that it's once again a question of rich and poor in terms of who sees opportunities in technology and who doesn't. **VAO:** It's also the invisibility of technology: this plays with the smooth experience that makes everything disappear into the background so that we never notice how it actually works. That also means we no longer have to develop our own competence. And yet it's so important that people actively connect with their environment and don't limit themselves to passively consuming. We have to understand how something is built in order to be able to build it differently or turn it against itself. But that requires competence and awareness—and that, again, is a class question. // *This conversation is an excerpt from the full interview originally published in* "Synthesizing Realities", *the book accompanying the exhibition of the same name at ifa-Galerie Stuttgart, Germany. The exhibition was curated by Vanessa Amoah Opoku in collaboration with June Drevet.* ### ### The Syntax is More Important than the Vocabulary URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/barcelona-gallery-weekend-the-syntax-is-more-important-than-the-vocabulary/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T13:20:08.000Z Before Casa Batlló became priceless, people sold it in pieces. It is hard to believe that not long ago this buzzing tourist hotspot was almost dismantled. I’m walking up towards “Gaudí-Miró-Gomis*:* Deconstructed”, part of the Casa’s contemporary program for Barcelona Gallery Weekend. Once I arrive, the curator narrates the Casa’s history of removed doors, discarded original features, and of people rescuing what others no longer wanted. A photograph by Joaquim Gomis shows the rear façade looking exhausted: blinds unevenly lowered, sagging awnings, Gaudí’s extravagant balconies carrying on above the ordinary mess of habitation. Gaudí, before everyone agreed. Miró learned from him. Alongside Gomis’s photographs, the other assembled artists helped, and continue to help, make Gaudí legible to others. It’s a beautiful reminder that artists need other artists for their legacies to continue. The exhibition—wrapped in the special effects of the Design studio Tomorrow Bureau—builds this thread through Miró’s restlessness. Paper becomes insufficient; he wants texture, clay, the resistance of some other material. Gaudí had worked with artisans, making the intelligence of their hands part of the architecture. Miró looks at him as a sculptor. Trencadís, glazes, colors, and forms gathered from the Catalan landscape offer possibilities to someone dissatisfied with what he already knows how to do. Inheritance can begin in boredom. The Casa keeps supplying examples: the doors, the ventilation from the windows floating like a jellyfish. Immersion was already given by Gaudí’s understanding of defining space through details. Casa Batlló Contemporary occupies a former workshop, and Studio Mesura’s aluminum ceiling picks up the building’s aquatic associations by means of contemporary fabrication. Tomorrow Bureau enlarges and animates Miró’s details and uses AI to set Gomis’s archive in motion. The digital pieces offer access to details conservation prevents us from approaching. Yet Gomis photographed a building whose importance still needed arguing for. The technology here today addresses a public already arriving at a masterpiece. The task of getting somebody to look has changed; the conditions under which looking becomes possible have too. This is the ambient spirit of Barcelona Gallery Weekend: recognition appears as an ongoing social process, an organized exercise in agreement, an invitation to recognize importance—sometimes before the price rises, sometimes after the artist has died. By evening, a few blocks up along the iconic broadway, Passeig de Gràcia, La Pedrera is visible from the rooftop of my residence, The One. The mountains in Tomorrow Bureau’s renderings become a horizon again. For two nights, we journalists are invited to momentarily forget the precarity of our labor and live like the collectors who come to enjoy Barcelona Gallery Weekend. *Déformation professionnelle*: I enjoy the view and calculate the contradiction. A room costs €400–500 a night. The contradiction is material rather than rhetorical. Culture helps produce the desirability from which the property, tourism, and hospitality industries extract value, all while many of the people producing culture live against precarious incomes and rising housing costs. My access to this version of Barcelona depends, temporarily, on somebody else paying. Loving a city from that state of exception is easy. “This is Barcelona,” the city announces. This, and everything gentrification has taken away. Inside the hotel, Fernando Prats offers something quieter to look at. His *Pintura de pájaros para una habitación privada* (2016) extends through the rooms with a restraint that is unusual for collections made to accommodate the demands of hospitality. Prats defines the rooms, yet his artworks are not made to fit. A mark resembles a brushstroke and the flight of thousands of hummingbirds. They disturb smoke-darkened panels; their passage leaves the image behind. Something is pleasing about this allowance for accidents in a space where every other circumstance is supposed to have been anticipated. I encounter the work without organizing myself into a visitor. I leave, return, then look again. Outside, thunder and rain make their theatrical appearance. I sleep tenderly, aware that the people I meet want Barcelona to change without surrendering the traditions and aesthetic intelligence that make it beautiful (as well as tragically unaffordable). ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ethall_Sergio-Prego_El-rostro-ajeno--2022-_Cortesi--a-ethall..jpg) etHALL, Sergio Prego, **El rostro ajeno*, 2022\. Cortesía etHALL. The next day, after an exquisite anchovy brioche (€5) and the local wine, xarello (€6), at a small and aesthetically perfectionist fish bar called Nardi, we took a taxi to L’Hospitalet, where the denser, visibly working class fabric beyond Barcelona’s familiar cultural center extends. This journey takes us through space and lives, and with the relative proximity and propinquity of etHALL and Galería Alegría I find reason enough to follow the programme where it leads me. At etHALL, the scale changes. This is a gallery whose judgement I want to follow: June Crespo exhibited here in 2016, before her acclaim became widespread. A gallery’s history records whom it was prepared to spend time, space, and money on before everybody else caught up. Eulàlia Rovira’s *Clin* (2026) suspends another agreement, among the humidity, the flowers, and corners she composes, an ode to nothingness. Her installation works with the architecture at the point before orientation becomes convention. Inclination is understood as deviation from the vertical—but who gave the vertical priority? A slight shift brings overlooked relationships into view. The refusal to treat a starting position as innocent feels especially useful during a press tour asking us to form opinions according to a schedule. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ethall_Eula--lia-Rovira_Foto-Cecilia-Di--az-Betz.jpg) etHALL, Eulàlia Rovira. Foto: Cecilia Díaz Betz In etHALL’s backyard, Sergio Prego’s “Overflow” presents a new work from *The Face of Another* project, begun here in 2022 and drawing inspiration from ceramic vessels and figures in Hiroshi Teshigahara’s film bearing the same title. The plastic fountains bring Senga Nengudi to mind: the suggestion of a body in yielding material, a form seemingly unfinished with gravity. I find them beautiful. Prices range from €25,000 to €40,000. Nearby, Galería Alegría’s “Ballestrinquers”, bringing together Luis Bisbe and Jacobo Castellano, takes its title from a clove hitch knot. The program gives us a dictionary definition: two turns, ends crossing. Initiated as an artist-run space, Alegría invites an artist to curate another artist: roles are thus passed around. The knot supplies an image for the arrangement. What holds depends on how things are brought together. The syntax is more important than the vocabulary—a thought the architects at MACBA, which I’ll visit shortly, make explicit. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-09-23-at-14.36.33.png) Galería Alegría. Luis Bisbe. Photo: the author I rode a Lime bike to Espai Metrònom. Their scooters are prohibited by popular demand, but their brand still remains ubiquitous. Inside, other brands have recruited art into their orbit. Ed Templeton’s “Tomorrow Never Comes” grew from his collaboration with Bershka and Aries; Foto Colectania is a partner and Elisa Medde is its curator. The show has a different rhythm and economy. Templeton’s proximity to skate culture makes banality pleasing: people are kissing all over the place in his images. Bershka can put the work before an enormous clientele, including people unlikely to receive a gallery-opening invitation. And, the exhibition is free. Access here is real, and commercially useful. The open question that the brand aims to answer, through more of these exhibitions, is what cultural agency they can exercise through an infrastructure built to convert attention into consumption. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-09-23-at-12.35.48.png) Espai Metrònom, Ed Tempton. Photo: the author Compared with my previous visits for the LOOP Festival, where moving images and multimedia organize so much looking, this weekend returns repeatedly to sculpture, drawing, and the decisions a hand makes with material. At Zielinsky, Amparo Tormo’s *Fosc* (1994) makes me reconsider my enduring suspicion of the trappings of modernism. Her sculptures and drawings give shadow a role in constructing space; apparent absence determines what is present. Ten years ago, I might have called this kind of searching conservative. Now, I am suspicious of the speed of that judgement. Relevance is increasingly speculated on using data; attention can be counted before anyone says much about its quality. Ideology remains, enjoying the convenience of appearing as a form of measurement. Tormo makes me spend longer with something I thought I could identify quickly. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Zielinsky_Amparo-Tormo_2010--1-.jpg) Zielinsky, Amparo Tormo, 2010. Her work carries me towards the new extensions of MACBA and MNAC, awarded to HARQUITECTES and Christ & Gantenbein. Two major institutions, two histories, one architectural partnership. A city can reasonably ask what range of imaginations gets entrusted with its future. Competitions do not exhaust that question. At MACBA, the architects describe meeting Richard Meier’s dominant building while joining a historic complex that had already been altered several times. They continue its structural habits—buttresses, alternating narrow and generous spaces—while keeping the front low, stepping the larger volume back and adding a public terrace. “It’s more the syntax than the vocabulary,” one architect says, quoting Lluís Clotet. A building can learn how its neighbor is put together without dressing like it. I think of Miró studying Gaudí’s methods, and of the cactus in Galería Alegría. I begin longing for someone who can make something happen between the pieces. The word “porous” keeps coming up. Ground-floor art with free access, a public terrace and circulation through previously closed spaces have practical consequences. A new square is described as a foyer for MACBA. Meier already gave the museum floor the same material as the terrace, where skaters now practice every day. Calling public space a “foyer” assigns it an institutional status, and institutions regulate behavior. Who will be allowed to act as though the square belongs to them? This matters in a city where cultural investment and urban desirability are inseparable from pressures on housing and public space. Architecture can invite entry while the economy determines who can continue living nearby. Flexible rooms and generous connections can accommodate many museums; they can also postpone the question of whom the institution understands itself to serve. At MNAC, its director Pepe Serra has little patience for treating expansion as simply a request for a bigger house. In his reading it is a site of negotiation and memory. Whole generations of artists can appear temporarily and disappear again. More space can keep them visible long enough for history to become intelligible. Serra’s account is full of interruptions: the Civil War, collections split up under Franco, the long work of bringing them back together. He insists on art *made in* *Catalonia*, a formulation roomier than a national label, and he refuses to treat chronology as natural. The Romanesque works are old; their rescue, acquisition, and assembly are very modern. Miró was looking at that inheritance while it was being made into one. The Palau Victòria Eugènia will leave substantial interior decisions to the museum. Serra likes this; he likes the renderings considerably less. “These images are the devil,” he says. Materials and arrangements remain unsettled, while the attractive picture threatens to settle them prematurely. Acquisitions, restorations and long-term deposits remain to be negotiated. Serra describes redirecting money from temporary programming towards the collection, and he is candid about private collectors: they kept buying where public institutions failed. The people whose lives I have briefly imitated at The One return as custodians of a history the museum cannot tell without them. Their capacity for enlightened self-interest matters within a system in which private wealth has acquired the power to determine what can later become public heritage. The issue reaches beyond individual benevolence: what public institutions could acquire, preserve, and show was shaped by political priorities and unequal concentrations of resources long before any gift arrives. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Al-Tiba9_Pavel-Korbicka_Foto-Cecilia-Di--az-Betz.jpg) Al-Tiba9, Pavel Korbicka. Foto: Cecilia Díaz Betz Serra wants a program that makes the project public while it can still change: let people see how the dish is cooked. Openness becomes consequential when somebody can enter early enough to disagree. An evening invitation, an audience, and a room guarantee nothing. At Al-Tiba9, Pavel Korbička’s *Dance Calligraphy* wears me down. Luminous sculptures translate recordings of a dancer’s movements into spatial lines, yet the body’s differences between repetitions remain elusive. The site wavers between event venue and exhibition. Light produces atmosphere quickly; the room encourages the work to become a backdrop, and the work offers little resistance. Visibility comes easily here. At Chiquita Room, I recover my attention. Laura González Palacios began Chiquita Ediciones in 2013; the gallery opened in 2018\. Publishing, exhibitions, and a residency program remain part of a unified project. Before there was a room, there was a book to take away. Its humanist, feminist, and environmental commitments become legible through organization: how an artist is accompanied, how work circulates. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-09-23-at-12.41.48.png) Chiquita Room, Pieter Laurens Mol, **Ja*, 1975\. Edition of 4 Pieter Laurens Mol’s *Hook, Line and Sinker*, part of the “Flash” program, gathers editions with the attraction of a cabinet. Mol made his first in 1967\. Paper, metal, and image condense ideas into material forms whose substance participates in their meaning. In a site that formed its identity through publishing, the edition has its own reason to exist. Repetition allows circulation without reducing the object to an advertisement for something supposedly more important elsewhere. During a weekend organized around access to exceptional things, that matters. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-09-23-at-14.33.05.png) Chiquita Room, Laía Argüelles Folch, **Lo que tiene vuelo*. Photo: the author Laía Argüelles Folch’s *Lo que tiene vuelo* follows gestures passed through other hands, with all works exhibited being produced for the exhibition, and all ranging between €200 and €11,000\. Found materials, revisited places, frottage, graphite, fabric, and recorded sound receive traces differently. *Para Laía* features her parents reading domestic notes the artist kept; messages transcend their practical purpose through voice. In *Hinterhof*, recordings from a Berlin courtyard enter only during the first and last half-hours of opening. I like the modest inconvenience: the work refuses my assumption that it will remain fully available whenever I arrive. Chiquita has just opened a space in Brussels, pairing Mol and Argüelles Folch in “Once We Existed”: two generations, forty years apart, considering what remains of a presence and what another person can do with the traces it leaves. After the museum expansion, this smaller expansion persuades me because I can see what the conversation asked for another room. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-09-23-at-14.29.50.png) Àngels Barcelona, Eulàlia Valldosera. Photo: the author At Àngels Barcelona, Eulàlia Valldosera draws on what recognition itself can leave unseen. “Anima mundi. Pensamiento gráfico” gathers a decade of drawings and texts developed through what she calls “channelling”. While her installations circulated publicly, much of this work stayed in notebooks. Recognition can be selective enough to become blindness. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bombon-Projects_Mounira-Al-Solh_Foto-Cecilia-Di--az-Betz.jpg) Bombon Projects. Mounira Al Solh. Foto: Cecilia Díaz Betz Her vocabulary includes energy, psychic bodies, and gestation. I can follow the labor of making those experiences communicable without adopting every claim. A clay bell, a natal form, and a glass embryo bring the cosmology into material proximity. The exhibition’s strength lies partly in showing work through which an artist is still finding her terms of expression. Valldosera allows that risk to remain visible. At Bombon Projects, Mounira Al Solh’s *Yalla Tnam, Yalla* (2025) returns me to my night at The One. During the Lebanese Civil War, unable to sleep through bombing, Al Solh tore holes in her pyjamas; her mother encouraged her to embroider around them. She later developed the gesture collectively with women in Lebanon and the Netherlands. The holes stay open, but thread gathers around them. Activity that made fear bearable here does not preclude that fear’s cause. I remember calling Barcelona’s thunder “theatrical” above. Safety allowed me that pleasure. Al Solh makes such permission perceptible through a stitch: its time, concentration, and the enduring opening. History reaches me through the intimacy of the gesture. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Palmadotze_Flash_Miralda_FoodCultura-Archive_ph.Massimiliano-Minocri.jpeg) Palmadotze. Flash, Miralda, FoodCultura Archive. Foto: Massimiliano Minocri At FoodCultura in Poblenou, Palmadotze’s “Miralda: Archivo Open” brings the artist’s working environment, where food, ritual, and popular culture have fed into (and upon) one another for decades. *Infinity Tables*, *Sant Stomak* (2026), here solemnity and ridiculousness share cutlery. Miralda makes eating a way of examining how people organize themselves. Ceremony carries pleasure and power together: someone prepares the meal; someone is invited; someone decides what belongs on the table. Hospitality is one way art reaches us, and one way a scene establishes who is expected to be present. Price matters, alongside invitation, professional access, leisure time, transport, housing, and the confidence to enter. Gentrification works through these accumulations, too: through the conversion of neighborhoods into destinations and of culture into evidence of desirability. The people whose labor gives a place its texture are increasingly required to pay for the value they helped produce. I finish at Museu Tàpies with “Àngel Jové. De intactu”, curated by Maria Josep Balsach. After a weekend of inquiries and observation, to encounter an artist who continues making work, largely out of view, makes the machinery of attention newly visible, and makes me want to meditate surrounded by his charcoal drawings. Jové stopped giving his works the reassurance of titles and dates. I understand the refusal through a sense of the horror that keeps returning with history. A date can make an event seem safely past; a name can suggest containment. Horror exceeds those boundaries. History repeats, and the image refuses to stay where we’ve filed it. Other artists might have expected withdrawal to end in abandonment. Jové kept working and kept much of it for himself. The exhibition makes that persistence public, although its existence never depended on our arrival. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-09-23-at-12.37.39.png) Museu Tàpies, Àngel Jové. Photo: the author Barcelona knows how to make art visible once its importance has been agreed upon. The Gallery Weekend has shown how much infrastructure stands behind that agreement: artists looking at artists, galleries taking early risks, brands manufacturing reach, collectors holding what museums could not buy, institutions reorganizing public space, hotels selling the city back to itself as an experience, and neighborhoods carrying the cost of becoming desirable. Jové’s example is instructive; through it all he kept making, not seeking the external gaze. Yet the question of who has stopped looking and who has just started stays with me. // ### Who Builds the Cultural Infrastructures of the Future? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/who-builds-the-cultural-infrastructures-of-the-future/ Last updated: 2026-09-22T15:18:46.000Z *Thinking of infrastructural critique means returning to how culture’s conditions of possibility are organized—and whom they enable or exclude. For Marina Vishmidt, the organization of artistic production is itself a political practice inseparable from the work it makes possible. Infrastructure carries relations of power, labor, and access; transforming it requires attending to those relations as well as to an institution’s public program. Her work offers a way into the question at the heart of the conversation: who sustains the spaces in which other futures can be imagined, and under what conditions?¹* *As part of the Soft Power Festival, this discussion brings together Heiko Pfreundt, co-artistic director of Project Space Festival Berlin; Anahita Sadighi, gallerist, musician, DJ, and Soft Power Festival’s co-curator; Tina Roeder, initiator, artistic director, and co-founder of the Conceptual Biennale; and Lutz Henke, who works at visitBerlin and speaks in a personal capacity. These participants’ practices span the creation of festivals, the development of artist-led platforms and spaces where research, hospitality, and public programming meet. As these initiatives increasingly take on essential roles in artistic production, public exchange, and community building, their continuity, nevertheless, often rests on uncertain funding and the labor of people already stretched to their limits.* *The conversation moves between topics including the desire to build new systems and the need to defend structures won through collective struggle.* **Heiko Pfreundt:** We’re part of a large network of project spaces, and we try to organize politically and improve the conditions for artistic life here. We keep informing politics, and politics keeps informing us. **Maria Inés Plaza Lazo:** How long has Project Space Festival existed, and how many spaces are part of the network? **Heiko:** I wasn’t its founder. It began with an all-female curatorial team at the project space *insitu*. The festival was later handed over to us as former participants, which was an interesting collective idea. Although I call myself an Artistic Director, I work more as a cultural worker. We organize a peer process, which means that we compile our jury from former participants of the Project Space Festival. It’s a very collective undertaking, and it has existed for about ten years. **Maria Inés:** Anahita, for those joining us on the festival’s final day who don’t yet know your work, could you introduce yourself? **Anahita Sadighi:** Thank you for joining us on the third day of Soft Power. I develop formats around art, music, literature, and performance, trying to make underrepresented themes in art and cultural history visible. I believe in transdisciplinary and intercultural platforms, collaborations, and projects led by women. **Tina Roeder:** I work across art, architecture, and design, developing independent curatorial and discursive formats that make transdisciplinary—and particularly conceptual—practices visible. I’m here as the initiator and artistic and curatorial director of the Conceptual Biennale, which I developed with my two co-founders Thilo Reich and Anton Rahlwe. Its first edition took place last October at San Gimignano Lichtenberg. It’s a very young biennale. Especially now, it feels important to keep talking about how different formats can coexist and how we can sustain culture and its infrastructure over time. **Maria Inés:** What you and Anahita share is that you each began with a proposal for a model you wanted to build, then brought people on board who could help steer it. An individual vision became something shared. I’d like to return to the roots of that thinking. Lutz, you’ve worked as a curator and you come from a background in street art. You know Berlin from within institutions and outside them. What does it mean to look at the city from both positions? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/05_TROPEZ_3955_JCLARK.jpg) TROPEZ, PRÉSENT | (hier) Virginie Sistek | A Poem by repetition by Eugen Gomringer III after Natalie Czech. Foto: Joe Clark **Lutz Henke:** I’m happy to be back here. I’ve experienced this place in many different configurations over the past twenty years, which says something about what has been possible in Berlin. I work at visitBerlin, a public-private organization involved in city marketing, which is close to the administration and active internationally. But I want to stress that I’m speaking here in a personal capacity, expressing my own views. That distinction reflects the dialectical nature of what I do. “Street art” is a term I’m not entirely comfortable with, but if you were lucky enough to grow up in Berlin in the 1990s, as I was, certain things happened almost automatically: exploring buildings, writing graffiti, encountering electronic music. Those experiences shaped how I understood the city. I went on to study cultural studies, and I now work both within an official organization and with independent initiatives. Our own project space, the Senatsreservenspeicher, was a few hundred meters from here. We were there from 2005 to 2014\. It began, classically, with raves in the basement, and the building was demolished in 2015\. We also painted some of the large murals people knew here. When we left, we painted them black to provoke a discussion about the city, culture, and what could happen here. About fifteen years ago, someone asked what our organization would look like in ten years. I answered: “Dead or institutionalised.” That turned out to be fairly accurate. Everything has been demolished, and I’m now on the other side. **Maria Inés:** The city benefits from culture as a form of soft power, while you also want to remain connected to the grassroots conditions in which culture is produced. How does Berlin deal with that contradiction? **Lutz:** One of the central challenges is that we need translators: people who understand both the grassroots city and the city organized from above. The relationship is more complex than it might appear. It isn’t simply a matter of an administration being obstructive, or artists being revolutionary and refusing to work with companies or the city. We need people within the infrastructure who can translate in both directions, whether that means understanding funding processes or safeguarding artistic freedom. Before joining visitBerlin, I had already worked with Raumlabor Berlin, who were often critical of the administration. We tried to find common ground. Berlin had long used cultural workers’ activities for marketing without paying for them. Could we, maybe, use marketing budgets in ways that also benefited culture? **Maria Inés:** Raumlabor is a collective of architects and people working with urban space, and they were involved in projects such as Floating University. Tina, you assembled the first Conceptual Biennale very quickly. How do you approach the challenge of making something that can last, particularly when its first location already raises questions about ruins, temporality, and what a place could become? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/42_Stay-Hungry_5923_JCLARK.jpg) stay hungry, Zur Verkieselung des Stadtraumes 3 - Die Zukunft | (hier) Göksu Baysal | 27.06.2026\. Foto: Joe Clark **Tina:** I should clarify that we aren’t planning to hold the second edition at San Gimignano Lichtenberg. We want to work with different architectural contexts. It’s important to ground a biennale in its surroundings. Architecture is part of our field because it asks questions such as: how do we want to live, and what kind of society do we want to build? Finding a space is the first challenge, but a space alone is far from sufficient. You need an ecosystem of conditions and relationships. Bringing those together is the real work. Funding is our biggest challenge. If the Biennale is to develop over time, we need to find a model that combines public funding with other sources of support. The difficulty is that cultural funding is often structured around individual projects, while continuity requires longer-term conditions. **Maria Inés:** Why “conceptual”? **Tina:** We didn’t begin by deciding to make something conceptual in the abstract. We noticed practices developing across architecture, art, and design that worked transdisciplinarily and conceptually, but lacked a shared platform. When we put out an open call, the applicants understood what we meant. People looking in from outside sometimes found it harder to understand. That response confirmed that there was a need for visibility and common ground. There was also a particular sense of momentum. Given what is happening more broadly, questions of how we want to live and what kind of society we want to build felt increasingly urgent, and in Berlin there were already many practices moving between these fields. The Biennale grew out of that convergence. **Maria Inés:** Anahita, it may be too early to define the system we’ve created here. From within, I’ve seen the energy people have brought together to make this festival happen with scarce resources. How did you establish a framework for that vision in a time of austerity? What did you need to address first? **Anahita:** I wanted to propose something new within the existing art world in Germany and Berlin. I come from a family background in which music, art, and hospitality are closely connected—these are also migrant competencies, if we’re honest. Bringing them together allowed me to develop a festival that proposes new spaces and possibilities collectively. What I’ve learned through my practice is how much relationships matter: building trust over time, building a community, a family. For me, that is how we move forward—through an ecosystem that can sustain itself, that is loving and caring, and that wants to have an impact together. Curating an exhibition collaboratively is still less common than one might expect in the art world. It has been beautiful to share that experience with you, Maria Inés. That collaboration is part of Soft Power’s foundation: coming together with new conditions and new visions. It is about survival, and about celebration as a political act. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Akshita-Garud.png) Akshita Garud at Soft Power Festival **Maria Inés:** I like that you put survival and celebration in the same sentence. Heiko, what challenges have you faced in continuing Project Space Festival, including through the pandemic? **Heiko:** During the pandemic, there was no festival because we didn’t receive funding. **Maria Inés:** But the infrastructure and the network were still there. People wanted to continue. **Heiko:** Yes. We resumed in 2022\. The festival depends on people organizing throughout the city, in very small groups and larger ones, each with their own ambitions. Its idea was to create a community of spaces. Even when people work collectively, those collectives often operate separately. We wanted to bring those separate forces together once a year. Berlin is a city of self-organization. Through an open call, we bring thirty spaces together over a month. We sometimes call it the city’s largest institution. That was also the founders’ idea: all these separate entities could form something larger together. It is an organizational motivation, but an aesthetic one too. **Maria Inés:** It’s like talking about *lumbung* without naming it. What makes this independent scene—the *Freie Szene*—a collective presence as important as any other institution in Berlin? **Heiko:** The wider network is around 150 spaces (Kulturkataster Berlin). Some have existed for thirty years; others started a month ago or will begin next week. The people and their motivations are very different. The common ground is a desire to survive, to experience things, and to be part of a community of spaces. It is also a space for listening to other people’s practices. We don’t impose a single coherent program. The participants create the experience themselves. That requires trust, and people have taken the responsibility of protecting the festival as a communal event very seriously. That is what motivates me to keep doing it. **Maria Inés:** Is there a new space or organization you’ve encountered that has changed how you understand infrastructure? Lutz, perhaps we can begin with you. **Lutz:** I would start with resources. Whether you can do something for ten years, ten weeks, or ten days depends on what is available: money and space, but also networks and knowledge. Two years ago, we opened a project space in an abandoned hotel near Kurfürstendamm. We had a network and an empty building. We knew it was irresponsible, but we couldn’t resist. Something had to happen. That impulse is part of Berlin’s project space culture: you do something, and it broadens people’s horizons. When we opened our earlier space in 2005, we received no public funding from Berlin for an entire decade. We had some support from the European Union and elsewhere. We also worked on commercial projects around Berlin Fashion Week, which we found embarrassing enough not to advertise, and we used that money to support the project space. It worked because one of our largest resources was almost free. We had 1,200 square meters in central Berlin for very little money. We invested our labor, but we didn’t need much funding. It felt possible to organize the art world differently. Over the past twenty years, access to space has become harder, and there is more attention to regulations. There may be more public funding than there was then, but fewer resources in other senses. You might now need to work five days a week to support yourself instead of two nights in a bar. Getting started increasingly depends on knowing how to navigate these resources. It can feel as though you need a Ph.D. and thirty years of experience to understand what the district is doing, why it disagrees with the Senate, how the federal level fits in, and where support might come from. It shouldn’t be that way. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/31_ACUD_PaulaGVidal.jpg) ACUD Galerie, Venus in Three Movements | (hier) Jordan Deal 05.06.2026 | Project Space Festival 2026\. Foto: Paula G. Vidal **Heiko:** We gradually moved into funding. The first two festivals ran without a budget. At the time, I was a participant with my own space. Everyone contributed €50 to a pot that money was used to make a leaflet. **Maria Inés:** The press conference was at a Späti. I thought that was very fitting. **Heiko:** Yes, we didn’t book an official venue. We all went to a Späti. The funding system did improve. We first received funding in 2016, through the city-tax funding. We kept going to the Senate Department of Culture and asking whether there was a way to support the project. I come from a working-class family, and I have sometimes felt alienated by academic language. But we had collective strength and found a language together. We also had numbers: a survey had counted around 120 project spaces in Berlin. That is an older figure, but it helped us articulate our case. We moved from a narrative of making things possible through our own efforts to a position where we could receive funding and discuss artist fees. We no longer run the festival without paying people. Since the third edition, participants have been paid. If we don’t receive funding, we won’t do it for free simply to preserve the name. That commitment has become an important bond with the participants. We spend half the year on administration so that everyone gets paid. **Lutz:** Those are examples of infrastructure. The use of city-tax revenue for culture followed substantial advocacy, including work by Christoph Knoch and the independent scene. The tax isn’t exclusively earmarked for culture, but it has been used for cultural purposes. The work of the BBK (Berufsverband Bildender Künstler\*innen/The Professional Association of Visual Artists) around artist fees is another example: establishing that public funding must come with payment for artists. These may seem like small infrastructural steps, but they exist. **Maria Inés:** And they’re crucial. **Lutz:** They are. The other issue is self-exploitation. I saw it in myself and many people around me: people doing things out of commitment that they would never agree to do for money, and ending up exhausted ten or fifteen years later, while their projects are used to promote the city or a product. There is a danger in saying, “We don’t need money; we have space, and we’re doing it because we want to.” It can leave very idealistic people completely burned out. **Maria Inés:** I want to hold on to the question of what inspires new projects. Tina, Anahita? **Tina:** I have to respond to that, because it describes our experience. We put the Biennale together in four months for under €20,000, with extraordinary voluntary help. Afterwards, we were exhausted. It was one of the most intense things we’ve ever done, and we don’t want to reproduce those working conditions. It happened that way, but changing the \[conditions\] is the biggest challenge for us to continue sustainably. We feel that we contribute something, and that there is room for many different formats to coexist. Through dialogue, we can gradually build the conditions they need. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/CB_Installation_View_Credit_Robert_Damisch_03.jpg) Conceptual Biennale, Installation View. Credit: Robert Damisch **Maria Inés:** Can you also acknowledge the inspiration in that work, alongside the precarity and the weight of the labor? Does the fire remain? **Tina:** Absolutely. But everyone needs to be paid, as Heiko said. Those basic conditions have to be there. We deliberately chose the form of a biennale rhythm because it slows things down and allows relationships to develop. Sometimes it’s wonderful to make something spontaneously in a day. But there is also value in working over time, planning properly, and inviting people well in advance. I saw a related conversation at the Currents design festival involving the recently founded design union (Design Gewerkschaft), which had also joined our Conceptual Biennale symposium on Money. People were speaking very directly about money: where it comes from, where it doesn’t, and what that means over time. We are all in the same boat, and I hope we can develop something together. **Maria Inés:** Anahita, I don’t want to talk about money for a moment. Tell me about your inspirations. **Anahita:** For me, it is relationships. Each year has brought new challenges, politically and globally. We need to ground ourselves in what we want to achieve, and build infrastructures, platforms, and spaces around values. I feel that we barely speak about values anymore. They should be at the heart of our initiatives: what world do we want to live in, and what world do we want to create together? I miss those conversations. There is so much room to develop these ideas together, strategically and creatively. That is also at the heart of this festival. **Maria Inés:** Austerity makes us believe there is no room for this, but we create that room through relationships. If your work could offer something to other projects, what values would you want to share? **Heiko:** Trust. Over time, I’ve become less exhausted by this work because I’ve learned to trust people. Relationships develop with spaces: some are known for their continuity, others for what they stood for while they existed. A community forms, and the responsibility becomes shared. For me, the answer is to build a structure that doesn’t exhaust you. We don’t have to be exhausted to work in culture. We want to build something, live, and have some fun. I like to remember the word “festival” in Project Space Festival. When everything becomes administration—funding applications and calendars—I ask myself: where is the party? There is a lot of celebration in it. That positive feeling rests on trust. **Lutz:** I would return to translation. To navigate something as complex as Berlin, you need to understand its systems and know which structures and networks matter, including those beyond the people you already know or who agree with you. I remember an interview with Marcus Staiger in which he said: “Revolution simply means getting up earlier than the guys at Daimler.” I like that line because it suggests that you have to work harder, be cleverer, and recognize the structures that exist around you. Where are the opportunities? Who do you need to speak to? Who can mediate between different worlds? **Maria Inés:** Anahita, what kind of system are you imagining? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Hashem-Shakeri--from-the-series-An-Elegy-from-the-Death-of-Hamun-2.jpg) Hashem Shakeri, from the series An Elegy from the Death of Hamun **Anahita:** I don’t have a definitive answer. But I feel an urgency to imagine new systems together: to gather, listen, and arrive at something collectively. I would like us to explore that much more within our fields. **Tina:** I agree, although I’m cautious about the word “new.” Trust, emotions, and these supposedly soft things are fundamental. But they need a structure in which they can grow, like the one we are making through this conversation. That is the challenge with the Biennale. We may need a different organizational concept, even a different business model, because I don’t think funding alone will sustain it. We can’t simply wait. Applications take a long time, and we may or may not succeed. How do you sustain something through support that is so unreliable? **Lutz:** A new system would be desirable. But I also feel that the existing system is breaking down, or moving in the wrong direction. That creates its own urgency. **Anahita:** Precisely because of that, we need to imagine another system and fight the one that is gaining ground. **Maria Inés:** I’m with Anahita in that ambition, while also hearing Lutz’s awareness of how slowly systems are built. Do we simply give ground to the AfD, or do we defend and reconstruct structures even when we feel that our parliamentary democracy has failed us? Building from ruins will take longer. The exhibition at the heart of this festival also allows room for not knowing. Its chapters are active verbs: Arriving, Listening, Ritualizing, Celebrating, Imagining, Becoming. They don’t prescribe exactly where we are. The artworks and the music suggest other languages, beyond those through which we are forced to negotiate space and even our rights. “Soft power” itself comes from a vocabulary of diplomacy and cultural hierarchy, and it is closely associated with US influence. How can we occupy that terminology differently? What words—or forms of communication beyond words—could help us understand soft power as something we can mobilize to bring about change? **Audience member:** What Anahita said about values made me think that we have something to learn from religion, because values move people. I’m not religious myself, but I believe in the religion of partying. If you have shared values and invite people to enjoy being alive, they want to keep being with you. **Lutz:** That is a prime example of soft power. I was recently in Lourdes, and the number of people who go there to experience it is extraordinary. I want to be optimistic about the possibility of a new system. But soft power can also be understood as voluntary submission. Alongside US culture, propaganda, and public relations, we can look at the growing influence of countries such as South Korea. Infrastructure may be the hard backbone of soft power. Social media is one of its central infrastructures, and I find that concerning. If such an important tool is controlled by a handful of oligarchs outside Europe, how do we respond? We use that infrastructure ourselves, including to make festivals like this visible. **Maria Inés:** So we need to recognize the implications and contradictions of the platforms through which we communicate our values and ambitions, as well as finding new languages. **Audience member:** You’ve spoken about relationships and the systems that make spaces and artistic work possible. I’m new to Berlin. How can someone who is creative enter those spaces and participate? **Heiko:** Alongside changing or breaking systems, one of the biggest challenges is stabilizing what already exists. There is infrastructure here that helps people sustain their practices, but it depends on people knowing about it. Studio programs, for example, are part of an infrastructure built through protest and resistance. We should recognize what has already been achieved and build on it. The Berlin Network for independent project spaces and initiatives, which we’re part of, is often in negotiations with politicians, and I see problems in administration. But I also see that we have built something. We need to make that knowledge available. You can join groups or a project space. There is a project space for almost every interest in Berlin. Follow Project Space Festival and follow the bbk berlin for intel on political decisions. There are different groups and different positions. It also helps to distinguish that political and organizational work from your own artistic practice. Some people invest a great deal of their energy in representing others; other artists need to understand and support what those people do. Repeated funding rejections can be extremely frustrating. I’ve experienced that myself. But there are ways to learn how things work. Funding results are published. I studied other people’s projects: how they wrote about them and what they wanted to achieve. We can learn from one another. That collective learning is something I feel very positive about in Berlin. **Maria Inés:** Thank you, Heiko, and thank you for the question. Hospitality also means active engagement. To close, I’d like each of you to offer one word, both to our audience and to Berlin’s next governing mayor. What does culture need? What are you asking for? **Tina:** Continuity. **Lutz:** Power. If we’re asking what culture needs from a mayor: power. **Heiko:** Trust. Definitely. **Anahita:** A Revolution—inspired by friendship and collectivity. // *This conversation took place at Soft Power Festival on September 13, 2026, and has been edited for clarity and length.* **Footnotes:** (1) Marina Vishmidt, [“From Speculation to Infrastructure: Material and Method in the Politics of Contemporary Art,” *OnCurating*, issue 58](https://www.on-curating.org/issue-58-reader/from-speculation-to-infrastructure-material-and-method-in-the-politics-of-contemporary-art.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). The connection to this discussion is an editorial framing, not a quotation from the panel. ### A Library Like a Living Room URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-library-like-a-living-room/ Last updated: 2026-09-21T11:47:49.000Z *What makes a library a place where children feel they belong? For Lilipad, the answer begins with the languages they speak, the stories they recognise and the freedom to express themselves. Working with children in shelters and other community settings, the organisation brings books together with rap, drawing, photography and play. Its first Berlin festival,* Untold Stories*, opens this work to a wider public, placing children at the centre as readers, artists and storytellers. In this conversation, Sara Arsalane reflects on language hierarchies, representation and the responsibilities of making space for children’s voices. We begin with the artists and workshops that bring Lilipad’s libraries to life—and the atmosphere they hope to create.* **Sara Arsalane:** We like to say that for us a library is more of a living room and less of a classroom. **María Inés Plaza Lazo:** Tell me about the languages that you work with among the 100 books that make up the libraries that you are creating, and how have the children responded? **SA:** The languages tend to focus on the community that lives in that particular context. At the moment, within the 21 libraries, over 15 of them are in shelters. So, you know, if it's a shelter for young girls in Morocco, the languages are going to be Arabic, French, English, and Amazigh, for example, always making sure that the native and indigenous languages are represented. In Berlin, it can vary from Gemeinschaftsunterkunft to refugee accommodation. In some, we get statistics simply from the accommodation, knowing that these can always change. But we tend to know that the main languages spoken are Arabic, Farsi, and Urdu, for example. Some other accommodations, mostly Ukrainian speakers. German is always there as a main language. It tends to be the federating language anyway when we do workshops, the language in common between all the kids. But it's also very important for us to make sure that we have representation of native languages so that the kids are also exposed to more playful or different settings where they can positively see their native language. **MIPL:** Does this also activate multilingualism? Meaning, do children also learn other languages through it, or how does it work? I mean, childhood is not necessarily defined by literacy. So where does it start? And as you mentioned, this is more of a playground, more like a common ground rather than just an archive or a collection of books. **SA:** Definitely. So we see with our kids in Berlin especially that there's such an interesting relationship to their native language. We start by giving them books in their native language so that they can have access to it and read in Arabic or Ukrainian. It turns out some kids, born here, have lost their mother tongue, or they think it's not cool to speak because they feel ostracized at school. So some of them actually cannot, for example, read or write Arabic, and this is something that we realized with one of the artists that we were close to, with Taha, who's become such an essential part of our project. He's an artist who's also a music producer, a rapper. We did several workshops with him, and at the moment he's our librarian. So one of the programs that we have is learning Arabic through music because he noticed through some workshops that actually some of the kids would like to engage with the Arabic language, but it didn't work for them to go to the traditional Arabic classes that their parents were sending them to. And this is kind of how we also see literacy: some kids may find it very intimidating to enter a library. Not everyone wants to interact with words. Stories can take different forms, whether they are visual or experienced through sound or painting. So I'd say actually at Lilypad Libraries, a lot of non-reading is actually happening all the time. **MIPL:** You have also mentioned a key definition of children's books, namely that there is other language beyond words, namely images. So, Lilipad is a project that also works with artists, visual artists. Can you give me examples of the books that circulate in the Lilipad Libraries? **SA:** We tend to focus on fiction and making sure that we have stories that represent the children that we work with. But there's also a lot of activity books, some language learning books. We always ask the kids what they want, and sometimes we get wild recommendations or a request for what the kids like to read, and we try to fulfill that. Because again, this is such a small cost for us and something that we can get very easily if a kid is asking. Because ours is a small collection. **MIPL:** Can you give me a concrete example? **SA:** One of the books is titled "30 Brave Boys". And it is about different role models for masculinity, or what it means to be a boy. So there's one example of Trevor Noah or Kurt Cobain, who were feminists. Or these really great books at the moment with like 30 female heroes. Like most of our libraries in Morocco are for girls only, so we have a whole selection with feminist books or books from Moroccan authors. So this is, yes, that would be some of our focus, but again, it really changes from one library to another. **MIPL:** What was your first book as a child? **SA:** My most vivid memory is reading the scary stories called "Chair de poule". So I was reading in French, or like, it's the "Goosebumps"s series. Maybe you know it. **MIPL**"Goosebumps" Worldwide! **SA:** I was really obsessed with these books; sometimes I would read two in one day. I grew up with my parents who didn't read to me, just asked me to do well at school. But I had one grandfather in particular who was an avid reader and used to write a lot as a child. He was very unimpressed whenever I told him I was reading "Goosebumps". So I started reading some French classics quite early on because he grew up in Morocco under the French protectorate, and they would make kids read Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas. "Le Petit Poucet", for example, was one of his favorite books. So that actually also drove me to read some classics, definitely sometimes a bit early on, but I think this defined my relationship to books moving forward. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Screenshot-2026-09-16-at-15__ResizedImageWzYwMCwzNTld.13.17.png) Lilipad Library. Courtesy Lilipad **MIPL:** And also multilingualism, right? So what did it mean for you to read in French, but also interact differently beyond the books in Arabic? **SA:** Yes, for sure. I realized this further down the line. My main reading language has always been French because the Arabic we speak in Morocco, Darija, is not the Arabic we learn from books or the Arabic that we learn at school; that's Fusha, and that's almost a different language. Morocco is so far from the Arabic world that our dialect is completely different from what we read in books. So I read some books in Arabic, "Najib Mahfouz", for example, and some of those classics, but it was a lot more of an effort. And especially now, I think that I've been in Europe for half my life; it would be more of an effort than reading in French. It's statistics that say that half of the kids in the world are actually bilingual. And a lot of us actually grew up going to school being taught in not our native language. And this is something actually we're trying to address in our libraries: even though maybe we don't have books written in Darija, we do our workshops in Darija so that you at least experience culture in your native language, so it's not that the spoken language, it's something that is just at home. And that's showing up more and more in our work now. **MIPL:** I would like to know how you also challenge the hierarchy between a written word and spoken word through the Lilipad Libraries. Because as you mentioned, through your own experience, between Danish and French, there is undeniably a hierarchy as well. How can this be challenged now that you are also looking from afar, from another cultural context where these language hierarchies are also predominant, right? How do you see yourself doing that? **SA:** This is such a great question because it really shows some of the maturity, like, also in our work. Because one of the very first lessons is that it's such a naive assumption to think we're gonna have a room full of books and that they're going to be read. Because, as I mentioned earlier, some children- and especially we work with kids with such different backgrounds have issues with literacy; they may have experienced interrupted schooling. It's not the best way to approach them, and storytelling can mean so many different things. So the book becomes a minimal part of our entire organization, because we just want to meet each kid where they are. But you could come into the library and just simply draw, or simply you could take pictures. We've done a lot of workshops with photographers, or also just come in and talk in your native language to the librarian who's in there at the time. When it comes to hierarchy. Something we've also been reflecting on in the last few years is the hierarchy between different art forms, because literature is a highbrow art form, but some more urban media like just rap or graffiti, for example, are just not as— obviously like considered more lowbrow. And we've started creating these programs where there's a bridge between both. One of our workshop series was rap and poetry, and just drawing a parallel between- actually, rap is— a lot of rap is actually coming from poems. So going from initial classics of poetry to rap. Our initial idea was to look at poetry from Mahmoud Darwish, and see actually how it would translate into rap. And we worked with artists I mentioned earlier; Taha recorded some songs with the kids inside the library. So this is something that was very popular because the kids just loved interacting with music production, and all of it happened in the library. And another example is what we've done recently: what we call calligraffiti. And it's also moving from the art form of Arabic calligraphy into just spray painting, and we did that in one of our accommodations. So I would say it's definitely something that we want to continue doing more often, so going from this heritage art form to a more urban art form with the whole idea that all of it is equal. **MIPL:** So these are not only children's books for children, but books with children, right? Are the children writing their own stories? ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Screenshot-2026-09-16-at-15__ResizedImageWzYwMCwzNDNd.14.34.png) Lilipad Libraries. Courtesy Lilipad **SA:** In some of our programs, for sure. Our flagship workshop series this year was in Morocco. We worked with an author, Hajar Chokhiri, who worked with the girls from one accommodation in Casablanca that actually has one of our oldest libraries; it's been open since 2018\. And the girls were invited to write their own text. They were also invited to take their own photos with the photographer Murat Fiduweş, who actually just left Berlin. He was doing a residency here. And it all culminated in an exhibition called *Our Stories, Our Power*. It was all in the girls' own words—what they wanted to convey. So ultimately they are the authors. **MIPL:** And their stories are unavoidably connected also with the hardships of forced displacement, with the hardships of witnessing wars, in the flesh and from afar witnessing loss, experiencing loss prematurely or at all in a, in a very violent way. How does Lilipad approach the violence embedded in these stories, and how do you maintain a safe space for childhood? **SA:** That's a very important question. It was one of our learnings, for sure. So I will give a very concrete example: one of our very first librarians in Casablanca, she started with us in 2021, someone young. She just did her internship; she studied early education. She has very much of a kind of teacher approach. She's great. She's still with us today, and it's become her full-time job. But something we had not prepared her for is just the backgrounds of the girls and what they had to deal with. And she was not prepared as an educator, as a librarian. This shelter where we work hosts girls who are usually between 12 and 18 who have experienced,, very often, abandonment and this whole episode of domestic violence. They don't have a legal guardian, so they're sent by the Court of Minors. Or some girls have had issues with the justice system, and because they're minors, they don't go to prison; they go to this shelter. So we started realizing that we have a responsibility not only to prepare our storytelling programs or the books, but actually we need to make sure that our facilitators, our librarians, and us, that we are properly trained, and that we have a safeguarding policy that is as informed as possible. One of our last workshops was with a psychologist on psychological first aid. So all our librarians had to attend this full-day training to make sure that they can create a safe environment for the children but also for themselves. So to kind of answer this question, it's not easy for sure to read a text where a child is just very clearly depicting an episode of violence. **MIPL:** And also, who are the stories being told for? Is the storytelling serving a therapeutic, a healing process, or is it more— or the faults and the pitfalls of identity building? In a way that can also go wrong, namely stigmatization or the stigmata that cannot be properly banished. **SA:** Of course, that's also the question of consent. Working with children, if we're going to be sharing their work, like, do they fully understand whether we can share this story, even though we have a very strict policy: we don't show faces, for example. But it goes— it's the same for their own artwork. We say kids are their own authors, but who gets to give consent on whether this can be shared, and how can it be shared? So it's a little bit tricky for sure in Berlin, especially since we work with younger kids. Usually the kids are between 6 and 12. **MIPL:** When is the 6th grade? **SA:** 16, 17; it's a bit easier. We don't want to depict this kind of a victim stereotype, or that these children and young people are only defined by this migration or displacement or abandonment as kind of a crisis or like identity moment. And this was the whole idea of one of our latest projects, which I think I mentioned earlier, called "Narratives of Hope", where the entire project does not mention at any point all of the hardships, which I think we are fed plenty of times by all types of media and somehow imagination that we don't need to add to that debate. But the whole idea of our "Narratives of Hope" project is to show that, above all, these are actually teenagers, that they share a lot of similarities between them regardless of whether one is in an emergency shelter in Paris or one is in a community center in Sicily. And that was the beauty also of expanding beyond borders because you notice that so many stories are the same. And this will be available quite soon, as we're going to be publishing a digital archive of some of the artworks. **MIPL:** Dealing with stereotypes also means dealing with growth and coming from early childhood to adolescence. Whilst in adolescence, stereotypes mark sometimes the majority of the identity-seeking efforts. How does Lilipad network deal with stereotypes? Just also following up on my previous question. **SA:** I think stereotypes are human. So we cannot claim that we are all coming in with this perfectly well-thought-out kind of approach to all our work. I think we definitely all make mistakes, and the whole idea is to talk about it and continue learning. So what we do to alleviate the potential harmful effect of stigmatization, even with our best intentions, is to make sure that we are including as many different perspectives as possible. So within our team, it's a very conscious effort to make sure that we have not just representation for the sake of it, but that we are working with artists who have lived experience, who themselves have experienced forced displacement, or have— in some of the times, some librarians actually, one of our librarians has lived actually in the shelter herself for 10 years and has become our librarian in another shelter. And giving them a voice because they're ultimately the experts, with their own experience of how we should be talking with children. So it's a constant kind of dialogue between— within our team. **MIPL:** "Untold Stories" festival is deliberately promising to tackle one of the biggest problems in the mesh of colonial capitalist oppression that continues to suppress people through the world's migratory conditions, as well as the questions of how, in our fascist times, non-white people are being objectified again as, yeah, for identitarian purposes. What is "Untold Stories"? ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Screenshot-2026-09-16-at-15__ResizedImageWzYwMCwzMjhd.15.33.png) Lilipa Libraries. Courtesy Lilipad **SA:** "Untold Stories" is happening next weekend. It is the first time we've taken our work outside of the closed doors of our libraries and into the public. So it's been almost 10 years of practice where most of our work was happening inside very closed spaces, sometimes almost like police spaces, like refugee shelters because we deliberately wanted to focus on where we thought there was a need. We wanted to work with the children growing up in the institutional care system. It's become very clear that, as a society, we demand so much of our refugee communities, of migrant communities, to integrate. This is like the buzzword. They have to integrate. They must integrate. And if it doesn't happen, it's ultimately their fault, but most of the work is actually happening with who is actually ostracizing them. What are the institutions that create this social isolation? There's so much we can get into, like what is happening at the moment. Also, the situation is so much worse than when we started 10 years ago. There's no funding; there are much harsher conditions for refugee families and children. And we need to be more active on the advocacy front to make sure that this— that the community also, like, does not, like, get forgotten, which it really is not forgotten, being erased. And this is our whole idea of creating "Untold Stories" and making it a very public space to—where we really reject this idea that Berlin is an immigration city. We have moved past that: migration is not stopping; it's going to continue, and it's the responsibility of the institutions, the systems around us, to just adapt. And so the whole idea is to kind of really celebrate all of these stories in different languages and not create a festival that is inclusive of the children we work with, but that is really created entirely around them, where they are themselves the storytellers, and they're like the creative cultural workers. **MIPL:** Let's speak numbers. How many participants does this festival have? When, how many days, how many hours, how many books? And even though you're a not-for-profit and you just mentioned how defunded this labor is, this fundamental labor, how do you finance and sustain all of this? **SA:** "Untold Stories'" finance is through public cultural funding. We're lucky to have been selected by Hauptstadt Kulturfonds, which is our first cultural funding of this size. It's happening in three different locations next Friday, Saturday, and Sunday: Refugio in Neukölln, Amerika Gedenkbibliothek in Hallesches Tor, and Spore, which you mentioned earlier. I think earlier I said that we don't want to reinvent the wheel, and it's something we're really proud of to make sure that we collaborate with public libraries like the Amerika Gedenkbibliothek; we don't want to reinvent the wheel. Then we are going to be working with around twelve independent book publishers. There are dozens of workshops that will be happening. And very important also to mention that there's going to be a lot more than just books. We have some interactive readings and,, of course, the book fair with the independent publishers, but there are also all the different ways that we have been talking about now of how you can tell stories. So we are working with some of the artists that we usually work with in our libraries doing rap, illustration, graffiti, there's puppetry to be split across the three days. **MIPL:** And just for people to mark it in their calendars, which are the events that you would specifically recommend each day? **SA:** Friday, 18th of September, the program is going from 2 p.m. until 10 p.m. It's important to know that it's centered around families and children of all ages, but there are also parts of the program that are very much adapted for all book lovers alike. There's an interesting keynote at 6 p.m. by Aya Publishing where we're going to be discussing the power of multilingual reading, as well as a lovely concert that is happening at Refugio. Amerika-Gedenkbibliothek: the program is starting really early on Saturday at 10 a.m., and there we have a program of interactive workshops. There's the puppetry workshop. This is the part of the program that is perfectly suited for children who are a bit younger. So parents with toddlers or with kids under 8 years old, I think that would be like a good time to attend the festival. We're also having a really beautiful workshop with the founder of Baking Hope, which is an organization that uses baking as a means of healing and empowerment. And the program continues at Refugio in the afternoon. This is again where you participants will meet, all the publishers. Spore is where we have the rap workshop that I'd love to highlight because this has been kind of a staple of the workshops that we've been doing inside our accommodation. And the program is going to culminate with a little kids' rave at 4 p.m., so it's all ending on the dance floor with some movement and playfulness as well. **MIPL:** Thank you so much. Sara, just to conclude our conversation, which books are you reading these days? **SA:** I am reading at the moment a classic of Moroccan literature called "For Bread Alone" by Mohamed Choukri, which I highly recommend. It's a very difficult read. I read it actually when I was a teenager in Arabic, and now I'm reading it in English. This is an autobiography by this author who had a very difficult life, grew up entirely illiterate, and only learned to read and write at the age of twenty. And then he wrote this masterpiece, um, from the '50s. So I really highly recommend it. It tells a lot about colonial Morocco, about what it was like in the Rif, about independence, and also ultimately just the story of a young boy who was actually the author, Mohamed Cheikh. Thank you. **MIPL:** Thank you so much, Sara! **SA:** Thank you, Maria. Thank you so much for having me. // Lilipad’s festival “[UNTOLD STORIES](https://www.lilipadlibrary.org/community-events/untold-stories-festival?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)” will take place in Berlin from 18–20 September 2026 and will bring multilingual children’s literature to Refugio Berlin, ZLB, and Spore Initiative. This conversation took place as part of the [Softpower Festival](https://www.anahitasadighi.com/softpower-festival?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). ### We Are All the Moth URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/we-are-all-the-moth/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T15:07:20.000Z To call something “soft power” is to invoke a term long used by US politicians to describe the strategic influence of culture and diplomacy. The phrase can sound benign—suggesting persuasion, attraction or exchange—while obscuring the power relations and political interests that determine who gets to influence whom. Yet as authoritarian forces gain ground in Germany, soft power takes on a different urgency within Berlin’s cultural landscape. This tension runs through Soft Power, a transdisciplinary festival exploring culture as an infrastructure of encounter, memory and collective transformation. Within its chapter “Remembering / Imagining”, Anousha Payne and Ushara Dilrukshan approach influence through a more elusive figure: the moth. Their collaborative work Triangle reshapes the O of my mouth, created with Kitty Doherty, moves between installation, opera and concrete poetry. A woman transforms into a moth to escape a domestic space whose walls appear at once protective and oppressive. Wax, batik and sculpture turn the house into a porous body; voice, cello, organ and field recordings activate it as a shifting acoustic environment. Fragments of Bach and Hildegard von Bingen meet experimental vocal techniques, personal journals and diasporic memory. In this conversation, Payne and Dilrukshan discuss how their practices altered one another, what inherited artistic forms can be made to hold, and how tenderness might become a source of authority. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Soft-Power-vo26_pablo_lauf_sperling_insta-14-e1789029965776__ResizedImageWzYwMCw2MDBd.jpg) Performance by Ushara Dilrukshan with artworks by Anousha Payne at Sperling (Munich). Photo © Pablo Lauf. **Octavia Abril:** How did the moth become the shared figure connecting installation and opera? **Anousha Payne:** I started working with the story of the moth after the breakdown of a long and difficult relationship. As I cleared out my room, I moved my laundry basket and a swarm of moths surrounded me, revealing a perfect circular hole in the carpet. The moths left the house with me when I took the basket to the recycling centre in the back of my car. They remained in my car for years, dormant in winter and returning in the warmth of summer. The experience stayed with me. I began thinking about the moth’s ability to move fluidly between public and private borders, as a silent witness to what may be happening behind closed doors. It became a personal emblem of liberation and autonomy. Ushara and I met through a workshop organised by the artist Cassie Layton, who brought together a group of us with British Sri Lankan heritage to respond to documents in The National Archives. We later participated in Weather Reports, a residency in Sri Lanka, also organised by Cassie, that brought artists and musicians together to research and collaborate in response to the climate emergency. Although Ushara and I were not in the same group, our collaboration began when I heard her speak about exploring womanhood and trauma through narrative. I became excited by the prospect of working across our different experiences and similar storytelling structures: we shared a heritage and ways of processing trauma and personal experience, but arrived at very different materials and outcomes. I had also seen Cell Deletion, Ushara’s performance with her collaborator Sonnie, and was so moved that I felt shaken. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Soft-power-Anousha-P-In-a-time-of-desired-calm-watercolour-and-gel-medium-on-stretched-cotton-150220cm-photo-Sebastian-Kissel-e1789030985854__ResizedImageWzYwMCwzNzRd.jpg) Anousha Payne, **In a Time of Desired Calm*. Photo: Sebastian Kissel. **Ushara Dilrukshan:** Anousha and I spoke only briefly, but there was an immediate connection. We were both later selected for the Colomboscope Weather Reports residency in Sri Lanka, where we spent more time together and developed a deeper understanding of each other’s practices. At the time, Anousha was preparing for the Various Others open studios in Munich. The galleries had suggested creating a collaborative work, and she told me she felt particularly drawn to working with me. I felt the same, although neither of us yet knew what form the collaboration would take. During a meeting between residency sessions, Anousha shared writings centred on moths. She described them as figures that exist between borders—moving between inside and outside, carrying traces and quietly witnessing different spaces. That image became the conceptual foundation for everything that followed. Rather than simply making work about the moth, it began to feel as though we were making work for it. It became the central figure connecting Anousha’s installation and my opera. The moth moved between our mediums as it moved between worlds, acting as a shared protagonist across sculpture, sound, voice and performance. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Soft-power-Ushara-Extended-libretto-to-Triangle-reshapes__ResizedImageWzYwMCw1MDBd.-2026-Unique-digital-print-on-cotton-150-240-4-cm-e1789031004801.jpg) Ushara Dilrukshan, **Extended libretto to Triangle reshapes…*, 2026. **OA:** What did each of you allow the other’s work to change? **AP:** We were in dialogue throughout and spent a few days working together in my studio in Paris. We were open with each other, honest in our feedback and willing to listen. Some things changed shape naturally; others changed through discussion. It is difficult to define exactly what enabled those changes, but trusting and supporting each other affected how I thought about the project—as a stage, something to be activated. Being supported by a collaborator, and now a friend, reinforced the foundations of our work. **OA:** Anousha, how do wax, batik and domestic materials make the home feel both protective and controlling? **AP:** At the time, I was reading Anne Duden’s The Opening of the Mouth. A short story in the book describes the experience of being trapped and traumatised in a woman’s body, deprived of a voice or mouth. I began to think of the walls of the house as an extension of the body. There are problematic elements to the text, particularly its presentation of this experience as that of an “everywoman”, removing the cultural, class and racial factors that shape an individual’s experience of their body. As Annette Meusinger writes in The Wired Mouth: On the Positionality of Perception in Anne Duden’s Opening of the Mouth and Das Judasschaf, the political present of the artist is never neutral but charged with the tensions and contradictions of a particular individual and historical moment. The house in the exhibition is an assemblage of memories, fictions and materials that places the audience in the perspective of a fictional woman transforming into a moth. She is not an “everywoman”, but a figure created from the shared and overlapping experiences of two women. The house contains openings in its walls, making it feel somewhat permeable. Yet the figures in the paintings and batiks that form those walls are oppressive: the woman is trapped in repetitive daily tasks, cleaning or sitting across the table from herself in conversation. Other sections use batik to depict her transformation into a moth. I associate batik with the home; my mother, my grandmother and I all wear pyjamas made using this technique. It holds memories. The ceiling uses batik as a form of preservation. Beeswax and pine resin encase small, intuitive drawings and marks on silk, evoking the movement of a moth beating against a wall. The circles also represent parts of the woman’s body, dispersed around the room—leaking and porous, as though extensions of her body were seeping through the walls. This refers to Anne Carson’s Dirt and Desire and her account of women’s boundaries throughout history as porous, mutable and subject to metamorphosis. Circles and dots spread through the ceiling and walls, then continue throughout the exhibition as ceramic discs. Drawn from the markings on a moth’s wing, they represent the moth-woman protagonist dispersing and depositing herself around the room. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Soft-power-Anousha-Payne-Thoughts-like-puddles-to-the-floor-past-present-future-2026-stoneware-ceramic-paper-glue-metal-LED-60-70-90-cm-photo-Sebastian-Kissel-e1789031113129__ResizedImageWzYwMCw1MDdd.jpg) Anousha Payne, **Thoughts Like Puddles to the Floor (Past, Present, Future)*, 2026\. Photo: Sebastian Kissel. **OA:** When you work with Bach or Hildegard von Bingen, do you experience their music as inheritance, material, canon, or something else? **UD:** Working with Bach or Hildegard, I take fragments of existing notation and place them alongside my own voice, body and story, creating a dialogue between past and present. I’m not trying to reproduce the music faithfully; I’m interested in what happens when it encounters something it was not written to contain, including electronic treatment and new instrumentation. **“The greatest stories are already written.”** **OA:** Opera comes with powerful histories of class, institution, nation and cultural legitimacy. What does it mean for you to enter that form rather than reject it? **UD:** For me, entering opera is less about rejecting its history than entering into conversation with it. Opera has always been a space for storytelling, music, power and spectacle, so I’m interested in bringing different histories and experiences into that space. I don’t necessarily want to dismantle the form; I want to see what it can hold. There is something powerful about placing a personal story, expressed through experimental means, alongside established musical traditions and allowing them to coexist without one legitimising the other. This can expand who opera speaks for and who feels the form belongs to them. **OA:** What kind of authority does the trained voice carry, and what happens when you deliberately destabilize that authority? **UD:** A trained voice carries a certain authority because we associate it with precision, control and tradition. In opera, that authority has historically been tied to ideas of perfection and discipline. I’m interested in what happens when it begins to fracture. Throughout my work, I move between operatic singing and extended vocal techniques—breath, strain, distortion, whispers and non-verbal sounds. Destabilising the trained voice makes it more human, revealing vulnerability, labour and the body behind the performance. Inspired by artists such as Meredith Monk, Jocelyn Pool and Joan La Barbara, I’m not abandoning classical technique but expanding it, allowing the voice to carry fragility, uncertainty and transformation as well as beauty. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Soft-power-Anousha-Payne-Drag-my-fingers-along-the-soft-wall-of-thoughts-2026-watercolour-and-gel-medium-on-stretched-cotton-150-220-cm-photo-Sebastian-Kissel-e1789031209651__ResizedImageWzYwMCwzNzZd.jpg) Anousha Payne, *Drag my Fingers Along the Soft Wall of Thoughts*, 2026\. Photo: Sebastian Kissel. **OA:** Can the voice be understood as a form of soft power—something capable of entering another body without physically touching it? **UD:** For me, the voice is perhaps the clearest example of soft power. We use it every day, yet often overlook its ability to move, persuade, comfort, and transform. Our voices carry emotion, history, and memory, while remaining inherently porous—they travel across bodies, languages, and spaces without physical contact.Even when we don’t understand the language of a song, we can still recognise its emotional weight. That ability to communicate beyond words is a form of soft power. It doesn’t demand attention through force; instead, it invites listening, empathy, and connection.As a performer, using my voice vulnerably creates space for the audience to encounter their own emotions. Rather than imposing meaning, the voice offers an invitation—a quiet force that encourages others to become softer with themselves. I often work with nonsensical language, using Oulipian forms to transform lyrics while retaining their original emotion. Sometimes words aren’t enough. **AP:** It’s funny: before reading Ushara’s response, I had written a brief note—“voices, permeation of porous bodies”. I was thinking about the porosity of our bodies when receiving sound, and how voices can leave imprints on our bodies and memories, provoking joy and sadness. The voice can be understood as a form of soft power: it permeates our porous bodies, influencing, comforting, calming and inspiring us. Ursula K. Le Guin describes the woman’s voice as “always on the verge of silence, often on the verge of song”. We must continue to sing, tell stories and share our experiences and truths. **OA:** Which questions would you prefer the work to leave open? **AP:** I’m not sure the work offers clear answers. It is a deeply personal record and interpretation of our overlapping experiences—a story of resistance and courage that I hope people can relate to through their own lives. I hope audiences feel engaged and question positions of power, both within human relationships and between human and non-human life within ecology. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/soft-power_pablo_lauf_sperling_insta-6-e1789031345625__ResizedImageWzYwMCw3NTBd.jpg) Performance by Ushara Dilrukshan with artworks by Anousha Payne en Sperling (Munich). Photo © Pablo Lauf. // Soft Power is a [transdisciplinary festival](https://berlinartweek.de/en/event/soft-power-festival/7a80bd01-fd2d-413e-807b-7af80ed9f458/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and long-term platform at the intersection of art, music and social dialogue. A special project of Berlin Art Week 2026, the festival was initiated by Anahita Sadighi, curated by [María Inés Plaza Lazo](https://a-desk.org/autor/maria-ines-plaza-lazo/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and architected by Gonzalez Haase AAS. It takes place from 11 to 13 September at Haus der Visionäre, Eichenstraße 4A, Berlin, bringing together exhibitions, performances, concerts, DJ sets, talks, community radio and shared meals. On Sunday, 13 September, Ushara Dilrukshan will perform at 7 pm and 9 pm at Haus der Visionäre. At 8 pm, Anousha Payne, Ushara Dilrukshan and Kitty Doherty will take part in a conversation as part of the Refuge Worldwide programme. Anousha Payne (b. 1991, Southampton) is an artist working across sculpture, painting, textiles and sound. Drawing on folktales, mythology, personal experience and fictional narratives, her practice explores cultural identity, animism, material hierarchies and the transformative power of objects. Portrait: Gemma Janes, 2025 Ushara Dilrukshan is a Sri Lankan sonic performance artist and trained soprano working across expanded opera, composition, pipe organ and experimental theatre. Her narrative-led practice explores cultural identity, womanhood and trauma through sound and performance. She holds an MA from the Royal College of Art. ### Shadows and Presence URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/shadows-and-presence/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:37:30.000Z *For decades, Mariuccia Secol’s practice has explored women’s labor, care, and forms of resistance to patriarchy. In this conversation, she looks back on the first self-awareness groups of the 1970s, the performances of the Gruppo Immagine in Varese, and the role of refusal, silhouettes, and everyday objects. In her work, Secol weaves together politics, the ethics of care, and materiality. María Inés Plaza Lazo interviewed her in an email exchange as she prepared her retrospective at Muzeum Susch.* **Mariuccia, your practice has addressed the structural exclusion of women’s labor and the invisibility of care work. When did you begin to recognize these dynamics, and how have they influenced your approach to artistic practice?** In the early 1970s, young women in the student movement met in small consciousness-raising groups. In Varese, I started attending one made up of about ten university students. Each of us talked about where her distress came from, and as we discussed it together, we discovered many similarities: having no income, having to ask a partner for money, lacking independence, not being free to go out or take the initiative. With the medical students, we also carried out self-examinations using plastic instruments, unlike the invasive instruments used in doctors’ offices, and questioned some of medicine’s answers. We also talked about decisions concerning children and how to manage the household. Together with Milli Gandini and other artists, we then founded the feminist group Immagine in Varese. We got in touch with the Padua group advocating for “wages for domestic work,” founded by Mariarosa Dalla Costa in 1972, and contributed to their newspaper \*Le operaie della casa\* with stories, photographs of performances, and a large poster on canvas bearing the phrase: “Love, too, is domestic work.” In January 1978, we organized the national conference “Donna Arte Società” in Milan, with 700 participants. As a group, we wrote the document \*Vogliamo-Vo(G)liamo\*, in which we explained that ours was a rebellion against a system that, by appropriating our creativity, had rendered it compliant. My artistic work then began to focus on objects related to caregiving and domestic labor: aprons, cracked and mended plates, the pot scrubber, the bread bag. Even my personal clothes, including my wedding dress, became part of the works in the \*Casa di bambola\* series. The clothes are then torn to pieces and sewn back together like a tapestry, to shed their old skin and destroy the past, becoming a banner of protest. **Next come the Silhouettes: female figures made of fabric created by removing some of the weft threads. These “tears” represent the pain of motherhood and what women endure in their lives. Silhouettes often appear in your work. How have they been used to explore autonomy and interdependence?** The Silhouettes represent women who suffer under patriarchy and must free themselves from it. They depict various forms of female suffering, from childbirth to abortion—a right for which women have fought. But abortion is not a source of joy: it remains a source of pain in a woman’s life. In the work *Per un bambino non nato* (1977), exhibited at the Galleria della Maddalena in Rome—founded by Dacia Maraini—a tiny baby’s dress on the mother’s red silhouette represents a tomb on her heart. **“Rejection” is central to your work—from the rejection of domestic labor to resistance against institutional expectations. Could you share a moment when rejection became a deliberate artistic or political gesture for you?** Starting with the works from the 1973 series *Casa di bambola (Dollhouse)*. Through these doll-like women, I expressed the need for change regarding the futility of the female figure within the family. The dresses represent the “creativity of refusal,” drawing on Nora’s message in Ibsen’s play, which for me also meant changing my personal life. Later, other dresses are cut up and pieced back together to form a new body—no longer a doll. This is the case with *Spogliazione* (1974), a tapestry used by the Gruppo Immagine in a performance in Arcumeggia, the “painted village,” where frescoes had been created in the 1950s by an all-male group of painters. We brought the tapestry beneath those frescoed walls, asserting a different presence. With our hands spinning, we teased them from behind the tapestry. There was also the large cloak *Io*, which enveloped the members of the group as they sought protection. **Many of your works transform everyday objects into ethical and political statements. How do you view the relationship between materiality, care, and the visibility of labor in your practice?** Objects like an apron or a pot scrubber are part of everyday life. They are personal yet common objects—powerful symbols that many women perceive as tools of exploitation and domination. Torn clothing physically represents the shattering of female identity under patriarchy. **Installations such as *Acqua Maternale* (1978) address themes of care, vulnerability, and interdependence. How can material forms convey these messages?** They are well-known symbolic objects. Through symbolism, a relationship is created between nature and artistic expression. At the Venice Biennale, the tub containing the maternal fluid was at the center of the installation, and hanging above it were works by members of the Gruppo Immagine, which were reflected in the water. Outside, there were panels covered with postcards featuring images of nature—forests, deserts, flowers, berries, the moon—as if to protect the basin. The work was a collective effort, but each artist maintained their own artistic vision. This, too, was the theme of the 1978 Biennale: From nature to art, from art to nature. ***Acqua Maternale* evoked obstetrics as a metaphor for your approach to work and creation. How does this principle continue today?** Today, this principle is broader. Back then, it primarily concerned a personal dimension; today, it concerns humanity in general. While in 1978 it was about the personal pain of stretch marks, today I also think about war, migrants, and a larger social problem. **How do refusal, care, and ecological awareness intertwine in your practice?** Today there’s a shift. After the destruction of the past, the personal remains—such as femicide or respect for the individual—but respect for nature and animals also emerges, along with a broader sense of well-being for everyone. This means rejecting the exploitation of people as well as harmful technologies, such as phosphorus bombs. New works arise from these reflections, such as those created by reworking newspaper pages. **Reflecting on your first retrospective, what do you hope the audience will take away with them?** The awareness that a change—even if only partial—has taken place. Women’s wages are still lower than men’s, and the struggle continues. Women's determination has made some gains. Hopefully, men, too, will free themselves from the bondage of patriarchy. // ### La Clairvoyance URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/la-clairvoyance/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T15:08:43.000Z Behind a semi-transparent surface, powered by exposed cables and USB chargers, 23 smartphones emit a restless glow. The screens flicker with content stripped of narrative importance, reduced to movement, light, and repetition. What the Moscow-born artist Katja Pilipenko stages here is a contemporary form of clairvoyance without vision: *Media Curtain* (2025) assembles plexiglass, perforated aluminum, and circulating images into a membrane of controlled visibility, where everything is exposed, and nothing is fully legible. Subjects are rendered permanently available to extraction, while the infrastructures that govern them remain opaque. Seeing becomes compulsory; understanding references becomes optional. Because surveillance has become normalized, Pilipenko aestheticizes its surface in a melancholic gesture. This melancholy is a structural one, no abstract form: a quiet unveiling of promises that no longer hold. The logic extends into *Not Everyone Will Be Taken to a Bunker* (2024), where clairvoyance takes architectural form. Installed within a Nazi-era bunker in Hamburg, the work confronts security as a historical and ideological technology. An open, expansive, negatively rendered projection of the Negev desert collides with the bunker’s enclosed interior. Mirrors extend the image into false infinity, while sound amplifies the contradiction between freedom and militarized safety. Here, protection reveals itself as selective foresight, guaranteeing survival for some while forecasting abandonment for others. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Screenshot-2026-09-08-at-16__ResizedImageWzYwMCwzNDBd.30.52.png) Katja Pilipenko, *Not Everyone Will Be Taken To a Bunker*, 2024\. Installation view, Hajusom e.V., Bunker on Feldstrasse, Hamburg. If architecture conditions bodies, language conditions consent. *InSearch of Lost Security* (2022), Pilipenko makes this mechanism tangible through six aluminum plates carrying uninterrupted textual flows from Russian Channel One and Tagesschau in the days preceding the invasion of Ukraine. Hung on thin rods, the plates sway as viewers pass between them, producing bodily instability. Pilipenko withholds authorial judgment, reconstructing instead the informational environment of late capitalism, where competing state narratives converge on the same abstraction: “security.” Clairvoyance here is a bureaucratic preview of a catastrophe in slow motion; the velocity at which we read the information in front of us. Ideology, then, is rehearsed as some sort of rhythm, repetition, until its affective exhaustion. In *Arguments* (2021), this latent violence condenses into sculptural form. Glass replicas of police batons—literally translated into “arguments” in colloquial Russian—expose how coercion masquerades as dialogue. Fragility confronts force, revealing that authoritarian communication always carries the threat of impact beneath its rational surface. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/In-Search-of-Lost-Security_2022__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0MDBd.jpg) Katia Pilipenko, *In Search of Lost Security,* 2022\. © Katia Pilipenko. *Buffet 58* (2025) turns finally to ritual as a technology of belief. A Soviet-style table—food, champagne, conviviality—activates nostalgia as collective affect. The engraving of “58,” referencing Stalin’s penal code for anti-revolutionary crimes, silently and consistently interrupts the celebration. Melancholia appears again, this time as labor: an affective economy through which authoritarianism reproduces itself by aestheticizing historical violence and converting trauma into comfort. This is where we find a thread in Pilipenko’s evolving practice, namely through the staging of belief as a material condition—something enacted, rehearsed, and shared collectively. There is no privacy. This assertion reaches a decisive articulation in *Do You Believe in Vanga?* (2026). Rooted in her research into the figure of Baba Vanga (Vangeliya Pandeva Gushterova, 1911–1996), the project traces how mysticism, media, science, and the state converged to manufacture a national myth. Pilipenko approaches Vanga not as a singular prophetic voice, but as a dispersed apparatus of narration: her words surviving only as fragments, while concrete “predictions” are authored, archived, broadcast, and monetized by others. To return to a time when clairvoyants like Vanga held social, spiritual, and state authority is to recognize that post-truth is not a rupture, but a governing condition. **//** ### Relocating Soft Power URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/relocating-soft-power/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T15:09:41.000Z Twenty-five years after the attacks of September 11, the political order consolidated through the “War on Terror” continues to shape everyday life. Its hard power is visible in military occupation, border enforcement, policing, surveillance, and the expansion of technologies designed to classify, track, and control populations. These systems have disproportionately targeted Muslim, Arab, Black, brown, and migrant communities—both beyond the borders of the United States and Europe and within them. Hard power also produced a visual culture. Images of collapsing buildings and falling bodies were followed by embedded journalism, the photographs from Abu Ghraib, drone footage, biometric portraits, airport body scans, satellite maps and mobile-phone recordings of state violence. Watching and being watched became increasingly inseparable. The screen did not simply represent the new security order; it became one of the places where this order was administered, justified and made ordinary. It was between the end of one postwar order and the emergence of another that the political scientist Joseph Nye formulated the concept of “soft power.” In *Bound to Lead: The Changing Nature of American Power* (1990), and later in *Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics* (2004), Nye distinguished the ability to attract from the ability to coerce. Military and economic resources could compel people to act; culture, political values and foreign policy could make them want what a state wanted.¹ Soft power can therefore appear in the images through which nations and cities present themselves as progressive, creative, tolerant and open, while the state is turning itself more and more conservative. This is true in institutional identities, biennial pavilions, cultural campaigns and the endless production of images designed to make certain political and economic orders desirable. Hard and soft power are therefore not opposites. They are interconnected techniques. Surveillance, militarization and border control determine who may move, gather and become visible, while cultural representation helps produce the legitimacy of the system administering that movement. The same geopolitical order that circulates attractive images of freedom, diversity and cosmopolitan life also decides whose territories can be occupied, whose movement is treated as a threat and whose histories receive institutional recognition. Culture has never existed outside these relations of power. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Kalpesh-Lathigra-The-Lives-We-Dream-In-Passing-2026-5__ResizedImageWzYwMCwzNDFd.jpg) Kalpesh Lathigra, **The Lives We Dream In Passing*, 2026 The imbalance becomes particularly clear when we look at where resources are directed. Global military expenditure reached $2.718 trillion in 2024, the highest level ever recorded by the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute.² Meanwhile, cultural and social infrastructures are repeatedly required to justify their existence through short-term economic returns, audience numbers and measurable social outcomes. This is not an accidental shortage. Capitalism centralizes resources while presenting scarcity as inevitable. Vast funding can be mobilized for war, policing, borders and technologies of control, while the spaces in which people learn, meet, play, make and care for one another are treated as optional expenditures. Cultural workers are then asked to compensate for this manufactured scarcity through flexibility, unpaid labour and permanent competition.Josh Kline’s *New York: Real Estate and the Ruin of American Art*examines how this process has transformed the conditions under which artists, galleries and cultural organizations can exist.³ The argument extends beyond expensive rent. When land is organized primarily as a financial asset, cultural production is subordinated to the logic of property. Studios, galleries, independent spaces and eventually entire neighbourhoods become vulnerable to the same forces that profit from the cultural value they helped to create. New York offers one case through which to understand a wider condition. Berlin derives international prestige from its artists, galleries, clubs, publications and independent spaces, while the material conditions that sustain this cultural life become progressively more precarious. Culture produces value for the city—symbolic, political and financial—but the people and spaces producing that value are increasingly displaced.This is soft power at the urban scale. The city presents itself through images of creative freedom and cultural openness while treating the infrastructures behind those images as expendable. Culture is celebrated as identity and administered as an asset. Nye’s formulation is useful because it identifies attachment, identification and desire as political forces. Yet it understands those forces principally from the perspective of the state: how culture can extend national influence without visible coercion. Over time, this understanding has helped bind cultural production more tightly to cultural diplomacy, national branding and institutional competition. Art becomes evidence of national sophistication; the festival becomes an instrument of urban promotion; cultural difference becomes a resource through which institutions demonstrate relevance and states manufacture legitimacy. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Forough-Alaei-Rock-Solid-courtesy-the-artist-1__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0NTBd.jpg) Forough Alaei, **Rock Solid*. Courtesy of the artist This recuperation succeeds because culture does produce attachment. It creates languages, images, memories and forms of belonging. These capacities emerge from social life, but they can be captured, branded and made to speak on behalf of institutions, cities and nations. The issue is not that culture is external to power and later contaminated by it. The issue is how the relational power already present in cultural practice is extracted from the people who produce it, concentrated in institutions and redirected toward economic and geopolitical ends.To reopen the question of soft power, then, is not simply to oppose culture to military force. Nor is it to imagine culture as an innocent alternative to politics. It is to ask where the capacities associated with softness—attraction, receptivity, pleasure, trust, identification and collective imagination—are located, who controls them and toward what ends they are mobilized.These capacities have never belonged exclusively to states. Feminist, anticolonial, abolitionist and labour movements have long used language, music, food, storytelling, education, ritual, publishing and assembly to resist the pressures of displacement, assimilation and political violence. They have shown that social transformation depends not only on confrontation but also on the ability to build relationships, transmit memory, sustain collective desire and create forms of life within and against dominant systems.Audre Lorde describes the erotic as a deeply felt source of knowledge and power—one that can expose the insufficiency of lives organized around obedience and deprivation. bell hooks understands love not as private sentiment but as an ethic requiring care, commitment, knowledge, responsibility, respect and trust. The feminist commons described by thinkers such as Silvia Federici begins from the shared practices through which people reproduce life beyond the priorities of the market and the state.These traditions do not offer another version of Nye’s strategy. They do not seek to make domination more attractive. They locate power elsewhere: in the capacity to remain in relation, to organize care, to produce knowledge collectively and to make other ways of living imaginable. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/DSF8577__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0NTBd.jpg) Anahita Sadighi **Woman Life Freedom*, 2022–ongoing Installation: 16th–19th century ceramic amphorae, 43–67 cm (H) With sound by Mehdi Behbudi, Berlin Moonlight, 2025, and floral installation by Studio Lilo This festival proposes that we relocate soft power within these social capacities.It does not use softness as a synonym for passivity, politeness or withdrawal. Softness can be an active method: the ability to receive without possessing, to remain permeable without surrendering, to hold difference without immediately converting it into consensus. It can describe forms of power that do not depend upon command and control, but upon reciprocity, endurance, attention and collective transformation. To relocate soft power is therefore to contest Nye’s terminology from within. It means separating attraction from domination and influence from national interest. It means asking whether the capacities that states and markets attempt to appropriate can instead be retained, redistributed and governed by the communities that produce them.The practices gathered here are forms of human infrastructure: embodied, time-consuming and dependent upon attention. Digital systems might currently aspire to monetize them, but they cannot replace the social responsibilities from which they acquire meaning. The artworks in the exhibition do not relate to culture as a solution to the current polycrisis. Nor do they claim that gathering automatically creates solidarity, that memory necessarily produces justice or that artistic production is inherently emancipatory. Culture can contest power, but it can also legitimize it. A festival can create a public, but it can also become another instrument for accumulating visibility, prestige and cultural value.The exhibition does not celebrate soft power. It examines how softness has been instrumentalized and asks how its political potential might be reclaimed. It proposes a different relation between the two words: not softness placed in the service of power, but power transformed by the demands of softness. It also wants questions to remain open: What will happen the moment influence is decentralized from the ambitions of the state and brought back to social life? When will it become possible again to understand culture beyond metrics such as visitor numbers, but through the relationships it enables and the conditions it helps sustain?These questions require us to reopen a series of gates that have gradually narrowed: between art and public life; artistic practice and general education; social recreation and political participation; hospitality and urban infrastructure; freedom of assembly and the material conditions that allow people to gather. The exhibition moves through these gates as a sequence of practices. Its nine chapters are organized around nine verbs: Attending, Gathering, Listening, Remembering, Imagining, Hosting, Ritualizing, Resonating and Becoming. A verb differs from a thematic category, asking for a practice of relation rather than of possession, market resource, or representation.The chapters take a point of departure from Farid ud-Din Attar’s *Conference of the Birds*. In the poem, a community of birds leaves behind the certainty of what it knows and travels through a series of valleys in search of the Simurgh. When the surviving birds finally arrive, they discover that the sovereign they have been seeking cannot be separated from the collectivity they have formed.The exhibition borrows this logic of passage without treating the poem’s valleys as fixed interpretations of the works. The journey does not lead toward a single image of power. It asks us to recognize power in the relations that make collective life possible—and to consider how those relations might be defended from capture, extraction and disappearance. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Havin-Al-Sindy-Gurcike-min-Meine-Niere-1-v2__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0NTBd.jpg) Mariuccia Secol, **Untitled*, 2012\. Courtesy of the artist and Monopol Gallery, Warsaw ### **Attending** Slavs & Tatars, Havîn Al-Sîndy, Hamid S. Neiriz, Diane Severin Nguyen, Julius Pristauz and Nasanin Dahaghin Attar’s journey begins in the *Valley of the Quest*, where the birds abandon certainty to seek the Simurgh. Rooted in Iranian mythology and transformed across Persian, Kurdish and other regional traditions, the bird figures a culture sustained through movement. The surviving thirty birds finally recognize the sovereign in their collective—si murgh, “thirty birds”—and replace external authority with relation. Slavs & Tatars work within comparable passages among languages, beliefs, scholarship and popular culture across territories shaped by the Soviet project and earlier regional histories. Their Simurgh proposes a regionalism formed through translation rather than uniformity, challenging the maps, archives and museums that assign cultures to centre or margin. Hamid S. Neiriz’s *Ausgrabungen* (Excavations) removes layers of paint to expose accumulated images and fantasies. Recovery alters what it reveals; archaeology becomes psychic as well as material. Havîn Al-Sîndy’s *Gûrçikê min* (2025) brings geopolitics into the body. Three motorized clay organs appear to breathe, linking vulnerable flesh to migration and organ-trafficking routes. The kidneys function as archives embedded in medicine, borders, markets and displacement. Diane Severin Nguyen’s *Spring Snow* (2024) invokes Trịnh Thị Ngọ, or “Hanoi Hannah,” whose broadcasts addressed American soldiers through sympathy and homesickness. Nguyen’s jungle, artificial snow, clothing, bodies and fractured language expose persuasion’s uncertain boundary with intimacy. *Pogolina* (2026), by Julius Pristauz and Nasanin Dahaghin, combines AI-generated texts, composition and recordings between concert, DJ set and sound installation. Their camp treatment of authenticity tests what a voice can claim as lived. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Caique-Tizzi-Water-Across-Form-New-York-City-2024-courtesy-of-the-artist-v2__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0MDBd.jpg) Caique Tizzi, **Water Across Form*, New York City 2024\. Courtesy of the artist ### **Gathering** Akshita Garud (Two Odd), Caique Tizzi, Céline Semaan, Eloa and Jårg Geismar Gathering creates social infrastructure, but its politics depend on who convenes, participates and performs the work. Museums assemble imperial collections; states classify populations; platforms convert relations into data. Festivals and communal tables can project openness while concealing unequal access and extracted labour. The issue is not whether gathering liberates, but under what conditions it becomes a shared capacity. Akshita Garud’s work with *Two Odd* treats food as embodied geography. Ingredients, techniques and recipes carry displacement into the intimacy of a meal. By insisting on heat, regional variation and inherited knowledge, her practice resists culinary traditions flattened into consumable images of diversity. Caique Tizzi’s *Table as Stage*, developed with Fortuna Forest, rustcakes, Ada’s Deli and Adam Fearon, likewise locates knowledge in preparing, serving and eating. The table distributes roles—host and guest, server and served—and tests whether its relations survive the event. Céline Semaan’s *A Woman Is a School* joins storytelling, textiles, film and political education. Here the school is produced whenever knowledge circulates without being detached from the struggles and relationships that formed it. Jårg Geismar’s restaurant mes amis assembles artistic, social and culinary encounters; references gain meaning across languages, images and objects while retaining the unequal histories of their travel. Eloa works through light, a material that gathers bodies and surfaces without enclosing them, yet also decides what becomes visible. Attar’s *Valley of Love* frames gathering as exposure rather than accumulation. Love loosens calculation and possession; a collective journey changes its participants without erasing differences. A politically consequential gathering therefore remains unfinished: it distributes attention, allows encounters to redirect movement and forms belonging beyond state administration or market exchange. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Mariuccia-Secol_Unraveling-v2__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0MDBd.jpg) Mariuccia Secol, **Untitled*, 2012\. Courtesy of the artist and Monopol Gallery, Warsaw ### **Listening** Elena Carvajal, Enis Maci, Ian Waelder, Mariuccia Secol, Mehdi Behbudi Listening begins when certainty loosens, yet contemporary attention arrives already sorted and monetized. Enis Maci’s *Gentle Lands* confronts Peter Thiel’s fantasy of changing the world “unilaterally.” Moving from Silicon Valley through post-9/11 politics, Leo Strauss and Carl Schmitt, the video installation examines technological wealth allied with authoritarian thought. When those able to shape reality no longer need to persuade, listening becomes a political limit. Elena Carvajal gives abstraction its own tempo. Paint behaves before it signifies, requiring the viewer to receive material relations without forcing them into representation. Ian Waelder similarly works through residue. Photography, sculpture, sound and installation gather archival histories, biography, industrial landscapes and discarded objects into sites completed by the visitor. What has outlived its use remains capable of bearing history. Mariuccia Secol addresses labour excluded from art’s official economy: domestic work, reproductive labour, care and the time that sustains production. Her abstract Unraveling drawings make duration tangible through repetition and gradual changes of colour. Mehdi Behbudi treats sound as a physical event shaped by architecture. Resonant objects, custom instruments, oscillators and acoustic systems combine composition with mathematics, physics and electronics, extending experimental traditions through the conditions in which music continues to be produced in Tehran. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Screenshot-2026-09-07-at-17-v2__ResizedImageWzYwMCw3NTFd.02.14.png) Ushara, Performance **in der Ausstellung Triangle reshapes the O of my mouth von Anousha Payne.* Vieraktige erweiterte Oper mit neu arrangierten Arien und eigens komponierten Werken für Violoncello, Orgel, Feldaufnahmen, Elektronik und Stimme. ### **Remembering** Anousha Payne with Ushara, Kitty Doherty, Elif Saydam Memory is not a storehouse but a process altered by every recall. T*riangle reshapes the O of my mouth*, by Anousha Payne, Ushara and Kitty Doherty, begins with a house and a moth moving between shelter and confinement. Payne’s wax circles record repeated movement; batik connects domestic and intergenerational knowledge in Sri Lanka to colonial histories of exchange and appropriation. Ushara turns that material memory into voice. The performance’s pipe organ, cello and field recordings accompany a four-act opera that reworks J. S. Bach and Hildegard von Bingen alongside her compositions. Trained and experimental vocal forms carry womanhood, trauma, solitude and transformation without separating history from the body that sounds it. Doherty’s concrete poetry makes language equally physical. The title reshapes the speaking mouth, exposing words as inherited structures that regulate which sounds and speakers are recognized. Altering a word also changes where it may be spoken. Elif Saydam’s paintings draw ornament, miniatures and illuminated manuscripts into contemporary petrol stations, shops and apartment blocks pressured by gentrification. New works develop from a historical misreading: silver and gold once depicting water darken over centuries, transforming the represented landscape. Material change makes recognition contingent and allows minor details to bear social history. Attar’s *Valley of Ignorance* names the collapse of categories inadequate to experience. Memory may distort, but distortion can disclose the conditions under which the past becomes legible. Nothing arrives unchanged; remembering is the contested work of giving altered forms another hearing. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Wenxin-Zheng-Life-Journey-Clan-2026__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0NDld.-Rice-paper-ink-acrylic-and-pastel-_-Courtesy-of-the-artist.jpg) Wenxin Zheng, **Life Journey - Clan*, 2026\. Courtesy of the artist ### **Hosting** Berni Searle, Mariana Castillo Deball, Daniel Butcher, Maria Portilla, Wenxin Zheng Hospitality establishes a provisional order of belonging: it admits, shelters and excludes. The works here locate that order in bodies, rooms, images and surfaces marked by migration, colonialism and domestic life. In *Profile* (2002), Berni Searle presses a cross, the British crown, a souvenir spoon, an anti-riot shield, a Zulu love letter, an Arabic prayer and cloves into her cheeks. Translucent photographs preserve these impressions on brown skin, making identity a record of contact with religion, trade, affection and state violence. Mariana Castillo Deball’s *Forbidden Symmetries* (2017) uses forty-five concrete paving stones from Berlin-Wedding, arranged through Roger Penrose’s non-repeating tiles and cast with hand-drawn engravings. The work interrupts pavement’s apparent neutrality with a pattern that cannot settle into repetition. Daniel Butcher’s paintings assemble ancient imagery and speculative futures. Their torn and layered origins persist in figurative worlds that are recognizable without belonging to a stable time, inviting viewers into an unsettled visual dwelling. Maria Portilla’s inclusion keeps the chapter attentive to hosting as a practice shaped by artistic and social encounter. Wenxin Zheng transfers WeChat messages, travel photographs, selfies and everyday exchanges onto canvas. Images made for rapid circulation become a slower archive of contemporary Chinese social life, where inherited traditions and global media coexist. Attar’s *Valley of Doubt* clarifies hospitality’s risk: a host cannot fully determine what a guest or cultural form will bring. Hosting concerns the material arrangements through which something can enter, remain and be passed on. The chapter asks how those arrangements might make a world inhabitable without mastering what they receive. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/tawna_kawashima-v2__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0NTBd.jpg) Tawna Collective, **Kawashima*, 2026\. Courtesy of the artists ### **Ritualizing** Alanna Lawley, Dan Lie, Forough Alaei, Tawna Alanna Lawley’s drawings approach matrilineal trauma through bodies that turn themselves inside out. Their appeal to female lineage and “natural wisdoms” also confronts a wellness economy that packages embodied knowledge as private self-repair. Dan Lie’s *Secret Grieving Society* relocates grief in transforming matter: hemp associated with Korean mourning, ceramics, branches, ropes and vessels altered by dye, sunlight, decay and reuse. Its finite lifespan lets loss act in the present without pretending to preserve it intact. Forough Alaei photographs women in Iran repeating gestures that widen a restricted social field: entering prohibited spaces, gathering, dressing, moving and celebrating. Her “small seedlings” derive political force from persistence rather than immediate spectacle. Tawna, an anticolonial collective of Sápara, Kichwa and mestizo artists in the Ecuadorian Amazon, extends repetition into territory. Its films and collaborative projects draw on myths, dreams and embodied resistance while keeping narrative authority connected to the communities and lands from which it emerges. The forest participates in knowledge; memory is continuously re-authored. Attar’s *Valley of Loneliness* describes experience severed from the relations able to carry it: privatized knowledge, individualized grief, isolated resistance, land reduced to resource. Ritual opposes this severance by making passages among bodies, generations, objects and territories. These works do not romanticize continuity. They show it being maintained, revised and materially borne. Soft power consequently shifts from circulating influence to sustaining the relations on which collective life depends. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Hashem-Shakeri-from-the-series-The-Kahur-Does-Not-Fall-Unless-the-Earth-Wills-It-Balochistan-Iran-2018ongoing-2__ResizedImageWzYwMCw3NDVd.jpg) Hashem Shakeri, **The Kahur Does Not Fall Unless the Earth Wills It*, 2018–ongoing. Courtesy of the artist ### **Resonating** SoiL Thornton, Katja Pilipenko, Kalpesh Lathigra, Hashem Shakeri, Susana AbdulMajid Resonance begins when relations travel through effects exceeding their source. SoiL Thornton’s *Almost anything can be imagined, whatever you want, so imagine that, but not all can be painted and that's, well…* (2021) examines systems that classify bodies, identities and objects. Neon green evokes a screen awaiting substitution; gendered colours, names and dress codes reveal conventions repeated until they resemble preference. Katja Pilipenko’s *In Search of Lost Security* (2022) places continuous transcripts from Russian Channel One and Tagesschau, recorded before Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, on six suspended aluminium plates. Viewers move through competing narratives joined by the recurring language of security. Political communication becomes an environment whose urgency inhibits distance. Kalpesh Lathigra negotiates visibility through sustained relationships with photographed communities. *In The Lives We Dream In Passing* (2026), he sees New Delhi through a taxi driver’s rear-view mirror, locating the image within the encounter that produced it. Hashem Shakeri’s *The Kahur Does Not Fall Unless the Earth Wills It* (2018–ongoing) connects drought, repression and memory in Balochistan. A scanning glitch bathes a man standing in a kahur tree in red; accident binds ecological endurance to the political moment of the 2022 *Women, Life, Freedom* uprising. Susana AbdulMajid’s work across theatre, poetry and organizing gives transmission a social setting. With Anahita Sadighi, *Poetry Nights Berlin brings Arabic and Persian poetry*, music and audiences into a shared room. Resonance remains ambivalent: infrastructures carrying memory can distribute propaganda, and images can produce recognition or stereotype. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/Simon-Speiser_Cuerdas_del_Manglar_Installation_CANK_Photoby_MirkaPfluegerDSC5566__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0MDBd.jpg) Simon Speiser, **Cuerdas del Manglar*, 2026\. Installationsansicht, Transmediale Berlin. Foto: Mirka Pflueger. Courtesy of the artist ### **Becoming** Simon Speiser, Zeynep Boyan, Dieter Detzner, Anahita Sadighi Becoming asks what culture can do as social infrastructure. Categories such as citizen, migrant, artist, woman or worker make people administratively legible; cultural practice may reproduce them or render them unstable. Simon Speiser’s *Cuerdas del Manglar* (Strings from the Mangrove) continues the speculative documentary *Naufragio Liberador* (2024), considering shipwrecks in the formation of maroon communities in Esmeraldas, Ecuador. String theory and black holes connect disappearance to emergence, while scratch holograms engraved in metal evoke Afro-Ecuadorian memory and regional gold mining. Physics, colonial history, technology and ancestral practice meet without being collapsed into one system. Cultural survival appears as the production of forms from rupture. Zeynep Boyan’s hand-built stoneware records pressure, resistance and support. Its negotiation of mass and void offers a model for relations sustained through adjustment: gatherings, rituals and languages endure by changing. Dieter Detzner turns this question toward architecture, where structures accumulate uses beyond their original function. Studios, schools, theatres, restaurants, clubs, streets and homes are not backdrops to culture but its material conditions; their disappearance removes a capacity to assemble. Anahita Sadighi’s work as gallerist, curator and cultural producer creates encounters among ancient and contemporary art, Persian and Arab histories, literature and performance. It foregrounds the often-unseen labour that enables languages, histories and publics to meet. The amphorae she brings into the halls, from the Kashan region of central Persia embody the long tradition of Persian ceramic craftsmanship. Amphorae belong to the category of antique vessels historically used for storage and transport; these examples were used specifically for the preservation of dairy products, reflected in their bulbous bodies, narrow necks and symmetrically placed handles. The glaze colours and techniques characteristic of the Kashan region trace a tradition reaching back to the Elamite and Babylonian periods (1,000–2,000 BCE) and the Arsacid era (3rd century BCE – 3rd century CE). This archaic form and traditional method of production document centuries of development in Persian ceramics, joining practical function with historical heritage. The exhibition thus relocates influence from the state’s desired image to the conditions in which people encounter one another and imagine themselves throughout history. Cities and institutions cannot credibly celebrate openness while displacing cultural workers, restricting migration or excluding the communities they represent. Soft Power Festival transits in this assertion as everything moves fast through the raging networks of global fascism. // **References** Joseph S. Nye Jr., *Bound to Lead: The Changing Nature of American Power* (Basic Books, 1990); Nye, *Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics* (PublicAffairs, 2004). Nye’s distinction between coercion and attraction became a major framework for understanding cultural and diplomatic influence in the post-Cold War period. Josh Kline, *New York: Real Estate and the Ruin of American Art*, and related writings and exhibitions, examine the relationship between real-estate speculation, cultural production, and the material infrastructures—land, property, labour and capital—on which it depends. Cover image: Berni Searle, *Profile*, 2002\. Courtesy of the artist and PSM, BerliForough Alaei, *The Glass Ceiling of Life*, 2020\. Courtesy of the artist ### Opening my Swiss-German Family Archive URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/opening-my-swiss-german-family-archive/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T15:11:10.000Z In November 2023, I was—among several other demonstrators—arrested by the Berlin police at an anti-colonial protest in front of the Federal Foreign Office for carrying the flag of Palestine. One officer stated, “Palestine has nothing to do with colonialism,” while another added, “It’s forbidden to show the Swastika too,” equating the flag of an oppressed people with a Nazi symbol. As a Swiss-German citizen straddling a colonial family history in Palestine and a Nazi heritage, I was stunned by the blatant lies of the policemen. To say that Palestine has nothing to do with colonialism contradicts my own family history. This historical revisionism erases Christian evangelical support for the Zionist project, which claims to speak for all Jews, while its lobby targets anti-Zionist Jews and others who oppose the colonization of Palestine. ### **Evangelical Dogma: An Ideology of Belonging and Exclusion** The hypocritical attitude and moral superiority of German politicians reminds me of evangelicals who pretend to uphold ethical, universal values and speak of God’s “unconditional love for everyone” while excluding queer people and non-Christians. Only those who devote their life to Jesus are able to access that love; queer people must undergo conversion therapy or exorcism to prove their faith in a system that negates their sexuality or gender. These methods often lead queer teens to self-harm or suicide. According to evangelicals’ belief, other cultures with their own spiritual traditions cannot access God’s “unconditional love”, reserved for born-again Christians alone. For centuries, European missionaries spread their racist and anti-LGBTQ+ ideas to other continents, laying the ideological ground for domination, so that imperialists could extract resources from land and indigenous people, and funnel the profits back to Europe. The connection between missionary work and colonialism is not mentioned in their Bible courses, of course, but it lives on until today. I grew up in the 1990s in Switzerland in an evangelical congregation where my family history was kept from me. My father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were missionaries in historical Palestine. At the dinner table, I overheard conversations about Israel, terrorism, and Jesus. The message was always the same: “We are the good ones. We love Jews, but they need to be converted to Christianity. Muslims are barbaric. There will never be peace in this world—especially in the ‘Middle East’—unless the entirety of humanity accepts Jesus Christ as its saviour.” This rigid doctrine that divides the world into “us” and “them” was celebrated in rituals, prayers, songs, and festivities. But it was also built on the fear of ending up in hell, using guilt and shame as controlling tools. You are born as a sinner; everything unfolds from there. Passing on the gospel to save the world from evil is one of the major principles I was taught to uphold. Spiritual out-of-body experiences of collective practices like worship and prayer were used to substantiate hurtful interpretations of the Bible. Evangelicals turn the teachings of Jesus—which are all about love—into a battlefield of spiritual warfare and abuse. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/002__ResizedImageWzYwMCw1NThd.jpg) My great-grandfather in front of the newly built Carmel Mission House on Mount Carmel in Haifa, 1911\. © Private photo archive of Andi Meyer, reprinted with permission ### **Growing Up in Silence, Secrets and Erasure** It was difficult to see through these dynamics, as the beauty of having faith and a strong sense of belonging was a real experience for me too. But whatever I wanted to critically discuss, in the end the answer always had to come back to reinforce the already existing dogma. It was impossible to question the system in its entirety. Doubts were seen as sins, and even if I didn’t express them, God would always be watching and judging. The threat of public punishment such as humiliation and excommunication produced a detachment from my own intuition, self-censorship, and a climate of existential fear and confusion. From age 14 to 17, I joined prayer ceremonies to get rid of my queerness, even though I didn’t have any language for it. When I realized that my efforts to fit in would never succeed, I left the congregation and moved to Berlin. In my early 20s, I realized that, just as a queer vocabulary was missing in my upbringing, “Palestine” as a word, and as a reality, had been erased too. I was shocked to learn about the Nakba, the displacement of Palestinians, and that the Israeli state was established on the ruins of their villages just in 1948—and not in Biblical times. While I started to question my gender identity, I started to look deeper into my family history too. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/006-v2__ResizedImageWzYwMCwzNzVd.jpg) Postcard ‘German colony Haifa on Mount Carmel’, by P. Hommel ### **Colonial Legacies in Palestine: Dispossession of Land and Water** My great-great-grandparents arrived in 1870 in Haifa, Palestine, from Württemberg, South Germany. They were part of the German Templers, a European Christian movement that wanted to “prepare the land” for the Second Coming of Christ. Following a strict and literal interpretation of the Bible, they saw themselves as role models for the indigenous people of Palestine. Described as “Proto-Zionists” by Palestinian historian Mahmoud Yazbak, the German Templers played an essential role in the early colonization of Palestine. Travel reports written by Christoph Hoffmann and Georg David Hardegg, the movement’s founders, following their first field trip in 1858 described Bedouin communities as a plague to be expelled from their land. When the first German Templers arrived in 1868 in Palestine, they quickly settled near al-Yazaq well in Haifa, restricting access to the previously communal well in order to devalue surrounding agricultural land and push out local farmers. The dispossession of land and water, as well as the segregation of the Germans from the local population, followed a colonial model. After devaluing the land by cutting its access to water, the Germans bought more parcels for low prices from Palestinian Christian middlemen. When the U.S. American colony in Jaffa was abandoned that same year, its original settlers, struggling with diseases such as malaria and to acclimate to the local climate, German settlers purchased the few infrastructures that the U.S. Americans left behind, and expanded their colonies from Haifa to Jaffa. Evangelical influences from South Germany and Basel manifested through the establishment of the Carmel Mission House in 1904\. While some second- and third-generation settlers became more secular and focused on the material improvement of the German colonies, others joined the Protestant-millenarian “civilizing mission” typical of that time. They focused on converting German-speaking Jews, many of whom were fleeing persecution in Europe and carrying Zionist aspirations to build a Jewish state in Palestine. Later, the Carmel Mission hired Arabic-speaking missionaries to also reach out to the majority of local Muslims, imposing their supremacist and Islamophobic ideas on them. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/014__ResizedImageWzYwMCwyNDld.jpg) **And Yet They Fear Backlash: And Yet They Fear Backlash*, 2025\. Acrylic, graffiti spray, oil pastel and colouring pencil on fabric. 270 x 140 cm. © Stellar Meris ### **Antisemitism Reframed as Political Weapon** From the 19th century onward, many non-Jewish advocates for Jewish settlements in Palestine were based in the U.S. and Britain, and believed in Christian Restorationism; an ideology tightly connected to colonial desires around Palestine and the theological root of Christian Zionism. It claimed that the end of times was near and that Palestine needed to be restored before the turn of the century, when they expected the Second Coming of Christ to occur. According to the Biblical prophecy, as many Jews as possible should be in the historical land of Palestine at the point of rapture. I remember the many Hebrew songs we sang in my childhood, celebrating Pessah, a Jewish holiday, together with Messianic Jews—Jews who converted to the Christian faith. Evangelicals often display antisemitic elements in their beliefs when instrumentalizing Jews for religious ends; similarly, on a political level, the West uses Jews for its imperial expansion. I recall how, in sermons, a religious and moral superiority towards Judaism was emphasized, while Jewish cultural practices were fetishized. Christian Zionists are known for their “love” for Jews, which in reality is philosemitism, an inverted form of antisemitism. Evangelicals are mostly based in the U.S. but also across Europe, with growing numbers in Latin America—now vastly outnumbering the entire Jewish people. Germany’s support for Israel is deeply entangled with religiously rooted, colonial, and antisemitic fantasies, as well as contemporary geopolitical interests. It is certainly not motivated by genuine concern for the well-being of Jewish people. German media accused anti-zionist Jews multiple times of antisemitism, while simultaneously framing Palestinians as Nazis. In this colonial gaze, Palestinians are erased. Language has been weaponized in abusive manners, accusing innocents, while German right-wing politicians express their antisemitic and Islamophobic hatred openly and with impunity. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/004-v2__ResizedImageWzYwMCw0NDRd.jpg) A family portrait with Pastor Schneider, Pastor v. Oertzen, and Missionary Heinrici in Haifa, 1921\. © Private photo archive of Andi Meyer, reprinted with permission. ### **Christian Zionism in Support of Settler-Colonial Imperialism** The first Jewish Zionist leaders looked at the German Templers’ settlements as a blueprint to be emulated. In 1898, one year after the First Zionist World Congress in Basel, Theodor Herzl met German Emperor Wilhelm II in Jerusalem. What many don’t know is that William Hechler, a Christian Zionist with roots in South Germany, played a critical role in advocating for the Zionist project and made this connection between Herzl and German leaders possible. Along with German Templer founders Hoffmann and Hardegg, Herzl sought Ottoman support for land acquisition and visited the German colonies to learn from their strategies. As historian Rashid Khalidi argues, the situation in Palestine is not a conflict between two nations but a settler-colonial project that started over a century ago, backed by the U.S., Britain, and other Western powers. They supported the Zionist project to extend their markets, gain military footholds in the area, and control resources and trade routes. The alignment between Christian and Jewish Zionist groups with authoritarian or right-wing governments today reflects broader historical patterns shaped by colonial and imperial dynamics and overlapping interests. Religious narratives always serve to justify taking control over land and people. German reparations do not account for non-Jewish victims of the Holocaust, such as Sinti and Roma people, or for the descendants of the Herero and Nama genocide of 1904\. The entire concept of reparation functioned primarily to support Zionism and its project to build a Jewish ethnostate in Palestine—an ideology with Christian theological roots that keeps the colonial violence going and promises more arms trades and profits to the ruling class. The dramaturgy and pathos of German politicians, in which these reparations are portrayed as a moral reckoning with the past, have an almost religious quality to it. In the case of my grandfather, who grew up in the German colony in Palestine, joined the Nazis in the Second World War, and later became an evangelical missionary, the storyline becomes quite personal to me. But I can see how this is not so much a story about private coincidences but rather a structural outcome. I’m only starting to reckon with my own story and family history, as I try to zoom out and see the bigger picture, raising urgent questions about the decolonization of Palestine. While pushing for accountability and liberation from Zionism, larger structures of systemic violence become visible and raise awareness about Congo, Sudan, Haiti, and other oppressed people around the globe. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/008__ResizedImageWzYwMCw4MjZd.jpg) **Holy Figures (I): Holy Figures (I)*, 2018\. Pencil, colouring pencil, acrylic pen and marker on book page. 30 x 23 cm. © Stellar Meris ### **Religious Trauma and Pattern Recognition** As a person on the autism spectrum, my brain is constantly scanning for logic; therefore, cognitive dissonance is difficult for me to endure. I naturally take words very literally, but I have difficulties reading between the lines or recognizing negative intentions. As a result, I am very disturbed by injustice, such as discriminatory behaviours and the abuse of power. Meeting Palestinians and anti-zionist Jewish activists made me question the narratives I grew up with on a political level. Their voices have been there for decades, speaking out against Zionism and colonial violence in all its forms, including Christian Zionism. The understanding of imperialism and colonialism as superstructures that intersect with evangelical ideology has helped me make sense of my experiences, research, and observations. The reality that unfolded in Germany after October 2023, when I saw Berlin police arrest a 9-year-old Palestinian child, triggered not just disbelief but also clarity. The police violence I saw in Germany reminded me of the military Israeli occupation that I witnessed in the West Bank when I lived there from 2016 to 2017\. These systems of oppression seem to be related. Autism is self-referential and monotropic in the way that knowledge is built: collecting details and recognizing patterns from a bottom-up rather than a top-down, bird's-eye perspective. By default, my way of thinking jumps between timelines and geographies in an associative way, looking into similarities and recurring patterns. However, my findings are comparisons, not equations. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/007-v2__ResizedImageWzYwMCw3Njdd.jpg) **Die Chronik (9): Die Chronik (9)*, 2018\. Pencil, marker and acrylic pen on book page. 30 x 23 cm. © Stellar Meris ### **Colonial Relationships between Germans and Palestinians** My grandfather, who was born in 1915 in Haifa and grew up in the German colony, told me that all colonists were armed, since Palestinians were described as carrying out “raids.” In these stories, they were cast as dangerous outsiders, intruders in their own land. The second colony, Waldheim was founded in 1907 on land that was originally called Umm al-Amad, not far from Haifa. The Templers bought it “legally” through a Beirut businessman, but such transactions bypassed the local peasants who had long cultivated and depended on the land. Once the deed was signed, the Germans hired a Bedouin guard, armed him with a rifle, and used him to scare those same peasants away. The family narratives that I grew up with reinforced this colonial perspective: Palestinians appeared not as neighbors, but as a threat or as cheap labor. This perspective erased the reality: families who had cultivated the land for generations were pushed out and replaced. One of the leading German settlers put it bluntly: “I pay the Arab 5 piasters a day. And if I work as a European, I have to charge 50 piasters. So I prefer to hire 10 Arabs and have them do the work.” This relationship was fundamentally colonial and exploitative, though in my family’s memory it was often framed as well-meaning and collegial. My grandmother remembered that my great-grandfather was paid the same wage as the Palestinian workers because he lacked a formal theological education. His poverty, however, did not erase the fact that he was still embedded in and benefiting from a colonial system that extracted Palestinian labor for its benefit. “Every colonist had the right to build a flat for his Arab worker”, my grandfather recalled. “It was usually one big room. Some structures had no light, no water, and no bathroom. But they had an open-air bathroom in the bushes.” The laughter that followed such recollections made it clear to me, even as a child, that Palestinians were not seen as full human beings. My great-grandfather built a school to missionize the children of Palestinian workers; the church paid for an Arabic-speaking teacher to “educate” and “civilize” them. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/013__ResizedImageWzYwMCwzOTNd.jpg) My great-grandfather distributes New Testaments to residents of Kibbutz Baram, 30 December 1958\. © Private photo archive of Andi Meyer, reprinted with permission. ### **Nazism in the German Colonies in Palestine** The NSDAP established its branches in the 1930s in the German colonies across Palestine, turning them into a cohort for Nazi ideology and antisemitism. Heidemarie Wawrzyn highlights that while on average about 5% of Germans abroad joined the NSDAP, in Palestine over 30% of German colonists were participating in activities of the Nazi Party. My grandfather said that almost everyone at that time believed in the Nazi ideology, far more than the estimated number. In the 1930s, unrest between the local population and European Jewish settlers increased. Palestinian workers organized a strike and revolt that was brutally beaten down by the British occupation. German settlers maintained practical relations with both groups; they employed Palestinians as cheap workers, while the goods were sold to Jewish settlers. With the outbreak of WWII, the German nationals were interned and later deported by the British as war enemies, and sent to Australia or Germany. The British turned Sarona, the former German colony in Jaffa, into a military and police base. After the British withdrawal in December 1947, the Hagana seized the compound and used it as the headquarters of the newly established Israeli Defence Forces in the following year. In stark contrast to the mass destruction of Palestinian sites during and after 1948, the houses of German Templers were put under cultural heritage protection and renovated through expensive investment by the Israeli government in the 1990s and 2000s, becoming tourist attractions and shopping malls. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/010__ResizedImageWzYwMCw4NDFd.jpg) From the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939 until 1948 the German colony of Waldheim was used as an internment camp by the British. The picture shows a police station at the entrance to Waldheim; the British employed a Palestinian man as a guard. During this period, Germans were only allowed to leave the colonies with a pass issued by the British. © Private photo archive of Andi Meyer, reprinted with permission. ### **Planting Pine Trees to Hide the Ruins of the Nakba** After the Nakba, the ruins of Palestinian homes have been hidden through a large afforestation project by the Jewish National Fund. Planting millions of European pine trees transformed the landscape on an unprecedented scale, with no end in sight, while the indigenous olive trees are being uprooted to this day. Going through the family archive I inherited, I came across photos, documents, letters, and maps that describe the environmental and urban developments of Haifa in great detail. As a gardener working for the German mission on Mt. Carmel, my great-grandfather planted European pine trees already during the British Mandate. Like other colonists, he took part in bringing tools and techniques from Europe and implementing the so-called “modernization” on the land with the cheap labor of Palestinians. When I visited the pine forests on Mt. Carmel—possibly due to my Swiss-German passport—I realized that one of these forests is informally called “Little Switzerland”. The overwriting of landscapes with European identities is a classic colonial tactic to erase Palestinian belonging. I wonder if the name had something to do with my great-grandfather’s Swiss roots. His return to Haifa in the early 1950s was possible due to his Swiss citizenship, and a right that was denied to displaced Palestinians. He then worked as a gardener for the Israeli government in a pine tree nursery, contributing to the afforestation that masked Palestinian villages. Yet, he was also an evangelical Christian, heavily invested in missionary work. In his memoirs, he recalls proudly how he managed to secretly distribute Bibles to Jews, despite his new employer’s prohibition to do so. When I asked my grandmother how he felt about the displacement and disappearance of over 80% of the Palestinian population in Haifa, she said he probably never really thought about it. The Nakba was never mentioned in our family. I also noticed that not a single name of the Palestinian workers was documented in my great-grandfather’s writings, despite their daily interactions before 1948\. My ancestors spoke fluent Arabic with a typical Haifa accent. However, later generations learned Hebrew instead and sent their kids to Israeli schools—and to the Israeli military. They see the genocide in Gaza as the fulfillment of Biblical prophecies rather than a continuation of settler-colonialism and an extreme excess of global imperialism. Violence against the colonized is once more justified with the misinterpretation of the Bible, marking who will continue to be erased. ![](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/assets/012__ResizedImageWzYwMCw3ODhd.jpg) **Die Chronik (3): Die Chronik (3)*, 2018\. Pencil, marker and acrylic pen on book page. 30 x 23 cm. © Stellar Meris ### **Family Archive: Silence, Gaps and Erasure** Looking at the family archive I inherited, the invisible and the missing parts become ever more noticeable to me. Recently I met a Palestinian protester in Berlin who told me that their grandfather was working as a child laborer in one of the German colonies. I also learned that the German employers had cut the Palestinian workers’ fingernails to a painful extent, so their fingernails would not harm the fruits when picking them from the trees. These stories show the reality that is systematically hidden. I wonder about all the other stories that were not documented in any archive and what happened to the 70 Palestinians who worked for my great-grandfather, planting European pine trees on their own land. Where did they escape to during the Nakba? Are they also watching the news as these trees, not made for the Mediterranean climate, burn? Are they part of the 70% Palestinian refugees who are trapped in Gaza as Israel bombs and starves them with the complicity of the West? Palestinians’ rightful demands for freedom, the right of return, and self-determination are systematically erased from the Western consciousness. But the armed resistance on the ground has forced the world to not look away any longer. The Palestinian liberation struggle has ignited a global movement in solidarity with the oppressed people—from Gaza, Congo, and Sudan to Haiti. Imperial and colonial violence repeats in various forms, but follows a similar logic of dehumanization, exploitation, and genocide. The agency of colonized people doesn’t rely on the recognition of Western scholars or state archives. A Palestinian friend told me: “To stand in solidarity with our people, you have to see our struggle through our eyes.” This shift in perspective has reached a large number of students, activists, and critical thinkers in the past two years, who organize to dismantle the settler-colonial Zionist project. Palestinians lead this shared struggle with decades of experience and a deep understanding of the oppressive system. ### **Choosing to be an Outsider rather than a Bystander** When I left the evangelical congregation, I knew that the religious authorities would often punish those who leave. They would withdraw social and financial security, and sometimes hound their former members severely. I moved to Berlin to both escape and to form a new life in my newfound freedom. It took some time, but eventually I made new friends with those I was taught to fear: queer folks, Palestinians, and many others. After 7 October 2023, I felt the same social alienation in Germany when more arrests followed, each one more arbitrary than the other. Once I was accused of incitement to hatred for holding a sign that said: “From the river to the sea, we demand equality.” The police said it was a signifier for terrorism. A few months later, the Landeskriminalamt (State Criminal Police) came to my home to investigate my “crime.” When I asked the officer if he really thinks that demanding equality could be considered hate speech or terrorism, he looked quite embarrassed. After all, he was just doing his job—as were the millions of Germans during the Holocaust. The apathy and silence of German civil society is what shocks me much more than any arrest or police violence. Millions act as if what happens in Palestine had nothing to do with them or their tax money. I understand that this isn’t just individual denial or hypocrisy but is deeply embedded in the state-led conditioning. I get it. Breaking away from the Zionist ideology surely comes at a cost—but when staying is no option, the price to leave is never too high. To break with the racist and openly fascist framework of Zionism through boycott, sanctions, and disinvestment is an ever more urgent quest in times of genocide. Strikes are a powerful means to withhold labor force and raise collective pressure and awareness, giving power back to the people and holding the higher powers accountable, not alone but with each other—while hoping that the one and only God who cares for humanity, regardless of race and gender, will care for us. The Bible says it already: Lucky are those who don’t run after money but care for each other as for oneself. I recently read on Instagram that the opposite of depression is not joy but expression, and I couldn’t agree more. That’s why the voices of the oppressed will never be silenced. // Stellar Meris's work will be on view as part of the [Unframe Festival](https://www.unframefestival.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), 17-20 September 2026, at Cank Berlin. *The full version of this article was originally published on* [*Untold Mag*](https://untoldmag.org/colonial-palestine-german-family-archive/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*.* ### CC Forever URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cc-forever/ Last updated: 2026-09-15T16:24:49.000Z *How do we find community? What do we find when we find community? What do I find, what do you? And in which forms can we write about the strange shapes that communities take?* *Part of a longer project, the following text is concerned with collectivity, luxury, visibility, changes, identity, and non-identity – especially, perhaps, in settings subsumed under the rather vast label ‘queer’ whose (easy) attachment to ‘community’ may appear beyond all doubt.* *If it leans on the destabilising insistences Gertrude Stein cultivated (especially on her 1927 “Patriarchal Poetry”) and if this is itself an uneasy heritage, the text operates in ambivalent formal community.* *At any rate, the text continues to ask some of the questions posed above in different ways* *and hopefully raises some others. Or maybe, I was just driven/playing around?* And entered Entered and entered and entered again rendered the communal blender rented it in and out Through a well kept gate. Kept well spells kept gate kept kept gate expect a well kept well. Well let gate pets keep the rest then keep a gate and get a way. Kept an accept except a well well gated gate except forkept kept gate awell, a fellower A commoner. You’ve heard this before. You’ve heard this before have heard this before you Come to the community then come enter the community. When enters the community then come. When come then enter when then then when then come. Community of community when one enters. Group immunity when one enters. Come come komm komm zur community then come to community (We’re entering now! We’re entering now! We’re entering now! We’re entering now! We’re entering now! We’re entering now! We’re entering now!) Well who has a head start in the community Come again? Come again come again? Coming after the community which coming after which coming after which in and of itself in and of which the community which coming after in and of itself full stop meant a lot to that which coming after the community which was not which was coming after that community after which in and of itself meant a lot to that community which was coming after which was openly coming after after A red bedrock You’ve been around this community has been around for a while it makes it seen which is to mean: it shows. Well visible among the communities goes way back don’t you think A gold star community. Really gold and really this is the biggest house I’ve ever been in! Chandeliers! Xbox and PlayStation! The old Wii! A Switch! A freezer even! With Kool-Aid and champaign! You share everything? Kids encouraged? At least the queers? No money older than a couple of years? No laundry at night? At night sleep tight? OMG! Community! Absolutely could see myself be a part A party to To a bit of community To an ambient community? To am bit a community A bit à la community A bientôt community A bit a bit a bitey community A community a bit OK that’s a way. But then what if there’s excess without without lack. If there’s more than enough of everything without there ever being too enough. Such as a restless rest resting with the rest. What’s scarce is this scarce is this scarce is this still scarce is it scarce is it forever scarce is it still scarce when we’re done with it Cause in the community it’s all cause of communal luxury and CC is all cause. All cause no clothes to the effect. Except 2 cause effective. Efficient ambience listen 2 the 2nd community. Community caused community cause of coal. As caused Cs to effectively react to their shortcomings. Therefore, community. Hence, see effect. Effectively between collarbones: got rid of clavicular – just cause. Case closed Then picked some pockets. Poked picks into these pocketeers’ pots, patriarchal pockets so holed out from concepts from pocketbooks. Stole some words though stole not the right words. Nicked some pockets! Nicked them whole picked them apart picked some new forms Such as a pain in the community’s ass Which well on paper that’s my community. And on paper we’d make for good community. In the community way to weigh in the community in the community way I probably wasn’t horny when I entered the community it aroused me. I might or might not or might very not have been horny when I entered the community which aroused me And as we speak they’re doing the thing in the community. As we speak we’re doing the thing? We’re doing the thing as we speak we fuck. Just as we speak we fuck. As we speak we laugh cast bleak sleek deeply. As we speak we think and as we speak we’re not thinking. As we speak we quiet down as we talk the walk as we put our money where our mouth is where our mouth is. Where it’s at we speak as we speak up just as we write. And as we speak we don’t think I hope not as they speak as we’re entering as we so to speak At least money meant what it said in the community note more Sex also gender also All so sex. All so All so all too the also all too the also all in thrall all to the also always through the wall Through the wall of props, proppy proto-politics, pro proportional polity Found my politics when I entered the community Also found the difference between my politics and my politics and my hormones and my hormones which is a difference which is a difference. Which if it is a difference of a difference if it can be a difference must not be a very very different one or not. Which is to say if it is to say at all that if it is to say so to say so then the difference is so to say a minute one not that of one minute. On and off of both either or off and on Which means all you need is a good mix of these two, the politics and the hormones. By ways of introduction: Personally, I couldn’t imagine having my hormones without my politics. Would taste so bland. Politics without hormones? That might be even worse, no. Imagine how sleep-deprived and meagre the p would be. I am am grateful for the synthesis I found upon entering between the community, my politics, and the hormones. That’s a good mix, a good x So I continued to pitch the community including where it didn’t belong Oh your community’s so pretty? Soo pretty? Too pretty? Really? The prettiest? Being serious? Pretty? Pretty pretty? Too pretty pretty? So pretty pretty pretty pretty? Pretty? Well you’re pretty pretty too? Pretty pretty too pretty pretty? So too pretty? Too so pretty pretty too soo pretty pretty too so so? Too pretty so pretty too pretty really pretty serious pretty pretty serious? You’re so real you’re so so? Oh? So oh so pretty too oh? What a gay community by day. Whereas by night you might not want to be around or else. Or else? Or else Etc. pp. It‘s a high prize per person to pay when the pieces are free. Power-wise right? Palantir shot over a hill as part of the new way it now has to be. Right right page poetry forever!! No freeform on my watch No harm done in the community but some too some. Woolly one. The subtle one which charmed a hurt no hurt non sum in fall. No starter no. Roared not forward it’s fine words wrought. Not even subtle it too repeats to make sense. How can you sublime even this you can’t ask: Loved one Weee we‘re were preaching to the choir in the community not playing with fire no not fire to the choir no chore just preaching till call and response. We wear preaching to the choir a hired choir preaching by wire or voice: Choir behold thee thy end is nigh we were preaching light acquire and boom till the choir‘s or our or our voice vocalised in or in a in a song A ships community In the community kitchen store what do you mine Mine my mind my oh my my my munity Bye-bye to the fly-by While at one with one in the community. One once won with oneness At least it smells like community (forever) Then took the community to a point where really to a point really where the community took a point took the community to a point. Where freely the community then took the point to the point. Took the community to a point took the community to the point took the community to the point took the community to the point where took the community to a point where where. Where the community took then took then to the point where the community! Took to the community! To the where the point took the community really to the point where the community pointed the point to communities pointing the community to the points. The points taken to the rare. Where the community already pointed to. To the pointers pointing in reallies. Reelies, pointies. When mistook the community to the point. Then retook the community to where the point took the points really fair point there. To heir the community then to air the community taken taken to the point. Where the community there the point. 1 community 2 the point. 1 community 2 the point 2 1 2 the community 1 point 2 point 2 too // ### Art must not wait for victims to die before documenting their struggles URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/anti-fascist-art-manifesto-review/ Last updated: 2026-09-13T13:59:02.000Z *Anti-Fascist Art Manifesto* by Polish artist Mikołaj Sobczak came about after the author and a friend suffered a hate crime in Poland in 2021\. One night, when they were coming back from a concert, teenagers clocked them as gay, called them slurs, chased them down, and beat them in the street. Sobczak’s nose was broken. He found refuge in a nearby gas station. The attendant let the “night birds” inside and locked the door, which the bloodthirsty gaggle tried to break down, Sobczak writes. Sobczak’s friend was both queer and not European, amplifying the fury of the aggressors. The episode changed Sobczak’s life, the way he thinks about art, and what artists can and should do when fascists are doling out vitriolic hate to impressionable adolescents. “I want my art to counter right-wing and fascist narratives. So hunts for *night birds* happen less often,” he says. Sobczak stresses that “anti-fascist art must stop just mirroring the world. It must go deep and get ahead of it. Art must not wait for victims to die before documenting their struggles.” The publication, released by Walther König this summer, does so by speaking directly to artists and offering critical analysis paired with first-person accounts of surviving fascism as a queer minority As a point of departure, the book asks, “Does art have any real power?” Sobczak’s answer is yes, but it’s rightfully complex. “Art can reframe the narratives that underpin fascism. They affect the unconscious, which influences most of our daily decisions,” he writes. “By boldly transforming our experiences into creative products, such as personifications, symbols, and stories, we channel this potential. We pave the way for imagination and the cultural economy to drive anti-fascist change. This redirects our frustration toward the true source of the problem: the ruling class.” For Sobczak, the question at hand isn’t how to destroy fascism, or “how to replace it, but rather how to use the cycle of reborn fascism against itself. Leaning on Greek mythology, Jungian psychology, and philosophers such as Theodor Adorno, Hannah Arendt, Jean Baudrillard, Joanna Ostrowska, Michał Heree ( *author of Where Does This Fascism Come From?),* and Klaus Theweleit (*author of Male Fantasies*), Sobczak wants us to complicate categories and identities, and to avoid creating false illusions. In the same vein as Herbert Marcuse, Sobczak argues anti-fascist art disarms fascism by foregrounding our own latent, repressed imaginaries—the sexual encounters and societies we dream of that fascists demand we bury in our subconsciences. The manifesto is coupled with Sobczak’s own beautiful drawings from a residency in 2023 at Mataré-Haus in Düsseldorf, which he describes as attempts at “trying to update the nineteenth-century genre of academic historical painting.” Drawing and collaging preceded the writing, which happened later during another residency Sobczak had in Florence at Villa Romana. If historically, academic painting was meant to reinforce binaries between the powerful and the oppressed, can the same aesthetic be appropriated to smash this division and uplift the latter? Sobczak offers elucidating attempts at an answer. Sobczak deploys thin, expressive strokes that swirl in tenebrist, abstract realist compositions. We see an overlay of the ancient Greek lyric poet Sappho, from the island of Lesbos, over a portrait of Eva Kotchever, the author of *Lesbian Love (1925)*. Another rendition shows Hermes on the cusp of fellatio with the Demiurge. In *Destroying a Monument*, figures use axes to tear down a statue of a dictator; to the side someone is reading a book—is this a prophet leading us into the future or just a revolutionary taking a coffee break? We can be both. Mladen Stilinović in [his manifesto](https://www.sitegallery.org/app/uploads/2020/04/In-Praise-of-Laziness-%5F-Mladen-Stilinovic%CC%81.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), In *Praise of Laziness (2011)*, reminded us of how important it is to be lazy! The ambiguity is joyous, playful, and intentional. Overall Sobczak’s locution is punchy, economical, and concise. He writes with purpose, lucidity, and courage. Sobczak’s *gestalt* meditations remind me of Paul Klee’s drawings he made after fleeing Germany in 1933, the subject of “[Other Possible Worlds](https://thejewishmuseum.org/exhibitions/paul-klee-other-possible-worlds/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)”, an exhibition at the Jewish Museum in New York City curated by Mason Klein. There are also traces of Hannah Höch, the queer German DaDa artist known for combining collage and figurative painting to create allegorical ensembles about desire and gender-politics in the Weimar Republic. Sobczak lays out the principles of anti-fascist art in the *Manifesto’s* conclusion. For Sobczak anti-fascist art is an apophatic, negativist category. That is to say, we can understand anti-fascist art by identifying what it is not. “Anti-fascist art strongly opposes the ideas and attitudes promoted by fascism,” Sobczak said. “It challenges how schools, factories, hospitals, and prisons discipline us. It uses creativity to question and disrupt established hierarchies.” Anti-fascist art is “often messy, unfinished, or even purposely falling apart,” and even “dirty”. Because, Sobczak affirms, “nothing is permanent,” and because we need to challenge fascism’s zest for uniformity, cleanliness, productivity, efficiency, order. Anti-fascist art “does not believe that reason or logic should control everything. Instead, it appreciates wildness and people’s collective imagination.” Sobczak’s manifesto encourages readers to make connections between anti-fascist artists, living and dead. My co-authors, Andrew Santa Lucia, Lane Rick, and I attempted something similar in *Antifascist Architecture.* In our book, we posited a concept that we call the “antifascist avant-garde continuum”, a historical category that enables us to decouple architects from movements (e.g., futurism, surrealism, etc.) that can be home to both fascists and antifascists. We also try to dismantle the fascist business ontologies that choke our imaginations. This operation is vital. Through books such as *Anti-Fascist Art Manifesto,* and others including *Feminist Antifascism (2021)* by Ewa Majewska, *Anti-fascist Economics* by Isabella Weber, and *The Black Antifascist Tradition* by Jeanelle K. Hope and Bill V. Mullen, a new generation of anti-fascist intellectuals is emerging—for obvious reasons. “Antifa”, a non-existent organization, was designated a domestic terrorist group in the country where I live by President Donald Trump in 2025\. The Argentinian President Javier Milei calls Marxism “satanic theory”, parroting language common in Francoist Spain. Beyond the immediate emergency, the grassroots surge in anti-fascist literature has more complex underpinnings. I think the operative lexicon we’ve inherited from the “New Left” for fighting fascism is inadequate. There’s a palpable need for reinvention. In Deleuze and Guattari’s *Anti-Oedipus*, anti-fascism was criticized as a political project by Michel Foucault, Deleuze, and Guattari as “anti-intellectual”, expressing instead their combined interest in “non-fascism” and “non-Nazism,” frameworks that challenged us to “kill the cops in our heads”. Foucauldian “non-fascism” was meant to combat “post-fascism,” a form of fascism more dispersed across institutions and thereby less tangible and more de-centralized than historical fascism. Non-fascism is an interior pursuit where we, as individuals, reckon with our desire for power that supposedly makes us all capable of being fascists. By comparison, anti-fascism is an external, collectivist category more interested in survival than mental gymnastics for the managerial class. Today, the longstanding allergy to anti-fascism is waning, because non-fascism really doesn’t have anything to offer us at this terrible moment. Many artists are *anti-fascists*, but *Anti-Fascist Art Manifesto* is the first attempt, at least to my knowledge, at providing a formula for what exactly constitutes anti-fascist art. This is productive and brave because it gives us something to debate, a foundation to grow from. Sobczak deserves credit for going out on a limb like this. Anti-Fascist Art Manifesto is essential reading for navigating our own time of monsters. // *Daniel Jonas Roche is a co-author of Antifascist Architecture (Park Books, 2026). He lives in New York City.* ### Solar Excess URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/review-hamburg-city-curators-exhibition-fire-at-the-st-nikolai-memorial/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T15:12:33.000Z As the product of a historical externalization serving the purpose of accumulation, capitalist nature is mediated through an epistemic separation. This gives rise not only to the fallacy of the ontological independence of the society reproducing this relation, but also to the reduction of nonhuman life to a resource usable at will. “\[T\]o break this cycle of destruction and renewal”\[1\] is the horizon of the group exhibition “Fire”, on view through September 21, 2026, at the St. Nikolai memorial, a gothic church ruin in the heart of Hamburg. The emergence of the sun, popularly conceived of as a giant ball of fire, animates this rupture. The prevalence of this blinding experience becomes palpable upon an initial passage through the open expanse of the former church nave. A parabolic mirror, glistening, draws the eyes upward toward the eastern side of the remaining church tower: Outside the museum’s climate-controlled confines, the sun’s reflection in Saodat Ismailova’s *Melted into the Sun* (2026) lets the origin of the permeating heat seep through another register of sensory perception into general consciousness to devour it from within. The beam effortlessly corrodes the mediation of the hierarchical binary relation of human and nonhuman nature. For the energy given by the sun, the condition of possibility for life on Earth, cannot be exhaustively subjugated to the logic of accumulation that determines the spirit of this relation. Solar energy exceeds the limits of valorization, only to be repudiated under the phantasm of endless economic growth, yet ever recurring—albeit habitually destructive in capitalist embodiment by force of reproduced exclusion. Against the restriction of the sun’s gift— a restriction through which humanity elevates itself to an ontological exception—Ismailova executes an inversion. Through the primacy of the sun, which the artist renders tangible, nature is turned from a subordinate exterior into a superordinate center toward which a relation can be posited, whose blossoming, however, unfurls beyond capitalist domination. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nikita-Kadan-Tryhova-the-Sirens-and-the-Mast-2023-Foto-Daria-Kulnina.jpg) Nikita Kadan, **Tryhova \[the Sirens and the Mast\]*, 2023 © Foto Daria Kulnina. This eccentricity of the human—the surpassing of the habit of conceiving oneself as the superior center—is further propelled by the ascent to the tower’s crown. Beyond the threshold constituted by the headphones installed at various points throughout the observation tower, awaits the composition *Tryhova (The Sirens and the Mast)* (2023) by Nikita Kadan, poised to afflict the sense of hearing. The title translates from Ukrainian as both “anxiety” and “air raid alarm” and is, as such, at once a promise of the experiential content to come. The piece arises from a recording of an air raid alarm, with which first a violin and, finally, a mezzo-soprano interfere, following the sirens into the death of habit signified by their wailing. The provenance of this passage is the powerlessness of sustaining what has become second nature, that is, to be forced to leave behind the material conditions of life. Being torn away from habit-fostering second nature at a height of 76 meters, overlooking the vastness of Hamburg, indeed merely amounts to letting oneself be haunted by the specter of one’s own impossibility, but it also brings about further devotion to the engulfing radiance of the sun. The reprise of Georges Bataille’s designation of the transsubjective course of the corresponding experience shines forth as imperative: “The seething I glare into, the seething that stirs the globe, is my seething as well.” \[2\] ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Hala-Alnaji-Nazeh-Exhibition-2023-on-Foto-Daria-Kulnina-1.jpg) Hala Alnaji, Nazeh Exhibition, 2023-on © Foto Daria Kulnina. The fervent sacrifice of human supremacy to the sun exceeds mere ecological reversal. Withdrawn from the rays undermining habit arising from second nature, the installation *Nazeh* (2023–ongoing) by Hala Alnaji finds shelter in the cellar of the monument. Created in collaboration with Palestinians who had to flee Gaza for Cairo and then Berlin, a map, engraved on 32 charred Valchromat panels measuring 8 x 2.4 meters in total recuperates a history cast into darkness. Rendered in the Latin alphabet and translatable as “the displaced”, *Nazeh* (Arabic: نازح) brings to light the standpoint from which lives resisting annihilation stitch together a medium of revivification through the reconstructive mapping of urban infrastructure and the built environment of Gaza City. The nothingness from which the excavated vestiges emerge further settles in the ashen dust that, over the course of the exhibition, falls from the vault onto the fire-scarred reconstitution on the floor, bringing into view the afterlife of what has been destroyed in an elusive, indecipherable guise. The West, from which the capitalist relation to nature expands across the globe, blinds itself, through the reduction of human and nonhuman nature to a fungible resource, to life that refuses to yield to its abstract form. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1_Saodat-Ismailova-Melted-into-the-Sun-2026-Installation-Foto-Daria-Kulnina.jpg) Saodat Ismailova, **Melted into the Sun*, 2026, Installation © Foto Daria Kulnina. “Emerging from nature, why did we become separated from it?” The nexus between the West and the abstraction of life, too, is evoked by a veiled figure posing this question in Ismailova’s video work *Melted into the Sun* (2024), adjacent to Alnaji's installation. The film, which bears the same title as the parabolic mirror that later reveals itself as the film’s prop, revolves around Al-Muqanna, who in eighth-century Central Asia, preached a solar politics emanating from the veneration of the sun. The prophet’s acephalic appearance—dispossessed of the habitation of spirit in which the human turned itself into the center of nature—is an eccentering of the human by undercutting its authoritarian self-aggrandizement over (human and nonhuman) life through a parabolic selflessness that lets itself go as the plaything of solar energy, hence Al-Muqanna’s proclamation: “There is no distance between me and the sun.” The upending of human exceptionalism takes its departure in a traversal through the history of solar energy’s manifestations in non-Western societies,from the sacred river Amu Darya and the Zoroastrian burial site of Chilpiq, via the city of Bukhara (where, according to legend, the sun radiates not from above but out of the city itself) to the monumental solar furnace of Parkent—an upending unfolding against the anthropocentrism for whose violent imposition Europe colonized the entire planet. “What was worshipped in earlier times is now supposed to be subordinated. Breaking this circle is a matter of solar politics,” writes Oxana Timofeeva in *Solar Politics* (2022), a plea for reclaiming, with Bataille, the principle of the sun for the political economy of the present. Yet the actualization of solar politics would not result in a mere exchange of positions within the binary-hierarchical relation between human and nature, but rather in the overcoming of the antagonistic positioning of the relata: the liberation of the energy given by the sun, the condition of possibility for life on Earth, from the determination of nature as a means to the end of economic growth is at once the liberation of the energy exceeding the logic of accumulation for ends without use, having been excluded on account of this very uselessness for the purpose of economic growth. Were planetary energy organized in following the sun, the reproduction of the capitalist relation to nature in which the human being rises to ontological culmination would be rendered senseless—the excess experienced in the sun, not spirit, determining nature. This would, to quote Bataille “in fact bring about a Copernican shift, turning thought and morality upside down.” The nature of solar politics is anti-capitalist. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Agnes-Denes-Sunflower-Fields-Stadtpark-Hamburg-2025-curated-by-City-Curator-Hamburg-Foto-Lashproduction.jpg) Agnes Denes, **Sunflower Fields*, Stadtpark Hamburg, 2025, curated by City Curator Hamburg © Foto Lashproduction. In this regard, the realization of Agnes Denes’s *Sunflower Fields* is particularly noteworthy. The installation, by a pioneer of ecological art, comprising hundreds of sunflowers, claims Hammaburg Square, the hotbed of Hamburg’s history: out of the Hammaburg, which was built around the year 800, the city took root and flourished. This iteration of *Wheatfield—A Confrontation*, realized originally in 1982, for which the artist planted a two-acre wheatfield on a landfill site across from Wall Street in Lower Manhattan, has retained its confrontational nature more than 40 years later. The historical rootstock of Hamburg is being cultivated by the spirit of encroaching capital under the revealing label “business improvement district”. The efforts of the City Curator Hamburg team, backed by public authorities and foundations, to let the sun guide the city’s pivotal point, turn this enterprise on its head. The sunflowers were not planted to be a means to an end governed by the principle of usefulness—for instance, in keeping with capitalist habit for oil production or the like—but for the useless tracing of their heliotropism. “Watch, listen, participate,” Denes prescribes. “We all can be like sunflowers—grow, nourish, endow others with our richness, turn to the sun, then reflect its warmth to all living creatures.” The experienced rupture of the second-natured (re)production of first nature in the form of a warehouse of fungible units is not merely exhausted in a “reflection” of this historical determination of nature, still less in an ostensible reconciliation of the antagonism that is concomitant with this determination. Rather, the stare from the center of the city toward the sun exceeds the epistemic separation through which nature is mediated—(solar) madness in the eyes of Western anthropocentrism. In distinction to ordinary eco-exhibitions, in which the very positing of nature that was supposed to be challenged ends up being reproduced, “Fire” offers an experience that actually runs counter to the capitalist relation to nature. // **Footnotes** \[1\] Taken from the thematic introduction to the exhibition, https://stadtkuratorin-hamburg.de/en/projects/five-years-five-elements/fire \[2\] Georges Bataille, *La Part Maudite* \[1949\]. Vol. 11 of Œuvres complètes in twelve volumes, ed. Francis Marmande and Sibylle Monod, 17-179\. Paris: (Gallimard, 1976), 20. *Nils Fock is a PhD candidate at the HFBK Hamburg and the Institute for Social Research under the supervision of Juliane Rebentisch and Christoph Menke with the thesis “Abject Nature. A theory of contemporary art after Georges Bataille.”* ### Mit dem eigenen Körper URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/mit-dem-eigenen-koerper/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:35:28.000Z Sepideh Farsi spricht am Anfang ihres Films *Put Your Soul in Your Hands and Walk* von ihrem Wunsch zu verstehen, wie die Menschen in Gaza leben. Im Frühling 2024 ist sie zunächst in Kairo, mit dem Ziel, den Grenzübergang in Rafah zu überqueren. Sie scheitert, spricht aber mit Geflüchteten in Ägypten; einer von ihnen verbindet sie mit Fatma Hassona, die mit ihrer Familie in Al-Tuffah in Gaza-Stadt geblieben ist. Und so überwindet sie doch noch die Grenze - durch das Gespräch mit Fatma. Sepideh filmt die Kontakte mit ihrem Handy; oft bricht das Gespräch ab, dann sieht man nur das Profilbild von Fatma, in hellem Hijab, mit einer riesigen Kamera. Sepideh sagt hinterher, sie habe Glück gehabt mit Fatma, sie habe gleich bemerkt, dass sie besonders sei. Fatma möchte sprechen, über ihre Erfahrungen, über das, was sie fotografiert. Die Fotos werden Teil des Films: junge und alte Menschen, im Alltag zwischen Trümmern, Holz sammelnd, Planen tragend, Blumentöpfe vor von Bomben aufgerissenen, mit Tüchern verschlossenen Fassaden. Dahinter wohnen Menschen. Du siehst gut aus, sagt Sepideh zu Fatma, als die Sonne scheint, und ich bin mit dir. Später fühlt sich Fatma leer, als die israelische Armee in Rafah einmarschiert – sie weiß nicht, wie sie ihr Leben weiterführen soll, nachdem der Waffenstillstand beendet wird. Die Betrachter\*innen lernen Familienmitglieder kennen, den 20-jährigen Bruder Muhannad, den Vater. Sie sehen so normal aus wie alle Menschen auf Fatmas Fotos. Auch sie sammeln Holz und holen Wasser. Sepideh filmt von unterschiedlichen Orten: Frankreich, Kanada, Marokko und Italien. Auch Fatma möchte reisen, nach Teheran und nach Rom. Die Zuschauer\*innen müssen aushalten, dass sie das nicht kann – auch dann nicht, als Fatma ganz klar sagt, dass sie dem allen entkommen möchte. Fatma lächelt, während sie weint, und entschuldigt sich für ihre Tränen. Die Körperteile ihrer Verwandten konnten sie nicht finden, nicht beerdigen; lediglich den Kopf ihrer Tante fanden sie, von der Explosion weggeschleudert, eine Straße weiter. Später verschwindet das Lächeln, als sie erzählt, dass sie alles zurückgelassen haben – nur ihre Kamera nicht. Wer, wenn nicht wir, kann all das Leid dokumentieren?, meint Fatma am 10\. Juni 2024\. Hier kann man aus Angst sterben, wegen der Bomben oder wegen des Verhungerns. Der Film erzählt die Geschichte zweier Frauen, die eine Schicksalsgemeinschaft bilden. Die eine im sicheren Westen, die sich nicht mit ihrer Ohnmacht zufriedengeben kann – vielleicht, weil sie selbst vor Gefängnis und Verfolgung geflohen ist –, die sich offen macht für Fatma und ihr Leid. Und Fatma, die gesehen und gehört werden will. Es ist lächerlich, und das Schlimmste ist, dass ich nichts tun kann, sagt Sepideh. Du bist hier, neben mir, und hörst mir zu, sagt Fatma. Im nächsten Filmmoment steht Fatmas Viertel unter Bombenbeschuss, und Sepideh kann sie nicht erreichen. Doch sie sendet eine Sprachnachricht: Überall fielen Bomben; wenn man jetzt auf die Straße gehe, nehme man seine Seele in die Hand und laufe – was dem Film im Englischen seinen Titel gibt. Sie muss weitermachen, muss weiter alles dokumentieren, um Teil dieser Geschichte zu sein. Sie möchte erzählen, was sie er- und überlebt hat. Doch Fatma Hassona überlebt nicht. Am 15\. April 2025 findet Sepidehs und Fatmas letztes Gespräch statt. Sepideh fragt, ob Fatma mit ihr zu den Filmfestspielen in Cannes kommen kann, wofür der Film gerade ausgewählt wurde. Sie fragt auch, ob Fatma sich durch die mediale Aufmerksamkeit vielleicht an einen anderen Ort begeben möchte. In der Nacht zum 16\. April bombardiert das israelische Militär das Haus ihrer Familie. Fatma und sechs weitere Familienmitglieder sterben, ihre Mutter überlebt. Bilder aus Gaza fluten Feeds in Echtzeit, in Video, in Dauerschleife – Gaza dokumentiert sich längst selbst. Die Frage ist eine andere: Wer kuratiert diese Bilder, wer archiviert sie, nach welcher – meist staatlichen – Logik? Wie radikal solche Logiken filtern, hat der Genozid in Palästina gezeigt. Sepideh sucht ihre Antwort deshalb nicht im Feed, sondern setzt ihren eigenen Körper, ihre Geschichte – Gefängnis im Iran, Migration, Hilflosigkeit – in Beziehung zu einem Ort und einem Menschen. Sie dokumentiert sich und Fatma und sie hält Fatmas Dokumentieren fest. Sie gibt Fatmas dokumentarischen Handlungen einen Rahmen, ihren Film, und kuratiert Bild und Text. Susan Sontag wusste es längst: Jede Fotografie wartet auf eine Bildunterschrift, die sie erklärt – oder verfälscht. Text und Bild sind nicht zu trennen, ist der Text nicht gegeben, entsteht er in den Köpfen der Betrachtenden – oder, falls das Gezeigte zu einem Aussetzen der Sprache führt, ist es diese Leerstelle, die das Verhältnis zum Bild bestimmt. Dann bleibt nur das Bild, kommentarlos, und die Betrachterin allein mit ihm. Ariella Azoulay liefert dafür den entscheidenden Begriff. Ihre erste Behauptung ist die radikalste: Eine Fotografie, und auch ein Video, ist kein Objekt, das man besitzt oder in ein Album klebt – sie ist ein politisches Ereignis. In dem Moment, in dem ein Foto entsteht, treten drei Parteien in eine Beziehung, aus der keine mehr heraustritt: die Fotografierte, die Fotografierende, die Betrachtende. Diese Beziehung nennt Azoulay einen zivilen Vertrag, den niemand unterschrieben hat und an den sich trotzdem alle halten müssen, sobald sie hinschauen. Wer ein Foto betrachtet, trägt von diesem Moment an Verantwortung gegenüber der abgebildeten Person – nicht weil ein Gesetz das vorschreibt, sondern weil das Bild diese Verantwortung mitbringt. Bleibt die Frage, wer über den Rahmen bestimmt, in dem dieser Vertrag verhandelt wird. In *Potential History* (2019) gibt die spätere Azoulay darauf eine bittere Antwort: Archive sind keine neutralen Aufbewahrungsorte, sondern Regime, die Wirklichkeit sortieren. Ihr Beispiel: Sie wollte Fotos des Roten Kreuzes von der Vertreibung der Palästinenser\*innen 1948 mit eigenen Bildunterschriften zeigen, statt mit jenen, die die Vertreibung als „Repatriierung" bezeichneten. Das Rote Kreuz verweigerte die Freigabe; Azoulay zeichnete die Bilder aus dem Gedächtnis nach – „unshowable photographs". Ein Dokument dokumentiert nie die Realität selbst. Es trifft eine redaktionelle Entscheidung der Geschichtsschreibung – verkauft als neutral. Sepideh liefert einen Gegenentwurf zu einer neutralen Geschichtsschreibung und macht die Beziehung zwischen Schaffenden und Betrachtenden selbst zum Dokument. Faye Ginsburg nennt das relational documentary, getragen von einer aesthetics of accountability; Trinh T. Minh-ha nennt es auf schöne Weise: speaking nearby, neben jemandem sprechen, nicht über sie, nicht für sie. Genau das tut Sepideh, wenn sie ihre eigene Bewegungsfreiheit neben Fatmas Unbeweglichkeit stellt, statt sie zu verschweigen. Dafür zahlt sie einen Preis, den die wenigsten zahlen wollen und der sie zu einer Künstlerin macht, die Gesellschaften brauchen – um zu verstehen, zu heilen und zu fühlen. Fatma veröffentlichte auf Instagram als Bildunterschriften Gedichte: Ein Gedicht erzeugt ebenso ein Bild und verlangt sein eigenes Vorführformat. Fatmas Anya, hier auf der anderen Seite gedruckt, benannt nach ihrer Kamera, ist genau das: die Bildunterschrift, die sie sich selbst gegeben hat. Es wurde aus dem Arabischen von Batool Abu Akleen neu übersetzt, die selbst in Gaza überlebte, und auch sie reiht sich in ein Netzwerk von Frauen ein, das den großen Medienapparaten und der Ohnmacht eine andere Erzählung entgegensetzt. Eine Erzählung, die das Berührtsein zulässt, eine Gemeinschaft, die nachhallt. Und damit zur eigentlichen Einsicht: Gegen Archive, die Wirklichkeit sortieren und das als neutral verkaufen, hilft kein einzelnes Bild – nur eine andere Wirklichkeit, die immer wieder neu konstruiert werden muss, mit dem eigenen Körper, in Beziehung zu anderen. Das ist die Aufgabe von Künstlerinnen wie Sepideh, Fatma und Batool: nicht stellvertretend zu zeigen, sondern sich selbst einzusetzen – ihre Geschichte, ihre Verwundbarkeit, ihre Ohnmacht. Für Fatma war der Einsatz am größten; sie hat ihr Leben verloren, durch eine Gewalt, die nach ganz anderen Regeln spielt als die Beziehung, die uns mitfühlen lässt. Genau deshalb sprach sie nicht von sich allein. Wer, wenn nicht wir, hatte sie gesagt. Das Maß, das Anya setzt, bleibt nur bestehen, wenn andere es weitertragen: Sepideh, Batool – und, mit diesem Text, auch ich. ### **Anya** *For 300 days, I was accompanied by Anya—my camera, and my only good friend who knew how to catch things, how to take the photos I wanted. For 300 days, my brothers and I were being killed in this massacre. Blood has been flowing over the ground, and I’ve become afraid of the moment when my brothers’ blood will reach me, will stain me. For 300 days, we’ve been seeing only black and red, smelling the scent of death, eating bitter apples, touching only corpses.* *It’s the first time I have experienced such a massive loss. I have lost 11 members of my family, the dearest to my heart. Still, nothing can stop me. I roam the streets every day without any master plan. I just want the world to see what I see. I am taking photos to archive this period of my life. I am taking photos of this history which my sons might hear of, or might not.* *We, we’re dying here every day in many colors and shapes. I die a thousand times when I see a child suffer; I splinter, I turn into ashes. It hurts me, what we’ve become. This nonsense hurts me, and this monster that eats us every day: it hurts.* *Every day when I leave, I see my mother waving goodbye, but I don’t turn around. I don’t want to see those eyes. I don’t want all this sorrow for my mother, but what is there in this city? It is only death.* *On mentioning death, the inevitable death:* *If I must die, I want a resonant death. I want to be neither a newsflash nor a number within a group. I want a death heard by the whole world, an impact imprinted forever, and everlasting photos that won’t be buried by time or place.* \- Fatma Hassona (übersetzt von Batool Abu Akleen) // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. ### 移动的邻居 URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/delivery-workers-mobile-neighbours/ Last updated: 2026-09-13T13:59:15.000Z 城市行程不是从街道开始。在今天的中国，这常常开始于一次解锁。类似这样的场景： 一台智能手机，屏幕亮起，前置摄像头，扫描用户的脸，面容解锁。拇指，在屏幕上向左滑动，一次两次，找到一个黄色的图标。指肚轻轻一点，App跳出互动界面——在这里选择任何想要的生活服务。这一切缘起于某个意念：用户饿了，或者TA需要什么物品或者跑腿服务。用户可以坐着不动，平台却已经开始工作。搜索栏、商家列表、价格、图片、星级、预计送达时间，一连串快速的浏览和筛选之后，欲望被转译成订单。接着，刷脸支付。 完成移动支付的那一刻，订单被生成了。一次城市行程即将发生，但它并不始于柏油路、十字路口或人行步道上，而是发生在一块手掌大小的触摸屏里。有起点、终点、距离、倒计时，以及一位素昧平生的派送员。用户并不真正关心骑手从哪里来，也不关心TA会经过哪条街。只关心订单是否按照平台所设计的最优的路径及时送达。屏幕上，代表骑手的图标移动着，用户有意无意瞥见它，却很少意识到这竟是另一种监控。 当我在脑海里调度这些场景的时候，我正在云南田野考察。坐在云南昆明老城一家法式面包房门外，在十来分钟内，我看到四位快递员先后走进前台。他们没有真正进入咖啡厅内部，只是停留在前台和玄关之间执行他们的任务。我看见一位骑手焦急等待取餐，一拿到手提袋，就转身跑向街边还没熄火的电动车，一个马步就跨了上去。TA用左手把手机卡进车把上的支架里。手机嵌在那里，像领航员一样，实时提示算法设计好的路线和剩余时间。TA右手拧动油门，四指先弹开后又握住刹车，身体向左倾，左腿向前伸，脚和膝盖微微向左前方顶，完成一个漂亮的左转掉头。加速，离开。 那位骑手留给我一个能想起成龙电影的开放画面，唯一的瑕疵是TA丝毫没有在意交通规则。在城市里骑手们自有一套战术。他们不断创作捷径的同时也总是忽略交通规则。经常为了快速完成订单，不顾红绿灯，不顾系统导航，甚至不顾自己的安全。只要藏在手机背后的那位平台算法动作指导不禁止不惩罚他们的行动，他们就不断向着结果加速行驶。 行人、车辆、招牌、门牌、行道树、隔离墩、订单提示音、鸣笛喇叭等等，像是骑手的舞伴、道具、配乐。他们的眼睛不断扫街，像街头摄影师一样寻找目标，但他们的观看不是为了构图，而是为了尽快完成任务。在线上，他们的呼吸、抱怨、等待、冲刺、急停和转弯，都被平台时间切割成可以计算的动作。在线下，没人在意骑手，不论是举着手机追逐街景镜头的年轻游客，还是坐在巷子口的本地老居民。在一单再接一单的叙事里，平台关注的是效率，只有骑手感受到肉身不断被需求唤醒，被系统分配的任务一遍遍重新启动。 无数似曾相识的场景也发生在2500公里以外的上海。在我工作室所在的大楼里，我经常在中午的电梯厢中遇见这些骑手。他们手里拎着塑料袋或者牛皮纸袋，装的是麦当劳、牛角包、上海小馄饨、云南米线……气味在封闭的电梯空间里飘散，有时让人烦躁，有时又像一种提醒：我也该进食了。 尽管我所在的街区商业很丰富，有很多餐厅。大多时候我也会拿起手机，打开某个黄色或者蓝色的软件，叫上一份外卖。这似乎成为了一种惯性。我还记得，在疫情大流行的那几年，社会学家项飙曾经提出“附近”概念，鼓励人们重新认识家门口一公里范围内的街道、店铺、邻居和日常关系。他的倡议在中国社会得到广泛讨论，从艺术家到地产商到市政官员，附近成为了一个被寄予厚望的解决方案。但是，在日益平台化的城市里，附近的亲和力和批判性早已被技术和资本转化为没有温度和厚度的界面。今天，人与街区的互动不再是通过一家店、三五邻居、几条小路，这些具体而亲和的相遇。人们越来越熟悉的是速度，而不是人。 骑手是今天中国大城市中最常见的移动邻居：总是在我们周围出没，却不属于任何一个社区；总是经过人们，却绝对不会被人们认识。在昆明市中心翠湖公园附近，我看见街道上流动着黄色、蓝色、黑色和橙色的闪电。没人能记住这些骑手的脸，也不知道他们到底是谁。他们专注于移动，完成快递任务后便消失，甚至不曾被看见。他们敲过无数人的房门，却不进入任何一种实在的社区关系。对于本地居民来说，他们成为了被平台制造出来的最熟悉的陌生人。 讽刺的是，真正询问骑手身份的常常不是用户，而是住宅小区门口的保安：你是谁？去哪儿？找谁？这些被戏称为灵魂三拷问的问题，比用户的手机屏幕更接近政治。保安短暂地打断了平台路线，迫使一个移动的身体重新被看见。我曾在我所生活和工作的上海社区看到，被盘问的骑手与无法通融的保安发生争执。每每这一时刻，平台算法的隐身衣暂时失效，让人意识到系统的运行并不是完全依靠云计算。它需要通过骑手的身体来联通物理节点。 // *王懿泉（1987年生，现居上海）是一位艺术家和策展人。他的创作以文字、物体、声音、图像和展览本身为媒介展开。其研究关注跨学科实践、全球城市主义与中国互联网文化。目前，他正在开展一项关于外卖骑手、平台经济与城市日常生活之间关系的艺术项目。* *Wang Yiquan (b. 1987, based in Shanghai) is an artist and curator. His work takes shape through text, object, sound, image, and exhibition. His research focuses on transdisciplinary practices, global urbanism, and China’s internet culture. He is currently developing an art project on the relationship between delivery riders, platform economies, and everyday urban life.* ### Seven Easy Steps for Museums to Liberate the Plantations that Funded Them URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/toolkit-cercle-dart-des-travailleurs-de-plantation-congolaise-catpc/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:35:42.000Z Profits extracted from plantation workers provided critical funding for the Ludwig Museum, Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam, Tate Britain, Van Abbemuseum, and many others. Yet programs to “decolonize” the museum or even return looted objects have had proportionally little impact on those communities whose involuntary investment financed — and, in some cases, continues to finance — these institutions. Present “decolonization,” restitution, and repair initiatives primarily advantage the institution. As a result, museums continue to benefit from systems of extraction, while plantation communities remain excluded from the institutions their labor helped create. Developed by the Cercle d’Art des Travailleurs de Plantation Congolaise (CATPC) and Human Activities, this toolkit draws from the perspectives of plantation worker communities and Western art institutions to help museums rethink their origins, responsibilities, and futures. ### **Step 1: Identify the Debt** **Research how plantation profits — past and present — funded your museum.** Map past and present funding streams, donations, endowments, and sponsorships tied to plantation profits. Quantify plantation worker communities’ investments in the museum. *Pitfalls: Treating contributions of plantation worker communities as if they were confined to the past, rather than as part of an ongoing relationship that continues to inform the communities — and the museum — today.* ### **Step 2: Publicize the Debt** **Acknowledge publicly the contributions of plantation worker communities.** Educate audiences about the museum’s funding, as well as about present-day conditions on plantations. *Pitfalls: Hiding behind a lack of resources. Transparency and accountability do not require large budgets. A simple plaque acknowledging the contributions and present-day conditions of plantations costs little. Be transparent that a plaque alone does not change the lives of the communities involved.* ### **Step 3: Establish Contact** **Reach out to plantation communities.** Reach out directly to communities who live and work on the plantations in question. Visit in person, if invited. Recognize and navigate imbalances of power, agency, and wealth, possibly with the help of trusted intermediaries. *Pitfall: Outsourcing “decolonization” and repair to convenient partners who have already succeeded in navigating the art world and are amenable to the museum. This may create symbolic or reputational value for the museum but can undermine genuine engagement with the communities that live and work on the plantations that funded the museum.* ### **Step 4: Enable Informed Agency** **Inform the community of what your museum is: historically, artistically, financially.** For communities to engage meaningfully, they must understand both the museum’s origins and its current conditions, finances, and mission. Provide translation, legal advice, time, and resources. Only then, can the community make informed decisions about collaboration. *Pitfalls: When museums are seen through the eyes of those whose labor financed them, their meaning changes. This can be a disconcerting experience for museum personnel. Yet, “performing humility” can also obscure present-day imbalances of access, power, and agency. Make sure that both sides understand the framework in which decisions are made.* ### **Step 5: Learn from Plantation Workers** **Listen to the communities’ priorities, demands, and visions.** Each community has its own forms of expression, spirituality, and knowledge that cannot be anticipated. Plantation worker communities have survived expropriation, ecological disaster, and authoritarian regimes. For many communities, simply staying alive and transmitting ancestral knowledge to future generations has been a profound creative act. Listening to these key investors in the museum may offer lessons in endurance, ecology, and care that can also help museums reconnect with their own local working-class communities. *Pitfalls: Curators may lack the knowledge to recognize the art and visions of plantation worker communities. Their aesthetic and curatorial frameworks can blind them to other systems of value and meaning.* ### **Step 6: Co-design a Program** **Co-design programs that enable the community to begin reaping the benefits of their investment.** Harness the museum’s visibility, resources, and legitimacy to advance the community’s agenda. *Pitfalls: Plantation worker communities may find limited value in the museum itself and instead prioritize the reclamation and restoration of their land. Make sure that the museum’s structure serves the community’s liberation.* ### **Step 7: Formalize Collaboration if Desired and Exit When Asked** **Institute joint decision-making and shared ownership of outcomes.** Collaboration can end, and the museum must step back, when the community declares they have achieved a meaningful and sufficient return on their investment. *Pitfalls: Treating this as a one-off project. Avoid exiting prematurely once the museum has gained symbolic or reputational capital. The liberation of the plantation — and learning about the nature and future of the museum — will require sustained effort.* These seven steps foster concrete material, cultural, and ecological repair. By reconnecting with the communities who funded them, museums can help liberate the plantation — and, in so doing, rediscover their own purpose. If museums once grew from plantation extraction, now they can learn from their liberation. // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. *The toolkit was first presented on 10 November 2025 at Wereldmuseum Amsterdam by Matthieu Kasiama, Mbuku Kimpala, and Ced’art Tamasala of CATPC in a closing keynote address during* [*HERE: Heritage Reflections*](https://www.mondriaanfonds.nl/en/activities/here-heritage-reflections/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*, a seminar for museum professionals focused on restitution.* *This toolkit is the result of the past eleven years of CATPC’s direct engagement with several museums built on plantation wealth — and with the communities still living and working on the concerned plantations. This toolkit directly follows CATPC’s recent solo exhibition* [*Two Sides of the Same Coin*](https://vanabbemuseum.nl/en/see-and-do/exhibitions-activities/archive-2023/two-sides-of-the-same-coin?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *at the Van Abbemuseum (Netherlands), a museum funded by tobacco plantations in Indonesia. This was the first solo exhibition of a community of plantation workers in a European contemporary art museum. The Toolkit was further informed by the presentation of CATPC’s member Ced’art Tamasala in collaboration with Renzo Martens at the annual “*[*Bathtub Lecture*](https://www.stedelijk.nl/en/events/bathtub-lecture-renzo-martens-cedart-tamasala-en?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*” at the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam, an institution that was also funded by plantations in Indonesia.* *After their invitation to exhibit at the Van Abbemuseum, CATPC members Mbuku Kimpala, Ced’art Tamasala, and Matthieu Kasiama traveled to the plantations that helped build this museum and asked the communities still living and working on the plantations for permission to exhibit at the museum. They then elaborated on what could be the steps forward for museums to help liberate the plantations* ### ccc (cultivating collateral compositions) URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/live-works-summit-at-centrale-fies-angeliki-tzortzakaki/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T15:18:50.000Z For the past fourteen years, Simone Frangi and Barbara Boninsegna have organized the Free School of Performance within the “Live Works Summit” at Centrale Fies. The international platform and scouting tool for contemporary performance art expands from practices rooted in the visual arts into the borderlands between performance, research, activism, and interdisciplinary experimentation—embracing the most hybrid and political forms, and committed to deepening the very notion of performance itself. The text published below was conceived as a performative lecture as part of the discourse program of the Free School: a meditation on the body, its postures and exhaustion. It moves through four bodies: the individual, mundane and aching; the periperformative, caught in language and its near-misses; the ecosystemic, porous and shared with others named differently—or not named at all; the dissociative, which exits itself and lingers nearby, unguarded. Between them lies the question of what it means to stay with pain—personal, chronic, geopolitical—without resolving it, naming it, or forgetting it. \* ### **Intro** *…I always assumed that the most useful work \[of this sort\] is likeliest to occur near the boundary of what a writer can’t figure out how to say readily (never mind prescribe to others)* …to borrow Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s words. \[...\] When words finally reach me, they cross through, and cross over, and transform themselves into tangibles. Everything that touches these words has been touched by others. ### **1: The individual body (or the mundane)** On the aching body. It’s been 2 birthdays already. First it was a harsh hit of acute pain arriving right on time: when the relaxing body returns to being a working body. One morning I got up from bed, and since the weather was still warm in early September, I decided to put my skirt on. While I bent to unzip it and put my legs through, an abrupt, electrifying pain tears me apart. I scream and freeze until my flatmate picks me up from a folded position and helps me lie down. The pain kept me almost immobile for a month, and only gradually decreased and passed into forgetfulness. It was only a few months later that it hit me again. By then I started to recognize the symptoms and developed a patience/ignorance that would pretend it’s part of a daily routine. This phenomenon started increasingly returning to me, with a speedingly decreasing periodic tempo, to a point where today, it’s just part of the information that my brain processes daily. While trying to articulate the messages that this pain, by now chronic, is giving back to me, I was looking into forms of chronic/ness that are too subtle to consider illness but yet present to \[the\] extent of disrupting the perception of one’s own body. I came across the term “dull pain,” which is used to describe (I quote) “deep ache, pressure, or heaviness rather than a sharp, stabbing sensation. It is usually steady and typically bearable.” Which leaves me wondering what the thresholds of bearability are and for whom. But, indeed, the dull pain, which I now name as my own dysfunctional routine, is very dull, in fact so dull, that I don’t want to have anything to do with it. So I will leave it behind for now, and forget about it in a few minutes. In recent years, my curatorial research inquiries around the body have been deeply influenced by the geo- lens: geo- graphical, -political, -logical. I grew my interest directly from observing the conditions that my generation witness(ed) in the (eastern) European? Mediterranean region where I was raised. A lot has happened, and keeps happening, in these past 3 decades, so much that for many, oblivion became a temporary way of coping, moving from one day to the next. My belated arrival to art and theory allowed me other ways of observing these dynamics and negotiations, perhaps with a bit more intellectual detachment that was able to cover up the despair previously directly felt. While bringing those macro-spheres of deep time into the intimate scale of relations in compressed time, things quickly became personal and autotheoretical: how do these spheres oppose, collide and/or contradict each other? There has been no departing point, rather a traversing line: questioning how bodies inhabit a space in reciprocity, and their transformative political capacity. What do we try to do when we are exploring perspectives of (dis)embodiment while making connections with its social and environmental conditions on which those perceptions manifest? I would like to stay with notions of aching from a perspective of and beyond the singular human body, like ecosystems enduring chronic pain via infrastructural and systemic violence. What shapes the way things are being named and felt? Take, for example, *Teorija Koja Hoda*, or otherwise known as *Walking Theory,* developed in and around Belgrade in the early 2000s by a group of researchers. As one of the founding members, Ana Vujanovic outlines in her homonymous essay, there was (and is?) a need for a theory that is socially grounded, mobile, and porous. In her words: *Walking theory is a theory that has a body, an actual and physical body, and as such, it cannot be an autonomous cognitive realm in relation to society. To say that it has a body means that it is determined by the real-existing subject of speech—their gender, class, age, skin color, etc. \[...\] To say that walking theory has a body also means that it is a discursive social practice, the activity of a theorist in their existing social circumstances.* Recently, after the strong recommendation of an orthopedic doctor, an osteopath, and a therapist, I turned to regular physical exercise. In a dance class that I hadn’t practiced for a long while, I heard our teacher repeatedly highlight: stretch the space between your bones, enlarge the space between your bones. Then someone from the people dancing alongside me asked: *do you mean the bones of each other?* … *I think she means the joints*, I answered and lowered my eyes towards my aching hip joint. When I cannot afford to train additional hours in a dancing or Pilates school, I do it at home, online. Then the virtual instructor, trying to motivate us distant bodies to work harder, accentuates her voice when saying: *reach reach reach reach reach reach…* I then visualize myself expanding beyond the walls of my room, beyond the sea, beyond any imaginary body. ### **2: The periperformative body (or the linguistic)** My favorite game as a kid and teen was *ονόματα, ζώα, φυτά, πράγματα* (names, animals, plants, objects) or the naming of things: the rule was that in only a few minutes, all players has to come up with a list of names, objects, living beings, topologies, edibles that start with a particular letter. It is a very competitive game, and to some extent I can imagine it quite neurotypical. I almost always lost but still loved it more than any other game. I guess it was the searching for words that made me so excited. *Clara, cake, crabs, cauliflower, crown, Colombia.* Recently, when applying to something and trying again to write about what I do for a living (I accidentally wrote loving: what I do for a loving), I started collecting verbs starting with the letter c. I was frustrated with calling myself a curator, so I started making lists of other verbs, so as to deviate from the exhausted etymological locus of curare that everyone loves going back to when reflecting on curatorial practices. I thought if I kept the same first letter, no one would really notice. Complotting, as in making plot, as in those who dig together, as in those who nurture together, and each other, as in those who carry together, and each other, as in those who care together, and for each other, to not allow this word to be co-opted again. If complotting could be used to expand on curating, then what other words could we see coming after? When making plot, I thought co-inspiring would be the one to follow. To co-inspire, or conspire, is not only to stick brains together, an image I always found disturbing to a certain extent. Immediately, some would think of the so-called conspiracy theories and roll up their eyes. Instead, conspiring, like complotting, suffers in the realm of demonized language, which is meant to prevent any form of bond forming, of actually being a friend nearby, in solidarity with a more or less neighbour body. This is a work in progress, and I am open to receiving any verb that comes to your mind. I couldn't find the c-list to bring with me today, but I remember clearly one of the last words: to circulate. Circularity standing here for a spatial configuration of the near and the “peripheral”, where things stay nearby. Now I wonder what happens when all these words come together, what kind of spaces do they create and for whom? Recently in a work-related context, I heard for the first time the word “perforate”. It is one of these cases where you recognize the word, but you don’t know what it means, so you try to create an image out of it. I honestly do it in all languages that I am more or less able to communicate in. As I am often relying on images to describe something when language or my vocabulary fails to support me, I turned to that method to understand what my collaborator meant. *Perforare*, from Latin, is to pierce through: it might sound quite self-evident to some of you growing up close to variations of English tongues. Or not. Let’s stay with the not-assuming-attitude that keeps us present in these spaces. Perforated surfaces are opportunities of seeing through. Piercing through to find an openness, a space to breathe. We make a little hole and see what happens, what goes through our impenetrable lives, lives born out of fragility. Can we perforate despair? To break through, on the other side of this bottomlessness. Patrick, pie, peacock, peppermint, pencil, Paris, Protesting. Bodies, written upon, chant themselves into the space of censorship, lungs and vocal cords trembling, navigating exhaustion but not isolation, performing spaces of materialization, left with quick arrest and dissolution. Could perforate describe that image? Or pierce through it? And where do we go from there? *Shame! Shame! Shame!* We all shout on the streets. In Eve Sedgwick’s concept of periperformativity, other utterances are included that, while not falling under the category of “explicitly performative utterances” of \[J.L.\] Austin’s widely cited work *How to Do Things with Words*, nevertheless refer to them in some way. According to Sedgwick, “Periperformative utterances aren’t just about performative utterances: they cluster around them, they are near or next to them or crowding against them. They are in the neighborhood of the performative.” <​​https://www.instagram.com/reel/CzomnfnocoL/?igsh=MWJwcXZobmJubjM0cg==> *'Rutte schande, bloed aan je handen'* If conspiring and complotting can be looked at differently through the lens of friendship and solidarity, then what would one say about complicity? What are the terms this word has been created and read through in the past decades, especially the three years of endless genocidal wars that are raging in front of our eyes? Recently, in a movement session, I tried this exercise where you had to close your eyes and imagine your body is not frontal (which is not) and virtually place your eyes on your back, on different heights and sides of the body. If for some of us, the contact seems to be a screen via a disconnected and delusional geographical distance, then is it really only virtual? And if so, are our phones and screens becoming complicit in making us numb to the empire’s necropolitical breakfast, served so casually once we open our eyes? Where are these images and sounds to be found? Where is the smell, the debris, the dust, the humidity, the dryness, the stretchiness? Who is the living and who is the dying? Who is lived and who is dead? And what is this fraction of time and distance that separates or “protects” someone from this state of being? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that words don’t come out anymore. Is it hard to tell, or hard to listen? Here are some words by Lebanese artist Hussein Nassereddine in his *Manifesto for the Arts of the Coming South:* *What do we say now, and what do we fabricate, while our hands are busy holding the dead? What comes after witnessing, and how not to get blinded by the smoke? This horizon is split open now; how do we go through it? And what do we say before fates take us to the side of the dead? How do we return now, or soon, to places that have left their inhabitants? With what texts and which forms? Perhaps what we will do next should be completely detached from what we are doing now, as the mountains have detached from themselves.* *\[...\]* *If we turn our gaze to the direction of the south, knowing that it is there, behind the head, in that place that one cannot see when the neck turns, perhaps we will finally be made aware of this duality of time: our time, that we count day by day, the slow, lethal time like waiting, and the time of the thousand years, flowing down loud like a river. These two times, running on two banks, never meeting—let us call them regular time and the time of the unseen.* *Perhaps, if we turn our gaze now, we will realize, finally, that the south has entered the time of the thousand years.* ### **3: The ecosystemic body** *We are living in a world that doesn’t taste right*, writes Alexis Pauline Gumbs in the *M Archive*. We are trying to get rid of its bitter taste; we spit it out every once in a while. We produce excess saliva, an accumulation of bitterness, grief, sorrow, rage. We accumulate it until our tongues start floating on it. We spit. Our mouths are dry; we feel empty but temporarily released. Seconds after, the bitterness of this world reappears in our mouths. It’s a continuous loop. In her book *The Second Body*, Daisy Hildyard claims that every living thing on this planet is in possession of two bodies: its “physical” body and the body that is bound to its multiple relating ecosystems. The physical body is perceived as individual in the way that it performs eating, sleeping, discharging, making love, going to work. The second one is the one that is materially and chemically linked to other bodies, of species named differently, or not, of those whose texture feels foreign and conditions of life not shared. An ecosystemic body. To collapse these bodies into one, into one’s own hosting body, is to encounter the feeling of the constant switching between the self and the world. Pauline Gumbs continues: *They dug in their memories for one day. For some of them it was a couple of days per month, rock-bottom days. The days in their lives when the world had already ended. They thought back and asked:* *What did we each do then? On the day that everything went wrong. \[...\] when we personally couldn't get out of bed, dehydrated with crying. When we didn’t ask for help. When we hurt the people we loved. When the sun died. When we lost everything. When we lost exactly who we needed to save. When we knew there would be no tomorrow, what did we do to each other then? How did we keep breathing past it (because we are the ones that did). They dug for those memories and stacked them in a row.* That’s how. That’s how we learned to get through this. Deep swallowing. (rest, take a longer breath, gather saliva and spit into the glass of water I have been drinking before) The body, that is now moving back and forth, in other bodies and times, rejects the freedom that has been denied to it. Refuses to exist as a subject. Escapes the bounded singular subject and becomes something else. Anything else. ### **4: The dissociative body (or the breaking of time)** Recently in a therapy session, I was discussing dissociation. My therapist, after hearing my ongoing complaints, pointed out how when I am about to commit to some specific tasks, my mind blacks out, and I end up with a vacuum in my head for some seconds, unable to remember my thoughts, let alone articulate them. In a somatic exercise we did she asked me to search for a bodily sensation. And while I was unable to search for any sensation, as I was entirely outside of my body, I automatically started oscillating on my desk chair. Like a pendulum clock. In Wikipedia's description of that clock I read: *Torsion clocks are unusually delicate, ornamental machines which require stable conditions to operate properly. The clocks are protected from the vagaries of air currents by a glass dome.* The fragility of a pendulum clock is not far from the one I feel when I try to keep myself in my body. Elvia Wilk writes about these dissociations in her recent book Death by Landscape, describing them as “crossovers”. Crossing to the other side, a side of unknown territory where the body is on its own, left unguarded. That time is interesting, as itself is not directly measurable nor perceived as such. Instead, it lingers above the body like a circular nebulous volume. I am interested in that immeasurability, when the body exits itself but is still nearby. Crossing over to another body, or the neighborhood of that body. Instead of speaking nearby, one can adopt a body nearby, and the nearby happens in shifting proximities. In *Intermezzo #4, the body doesn’t lie*, Ana Vujanović and Bojana Cvejić introduce a selection of contemporary techniques of the self guided by Foucault’s hermeneutics of the subject and trying to analyze the standpoint with the self óptimization. They explain that these body techniques represent a path toward self-knowledge. I quote: *For the body to become the locus of truth that one can experience in their own person, it has to be associated with a transcendent idea, like that of nature, which is either (pseudo)physiologically or spiritually posited, or that of freedom, predominantly understood in consciousness, spontaneity, intensified presence of affect or joy.* *Each of these techniques conceives of nature in a slightly different manner, yet often with a certain nostalgia for the lost natural body.* Pauline Gumbs again: *She woke up on a planet with no land again, and all the leg strength she had built pushing her brain towards the sky, pushing the rock-hard reality down, standing up for this or that, was now for floating. In this water without salt shore. \[...\]* *No land. Just love. No anchor. Just air.* *\[...\]* *When she touched the map, it moved!* ### **Outro** In this text, I have welcomed fragments of other texts that would help a drained brain to think through performance and disembodiment in times of loss. One cannot help but notice three years of breaking news, and before that other breaking news, but after that no breaking news. Because time broke away from any novelty, not even that of killing and dying. Fragments because breathing has to happen in between. And perhaps more spitting of this despair mentioned earlier. *A luta continua*. // *Angeliki Tzortzakaki (she/her) works as a writer, curator, editor, researcher and occasionally performer in Amsterdam and her birthplace Crete.* ### Tawna URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/entrevista-colectivo-tawna/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:35:15.000Z *Fundado en la Amazonía ecuatoriana en 2017, el colectivo Tawna toma su nombre de la vara con la que se impulsa una canoa río arriba. La imagen resume también su manera de entender el trabajo colectivo: avanzar depende de muchas manos, de muchas voces y de una responsabilidad compartida con el territorio. El colectivo define visualmente este número sobre Justicia Transicional con Artistas (TJA).* *Integrado por artistas, cineastas e investigadorxs sápara, kichwa y mestizxs, el colectivo entiende el arte como una herramienta para fortalecer la autonomía narrativa de las comunidades amazónicas y defender los territorios amenazados por el extractivismo. Sus películas, archivos, fotografías e instalaciones han circulado a través de instituciones internacionales, creando visibilidad a luchas contemporáneas, ligadas a luchas ancestrales.* *Con motivo de su participación en la Bienal de Venecia, en el primer pabellón oficial del Ecuador junto al artista Óscar Santillán, la curadora Manuela Moscoso y la comisaria Stephanie García Albán, conversamos con Tawna sobre autoría colectiva, archivos vivos, prácticas anticoloniales, los límites del discurso decolonial y la posibilidad de disputar, desde dentro, las instituciones que históricamente han definido qué conocimientos y qué formas de arte merecen ser escuchadas.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LLAKI_VMO_SINSUBTITULOS_2025.00_03_57_16.Imagen-fija008.png) **Llaki*, Video digital, 16mm y archivo histórico, 26 minutos, 5.1 surround 2025 Colaboración con Archivo personal de Tito Merino (Fotografia de 35mm y 110 mm. 1987-1994) Colaboración con Maite Arias Fotografia 35mm intervenidas 2026. **Tawna toma su nombre de una herramienta ancestral para impulsar una canoa. ¿Cómo se ha transformado el significado de esa imagen desde la fundación del colectivo en 2017 hasta hoy?** Tawna es un instrumento que nos ayuda a movilizar nuestra canoa, en la cual se lleva a toda la familia, incluidas nuestras otras familias, como los animales. Desde la fundación, la palanca que movilizaba a Tawna era sostenida por los primeros fundadores. La palanca en el río es utilizada por una sola persona, pero en el colectivo nos unimos todos para hacer fuerza y avanzar. Es así que, durante el transcurso de estos años, varias personas, por las oportunidades que se les han presentado o por desarrollarse profesionalmente, han ido soltando esta palanca, pero, al mismo tiempo, otras se han unido para seguir movilizando nuestro colectivo, que viene a ser la canoa que surca el río del arte desde la mirada de los pueblos que habitamos los territorios amazónicos. **Ustedes se presentan como un colectivo anticolonial antes que como un colectivo artístico. ¿Qué implica esa diferencia en la práctica cotidiana?** Porque estamos creando, pero también estamos defendiendo nuestro espacio de vida, que está bajo constantes amenazas petroleras, madereras y mineras. Iniciamos Tawna con el sueño de dar herramientas de autonomía narrativa a las comunidades para la defensa de los territorios. Así empezamos y, poco a poco, se fue abriendo un campo de creación artística que también tiene cierto peso hacia afuera. Sin embargo, el centro de nuestro trabajo se basa en mirar hacia adentro de los territorios y en pensarnos más a nosotros mismos como público, actores y posibles voces, fuera de los centros de acumulación de protagonismo artístico. El gobierno quiere saquear los recursos naturales bajo el pretexto del desarrollo. Lo que no ve es que todo ese "avance" deja muerte dentro de nuestros cuerpos-territorio. Desde estos espacios podemos gritar, visibilizar las luchas que vivimos y mostrar aquello que estamos protegiendo. **¿Cómo negocian las diferencias entre las experiencias sápara, kichwa y mestizas dentro del colectivo?** Vamos trabajando a partir de una minga de ideas, donde las miradas de cada uno importan para fortalecer los proyectos que se van creando. Buscamos conectar con las historias personales de los miembros y encontrar lugares donde resuenen íntimamente todas nuestras sensibilidades y preguntas, como lo onírico, la transmisión intergeneracional, la identidad no normativa o las migraciones. En cada proyecto varía. Los sápara cuentan sus historias y su forma de entender el mundo; los kichwa también, y nos complementamos porque entre los pueblos tenemos formas de comprender que conectan. Por su parte, los compañeros mestizos también aportan su mirada y, entre todos, vamos dando forma a los proyectos. **¿Qué han aprendido de la organización comunitaria amazónica que el ecosistema artístico todavía no comprende?** Dentro de nuestro colectivo, la forma de organizarnos se basa en nuestras maneras de hacer comunidad, aunque también se adapta a lo occidental, porque las exigencias del mundo del arte están hechas dentro de ese marco. En nuestros territorios, todo lo que hacemos es arte. Algunas cosas tienen una explicación y otras no, pero todo ese conocimiento que hemos recogido lo mezclamos con el arte que compartimos afuera. Hay una manera de hacer que es profundamente colectiva y que muchas veces sorprende en esos espacios. El arte, dentro de nuestros territorios, se construye mientras se cuentan historias, emociones y sueños. El arte va guardando esas memorias y, cuando lo tocas o lo ves, sientes esa memoria. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nuka-Serie-de-fotografias-digitales-y-analogas.-Fotografias-de-archivo-impresas-en-corteza-de-arbol-llanchama.-Video-instalacion.-2024.jpg) **Ñuka Shuti Man*, Serie de fotografías digitales y análogas. Fotografías de archivo impresas en corteza de árbol llanchama. Video instalación. 2024. **En un ecosistema artístico que sigue premiando la figura individual del artista, ¿qué les ha permitido sostener una práctica colectiva durante tantos años?** Es complicado entender esa lógica del individualismo, porque los pueblos indígenas no aplicamos esa lógica: todos trabajamos por un bien común. Desde el inicio de Tawna teníamos clara nuestra visión de trabajar como un colectivo en el que todos somos uno solo. Así que, si una persona está al frente de un proyecto porque el sistema exige que alguien figure como productor, ponemos su nombre. Pero, si esa persona recibe un premio, sabemos que pertenece al colectivo. Ese reconocimiento es el resultado del buen trabajo en equipo que hacemos. **¿Cómo se toman las decisiones dentro de Tawna?** Las decisiones se toman de manera colectiva. Cualquier asunto se comunica a todos los integrantes o se convoca a una reunión. Allí se exponen los temas, se analizan y se toman las decisiones en conjunto. Se aprende a escuchar y también a ceder. De igual manera, en algunos momentos se reparten roles específicos según la especialidad de cada integrante. Cuando estamos grabando una película, las ideas de todos son importantes. Cuando hablamos de roles, nos referimos a que una persona hará las fotografías fijas, otra el registro y otra operará la cámara principal, pero las decisiones sobre cómo se construyen las imágenes las vamos tomando entre todos. **¿Existe una metodología específica o cada proyecto exige formas distintas de organización?** Cada proyecto tiene su propia forma de desarrollarse, dependiendo de la zona del territorio donde se realice, ya que también colaboramos con otros cineastas y artistas del territorio. Todo depende del proyecto y de la gente involucrada. Muchas veces los procesos implican diálogos con las dirigencias y decisiones que van desde lo político hasta lo estético. Las formas cambian porque dentro de cada territorio existen diferentes costumbres. Hay momentos que no se permiten grabar y otros en los que sí. A eso nos referimos cuando hablamos de adaptar nuestras metodologías. **¿Qué puede hacer un colectivo que no puede hacer un artista individual?** Desde lo colectivo vamos desaprendiendo y aprendiendo juntos, desde las miradas de afuera hacia adentro y viceversa. En colectivo la mirada se vuelve más amplia. Se juntan cosas que individualmente no podrían encontrarse, también por la especificidad del campo de cada integrante. Ser varios es un superpoder para crear y llevar adelante procesos largos. Al mismo tiempo, ponerse de acuerdo y construir procesos de toma de decisiones requiere más tiempo, algo que seguramente resulta más sencillo de manera individual. También aparecen nuevas formas de resolver los proyectos y se desarma la manera occidental y jerárquica de hacerlo. Lo que nosotros seguimos haciendo es crear en comunidad, porque así también mostramos que podemos unirnos y cocrear arte desde muchas miradas, sin renunciar a las singularidades de cada uno. **¿Cómo entienden la autoría cuando una obra surge de procesos comunitarios, memorias compartidas o conocimientos ancestrales?** La autoría es colectiva. Cuando se trata de temas sensibles o que involucran a una nacionalidad específica, siempre participa alguien perteneciente a esa cultura. Las conversaciones pueden ser muy largas y, en ocasiones, hay proyectos que no deben compartirse, porque no todo se tiene que saber y no todo se tiene que decir. La autoría debería cuestionarse siempre. Las ideas nunca nacen de una sola persona: son el resultado de procesos. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MVI_0244.01_28_19_22.jpg) **Kawashima,* Vídeo, sonido, color, 8 min. Proyectado sobre tela Llanchama 2026. ### **Imagen, archivo y memoria** **¿Qué significa para ustedes producir imágenes desde la Amazonía y no simplemente sobre la Amazonía?** Nosotrxs mostramos nuestras realidades desde nuestras miradas, nuestras voces y nuestras resistencias, de la mano de otras culturas mestizas que son parte del colectivo. Creemos que, al trabajar con gente que vive en la Amazonía, la forma de ver el mundo es diferente: la selva y lo humano se perciben como un solo organismo interconectado. Trabajar entre gente de diferentes culturas también amplía nuestra forma de comunicarnos y nos permite tener un público amazónico y occidental. Creemos que creamos lenguaje de esta forma, con cuidado sobre lo que se comparte y con quién se comparte. Los archivos están vivos en la Amazonía: están en la transmisión de conocimientos, la memoria oral, la cerámica y los cantos. Creemos firmemente que se trata de una co-creación con los espacios que habitamos. Nuestro primer público es el territorio. Significa mostrar, desde nuestras miradas y nuestras voces, todo lo que está sucediendo tanto hacia afuera como hacia adentro. Decimos que si otros conocen el porqué, y si cuidamos lo que compartimos, también lo cuidarán. **Muchas de sus obras parecen moverse entre el documento y el sueño. ¿Por qué lo onírico ocupa un lugar tan importante en su trabajo?** Tawna se creó en territorio sápara. La mayoría de nosotras somos o nos conectamos a través de esta cultura y territorio (todxs lxs integrantes hemos tenido una experiencia con el territorio sápara antes de empezar). Venimos de una cosmovisión que sueña y que es experta en interpretar sueños. Los sueños son compartidos y forman parte de nuestra vida diaria. Es fundamental contar desde esa mirada onírica, llena de simbología, ya que tomamos decisiones importantes para el territorio y nuestras vidas a través de ellos. Nuestra práctica onírica es parte integrante de nuestra manera de hacer cine o videoarte. Nosotrxs entendimos el cine desde el sueño. Nos preguntamos qué era hacer cine, qué es el cine, y con el tiempo nos percatamos de que el cine es como el sueño: hay escenas, hay imágenes y en la interpretación hay un mensaje. En ese sentido, encontramos una relación entre el sueño y el cine. **¿Cómo evitar que el archivo se convierta en una herramienta de extracción colonial más?** Es importante volver a darle un contexto conectado directamente con nuestra historia, no solamente para las salas de museos y de cine, sino a través de la activación de espacios de compartir y recordar: ver películas juntxs en los territorios, en espacios pensados para la gente de la selva. Los archivos con los que hemos venido trabajando son archivos que han sido grabados u obtenidos desde la organización colectiva del movimiento indígena, desde la esencia de nuestros abuelos rukus. Nos estamos reapropiando de nuestras historias y, desde ahí, compartimos con el mundo nuestra versión de la historia. Como dijimos antes, no todo archivo vivo se comparte con Occidente, debido a la larga historia de apropiación y explotación de la cultura. Para nosotros, cuidarlo es esencial. Crear lenguaje también nos da herramientas para proteger nuestra historia. Muchas veces no compartimos incluso con todo el colectivo; es parte del respeto y de la co-creación entre diferentes culturas. **¿Qué memorias sienten que todavía permanecen invisibles incluso dentro de los discursos anticoloniales contemporáneos?** Más que una memoria, hay una forma de presentar el arte anticolonial que todavía parece muy periférica, como si el arte con esta dimensión, incompatible con el lenguaje de lxs blancxs, como si lo nuestro no tuviese la misma solidez que el arte producido en Occidente. La fascinación de Occidente por los traumas o la adversidad que atraviesan nuestras culturas contrasta con la imposibilidad de acceder a la misma consideración, algo que sigue siendo muy evidente. También hace falta una memoria del cuidado del territorio. Los discursos actuales del Estado Nación desconocen y menosprecian la relación que tenemos con el territorio y por qué lo defendemos como nuestro espacio de vida, un territorio donde también habitan otros seres con diversas corporalidades. Para vulnerar el derecho de la naturaleza, que está en la constitución de los pueblos y nacionalidades, el Estado utiliza el discurso del bien común y del desarrollo social. Sin embargo, el territorio amazónico es tratado como un espacio de sacrificio, y los recursos económicos se invierten en las grandes ciudades, sin empatía por nuestra lucha. Los etnocidios de los pueblos indígenas también siguen siendo invisibilizados: nadie habla del exterminio de cientos de lenguas, culturas y conocimientos en la Amazonía. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Kawashima-Video-sonido-color-8-min.-Proyectado-sobre-tela-Llanchama-2026.jpg) **Kawashima*, Vídeo, sonido, color, 8 min. Proyectado sobre tela Llanchama 2026. ### **Sobre Venecia** **¿Qué significa para Tawna llegar a Venecia en un momento en que las instituciones artísticas internacionales intentan replantear sus relaciones con los pueblos indígenas y los territorios históricamente colonizados?** El Estado Nación se creó sobre culturas que ya existían en el territorio. El Estado nación fue impuesto sobre territorios vivos y pueblos con culturas autónomas. No todo espacio institucional equivale automáticamente a obediencia; a veces también puede ser un campo de disputa. El gobierno actual no nos representa y, al ir, no sentimos que lo representamos, sino que ejercemos un derecho a la cultura. Es un gran logro para los artistas que trabajamos desde el territorio y la autogestión, con nuestra forma de comprender el arte y la vida, porque nuestra cultura entiende de forma diferente el arte; no sigue la misma lógica del arte europeo. Ocupar estos espacios también ha fortalecido nuestra forma de hacer arte y la manera en que, desde nuestra perspectiva, comprendemos el arte contemporáneo. Debemos tener claro que los espacios que ocupamos como colectivo no son para callar ni para ser cómplices de los atropellos que el Estado comete en nuestro territorio. Ocupamos estos espacios para, a través del arte, hablar de las injusticias sociales, territoriales, culturales y de derechos que se cometen en nuestro país. Cuando vamos a estos espacios no traicionamos nuestra forma de ser ni el motivo por el que se formó el colectivo. Arte y territorio son parte de nosotros, son nuestra vida y la inspiración para seguir defendiendo nuestra forma de crear un lenguaje que sea coherente dentro de las contradicciones del mundo del arte, de las cuales, lastimosamente, no somos totalmente libres. **¿Cómo evitar que una invitación a la Bienal se convierta en un gesto de inclusión simbólica sin consecuencias reales?** Hay una cierta tendencia al tokenismo en el mundo del arte y las bienales, y somos muy conscientes de ello. Por eso nuestras obras son políticas y no complacientes: buscan generar fricciones directas con el sistema colonial aún vigente. Tratamos de salir de las formas exotizantes para crear imágenes y lenguajes que cuestionen las identidades indígenas de la Amazonía y el extractivismo de una forma experimental, dejando lugar a la opacidad. Hay que tener claros los ideales por los que cada quien hace las cosas. Y entender que el juego del fascismo es blanco y negro. Lo radical se tiene que replantear en los grises. **¿Hubo debates internos sobre participar o no en una institución tan vinculada a la historia cultural europea?** Claro, debatimos, nos interrogamos. Pensamos que negarnos este espacio era negar también una representación histórica e indígena en la historia del arte del Ecuador. Pensamos que no íbamos solos a esta Bienal, que nuestras obras eran lo suficientemente críticas como para evitar toda forma de recuperación, y que reapropiarnos de estos espacios también es una forma de disputa simbólica. Cuando es al revés, no se cuestiona esto. Creemos que es parte de dar el mismo valor a otras culturas y romper la idea de superioridad histórica. **¿Qué esperan que ocurra cuando las narrativas amazónicas entren en diálogo con públicos que quizás nunca han visitado la Amazonía?** Conmoverse con las cosmovisiones, con todo lo entretejido entre los mundos y las sensibilidades. Tal vez también dejar de ver a la selva a través del relato colonial como algo “salvaje” y misterioso, como un fetiche, y darse cuenta de que la selva tiene una dimensión totalmente sofisticada en su creación, epistemología y filosofía, y que puede dialogar con el arte actual de una manera muy potente. Lo que esperamos es motivar a investigar y conocer ese espacio que ha sido catalogado como un territorio salvaje, sin cultura, sin conocimiento, ciencia, lengua ni arte. Que dejen de romantizar nuestras culturas y territorios, porque solo ven y escuchan lo que el gobierno de turno de cada país quiere mostrar: lo lindo y lo “hermoso”, con indígenas felices, pero la realidad no es así. Nuestros territorios son destruidos, contaminados; nuestros líderes son asesinados por defender el agua y el territorio. Aún nos ven como seres inferiores que no son capaces de realizar cualquier actividad. Nuestro trabajo trata de que el racismo institucional, en el mundo cultural, pueda ser entendido en un mismo nivel: no como una cuota, sino como una presencia en igualdad, respetando las diferencias. **¿Qué aspectos de su práctica resultaron más difíciles de traducir al contexto de la Bienal de Arte de Venecia?** Crear lenguaje se trata de esta libertad, de que en cada lugar pueda interpretarse. Tratamos de no traducir todo para Occidente, sino que Occidente se acerque a las obras. Que sientan… ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LLAKI_VMO_SINSUBTITULOS_2025.00_25_03_20.Imagen-fija005.jpg) **Llaki*, Serie de fotografías digitales y grabaciones de audio. Año: 2026 Premios: La Amazonía es aquí: apoyo a la producción para comunicadores indígenas, 2025. ### **Anticolonialidad hoy** **Lo “anticolonial” se ha vuelto omnipresente en el mundo del arte. ¿Qué aspectos de esa popularización les parecen productivos y cuáles les preocupan?** Lo anticolonial ha contribuido a cuestionar las narrativas hegemónicas de la historia, la centralidad de los saberes occidentales y las formas en que los pueblos y nacionalidades indígenas fueron históricamente marginados, representados o excluidos del campo artístico. Sin embargo, no debe olvidarse la noción de clase, la noción racial e histórica, y la necesidad de cuestionar también los privilegios de quienes hablan de este concepto desde una recuperación de saberes ancestrales. Nos preocupa que el término se convierta en una etiqueta de mercado desvinculada de las luchas de los pueblos y nacionalidades indígenas en defensa de sus territorios. Ocupar los espacios internacionales nos ha llevado a reflexionar que lo decolonial se incorpora muchas veces como un discurso curatorial o académico sin transformar las relaciones de poder, los mecanismos de financiamiento o las condiciones de participación de los artistas indígenas. Pensamos que existe el riesgo de que la crítica al colonialismo sea asimilada por las mismas estructuras que dice cuestionar. **¿Cómo distinguir entre una práctica anticolonial y una estética de la anticolonialidad?** Desde nuestra experiencia, una práctica anticolonial implica responsabilidad con el territorio, construcción colectiva y reconocimiento de la autonomía de los pueblos y nacionalidades indígenas. Nosotros no hablamos por las comunidades ni de sus problemáticas: facilitamos y apoyamos de manera colaborativa para dar las condiciones adecuadas para que sean ellas mismas quienes decidan cómo quieren representarse, narrarse y registrar sus memorias para las generaciones futuras **¿Qué formas contemporáneas de colonialismo identifican hoy en la producción cultural y artística?** Las formas de colonialismo que siguen operando son el extractivismo cultural, cuando se apropian de nuestros conocimientos, imágenes, símbolos, historias y expresiones artísticas y se comercializan sin procesos adecuados de consulta, consentimiento o beneficio compartido. El statu quo, al privilegiar ciertas formas de producir conocimiento, valida las voces académicas o de las élites, desplazando los conocimientos orales y territoriales de los pueblos y nacionalidades a posiciones secundarias e invisibilizadas. En el centro del problema está la centralización de los circuitos de legitimación artística, donde las agendas culturales se definen desde grandes centros urbanos, museos, universidades y mercados internacionales, mientras los territorios aparecen como fuente de inspiración o proveedores pasivos de contenido. **¿Cómo imaginan una institución cultural verdaderamente construida desde epistemologías amazónicas?** La imaginamos como una institución cultural arraigada en el territorio, que reconozca la oralidad, la memoria y las prácticas comunitarias como formas legítimas de conocimiento. No solo debería incorporar contenidos amazónicos, sino también dialogar con otras culturas y otras selvas, transformándose desde las epistemologías amazónicas. Entendemos que cultura, territorio y vida de todos los seres son inseparables, y que la creación artística puede ser ejercida en comunidad. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LLAKI.png) **Llaki*, Video digital, 16mm y archivo histórico, 26 minutos, 5.1 surround 2025 Colaboración con Archivo personal de Tito Merino (Fotografia de 35mm y 110 mm. 1987-1994), Colaboración con Maite Arias, Fotografia 35mm intervenidas 2026. **La Amazonía suele aparecer en los discursos globales como un territorio que necesita ser salvado. ¿Qué conocimientos, imaginarios o formas de vida creen ustedes que el mundo debería aprender de la Amazonía en lugar de intentar salvarla?** Hay que crear conciencia sobre todo lo que está pasando en la Amazonía. Hay muchas formas de protegerla y cuidarla apoyando proyectos gestionados por sus comunidades. Hay que entender que hay muchos mundos dentro de este mundo, y que si en uno de ellos se están generando formas de detener el extractivismo y ampliar los derechos colectivos, territoriales y los derechos de la naturaleza, eso es valioso. La solidaridad internacional es necesaria en estos tiempos tan difíciles y de tanto despojo por parte de gobiernos como el de Ecuador, que está vendiendo la Amazonía a petroleras y mineras extranjeras. Creemos que se trata de esto: no caer en la trampa de discursos salvacionistas ni en formas dominantes dentro de las mismas alianzas que dicen salvar la Amazonía. **La justicia transicional suele presentarse como un mecanismo universal para afrontar violencias históricas. ¿Qué aspectos de esa universalidad les generan desconfianza desde la experiencia amazónica?** Estas cuestiones podrían ser tratadas con entidades políticas y autoridades con experticia en el campo legal desde los territorios. Nosotros, como artistas, no somos expertos en estas cuestiones, pero creemos que los mecanismos deben ser diseñados por las comunidades o, al menos, ser muy participativos para ser eficientes y tener un peso real. **Muchas políticas de reparación llegan a los territorios diseñadas por expertos que viven lejos de ellos. ¿Quiénes son, para ustedes, lxs verdaderxs autores de la justicia?** Nuestro colectivo es diverso, no todxs representamos la Amazonía, pero convergemos en formas comunitarias de justicia indígena y también en otras formas que pueden ser nuevas de romper el silencio y actuar por el bien colectivo. Hay que dejar de romantizar también lo que pasa en las comunidades y, desde las juventudes, el activismo y las artes, cuestionar las formas heredadas de la colonia, la religión, el patriarcado y el poder acumulado. **¿Cuándo una intervención internacional ayuda a una comunidad y cuándo reproduce relaciones coloniales bajo otro lenguaje?** El colonialismo no ha parado desde que llegó Occidente, solo cambia de nombre. Las negociaciones de ayuda deberían ser directas con la gente que vive y gestiona los territorios. Los intermediarios tienen demasiados intereses y condiciones muy privilegiadas en comparación con las bases, con intereses propios y poca transparencia en la toma de decisiones, sin siquiera consultar a estos organismos internacionales. // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. ### Circulation in the Age of AI Models URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/circulation-in-the-age-of-ai-models-essay-by-maria-ines-plaza-lazo/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T15:40:09.000Z Let me begin with a passage from Mohammad Salemy’s recent contribution to AWC, followed by my reasons for both agreement and hesitation toward his proposition that AI models resemble Benjamin’s vision of the Angel of History: > *I asked an AI system using a Large Language Model to translate a text by Arjangn Sepasi from Farsi into English, then to profile the politics of its author based on framing, vocabulary, and commitments. Together, we substituted the author's ideological and literary profile with those of an imaginary other: a female poet, philosopher, and literary critic with no political commitment to any faction—someone with poetic skills and an independent way of thinking outside all existing political parties and dialectical tendencies of the late 1970s; someone who knew people on the left but was not committed to their goals. AI accomplished this, surprisingly, without altering the historical narration or the firsthand account of what took place that day on the streets of Tehran. This experiment in historical reconstruction is the closest thing to Walter Benjamin's concept of the Angel of History, through which the historian's job would be to reconstruct a new historical understanding by putting together fragments of a ruinous past. What emerged revealed a dialectic: while any author's ideology inevitably shapes their narration of history, the more honestly they describe what they actually observed—grounded in the concreteness of reality—the more the truth shines through, regardless of the political, ideological, or stylistic limitations of the narrator.* I keep returning to this image because AI models seem to operate precisely through fragments detached from their original conditions and recombined into new forms of coherence. They absorb vast quantities of human expression and produce from this a synthetic continuity. With AI, language has become instantaneous, transferable across contexts and voices, and by prefacing a text entirely produced by a model, Mohammad offers readers a method to open the doors of perception, and not only compare the data, but read in the interstitial space between the lines. And still, I hesitate to fully accept this image. Benjamin's Angel is horrified by the catastrophe piling at its feet while being propelled into the future by the storm of progress. Benjamin, as many will know, is actually taking an image of Paul Klee, *Angelus Novus* from 1920, as his prompt. Many will interpret Klee’s angel in relation to an image of a Jewish child holding his hands in the air. Benjamin, friends with Klee, purchased the print in 1921\. When he had to flee Germany in 1933, he took it with him into exile in Paris. Before he tried to flee further when the Nazis invaded France, Benjamin entrusted the work, together with other important papers, to Georges Bataille, who hid it at the Bibliothèque nationale de France in Paris where he worked. Benjamin committed suicide in September 1940 in Spain, the night before he was due to be deported back to France. After World War II, Bataille gave the print to Theodor Adorno in Frankfurt, who, in accordance with Benjamin's will, sent it on to Benjamin's lifelong friend Gershom Scholem, a scholar of Jewish mysticism who had emigrated from Germany to Mandatory Palestine in 1923. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12__ResizedImageWzYwMCw1MzNd.14.35.png) Paul Sochacki, **Self-reflection*, 2018\. Courtesy of the artist. AI models inherit this information, like formulated by a Wikipedia entry: the structure of Benjaminian thought, in a strangely anonymous, flattened form. AI models look backwards through accumulated cultural memory, through billions of gestures of writing and interpretation, all while accelerating the very conditions that fragment memory further. The archives, per Douglas Crimp, become a ruin, and then those ruins become training data. Working with AI feels less like a dialogue with the past than like standing inside an echo chamber of the already-circulating language of an unknown future. I have written this text using AI models as refinement and retrieval tools. I do so openly because I also know that editorial work has never been a pure space of authorship. A newspaper already emerges from montage, citation, editing, rewriting, transcription, translation, conversation, routines, adaptations to markets, material conditions of media and production, and collective contamination between voices. What AI exposes, with a new sort of brutality, is the extent to which writing already depended on recombination long before machine learning arrived. Thinking often advances through reformulation, through repetition, through seeing one's own thought estranged and returned from another angle. At *Arts of the Working Class,* this has become part of our editorial process. AI challenges and informs our work while simultaneously forcing us to confront the conditions under which language now circulates. It accelerates synthesis while exposing how much contemporary language already conforms to predictive structures. It can reveal hidden repetitions inside our own thinking while generating new clichés at industrial scale. It can open conceptual connections and flatten them in the next sentence. Sometimes it becomes useful exactly at the moment one begins resisting its fluency. This tension matters because *Arts of the Working Class* was never conceived as a nostalgic defense of print culture against technological change. The street newspaper emerged inside the contradictions of contemporary circulation from the very beginning. We work simultaneously with analog distribution, Meta platforms, institutional funding structures, PDFs, group chats, museums, Google Workspace, bookstores, monday.com, precarious labor, volunteer labor, friendships, ideological conflict, and increasingly AI systems such as ChatGPT, Gemini, Perplexity, and Claude. The infrastructure of our platform is contradictory before any editorial line is written. I deliberately call it a platform because of what Marek Poliks and Roberto Alonso Trillo write about its definition: A platform is "a type of incompleteness, a kind of loose interstitiality, an expectation, something that requires someone else to do something in order for it to fully render as a platform. A platform is a vibe (longing)”. (Poliks & Trillo, *Exocapitalism*, p. 29) The opposition between analog and digital interests me less than the question of how we can create forms of meaning through contemporary art—for ourselves and for each other—and how contemporary art circulates materially under the current stage of capitalism, as we see our own perception, labor, and political imagination simultaneously being reshaped. Thus, if AI models extract labor sedimented inside language: years of reading, editing, failed drafts, references, conversations, translation, affective exhaustion, historical memory, the space we have to carve for imagination to inhabit us, *Arts of the Working Class* needs to be a platform and counter-model at the same time. To insist that cultural production itself cannot be treated as raw material for automated models trained to reproduce and reorganize it only, means to treat writers, artists, translators, editors, and designers as if they can exist beyond the models absorbing them, us, refusing the reduction of replacement via synthetic approximation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12__ResizedImageWzYwMCw3Nzdd.16.03.png) Paul Sochacki, *le monde diplomatique*, 2013\. Courtesy of the artist. ### ***Arts of the Working Class* as Editorial Infrastructure** The existence of AI models makes the material circulation of *Arts of the Working Class* feel even more charged and contradictory. With a print run of 70,000 copies per issue, the street newspaper moves simultaneously between museums and sidewalks—through biennials, bookstores, universities, cafés, institutions, and through vendors selling newspapers in Berlin, Frankfurt, London, and soon, I hope, Madrid. It moves through conversations between strangers, through hesitation, through eye contact, through refusal, through carrying an object physically across the city. It deteriorates in the inappropriate climate of our office in Berlin-Neukölln; if you buy it on the streets, it accumulates traces of use. It circulates through bodies before it circulates through metadata. This is perhaps my greatest reward as a publisher. Because *Arts of the Working Class* never intended to be innocent. It always aimed at class consciousness as a form of cross-pollination between as many fields of social reality as possible. The street newspaper circulates inside economies of symbolic capital, institutional legitimacy, aesthetic prestige, philanthropic funding, and soft power. We negotiate continuously with these structures. The paper moves through contradictions because contemporary cultural production itself moves through contradictions. The point is not to purify circulation, nor to become a pamphlet for a single movement. The point is to remain capable of perceiving tensions before they disappear into seamlessness. Perhaps this is also why art criticism matters differently now—beyond the stabilization of standards and the policing of taste, functions that are increasingly absorbed by other forms of value production—today’s criticism offers a changing form of orientation inside rapidly mutating infrastructures of perception. A platform for critique must remain porous enough for historical conditions to enter it before language hardens around them. The dystopia evolves quickly. Its interfaces evolve too. Its extraction models evolve fastest of all. *Arts of the Working Class* emerged from these pressures and continues to circulate within and against them: a street newspaper positioned along the faultlines of poverty and wealth, art and society, distributed through precarious labor while speaking about its dangers, funded through institutions while interrogating institutions, produced collectively while questioning the ruptures and rapidly growing inequalities shaping forms of collective production. This circulation model—this redistribution model—is the editorial project itself. Our medium is a counter-model. And it is from here that I want to transition into the next part of this lecture: how the distribution model of *Arts of the Working Class* became inseparable from its political imagination and its understanding of redistribution. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12__ResizedImageWzYwMCw2NTld.17.01.png) Paul Sochacki, **Hochwasser*, 2018\. Courtesy of the artist. I invited my husband, Kolja Reichert, then still working primarily as an art critic, to contribute an inaugural essay to the first issue of AWC in 2018\. In it, he wrote: > *There are two types of central banks. One manages money; the other manages art. One stabilizes financial values; the other preserves aesthetic ones. One protects private property; the other guards what belongs to everyone. One is inaccessible, fortified, surveilled. The other—the museum, the library, the public archive—can still, sometimes, be entered freely.* I keep returning to this text because it condensed something we were already trying to articulate before the newspaper fully existed: culture functions as an infrastructure of circulation long before it appears as content. Museums, libraries, archives, newspapers, schools, biennials, universities, public collections, bookstores, cafés, and kiosks all organize the movement of symbols, ideas, desires, legitimacy, and access. They distribute visibility unevenly. They stabilize forms of value often while obscuring the labor that sustains them. Inside these infrastructures lies accumulated human meaning: the spoils of empires, the memory of revolutions, the dreams of workers, saints, migrants, prisoners, aristocrats, colonized and exploited cultures, failed utopias, and unfinished struggles. Thousands of years of images, stories, symbols, and aesthetic techniques, stored as if detached from the conflicts that produced them, while outside these repositories of discourse, people continue to work long hours merely to survive. Art is often described as a luxury. This formulation recurs with astonishing persistence, especially under economic pressure, as if aesthetics and creativity belong to a secondary realm outside of material life. Yet the history of labor repeatedly demonstrates the opposite. Jacques Rancière describes how workers in nineteenth-century France extended their evenings after exhausting labor in order to write poetry and discuss philosophy. Before labor protections, before the welfare state, before social democracy consolidated institutionally, there already existed an insurgency around imagination itself. Workers fought not only for wages, but also for the right to intellectual and aesthetic life—the right to think beyond survival, to participate in the production of meaning rather than merely endure imposed conditions. *Arts of the Working Class* emerges from this lineage, though under radically different historical conditions. The newspaper was founded within the framework of an exhibition I developed together with Paul Sochacki. The oppressive labor conditions inside the art economy quickly became the centre of our exchanges. As a curator working alongside an artist, together with then art advisor and curator Alina Kolar, our then intern Dalia Maini, now AWC’s Editor in Chief, and the graphic designer Hans Loeffler, we found ourselves confronting the strange normalization of exhaustion within cultural work: endless overproduction, permanent networking, symbolic prestige replacing material stability, intellectual labor performed under conditions of increasing precarity—all while the art world expanded as a global industry of wealth concentration, speculation, and institutional branding. The clash between the different hats we wore became obnoxiously visible. Contemporary art continuously speaks about inequality while reproducing extreme hierarchies of visibility and access within its own structures. Critical discourse is circulated internationally through biennials and conferences while many cultural workers struggle to pay rent in the very cities where these conversations take place. Radical theory circulates comfortably through elite institutions while the social conditions necessary to produce that theory aggressively deteriorate. *Arts of the Working Class* emerged directly from this atmosphere. A street newspaper appeared almost intuitively as the appropriate form: cheap to print in mass circulation, easy to carry, difficult to stabilize institutionally, historically associated with political agitation, worker education, public debate, and mass distribution—a medium capable of moving simultaneously through museums and streets, through intellectual production and economic redistribution, through aesthetic reflection and direct material exchange. But the decisive aspect was less a matter of the form itself than the structure organizing it. From the beginning, advertising became part of the editorial logic rather than something hidden. Ads were curated as carefully as essays or artworks. A used bicycle auction placed next to a high-end art auction. A Kältebus emergency shelter beside Gucci. One early spread placed an advertisement by Grisebach auction house opposite the Arbeiterkammer. These kinds of juxtapositions were not ironic provocations; they made visible the contradictory social realities already structuring cultural circulation. The newspaper did not simply describe inequality. It staged unequal actors within the same visual and economic field. Artists, theorists, poets, researchers, activists, workers, students, curators, migrants, and people without any stable relationship to the art world suddenly appeared within the same editorial platform. Academic language encountered street language. Philosophy encountered gossip. Fashion photography encountered political economy. Poetry encountered institutional critique. The newspaper did not attempt to resolve these frictions. It turned contradiction itself into a platform. Perhaps the next step is to distribute editorial control more radically as well—to provoke editorial constellations in different parts of the world rather than maintaining a centralized voice. This also shaped our editorial methodology. Rather than producing a unified ideological line, *Arts of the Working Class* gradually became a space where contradictions accumulate visibly. Marxists negotiate with liberals. Institutional critique circulates through institutions. Luxury advertising appears beside anti-capitalist critique. Radical theoretical language coexists with memes, humor, personal testimony, confusion, and aesthetic seduction. The newspaper continuously risks incoherence because contemporary political subjectivity itself increasingly appears fragmented, over-mediated, emotionally exhausted, historically overloaded. This is why I increasingly think of the newspaper less as an infrastructure than as a platform. Infrastructure explains organization; a platform preserves instability, incompleteness, participation. A platform organizes circulation before it organizes meaning. It determines how encounters become possible, how visibility moves, how strangers enter relations with one another. This instability also shapes the newspaper aesthetically. Every issue feels slightly unfinished, slightly excessive, contaminated by the conditions through which it was produced. Texts collide rather than align. Visual languages shift abruptly. Editorial tones change from page to page. Within a single issue one may encounter fifteen languages—and not a single translation. It is precisely this polyphony, this incomprehensibility depending on one’s own linguistic position, that upholds a pluriversal multiperspectivism. It reminds readers of their own situatedness. My heart still jumps with joy when I see vendors in the Berlin subway offering passionate and highly informed overviews of the current issue—and I quietly buy a copy myself. The paper is also distributed in extreme conditions of survival, and sometimes it just serves as a currency. And this circulation brings me to the core of the newspaper’s political structure: its distribution model. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12__ResizedImageWzYwMCw3NTJd.18.08.png) Paul Sochacki, **Krieg und Frieden*, 2018\. Courtesy of the artist. ### **AWC's (Re)distribution Model as Political Form** The distribution model of *Arts of the Working Class* did not emerge from a business plan. It emerged from a contradiction that became increasingly difficult to inhabit passively. Contemporary art continuously speaks about inequality while circulating through infrastructures built on extreme asymmetries of wealth, visibility, and access. Museums commission exhibitions about labor while relying on invisible exploitative labor structures. Biennials discuss extraction while depending on logistical systems of exhaustion, mobility, sponsorship, and unpaid affective work. The newspaper enters this field by employing contradiction as its operational system. It uses it, extrapolates it, and partially alleviates it in the same movement. Distribution becomes a critical point because distribution is where these contradictions are materially organized. It determines who meets whom under what conditions. In AWC, contributions appear inside an institutional frame already coded as legitimate discourse, next to contributions out of open-ended situations that are negotiated outside of legitimacy. By embracing friction, refusal, misunderstanding, and economic transaction as concomitant with each other, AWC allows itself to be banal, informative and difficult. I continue quoting Poliks and Trillo—whose book we review in our 39th issue: > *To distill “capitalism” into something as pure and simple as value produced through the volatility of the hold, then it's fair to conclude that capitalism is far older than it is putatively understood to be. Almost every historian of capitalism will protest, identifying capitalism strictly with the extraction of surplus value from “producers” \[…\] But this is a much harder leg to stand on in a post-productive economy, where value accumulates onto the surface of hold time and not a chiseled byproduct of hard-muscle labor. (Poliks and Trillo, pp. 74–75)* What Poliks and Trillo describe at the level of economic history—value accumulating not through fixed production but through the volatility of circulation itself—is the same logic that organizes cultural exchange. The barter arrangements, the vendor networks, the institutional partnerships: none of these are outside the economic schema they describe. They are instances of it, operating at the scale of a newspaper. Every copy distributed through a street vendor, every advertising space exchanged for institutional collaboration, every issue that enters a museum and a sidewalk simultaneously, is what David Graeber would call a token: a unit of virtual exchange that stacks onto existing systems of value without fully belonging to them. Credit, in his terms, is already a promise—a futures contract on meaning not yet fully realized. The barter deal is a promise of this kind. So is the newspaper itself. *Arts of the Working Class* participates in art fairs, book fairs, and exhibitions through barter arrangements rather than commercial transactions—not because barter is the preferred model, but because the nature of the street newspaper, and its explicit relation to poverty and precarious labor, makes institutions hesitant to enter straightforward commercial exchange. Each barter arrangement with a fair or exhibition is tailored: there is no standard contract, no fixed rate card. Advertising space in the newspaper is exchanged for collaboration—visibility offered in return for visibility received. The terms are negotiated each time, depending on context and what each party needs the encounter to produce. This makes barter legible as both complicity and critique simultaneously. The newspaper enters the infrastructures of the art market—the fair, the biennial, the institutional exhibition—not from outside, but through the same logic of mutual interest that structures those spaces. It accepts visibility in exchange for providing it. And yet the form of exchange differs from standard advertising precisely because it cannot be reduced to monetary equivalence. What circulates is not only exposure but a negotiated relation between two entities whose interests only partially align. The barter does not dissolve the asymmetry between a street newspaper and an art fair. It makes that asymmetry temporarily productive—and visible. This street newspaper makes this visible by refusing to separate circulation from content production and from independent writing. The head of communication strategy for one of the largest museum consortia in Germany has suggested, for example, that we are enriching ourselves by producing this paper. The accusation is instructive. It reveals how deeply the stigmatization of poverty functions as a regulatory mechanism inside cultural economies: a publication that speaks about economic precarity is expected to embody it, to remain structurally marginal, to refrain from occupying the same transactional space as legitimate cultural enterprises. Of course, when confronting him, he denied such allegations. The only exit from this stigma that we have found is to show the numbers. Something I am still hesitant to do, because it makes us even more vulnerable than what we already are. But here we go. As of 2025, 58.2% of AWC's financing comes from advertising sales, and 25.3% from institutional collaborations. Grants account for 4.1%, donations for 8.1%, subscriptions for 4.2%. Of total expenses, 40.5% goes directly to collaborators and contributors—the largest single line item, ahead of printing costs at 19.4%. The core team consists of five people. Around 400 street vendors participate in the distribution network. Approximately 222 contributors publish in the newspaper each year. Per issue, street vendors generate approximately €200,000 in revenue, while the project's direct funding—advertising, grants, and donations—accounts for roughly €50,000\. The ratio is 80 to 20\. The newspaper is not sustained by institutional support. It is sustained by the labor of people selling it on sidewalks. These numbers do not resolve the contradiction embodied by *Arts of the Working Class*. They make it legible. And perhaps that is the only method I have found so far: to create desire and dissect it at the same time. These different modes of encounter are not secondary effects of distribution. They are the structure of distribution itself. The direction of this flow is decisive. Vendors receive newspapers free of charge and retain the full revenue from sales. The editorial and management labor, done by freelancers, is financed through advertising sales, institutional collaborations, grants, and partnerships rather than through vendor income. We all have the same hourly wage of 20 Euros. The organization does not extract profit from circulation itself. Instead, it is structurally positioned as a mechanism through which symbolic production can be partially converted into immediate material income for those performing the labor of distribution. This is what makes redistribution in this case structurally different from donation-based models or patronage systems. Redistribution is not external to circulation. It is embedded in circulation as its operating principle. Around 350,000 newspapers are produced annually and sold at €2.50 each, generating approximately €875,000 in annual vendor revenue. Around 400 active vendors participate in this circulation network through partnerships with street newspaper organizations and independent distribution structures. What is redistributed is not only money. A migrant vendor in Berlin may become the person introducing an art theory essay to commuters in the subway. An internationally recognized artist may appear beside a first-time contributor without institutional affiliation. A luxury auction house advertisement may face a page dedicated to housing struggles or labor organizing. A reader entering through an interest in contemporary art encounters social realities they might otherwise never confront; a passerby purchasing the newspaper for its immediate political relevance unexpectedly encounters poetry, philosophy, or conceptual art. Contemporary art, like any other system of cultural and value production, is increasingly organized through predictive models that reduce uncertainty in reception. Its circulation models become smoother, faster, and more pre-structured. The street newspaper introduces conflict into this system because it requires encounter rather than prediction. It requires interruption of movement, a decision not pre-modelled by behavioral data, a situation where cultural value is not pre-assigned before the encounter takes place. AWC recognizes distribution as inherently political and turns that recognition into its politics, because it is precisely at the level of distribution that cultural production either becomes fully abstracted into predictive systems or remains partially exposed to the contingencies of social encounter. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12__ResizedImageWzYwMCw4MTdd.18.50.png) Paul Sochacki, **Der Schrei*, 2018\. Courtesy of the artist. ### **Circulation as Contradictory Infrastructure of Value, Labor, and Historical Time** What appears to move frictionlessly—information, culture, discourse, images, capital—is sustained by layered forms of logistical, affective, technical, and linguistic labor that disappear when circulation appears most seamless. Platforms optimize this disappearance, whilst AI models accelerate it. This is where Marina Vishmidt’s notion of infrastructural critique becomes revelatory. Critique can no longer operate only at the level of representation, but at the level of organization: how things circulate, through which systems, under which conditions, and through whose labor. In an essay dedicated to Vishmidt’s work, published in the current issue of AWC, no. 41: on Energy, Danny Hayward writes: “\[P\]art of the distinctiveness of Marina’s thinking is that she spoke several different languages—I mean theoretical languages, idioms—all of them existing on different sides of disciplinary and historical boundaries.” This multilinguality is, last but not least, the heart of the structure of *Arts of the Working Class*. It is one of its infrastructural conditions. Each issue operates through collisions between languages, idioms, literacies, and political vocabularies that never fully resolve into transparency. German appears beside Arabic, Spanish beside Kurdish, theoretical abstraction beside administrative language, poetry beside economic data, institutional discourse beside street conversation. Often without translation, AI generated translation, or with arbitrary translation. This sort of opacity is constructed for the sake of making the seamless readability of platforms even more ridiculous than they already are. AWC insists instead on partial legibility. On our pages and website, you encounter texts one cannot fully read, references one cannot immediately find, positions that remain unresolved, very often this is irritating. One becomes aware of one's own position inside language itself. This is also why AI models become difficult to approach either with simple enthusiasm or simple refusal, even though they have helped me through this lecture to formulate my sentences a bit shorter, and, to be clear, insofar as I can hold clarity, about the transversal movement across linguistic and disciplinary boundaries at a speed contemporary cultural labor increasingly demands, caring not to flatten language. Under conditions of overproduction and permanent acceleration, our counter model for the redistribution of economic wealth and political imagination has turned into a survival tool. It assists everyone willing to work inside several discursive systems at once. Like Benjamin’s *Angelus Novus,* contemporary art production is propelled forward while looking backward into accumulating debris: archives, references, exhausted vocabularies, unfinished political struggles, dead languages of critique recombined into new operational forms. AI models reorganize this debris into prediction. But prediction requires enormous quantities of absorbed labor: writing, editing, translation, tagging, formatting, summarizing, annotating, moderating—the distributed intellectual and affective work sedimented into language over decades. Writing now circulates simultaneously as meaning and as training material. And criticism itself increasingly encounters a strange displacement. I think of Caroline Busta, critic and cofounder of *New Models*, together with Lil Internet. She remarks that her primary readers are machines, and her statement is not metaphorical. Texts are now produced inside infrastructures where machinic readability (partially) precedes human reception. AWC situates itself in this interval of interrupted legibility. Its circulation, under these conditions, renders our labor invisible at the moment it becomes computationally useful, producing marginal contact zones that escape full formalization: encounters between vendors and readers; between institutional frameworks and street economies; between editorial intention and algorithmic reprocessing; between historical memory and present extraction. Circulation becomes the site where political imagination is continuously redistributed, interrupted, and contested. // *This essay originated as a lecture delivered as part of the conversation programme *(SUPER)MODELS EVERYWHERE*at Ivorypress, Madrid, on 4 June 2026\. The programme was presented within the framework of *Mayrit Biennial 2026*, Madrid's art and design biennial, curated by Eduarda Neves and Mohammad Salemy.* ### If access is just for access' sake, I'm not interested. URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-conversation-with-ren-loren-britton/ Last updated: 2026-09-13T14:14:23.000Z The exhibition at Künstlerhaus Bethanien, Berlin, *“Deixis & Needs”* doesn't offer itself up all at once. Helium balloons float in the room, each carrying a long strand of beads that extends towards the floor. Wrapped in embroidered textiles depicting fragments of eyes, mouths and hands, they hover somewhere between sculpture and living bodies. Once every hour, they become resonating bodies for a ten-minute sound piece, inviting visitors to experience sound through vibration as much as through listening. The strands of sheer and colorful beads embody one of the exhibition's central propositions: interdependence. Nothing stands alone. Words, needs, and bodies only take shape through their relationships with oneself and one another, remaining open to change as those relationships shift. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-08-05-at-09.38.01.jpeg) Developed through conversations with collaborators, friends, and community members, “Deixis & Needs” seems less interested in presenting finished objects than in asking how relationships are built: between bodies, between languages, and between people. It is an exhibition that resists easy conclusions, inviting visitors instead to linger with ideas of care, transformation, and collective responsibility. The title immediately raises a question: “’ Deixis & Needs’ brings together two words that don't obviously belong together. How did you arrive at them?” Ren’s answer begins with institutions, rather than with language. “I started with access needs,” they explain. “The ways institutions ask us to describe what we need to access a space.” Too often, they argue, access needs become fixed in advance. Institutions identify them, provide the corresponding accommodation, and accessibility becomes something that can supposedly be completed. But bodies are never static. Needs change with time, place, relationships, and circumstance. This is where *deixis* comes in. In linguistics, deictic words (pronouns, but also words such as *here*, *there*, *before,* or *next*) only acquire meaning through context. They depend on who is speaking, where they are, and when. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-08-05-at-09.38.01-2.jpeg) “Bringing *deixis* together with needs,” Ren says, “allowed me to think about what it would mean to build a political container where transformation is the norm.” Instead of asking how institutions might accommodate changing needs, the exhibition asks what kinds of structures would be necessary if transformation itself became the starting point. What would it mean to assume that bodies change? That needs shift? If responsiveness, rather than stability, became the organizing principle? That same questioning of established structures also shapes Ren's understanding of authorship. Contemporary art still tends to centre the individual artist and the finished object. *Deixis & Needs* quietly resists both. “I never come to ideas that are simply mine,” Ren tells me. “My ideas are produced within my community.” They describe their practice as something grounded in a disability justice-informed trans feminist collective: thinking together, reading together, living alongside one another, and remaining accountable to those relationships. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-08-05-at-09.38.01-1.jpeg) That position extends beyond the exhibition itself. The accompanying publication is not released under CC2R, a non-conventional copyright license which stands for Collective Conditions to Reuse. The framework shifts attention away from the ownership of ideas and towards the conditions that allow them to emerge in the first place. Ren connects this to traditions of “copyleft” and to Crip Authorship, which ask under what conditions people are allowed to become authors at all and who remains excluded from that possibility. These questions push beyond theory to shape the exhibition itself. Inspired by Max Liboiron’s *Book Doula Meetings*, Ren organized a series of Exhibition Doula Meetings while the exhibition was still taking shape. Friends and collaborators assumed different roles, thinking about aesthetics, curatorial questions, programming, and access as participants actively helping to shape it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-08-05-at-09.38.01-4.jpeg) Importantly, they were paid from the exhibition budget. “I wanted to redistribute not only ideas but resources,” Ren explains. “Why should I be pushed forward as the only author when the work itself emerges through a collective?” Those contributions later became part of the accompanying zine, extending the exhibition beyond the gallery walls. The publication feels less like a catalogue than a record of shared thinking in progress. Questions of collective authorship inevitably lead us to another recurring idea in Ren's practice: world-building. When I ask what kind of world “Deixis & Needs” hopes to create, they hesitate over the terminology. “I see my practice as a form of world-building,” they say. “I’m also interested in world-making and world-unmaking. I’m still figuring out which term feels most accurate.” What matters more than the name, they continue, is thinking through a decolonial “practice of presence”: worlds existing alongside one another, invested in one another, and upholding one another instead of insisting on a single dominant way of being. “The world I hope “Deixis & Needs” contributes to is grounded in disabled and trans histories, brilliance, presence, and futures. I’m not trying to imagine an entirely different world. I’m trying to make visible a world that already exists—a world that is every bit as rich, complex, and beautiful as the one we’re taught to think of as the norm. It’s not that I want other worlds to disappear. I want this one to have space too.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-08-05-at-09.38.01-3.jpeg) Towards the end of our exchange, I ask what museums still get wrong when they talk about accessibility. Ren begins by questioning the premise itself. “I’m actually not trying to make things more accessible,” they say. “Accessibility often becomes another checkbox.” The more urgent question, they argue, is not simply how institutions make existing structures accessible but what those structures are making accessible in the first place. “What are we making accessible? And to whom? If access is simply access for access’ sake, I’m not interested.” Instead, they describe disability justice as a practice of *re-worlding*: fundamentally rethinking the values on which institutions are built and with which we relate. “What institutions are still getting wrong is that access is treated like a Band-Aid. Disability justice requires us to unmake and remake the world.” Almost every answer has reframed my original question. Language leads to institutions. Authorship becomes redistribution. Accessibility becomes a question of values. Like the exhibition itself, the conversation continually resists fixed categories and easy conclusions. “Deixis & Needs” ultimately asks visitors to consider a deceptively simple question: what happens when we stop treating care, access, and interdependence as additions to an artistic practice and instead understand them as the conditions from which it begins? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-08-05-at-09.44.45.jpeg) [*On view at Künstlerhaus Bethanien until this Sunday, August 9, 2026*](https://bethanien.de/exhibitions/ren-loren-britton-deixis-of-needs/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) // ### The Kyiv Biennial at KW, Berlin URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-kyiv-biennial-at-kw-berlin-2026/ Last updated: 2026-09-13T14:47:34.000Z The Kyiv Biennial has always been a war biennial. Vasyl Cherepanyn, director and curator of the Ukrainian Visual Culture Research Center, underlined this on a pleasant June morning in the courtyard of KW Berlin. This is a fact that feels both significant and oddly detached at the same time, given its enormity and the unimaginable responsibility that comes with recognizing it. Can a biennial in exile be a useful tool of resilience? Can it help to expand common ground in a moment of interacting global crises? Inaugurated the year after Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014, the Kyiv Biennial was pushed towards a nomadic existence after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. In the intervening years, it took place in various European cities, including Warsaw and Antwerp. This year, it finds a temporary home at the former margarine factory in Mitte, which is now the KW. Once a ruin made by war and division, it was occupied and then transformed into an art space. Today it is a defining institution for Berlin’s cultural landscape and a fitting place for this year's iteration of the Kyiv Biennial titled “A Bird that Cannot Land”. As a metaphor for exhaustion, suspension, and disorientation in the face of conflict, the title not only announces the Kyiv Biennial’s specific condition, but also that of the artists present. Continuing the previous edition’s curatorial concept of a “Middle-East-Europe”, this iteration brings together artists from various countries—from the UK in the West to Uzbekistan in the East—in an attempt to foster a unified understanding across individual experiences of oppression, displacement, and armed conflict. The exhibition greets the visitor with Geta Brătescu’s enigmatic objet trouvé *The Traveler* (1970). It takes a moment to realize that the peculiar object that the artist has glued images of her eyes onto is a cane that can be unfolded into a chair. The work connects with the exhibition’s title, as Brătescu—who loved to travel and who kept a journal in the form of scrapbooks—considered traveling as a metaphor for a mental state. With its octopus-like feet, the surrealist face of Brătescu, with her slightly weary eyes and its evocative title, the work radiates strength and resilience and stands, above all, as a testament to an unbreakable imagination. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/260609_KW_Kyiv-Biennial_Geta-Bratescu_0371_Foto-Frank-Sperling.jpg) Geta Brătescu, **The Traveler*, 1970\. Courtesy Collection of the Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw. Installation view of the exhibition Kyiv Biennial – A Bird That Cannot Land at KW Institute for Contemporary Art, Berlin 2026\. Photo: Frank Sperling. The context of its creation, under Romania’s socialist regime, only furthers its power: the eyes disappearing under the seat when the chair is unfolded, like they are temporarily ducking away from surveillance, to resume their travels when danger has passed. In the next room, the visitor encounters another household object transformed into a multilayered, ambivalent work with Mona Hatoum’s *Misbah* (2006–07); its title is the Arabic word for “lantern”. Rotating in the center of the room, the titular lantern projects stars and men with rifles onto the surrounding walls, virtuosically connecting feelings of comfort, trauma, and looming doom. Born into a Palestinian family in Beirut, Lebanon, Hatoum moved to London in 1975 when the Lebanese Civil War broke out. Hatoum and Brătescu’s works are worlds apart from each other aesthetically and geographically, yet they become more resonant in their proximity as the exhibition grasps their situated interconnectedness within the larger ideological and social betrayals that allowed for their respective displacement and oppression. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/01_KW_Kyiv-Biennial_-Heinali_Andriana-Yaroslava-Saienko_Photo_Maurice-Haak.jpg) Heinali and Andriana-Yaroslava Saienko, Rewire Festival 2025; photo: Maurice Haak. Such experiences, of course, are not exclusive to history. A feeling of interconnectedness was also palpable on the opening day of the Biennial’s concert week. The performance *Гільдеґарда* (Hildegard), a collaboration between the composer and sound artist Heinali and the vocalist Andriana-Yaroslava Saienko, opened up an interpretation of two compositions by the 12th-century Benedictine nun and mystic Hildegard von Bingen. Heinali’s at times delicate, at times dramatic, drone sounds and Saienko’s unique voice made for a heavenly, heartbreaking experience. Here again the context adds another layer of significance: Saienko’s singing draws from Ukrainian folk music, which was suppressed during the Soviet era\[1\] and which is now experiencing a rise in popularity as an act of resilience amidst Russia’s attempt to erase the country’s cultural heritage.\[2\] Not all connections work so felicitously as those described above, however. That a work's inherent qualities and the context it originated from are not always in such harmony was exemplified by the second concert of the night, revealing a larger tendency in the project’s curation. Abdullah Miniawy’s *The evens, Rahma*, combined whistling, wind instruments, singing, and poetry. With its multiple elements, the performance opened up so many individual dimensions that it was difficult to perceive it as a coherent whole. This feeling of not finding a rhythm, of going in different directions rather than creating a single harmony, resonates throughout the Biennial’s curation. The exhibition’s third floor is especially reflective of this tendency. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/04_KW_Kyiv-Biennial_Concert_Abdullah-Miniawy_Credit_Andrea-Avezzu.jpg) Concert by Abdullah Miniawy. Courtesy La Biennale di Venezia © 2025\. Credit: Andrea Avezzù. For example, there the visitor encounters Aykan Safoğlu’s *1991* (2026), a partially-assembled puzzle showing a person riding a whale. It references the story of the beluga whale “Tichka”, which unfolded against the backdrop of the collapsing Soviet Union. Escaping his place of captivity in the Soviet Union twice, he ended up both times in the same Turkish seaside town, sparking media and political turmoil. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/260609_KW_Kyiv-Biennial_Aykan-Safoglu_0353_Foto-Frank-Sperling.jpg) Aykan Safoğlu, **1991*, 2026\. Courtesy the artist. Installation view of the exhibition Kyiv Biennial – A Bird That Cannot Land at KW Institute for Contemporary Art, Berlin 2026\. Photo: Frank Sperling. On the same floor, Anna Zvyagintseva’s series *The Order of Things* (2015-) deals with the collapse of order following the beginning of Russia’s invasion in 2014\. Everyday scenes are illustrated in the form of incomplete drawings made from wire attached to the wall; their missing parts are arrayed on the floor in front of the works. In the middle of the same room, Neda Saeedi presents her take on Mutter Heimat, the statue that forms part of Berlin’s Soviet War Memorial at Treptower Park. Her work, *Abyssal Zone* (2026), shows fragments of the monument molded in colored glass. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/260609_KW_Kyiv-Biennial_Anna-Zvyagintseva_0019_Foto-Frank-Sperling.jpg) Anna Zvyagintseva, **The Order of Things* (2015-). Foto Frank Sperling. KW, Kyiv Biennial. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/260609_KW_Kyiv-Biennial_Neda-Saeedi_0341_Foto-Frank-Sperling.jpg) Neda Saeedi, **Abyssal Zone* (2026). Foto Frank Sperling. KW, Kyiv Biennial. While these artists and their artworks are important voices to better understand the underlying conflicts, why do they feel dissonant in this context? As highly literal metaphors for rootlessness, displacement, and disorientation, what is most present in these works is the portrayal of a collapsing order. What feelings arise under such circumstances? What unites the artists in their shared experience of collapsing orders? What might be coping mechanisms in such situations? Answers remain opaque. Positions that might be evident throughout the respective artists’ oeuvres do not become evident in the combination of the individual works on view. In the arrangement at KW, they rather compete to tell their part of the story than to function as pieces of a puzzle highlighting a common experience. The three works described above come to take on the aura of token props, included to represent yet another conflict. Their narratives, however, are too closed off to contribute to a broader curatorial narrative. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/260609_KW_Kyiv-Biennial_Hito-Steyerl-Philipp-Goll_0238_Foto-Frank-Sperling.jpg) Hito Steyerl & Philipp Goll, **Trassniki*, 2026\. Courtesy the artists. Installation view of the exhibition Kyiv Biennial – A Bird That Cannot Land at KW Institute for Contemporary Art, Berlin 2026\. Photo: Frank Sperling. This same pitfall in favoring content over carving out a clear storyline is also present on the exhibition’s first floor, albeit in a different form. The display comprises a trio of video installations including Hito Steyerl’s *THE LEAK* (2024), investigating the political history of gas pipelines connecting Russia and Germany, as well as Steyerl and Philipp Goll’s video *Trassniki* (2026), featuring interviews with workers involved in the building of the pipelines and their surrounding infrastructure, and Oleksiy Radynski’s Where Russia Ends (2024), an essayistic documentary diving into Russia’s imperialist past by exploring its exploitation of Indigenous people across Siberia and the Far North. These fact-heavy works are important contributions to a dissection of the Soviet Union and Russia’s imperialist practices, but without further contextualization, they are simultaneously too complex and content-driven to elicit an intuitive response, as well as being too aestheticized in their execution to really educate the viewer. A discrete exhibition on the topic—featuring a diversity of works and substantive contextualisation—would be able to resolve this tension and to unpack its significance, but in the context of this exhibition, the works represent loose threads rather than fils rouges of a unified narrative. A further example of the curation’s unfortunate tendency of including conflicts to “tick boxes” without providing them the space and context they require was Anne Ehrenstein and Yara Mekawei’s performance lecture *The Cloud Is Still Balkanized*. Its first part, touching on Ehrenstein’s Albanian heritage and the country’s difficult path to joining the EU, made great use of humor to expose the EU’s moral double standards. The second part, a meditation guided by Ehrenstein and accompanied by ambient music mixed by Mekawei, touched on a wide array of issues from “technocratic white supremacy” to giving back colonized land, and asserted that “modernity was not built by invention but erasure”. Such topics would fit easily into the Biennial’s discursive program, but they demand proper attention—not simply to be name-dropped in a darkened room filled with ambient music and half-asleep participants. In many ways, this performance reflected a kind of counter-theme running through the entire project: content being stacked without the necessary effort being made to unpack it, not giving the works the care and attention needed to truly engage with them. In today’s circumstances of war, the Kyiv Biennial finds itself again in the international spotlight. The approach adopted, to use this attention not only to shed light on Ukraine's suffering, but to further discourse on a larger geopoliticized region, reflects an honorable solidarity and it also represents a powerful opportunity. Its execution, unfortunately, does not measure up to the demands of the task. “A Bird that Cannot Land” feels like a project that is conscious of its responsibility but unable to cope with the pressure that it generates, trying to play it safe by including as many perspectives as possible and in doing so losing any sense of a clear vision. What remains is the bleak reassurance that we live in a world of crisis and suffering. The potential of opening up a new, shared perspective, however, never coheres. // **Footnotes** \[1\] Maria Sonevytsky, “Гільдеґарда (Hildegard), Heinali / Andriana-Yaroslava Saienko,” Pitchfork, June 3, 2025, [https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/heinali-andriana-yaroslava-saienko-gildegarda/](https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/heinali-andriana-yaroslava-saienko-gildegarda/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[2\] Constant Méheut and Daria Mitiuk, “As Ukraine Rebuilds Its Identity, Folk Songs Are the New Cool,” New York Times, June 5, 2024, [https://www.nytimes.com/2024/06/05/arts/music/ukraine-folk-music.html](https://www.nytimes.com/2024/06/05/arts/music/ukraine-folk-music.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *Jonas Sanden is a writer based in Berlin. He is the founder and editor of the art magazine Additive.* ### What's Left Unseen, We Must Point Out URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/review-of-what-knots-knot-knots-noorderlicht-art-space/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T15:46:11.000Z Walking down one of Groningen’s main streets toward the Noorderlicht art space, I couldn't help but notice the number of “ethnic” shops selling “African” goods and foods. Some of them reconstruct the architecture and furniture style of the cultures they represented: a grocery shop styled as a souk, its bright yellow façade designed to resemble the entrance of a generic, traditional “Arabic” market. Groningen, in the northern part of the Netherlands, is a city of circa 238,147 inhabitants, many of them students drawn by its university. One can walk its historical center in fifteen minutes before entering a green and quiet residential area. Against that backdrop, the number of Indonesian, Vietnamese, and West African shops felt strikingly disproportionate, competing as they do with the big franchises and cheese manufacturers for which the region is known. But we know that their presence speaks to a continuity of history, in the Netherlands’ case, a colonial one. It was this continuity, and its hold on the present, that the curators Musoke Nalwoga and Roosje Klap, in collaboration with Koen Bartijn, set out to bring to the surface through “What Knots Knot Knots”, a three-venue exhibition in which eight artists were invited to create new work based on research into local archives and stories from the region. The artists on show refuse to abide by the colonial apologetic function of the archive. Instead, they reclaim ways to narrate their own stories: dispossessed, diasporic, overshadowed, yet encoded right there among the urban centers of the towns and in the land around them. These stories are the knots that need to be knotted: dots in a cartography of absence overlaying the geography of the Netherlands, one the exhibition traces across three locations in three regions, Drenthe, Groningen, and Friesland. ### **Groningen** At Noorderlicht, a space where photography and lens-based media find not just priority but critical articulation through their productive and reproductive roles in identity, I met work by Ofri Cnaani and Yeb Wiersma. I spent a good deal of time with Cnaani’s video installation, *Re-Collect, Re-Correlate, Re-colonise* (2026), a poetic inquiry into the epigenetics of trauma and its somatic manifestations. Told in the first person, the work follows the condition of MCTD, a disease that stiffens muscles and places pressure on the heart, accompanied by the formation of keloids, or scar tissue on the skin. It’s a condition that often affects African people, resembling, as the artist points out, the scars left by the torture of whipping during plantation enslavement. The body becomes a counter-archive of that violence, narrowing the gap between temporalities and the bodily experience of slavery: an uncensorable trace. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WKKK-I-Groningen-galerie-Ofri-Cnaani-2159-Hanne-van-der-Velde-LOW-1.jpg) Ofri Cnaani, **Re-Collect, Re-Correlate, Re-colonise* (2026). © Hanne van der Velde. Yeb Wiersma’s installation *Garden Rehearsals* (2026) moves the archive in the direction of the non-human, departing from the ecotect garden Louis le Roy created in Groningen in 1970, a model of contested architecture and contradiction, where wilderness and coexistence were nurtured amid plunder and extraction. The garden sits in the suburb of Lewenborg, named after Evert Lewe, a shareholder of the West-Indische Compagnie (WIC). From this site, and with the support of the neighborhood's community, Wiersma built a template for a collective living archive: printed material and small objects, poetic fragments, and stories of resistance to the land's exploitation, gathered from indentured laborers brought through the region via the logistics of newly built railways. The installation is woven together with vines, a symbol both of migrant communities’ resilience and of a disruption to that same linear logistics. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Noorderlicht-What-Knots-Knot-Knots-05-07-2026-9133-1.jpg) Yeb Wiersma, **Garden Rehearsals* (2026). Not part of the official show, but a resonant contribution to understanding Groningen’s role in colonial trade nonetheless, was a vlog by Marlot Geschiedenis and the "young director," which follows them on the trail of Jan Albert Sichterman, a director of the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) who lived in Groningen in the eighteenth century. He enriched himself through colonialism, and, as a way of displaying his power, built a large house on the Ossenmarkt, the porch of which was held up by two statues of enslaved people, an open and unselfconscious representation of the labor that sustained the wealth reaching Europe. That porch was later dismantled, and its memory now lives only in archives and old photographs, removed apparently out of shame or decency. The vlog also traces the history of Westerbork Camp, a labor camp to which, in the twentieth century, Moluccan Royal Netherlands East Indies Army (KNIL) soldiers and their families were sent after serving alongside the Dutch in the war against Indonesian independence—the site had also served as a Jewish ghetto before it was finally dismantled in 1975\. The vlog moves through what remains: nothing, beyond a few sparse markers. Erased from the space like Sichterman’s statues, but kept alive through interviews with the people who lived there and who still recall its dehumanizing conditions. We see here, ingrained in Dutch memory culture, a force contrary to that guiding the exhibition: an impulse toward obscuring the past. One of the vlog’s closing scenes lands on a striking question: isn’t it strange that a place so violent and degrading also held tenderness and familiarity for those living in it? The question stayed with me next to Cnaani's keloids and Sichterman's dismantled porch, of modernity built by excluding and segregating those who built it, subjugation staged to affirm racial and rational superiority, and still, underneath, forms of resistance and tenderness insisting on agency, subjecthood, humanity. It is the erasure of these locations, still filling Groningen’s public space, that makes What Knots Knot Knots feel urgent: not simply a call to remember, but to *re-memorize*, to bring these histories back into consciousness on different terms. ### **Friesland** This thought travelled with me to the second venue. A train crossing pastures dotted with cows brought me to Friesland, to VHDG, a historical artist-led space in Leeuwarden hosting work by Cihad Caner, Thato Toeba, and Jori(k) A. Galama. Here, the exhibition clearly resonates with its rural surroundings. *Yntolerânsje* (2026), Galama’s video work, is a half-fictional documentary that uncannily narrates Dutch colonialism through the displacement of cows. Frisian livestock were indeed exported across the colonies by means of Western logistics, inevitably altering the landscapes in which they arrived. The work imagines the cows as “co-whisperers,” telling the story themselves, living evidence of that past: the dairy and cattle industry as a means of expanding colonial economies worldwide—even into populations that were largely lactose intolerant. Milk, the video confirms, is a core European commodity. What stuck with me in particular were found images from a cartoon in which the cows were always black and the milk was always white, overflowing to reach everywhere, a representation that made me think of the underlying exploitative relations with racialized populations: those milked of their labor, culture, and territory to produce wealth for their subjugators. Frisian cows are everywhere now, a livestock that still represents Dutch power, a small, permanent monument to the fact that colonialism is formally over but never quite finished. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/what-knots-knot-knots-opening-gerben-vernhout-dsc06061jpg_55381343104_o-1.jpg) Jori(k) A. Galama, **Yntolerânsje* (2026). Thato Toeba’s installation *you are cold. you are warm* (2026) continues in this register: a series of wooden panels, one after another, printed with photomontages, some parts cut out so that the panel behind shows through. The photomontage roams the photographic archive of Historisch Centrum Leeuwarden to rescue traces of the infrastructural apparatus that supported the enslavement of people around the world, an infrastructure that is not only physical and tangible but epistemological and ontological as well. It needs to flatten the “other”, the racialized person, into the role of the slave, and set it against the “civilized” subject, which, in the Netherlands, was the bourgeois Christian (unquestionably white). Here, the question of the archive is the question of the production of subjectivity: the archive produces by safeguarding the right to existence and the right to remembrance, while it negates by obscuring those very rights. The photomontage depicts Black sociality, Black lives, but what we see, and how we see it through the woodcuts, depends on how we position ourselves. A question of positionality and perspective: who is entitled to look and remember, and who must perform visibility to become visible. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/what-knots-knot-knots-opening-gerben-vernhout-dsc05996jpg_55380221667_o-1.jpg) Thato Toeba, **you are cold. you are warm* (2026). The last work in the space was Cihad Caner’s wood-engraved installation *Hooft, Dulband, Sylvestris* (2026), which departs from an inquiry into the public space of Leeuwarden and how it discloses layers of contested history. A gable stone in the town depicts an idealized image of a Turkish person wearing a turban. The figure seems out of place, but it isn’t: another symbol has been naturalized as Dutch, not unlike the Dutch icon of the tulip, imported into the Netherlands in the seventeenth century and long since folded into the state’s national identity. Tulip and turban, it so happens, share a root word: tülbent, another thread linking the symbolic and physical displacement of bodies, ecologies, and cultures. Turkish people came to the Netherlands in sizeable numbers as guest workers after the Second World War, a migratory flow that only slowed in the 1970s after a recruitment halt. Their presence here was both obscured and mythologized, something Caner’s installation honors well in an intricate bas-relief bringing tulip and Turkish person together on a journey of re-signification. The work is accompanied by the reproduction of a historical pamphlet that traces the making of the image of the Turkish migrant worker in Dutch society, its exoticization and alienation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/what-knots-knot-knots-opening-gerben-vernhout-dsc06008jpg_55381342389_o-1.jpg) Cihad Caner, **Hooft, Dulband, Sylvestris* (2026). Looking across the two venues, what greatly interests me is that the archive isn't handled in the same way twice, and the differences feel formal as much as conceptual. In Toeba’s and Wiersma’s work, the archive is reappropriated but stays within its own vocabulary: Toeba cuts into and layers reproductions from the Historisch Centrum Leeuwarden, panels built from other images, but still recognizably documents. Wiersma’s living archive of print material and vines formally echoes the archive’s own logic of accumulation and index, even as it grows toward recomposition with the non-human. Cnaani, Caner, and Galama instead take the archive and manipulate it into a new light, displacing it into its own materiality. Cnaani translates archival trauma directly into the body; the keloid and the stiffened muscle become the archive, no longer paper but flesh. Caner moves the gable stone and the migrant-worker pamphlet into wood engraving, a new material register entirely. Galama does something similar with the colonial trade record, translating it into the living, breathing materiality of the cow itself. Where Toeba and Wiersma rework conceptually the archive from within, Cnaani, Caner, and Galama carry it elsewhere, into skin, wood, and livestock, until the history of the material itself becomes meaningful too. ### **Toward a third venue, I didn’t make it, but I made it towards consciousness** I didn’t make it to the last venue in Drenthe, where work by Koos Breukel and Ana Guedes opens the wound of a haunted space further, one of complicity with genocide against Jews. Westerbork Camp, which I’d only known about through the vlog at Noorderlicht, was in fact a transit site for Jews destined for extermination camps across Germany. Everything around me already felt weighed down by grievance, an unwitnessed density I could feel even from where I stood. The exhibition’s fragmentation, demanding to be traversed through movement, is what gave it a spatial awareness that points beyond the shows themselves, into the urban and rural landscapes of the Netherlands, where architecture, infrastructure, and symbols speak to the continuous struggle of narrating and feeling history differently. Its multiple storylines and entry points, each departing critically from the colonial archive, ask whether the nation’s colonial subconscious can be awakened where meaning and knowledge, selected by bloody hands, still burn. What the exhibition ultimately trys to unsettle, I think, is the platitude of the “civilized subject” against which the racialized “other” is always measured: in the souks and Arabic markets recreated for consumption, in the milk moving seamlessly from Frisian pasture to international tables, in the very same Western logistics that once carried enslaved bodies and colonial goods, now rebranded as tourism and heritage, running at a similar efficiency. That logistics never announces itself as violence; it just flows, the way platitudes do, without a face, an invisible hand behind it. What stays with me is a question of noticing and relating, as a way of disrupting this logistics, of pointing to each other’s absence over monumentalism: in what is displayed and in what keeps moving, unremarked, through the pipeline we call history. // *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### SPY Story URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/spy-story/ Last updated: 2026-09-13T14:47:58.000Z Since October 2025, **Arts of the Working Class** (AWC) and **Refuge Worldwide** in Berlin, together with **Energie Alter-native** in Palermo, have been building **SPY STORY**, an ERASMUS+-supported project that invites young adults (18 -35 yo) to push back against disinformation through the art of storytelling. The project starts from a set of questions that feel more urgent by the day, as fake news, propaganda, and AI-generated content spread further into our lives: What narratives keep getting co-opted, twisted, or turned into tools of manipulation? What do we already know, in ourselves, in our communities, that could be used instead to tell stories that are honest and caring? And what tools, what allies, do we need to bring that knowledge into the light? Since meeting in Berlin and Palermo, the three partners have been shaping an open-source toolkit built around three methodologies, each rooted in a guiding question: What matters locally? What connects to a wider European conversation? And what can actually be verified, dug into, and told with depth? Out of that groundwork, each city is now opening its doors, inviting **30 people per partner** to take part in a five-day course in podcast-making, zine-making, or both, depending on the city. In Berlin, **Refuge Worldwide**, a community radio, will guide participants through podcasting **from 7 to 11 September**. **Arts of the Working Class** will lead the zine-making strand, **from 9 to 13 September 2026**, drawing on its roots as a print and digital newspaper. In Palermo, the cultural association **Energie Alter-native** will open both formats to participants, with the event running **in October 2026**, with dates to be confirmed. **The courses are free to join, though full attendance across all five days is required to take par**t. Refuge Worldwide will host the workshop at its venue in the Neukölln district of Berlin; Arts of the Working Class will hold the workshop at Haus der Visionäre as part of the Soft Power Festival, a special program during Berlin Art Week. Energie Alter-native in a dedicated location in Palermo. Stay tuned for more info. Workshops will be conducted by Arts of the Working Class in English and German, Refuge Worldwide in English and German, and Energie Alternative in Italian. This call is for people who see themselves, or their communities, reflected in the distortions of media disinformation and propaganda, and who don't just want to name that experience, but to take the pen (or mic) and tell it differently. If that's you, and you work in art, music, communication, or journalism, this is an open invitation to apply. **Apply to the Arts of the Working Class workshop (Sept 9-13, Berlin) by filling out this** [**FORM.** ](https://tally.so/r/PdWzW1?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)Visit our partners' websites to enroll in theirs. Deadline to apply: **August 20** Selection process: Shortlisted applicants will be contacted by email by August 25\. If you are not selected, we will let you know regardless. Questions? Reach out to Dalia Maini: dm@artsoftheworkingclass.org \* *Von der Europäischen Union finanziert. Die geäußerten Ansichten und Meinungen entsprechen jedoch ausschließlich denen des Autors bzw. der Autoren und spiegeln nicht zwingend die der Europäischen Union oder der Europäischen Exekutivagentur für Bildung und Kultur (EACEA) wider. Weder die Europäische Union noch die EACEA können dafür verantwortlich gemacht werden.* *Funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however, those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Education and Culture Executive Agency (EACEA). Neither the European Union nor EACEA can be held responsible for them.* *Finanziato dall'Unione europea. Le opinioni espresse appartengono, tuttavia, al solo o ai soli autori e non riflettono necessariamente le opinioni dell'Unione europea o dell’Agenzia esecutiva europea per l’istruzione e la cultura (EACEA). Né l'Unione europea né l'EACEA possono esserne ritenute responsabili.* // ### Linguistica del Tecnofascismo URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/linguistica-del-tecnofascismo-paolo-caffoni/ Last updated: 2026-09-13T14:34:10.000Z Per Giacomo Leopardi, “chiamare le cose coi loro nomi” era una colpa non perdonata dal genere umano, “il quale non odia mai tanto chi fa male, né il male stesso, quanto chi lo nomina.” Quella del poeta di Recanati più che una riflessione morale è una descrizione della funzione pubblica della parola, intesa come atto di nominazione che modifica i rapporti sociali: “In modo che più volte, mentre chi fa male ottiene ricchezze, onori e potenza, chi lo nomina è strascinato in sui patiboli, essendo gli uomini prontissimi a sofferire o dagli altri o dal cielo qualunque cosa, purché in parole ne sieno salvi.” In termini moderni potremmo dire che Leopardi stesse tematizzando il rapporto fra verità e consenso sociale, ma la sua formulazione presuppone ancora un mondo in cui esiste una corrispondenza relativamente stabile fra cose e parole. Oggi viviamo invece in un regime di inflazione semiotica, in cui a “nominare il male” sono spesso gli stessi soggetti che ne traggono vantaggio. Così, quando il tecno-miliardario Peter Thiel, cofondatore di Palantir e PayPal, ricorre alla figura dell’Anticristo nelle sue lezioni sul futuro dell’ordine economico globale, o quando il vicepresidente statunitense Vance evoca il “pericolo dall’interno” per le democrazie occidentali durante la Conferenza sulla sicurezza di Monaco del 2025, il riferimento al male assolve soprattutto una funzione linguistico-performativa. Non descrive il conflitto in quanto tale, ma ne trasforma la grammatica. Traduce complesse contrapposizioni sociali e istituzionali legate alla concentrazione del potere nelle piattaforme in antagonismi manichei tra forze “identificabili” in cui spesso il carnefice assume le sembianze della vittima. Come comprendere, allora, questa torsione del linguaggio? Le voci critiche del capitalismo digitale e della governance algoritmica ricorrono sempre più spesso ad analogie storiche per descrivere la concentrazione del potere attorno a piattaforme tecnologiche. Tra queste, il termine tecnofascismo, talvolta affiancato da tecno-nazionalismo o tecno-autoritarismo, tenta di nominare una trasformazione politica che sembra eccedere le categorie dell’analisi neoliberale. Si potrebbe leggere il tecnofascismo come l’ennesima analogia storica applicata al presente. Ma questa risposta è insufficiente. Il termine ricorre proprio perché entra in crisi la stabilità della corrispondenza fra nominazione e rapporto di potere, è un tentativo di stabilizzare un campo linguistico in subbuglio. Ma questa instabilità non può essere compresa soltanto sul piano della retorica politica. Essa coincide con un mutamento delle tecnologie del linguaggio, che modificano le condizioni stesse della produzione del significato. La semplice analogia tra “fascismo classico” e presente è stata criticata a più riprese da Alberto Toscano. Il suo concetto di “tardo fascismo” non descrive una ripetizione del passato, ma la persistenza e la ricombinazione di temporalità eterogenee. In questa prospettiva, il fascismo non appare come un blocco unitario, bensì come una formazione diseguale attraversata da tempi non sincronici. In questa direzione si è mosso anche Umberto Eco, che non considerava il fascismo un oggetto storico stabile, bensì una costellazione di ricombinazioni semiotiche. Il fascismo di Mussolini, per Eco, non era una filosofia coerente, ma un collage retorico e ideologico. Il “fascismo eterno” (o ur-fascismo), secondo Eco, è un insieme flessibile di tratti ricorrenti che possono comparire in combinazioni diverse e rendere il fascismo riconoscibile anche al di fuori della sua forma storica originaria. Come scriveva Eco, il termine ‘fascismo’ si adatta a tutto “perché è possibile eliminare uno o più aspetti da un regime fascista e questo resterà comunque riconoscibilmente fascista. \[…\] Rimuovi la dimensione imperialista dal fascismo, e ottieni Franco o Salazar \[…\]. Aggiungi al fascismo italiano un pizzico di anticapitalismo radicale (che non ha mai attratto Mussolini), e ottieni Ezra Pound.” Non esiste dunque un’essenza unica del fascismo, ma una logica di riconoscimento fondata su somiglianze parziali; tuttavia, la presenza anche di uno solo di questi elementi è sufficiente perché una nebulosa fascista inizi a coagularsi. Si apre allora un ulteriore problema: se il fascismo non è una dottrina coerente, ma una costellazione eterogenea di tempi e segni, che cosa significa chiamare qualcosa “tecnofascismo”? Alcune ipotesi contemporanee hanno cercato di descrivere il tecnofascismo nei termini anticipati da Eco. Gregory Chatonsky, per esempio, interpreta il “fascismo vettoriale” come un’organizzazione post-alfabetica del significato. Nella cultura alfabetica il senso si struttura attraverso sequenze lineari e opposizioni stabili, inclusa la distinzione tra vero e falso; in un regime vettoriale, invece, emerge dalla posizione occupata all’interno di uno spazio multidimensionale, secondo una logica di prossimità e correlazione più che di contraddizione. In questo quadro, piattaforme come Truth Social, ormai uno dei principali canali di comunicazione politica nell’ecosistema trumpiano, mostrano come la produzione di consenso sociale non dipenda più dalla verifica degli enunciati, ma dalla loro posizione nello spazio di circolazione algoritmica. L’apparente incoerenza culturale di discorsi attraversati da “fake news” non ne indebolisce l’enunciazione, al contrario, può risultare coerente con la logica di distribuzione dello spazio vettoriale in cui tali enunciati vengono posizionati. Il nome tecnofascismo non descrive così né un regime ideologico classico né l’ontologia dei sistemi computazionali in quanto tali, ma il modo in cui la semiosi del fascismo opera attraverso spazi vettoriali. La trasformazione della parola in unità ambigua e potenzialmente ingannevole è un tema ancora poco discusso nelle analisi dei processi di automazione del linguaggio. Il funzionamento opaco della governance algoritmica, la natura a “scatola nera” dei sistemi di decisione automatizzata e la crisi della referenzialità del testo producono simultaneamente un linguaggio al tempo stesso immediato e indecifrabile. Le fasi di accelerazione tecnologica sono sempre accompagnate da una trasformazione del rapporto fra linguaggio e mondo. “Tecnofascismo” non è dunque (solo) un’etichetta politica, ma un termine che emerge da questa crisi della nominazione. Chiamare le cose con il loro nome non è mai stato così difficile, perché la riuscita dell’atto di nominazione dipende ormai da infrastrutture tecniche che organizzano il riconoscimento delle parole. Alla linguistica del tecnofascismo resta forse da opporre solo il coraggio di trovare nuovi luoghi e modi di dire il vero. // *Paolo Caffoni è un ricercatore che si occupa di linguaggio, IA e traduzione alla Hochschule für Gestaltung di Karlsruhe e all’Università Ca’ Foscari di Venezia. La sua ricerca si concentra sul lavoro linguistico e sulle condizioni materiali delle tecnologie della traduzione.* ### Art Space to Practice Justice URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/art-space-to-practice-justice-lydia-markaki/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:34:49.000Z An art space is often understood as a place for exhibitions, presentations and artistic showcases, often detached from the developments of the world. Yet, in a world marked by war, conflicts, displacement, violence and extreme inequalities, an art space can, and should, strive to operate also as a space in which to practice justice. While writing these lines, I accidentally typed “care” instead of “justice”. This Freudian slip, articulated and carried via the mediation of a keyboard, reveals the intricate relationship between art and justice in connection with care. In the specific case of an art space, the question of justice becomes first and foremost a question of care. Care for the world’s struggles. Care for the artist. Care for the cultural workers. Care for other art spaces. Care for the marginalized, and, through acts of care and a care-full approach, the practicing of justice. In this practice of justice, the mere act of the representation of social issues—a trap into which one can easily fall—is unfortunately not enough. A set of words that are written down might seem void of meaning, but they need to be compasses for art institutions, words such as *accountability, repair, or collective imagination*. None of these concepts offer perfect processes, but an art space provides the freedom to create new relationships, or forms of relationships, and it can be a place where ideas can be tested and enacted. If justice is understood as a legal and juridical objective, in an art space it becomes a social practice rehearsed through cultural and artistic work. ### **The Question of Neutrality** Neutrality has become a major issue in art institutions and cultural spaces, especially in recent years, where we see a regression of progressive politics in art institutions. In a previously unthinkable statement in 2024, Rein Wolfs, Director of the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam, expressed his regret over the institution’s past political statements in connection with the war in Ukraine and even Black Lives Matter, suggesting, in hindsight, that the museum should not have taken a stance on the aforementioned issues in order to maintain its apolitical identity. These remarks were made during an afternoon public event pointedly titled *The Museum is (A)Political!* during which he was questioned about the museum’s silence on the situation in Palestine.\[1\] To think of a museum as a place where justice can be practiced, we need to move beyond the understanding of a museum, gallery, artistic or cultural space as structurally neutral. We need to question whether, under the guise of “neutrality”, art spaces actually uphold and conceal existing power structures, reproducing the same historical exclusions. Being neutral means you actively choose to move with the given status quo, giving a platform to stories that have already been told, to the epistemological reign of Western knowledge, actively denying alternative voices access to cultural resources. The idea of the neutrality of museums and art spaces dramatically devalues the potential of culture in impacting society, acknowledging inequalities that exist, and creating the conditions where different stories can be told. Practicing justice begins with denying the illusion of neutrality. ### **Justice beyond the Juridical** The notion of justice is strongly connected with legal, political, and juridical systems and processes with a focus on pure facts, evidence, and pragmatic legal approaches. Even in transitional justice processes, which are focused on the experiences of the victims, there is little room to focus on emotions, memories, and grief, and rarely is there space to practice care and repair on an emotional level beyond the juridical. Delivering justice to a community that has experienced gross human rights violations is undeniably important. But the emotional labor and surplus of trauma cannot be conveyed and respected solely through statistics and numbers; it needs the act of care. Artistic practices linked to cases of injustice around the world open up the space where emotional dimensions can become visible, shareable, and equally appreciated. What extends the culture’s contribution to issues of justice is that it is moving away from a purely factual approach. One can feel the injustice beyond statistics and facts by visceral encounters through visual culture, storytelling, performances (that give equal importance to the embodied dimensions of injustice), sounds, and the collective participation of an audience. It can create a space for justice to exist and be experienced outside a juridical or legal system, in the hope of informing it in turn. Through these processes, the art institution becomes a place where artists can explore historical violence through their media, offering communities a movement toward repair and care, while also inquiring how these violences continue to shape our everyday lives. As Lindsey Pointer and Brunilda Pali point out in their essay “Advancing restorative justice through art”, \[2\] “restorative justice needs art to ignite the restorative imagination and to advance its practice, theory and agenda.” Imagination is the main point the authors focus on in connection to both restorative justice and art. They highlight how transitional/restorative justice requires “the collective ability of a committed group of people to imagine a better future” and that this is a creative act in itself. Art, on the other hand, “moves beyond the limitations of language and can work in both advancing public knowledge and understanding of restorative justice”, and operates as a vessel of imagination. It is here that the two practices converge, in their shared drive to advance the imagination. Through processes of imagination, we also see examples whereby art can utilize not only the visual language of the juridical, but also processes of law-making and the tribunal as a form. In the *Court for Intergenerational Climate Crimes (CICC)*, a collaboration between Framer Framed Indian academic writer, lawyer, and activist Radha D’Souza and the Dutch artist Jonas Staal, we see a large-scale installation which transforms the art venue into a tribunal prosecuting intergenerational climate crimes. *CICC* hosted tribunals prosecuting Unilever, ING, Airbus and the Dutch State for their climate crimes, holding hearings in which evidence was presented by prosecutors and witnesses relating to intergenerational climate crimes committed by corporations and states. In addition to prosecutors, witnesses and the public, the tribunal included representations of extinct animals, plants, and ammonite fossils, paintings that depicted a fraction of a fraction of the species lost as a result of human activities. The images surrounded the audience—who were acting as public jury—in the arena-like installation where the performative tribunal took place. This example demonstrates how, in the same way that art can inform justice processes, juridical environments can equally inform artistic practices, creating a convergence of art, justice, and performative trial that can lead to the concrete production of justice through imagining. ### **Representation of Justice** An easy example for understanding the limitations of representation comes through acknowledging the fact that an exhibition addressing the climate crisis or the mining conditions of cobalt in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) does not automatically solve the climate crisis or improve the conditions for miners in DRC. In the same way, representing justice and social inequalities inside an art institution does not automatically lead to a more equitable institution itself. There is a double challenge that exists in redressing the external and internal justice of an institution. Art spaces that are committed to justice must also look inward; into the ways they operate. Justice is not only manifested in the decision to present issues connected to injustices; it is not only what an institution *shows* but also how an institution operates. To practice justice, it needs to center questions of decision-making, governance, labor, collaborator selection, accessibility, and even resource distribution. Who is shaping the programs? Which communities are invited, and are they part of the decision-making processes? How are conflicts within an institution being addressed? Justice is not just a thematic, “content” concern for an institution; it needs to be embedded in its function. It furthermore extends to crucial, graspable questions about how artists and cultural workers are being compensated. Some efforts have been developed in the Dutch context to provide more practical tools for creating equitable cultural spaces. One example is the Fair Practice Code,\[3\] which is a code of conduct developed for the arts, culture and creative industries. As stated on its website, it operates as a “moral compass” for the industry based on five core values: solidarity, diversity, trust, sustainability, and transparency. Another important example is the Kunstenaars Honorarium,\[4\] which is a guide for artists’ fees—for both artists and institutions—for non-commercial exhibitions. It includes a tangible calculator that computes the minimum fee per artist per exhibition, depending on the duration of the exhibition, the number of participating artists, and whether it is a new or existing work. It is not a fixed number but a starting point for an artist to negotiate. What I want to convey through these examples is that declarations of embracing justice inside an art space without practical implementation of decisions that lead to a more equitable institution equate to representing but not *practicing* justice. *What* ultimately defines an art institution as a space of justice is not a single program, focus, exhibition, or even methodology being adopted. Practicing justice is a never-ending process enacted through the structures of an institution and its everyday practices. It is the recognition that art alone and its representations of injustice are not enough to solve societal problems, and that the stance of “neutrality” in the context of an art space is a decision siding with silence before the world’s struggles. An art space can become a place where justice is not only practiced but is rehearsed, negotiated, and even challenged. Justice is an ongoing work that requires thinking critically, imagining, and acting collectively within an art space. // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. **Footnotes** 1\. Alina Lupu, “How the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam Refused to Let ‘Bakunin’s Barricade’ Be an Actual Barricade Against the Ongoing Genocide,” The Office of Alina Lupo, December 30, 2024, [https://theofficeofalinalupu.com/printed-matter/how-the-stedelijk-museum-amsterdam-refused-to-let-bakunins-barricade-be-an-actual-barricade-against-the-ongoing-genocide/](https://theofficeofalinalupu.com/printed-matter/how-the-stedelijk-museum-amsterdam-refused-to-let-bakunins-barricade-be-an-actual-barricade-against-the-ongoing-genocide/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) 2\. L. Pointer and B. Pali, “Advancing Restorative Justice Through Art,” The International Journal of Restorative Justice, 5 (3) (2022): 315-322. 3\. See: https://fairpracticecode.nl/ 4\. See: https://kunstenaarshonorarium.nl/en/ ### Con cada punto, una historia que no se olvida URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/women-affected-by-forced-sterilizations/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:34:36.000Z Participar en esta experiencia del tejido y el bordado ha sido muy significativo para mí. Allí estuvimos las mujeres de ANTA, y también tuvimos la visita de ustedes, lo cual me alegró mucho. En esos bordados estamos contando lo que fuimos antes, lo que vivimos en el momento de la ligadura y lo que ha pasado después. Cada puntada refleja la vida real de cada una de nosotras, mujeres esterilizadas contra nuestra voluntad en Anta y en otros lugares. Son historias que se repiten, dolores que compartimos, pero también fuerza que vamos tejiendo. Me ha gustado mucho ver cómo cada compañera borda su propia historia, como un recuerdo que no debe desaparecer. Ojalá estos trabajos puedan guardarse en un museo, como parte de nuestra memoria. Incluso pensamos en instalar algo así en Chumbivilcas, porque allí también hay muchas heridas, mujeres postradas en cama, sufriendo en silencio. Allí también necesitamos visibilizar, igual que aquí. He visitado el taller varias veces, ya venía antes. Hemos tenido reuniones, momentos de encuentro, y siempre veo alegría en las compañeras mientras tejen. Me conmueve ver cómo van contando, con hilo y aguja, todo lo que hemos vivido a lo largo de estos años. Hoy propusimos hacer una bandera peruana, como un símbolo de nuestra lucha. Entre todas, decidimos bordarla en tres etapas: cómo éramos antes de la ligadura, lo que vivimos durante ese momento de violencia y cómo es nuestra vida ahora. Esa bandera lleva nuestras historias, nuestra resistencia. Me ha gustado mucho porque también muestra cómo vivíamos antes: trabajando en la chacra, dedicadas a la agricultura y la ganadería, como es nuestra vida aquí en el campo. Trabajábamos duro, con orgullo. Pero después de la ligadura vino el sufrimiento: en la familia, en la comunidad. Y hasta hoy seguimos luchando, sobre todo por nuestra salud. Esta es la primera vez que doy un testimonio así, visual, a través del bordado. Antes, en Lima, hicimos una gran banderola, pero solo las que íbamos a Lima pudimos participar. En Chumbivilcas también trajeron una bandera de la institución, donde guardamos los nombres de todas las que formamos parte de este proceso. Cada una buscaba su nombre, lo encontraba, lo sentía como propio. Solo pusimos los nombres de las víctimas, para que nunca se olviden. Eso fue lo que acordamos: que nuestros nombres queden registrados, que no desaparezcan. Ahora, con este nuevo bordado en tres etapas, seguimos contando lo que fuimos, lo que nos hicieron y lo que somos hoy. Cada puntada es una voz. Y si alguien quiere saber más, aquí estamos nosotras para explicar, porque cada una tiene su historia: cómo vivió antes, cómo fue en su familia después de la ligadura, cómo sigue adelante. Todo eso está en el bordado, en nuestras palabras, en nuestra verdad. Muchas gracias por escucharnos. Muchísimas gracias. // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. ### Memory is the Landscape a Biennial Lives In URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/sonsbeek-2026-review/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:16:12.000Z The first thing Orlando Maaike Gouwenberg talks about on the bus is the traffic. I’m puzzled by what she is referring to as I look through the window. The city is tiny, and it reminds me (a bit uncannily) of *The Prisoner*, a British series in the 1960s in which a man seems unable to escape from a semi-luxurious captivity, a sort of proto-Truman Show. Nevertheless, traffic is apparent; there is an outside world. Drivers can turn their heads to the right and see Mounira Al Solh*’s And Europa fled / En Europa sloeg op de vlucht / عندما رحلت أوروبا,* bringing ancient and contemporary histories together in a single monumental figure. Floating on the Sint Jansbeek, the sculpture of a female body rises from a murex shell, the ancient creature whose purple dye brought prosperity to Phoenician societies. The population of these creatures became heavily depleted through such exploitation. Larger than human scale, the figure carries a suitcase, a mobile phone, and an oar. A Phoenician boat rests on her head. Her body is pierced by bullets. The sculpture connects histories of trade, extraction, migration, and displacement across thousands of years. Before our light turns green, history continues to travel, carried through movement, memory and survival. Before any other artwork from this year’s Sonsbeek Biennial appears, there are trees, deer, municipal decisions, residents, forgotten infrastructures, anonymous posters, and countless human and more-than-human forces that have shaped Park Sonsbeek over time. Gouwenberg speaks about the surroundings as something already inhabited by its own rhythms and forms of agency. We follow those movements under a gentle summer rain, with each step thinking about the use, care, conflict, cultivation, and change that defines a park like Sonsbeek. Listening to Gouwenberg describe the exhibition, every commission crystallizes as something entering a world already in motion. Every artist has to develop a relationship with the landscape, with Arnhem, and with the histories embedded in its ground. This approach has been central to Gouwenberg’s trajectory as a curator and producer. Across her work in international exhibitions, institutions, and alternative spaces she has repeatedly explored how art can create conditions for encounters between different forms of knowledge, communities, and histories. Her practice has often focused on the spaces between disciplines and between people: the moments where an artwork becomes a meeting point rather than a singular statement. At Sonsbeek 2026, this way of thinking becomes inseparable from the exhibition’s own history and the stories the invited curators carry along with them. For the thirteenth edition of Sonsbeek, Amira Gad and Christina Li formulate approaches that reflect on the contribution of art to civic life, and thus to the origins of this exhibition of art in the public space. In 1949, Arnhem was a city rebuilding after the devastation of the Second World War. The municipality initiated Sonsbeek as a freely accessible outdoor exhibition, inviting people back into shared space at a moment when cultural infrastructures had been damaged and collective life was being reconstructed. Art offered a way to gather, to imagine renewal, and to reconnect inhabitants with the city around them. Seventy-seven years later, Sonsbeek remains shaped by that original impulse while responding to a profoundly different landscape of crises. The exhibition emerges from a period marked by war, displacement, ecological instability, technological acceleration, and political uncertainty. Gad and Li address these tensions through the concept of memory as a living action: something continuously produced by collective attention. The history of the Sonsbeek Biennial itself is built from repeated acts of renewal. Each edition has reconsidered what public art can mean, reflecting changing ideas of publicness, participation, and shared space. The exhibition has survived through moments of interruption and transformation, carrying a fragile yet persistent belief that culture can help shape more responsible forms of collective life. For Gouwenberg, Gad, and Li, memory is forged through this process of becoming, with Park Sonsbeek providing the perfect terrain. Every path contains traces of another time. The Sint Jansbeek stream recalls the mills and industries that once depended on its water, connecting the park to Arnhem’s industrial history. The rhododendrons reveal the movement of plants across continents as well as the cultural histories attached to ideas of beauty, cultivation, and ownership. The park’s deer enclosure exposes the contradictions of a managed wilderness, where protection and control exist alongside the lines of a particular cultural pride. he park holds these histories in coexisting overlaps that keep shaping the present. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Fanja-Bouts-Sonsbeek-2026-Django-van-Ardenne.jpg) Fanja Bouts, **Landscapes looking back: More-than-human interpretations of Park Sonsbeek,* 2026 - Sonsbeek 2026\. Photo: Django van Ardenne. Fanja Bouts’ *Landscapes looking back: More-than-human interpretations of Park Sonsbeek* (2026) begins precisely from this understanding of landscape as a living archive. Four stained-glass panels framed by engraved wood are placed at significant locations throughout the park: the Sint Jansbeek stream, the rhododendron, the beech tree, and the deer camp. Each panel invites visitors to inhabit the perspective of another presence within the landscape, encouraging attention towards forms of memory that exist beyond human experience, a point of view which interests the artist. Bouts, who grew up in Arnhem, uses stained glass as the membrane that encompasses her memory of the city, and of her mother’s learning of this specific glass-making technique. Traditionally connected to sacred architecture, the material transforms the act of looking into something closer to contemplation. Nature becomes a subject of reverence while the work simultaneously questions how that reverence is constructed. Traditionally connected to sacred architecture, the material transforms the act of looking into something closer to contemplation. Nature becomes a subject of reverence while the work simultaneously questions how that reverence is constructed. The material originally belonged to Bouts’ mother, who purchased it intending to use it for another project but never did. By incorporating these unfinished materials into the commission, Bouts connects individual memory with broader questions of inheritance, transmission, and unfinished possibilities. The work becomes a meeting point between generations, species, and forms of knowledge. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Loesje-Sonsbeek-2026-Django-van-Ardenne.jpg) Loesje, **I don’t need a backyard, I share a park* \- Sonsbeek 2026\. Photo: Django van Ardenne. Nearby, Loesje’s contribution extends memory into the everyday language of the city. The Arnhem-based collective has been producing anonymous posters since 1983, creating short statements that move through public space as invitations, provocations, and reflections. Their contribution to Sonsbeek includes a mural on De Rentmeesterswoning and a timeline of posters at Arnhem’s Rembrandt Theater, tracing decades of collective writing. *I don’t need a backyard, I share a park*, reads the facade of one of the historical buildings of the park, capturing the spirit of the exhibition. A “backyard”, of course, belongs to an individual and is shaped by boundaries and personal decisions. A park exists through shared presence. It is brought to life by different people carrying different memories into the same space. The phrase also reflects Loesje’s wider political history. The collective has addressed war, freedom of expression, social inequality, and political change through anonymous public writing. The absence of individual authorship allows their words to circulate as a collective voice. During their research, the curators discovered the slogan in Loesje’s archives and later learned it had emerged from Arnhem’s pride in Park Sonsbeek itself. Bringing it back into the landscape becomes an act of continuation: a sentence produced in the city returning to the place that inspired it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Korakrit-Arunanondchai-Sonsbeek-2026-Django-van-Ardenne.jpg) Korakrit Arunanondchai, **With a history in a room filled with people with funny names 4; Will you find beauty in this sea of data? We left it behind just for you. A cloud that will rain down on your skin. And absorb into your body*, 2026 - Sonsbeek 2026\. Photo: Django van Ardenne. At Platform POST, memory takes another form through artists exploring how experiences are reconstructed. Korakrit Arunanondchai’s installation moves between grief, ritual, technology, and ecological transformation. Revisiting a 2017 work, the artist extends his exploration of globalization and belief systems against a landscape where human traces slowly disappear into other forms of life. A giant rat appears, for example, as a figure from a possible future, referencing the idea of a sixth global extinction in which only certain adaptable species survive. Around it, ritual objects made from banana leaves and found materials are gradually reclaimed by plants. A buried instrument vibrates beneath the installation, creating a physical sensation that moves between quiet presence and sudden disruption. The work treats memory as something that circulates through bodies and environments. Objects carry emotional histories. Landscapes absorb human actions. Forgetting becomes part of a larger process of transformation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Forensic-Architecture-Sonsbeek-2026-Marjon-Gemmeke.jpg) Forensic Architecture, **Situated Testimonies*, 2022 - Sonsbeek 2026\. Photo: Marjon Gemmeke. Forensic Architecture’s contribution approaches memory through investigation and reconstruction. The collective, founded in 2010 and based at Goldsmiths at the University of London, develops research methods that combine architecture, technology, testimony, and material evidence. Their presentation at POST focuses on how memories of violence can be retrieved through objects, spaces, and collective testimony. Their object library relating to the Grenfell Tower fire of 2017 demonstrates how fragments of debris can become witnesses. Materials are not simply passive remnants; they can participate in reconstructing histories. Through digital models and spatial analysis, Forensic Architecture develops alternative ways of understanding historical narratives that remain contested. Their investigations into colonial violence in Namibia, for instance, similarly demonstrate how memory is manifested through collective testimony. Historical understanding emerges through the integration of multiple forms of evidence. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Puppies-Puppies-Sonsbeek-2026-Django-van-Ardenne.jpg) Puppies Puppies, **Please do not abbreviate or shorten this title • it is just as important as the work itself • This work is evidence • a mark • that I fought • through my expression • through my voice • through my protests • for people to acknowledge • that I am a woman • my chromosomes • my genitalia • the sex I was assigned at birth do not determine my gender • they do not make me any less of a woman • OUR EXISTENCE AS TRANS WOMEN • TRANS PEOPLE • IS NOT UP FOR DEBATE • WE SHOULD NOT BE TREATED AS LESS THAN • WE DESERVE RESPECT AND UNDERSTANDING • WE DESERVE TO HAVE HEALTHCARE • WE DESERVE TO HAVE HOUSING • WE DESERVE TO WALK OUT THE DOOR WITHOUT THE FEAR OF HARM OR DEATH • WE DESERVE TO BE OURSELVES • WE DESERVE TO LAVISH IN WHO WE ARE • and we deserve equity not just equality • I learned from my Trancestors • to not shrink in the face of violence • erasure • discrimination • for so many trans people • our starting line is not the same as our cis counterparts • this should be acknowledged and accounted for • there’s a reason we aren’t in many slightly older art history books • there’s a reason I never felt mirrored when studying art • we were never let into any of these spaces (not that long ago) • with Sylvia Rivera as my guiding light • I will demand what I deserve • I will be vocal • I won’t be stepped on • I am a Puerto Rican Japanese Indigenous Trans Woman • I am made in the image of a higher spirit/entity • my body was shaped • molded • and my existence is art • (as are the other trans people on this planet) • it’s quite frankly a miracle that I’m here today • a brain tumor survivor • a rape survivor • a survivor of all that went against me • and every obstacle • my presence • is in this sculpture • performing in my absence • I am a woman • and no one can ever take that from me (this is my body being handed over to many people • to be used • to be sold • to be exhibited • to be exchanged • and this is not lost on me • it’s a part of the work) • Hahom,* 2026 - Sonsbeek 2026\. Photo: Django van Ardenne. Puppies Puppies’ *Hahom* (2026) turns attention towards the politics of the body. Cast in bronze from a 3D scan of the artist’s body after top surgery, the sculpture continues a longstanding personal and social exploration of trans visibility. Bronze has traditionally been used by artists to preserve bodies and commemorate figures considered historically significant. Here, the sculpture carries the memory of self-definition. It insists on presence while remaining connected to transformation. The body becomes evidence, and possibility. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Alvaro-Barrington-Sonsbeek-2026-Django-van-Ardenne.jpg) Alvaro Barrington, **To Be Heard* \- Sonsbeek 2026\. Photo: Django van Ardenne. Alvaro Barrington’s pavilion, *To Be Heard*, introduces another form of memory: memory created through attention. The structure invites visitors to sit and to listen, yet there is no programmed soundtrack. Instead, the work opens space for the sound of leaves moving in the wind, footsteps, distant sounds, and the subtle rhythms of being present. In its way, Barrington’s pavilion evokes the famous ‘dream machine’ device, a kind of modified lamp with a special rotating shade purported to evoke unique psychic states when a viewer sits in a room illuminated by it. The device, employed famously by William S. Burroughs, Kurt Cobain, and other creative luminaries, is believed to unlock forms of creativity embedded in the mind; Barrington’s pavilion, however, finds such potential latent in space itself. The pavilion is architectural and social at once: it creates shelter while encouraging awareness of the surrounding environment. Barrington suggests that listening is a way of entering into relation with the place and with others. At Museum Arnhem, the sculptures of Esma Yiğitoğlu extend the exhibition’s exploration of memory through material transformation. Born in Zincidere, Türkiye in 1944 and later based in Rotterdam, Yiğitoğlu developed a practice shaped by Sufi philosophy, Islamic architectural forms, and Western art history. Working with paper pulp, loam, terracotta, straw, bamboo, rope, and textiles, she created forms that exist between categories: between the human and the animal, the material and the spiritual, and between past and present. Her sculptures, resembling the forms of the towering channels cicadas use to expose themselves to the world, carry cultural memory through their substances. They appear ancient and contemporary at once, as though they have travelled through multiple histories before arriving in the exhibition space. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/On-Kawara-Sonsbeek-2026-Rozet-Marjon-Gemmeke.jpg) On Kawara, **Pure* **Consciousness,* 1998-present - Sonsbeek 2026\. Photo: Rozet - Marjon Gemmeke. The exhibition concludes with On Kawara’s *Pure* *Consciousness* (1998-present). Seven paintings from his Today series (1966-2013) enter kindergarten classrooms in Arnhem, where children encounter them without advance explanation. Adults are asked not to interpret the works or guide the children’s responses. The paintings present dates, simple records of existence. Removed from institutional explanation, they return to the moment before knowledge begins organizing experience. The children encounter the paintings through direct perception, before memory has accumulated its frameworks. After moving through landscapes, bodies, materials, and histories, Kawara arrives at the origin of memory itself: the moment of attention. The kind of attention to simple presence the *Today* series represents functions as a kind of summation of the Sonsbeek experience. The Biennial presents works by artists deeply concerned with the dynamics and consequences of attention, what we perceive and how we perceive it. The need to “attend” in a fundamental sense may seem like a futile hope in a world overwhelmed by proliferating information and a decreasing sense of agency, but in Arnhem, in the presence of these works, it becomes possible to imagine a way back towards a sense of coherence and of agency. It is a process that begins with becoming aware of oneself and one’s place in the world. This most perilous of contemporary journeys starts from that (not so simple) point. // ### Transitional Justice Glossary URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/transformative-justice/ Last updated: 2026-10-15T15:57:53.000Z ### ***Representing*** A tool of liberation and empowerment, or of oppression and exclusion, depending on its use. In failing to pay attention to what and who is represented and how, we come to understand the world only through the perspective of those privileged enough to have their experiences amplified. The process of representing brings with it the chance to change the position from which the narrative is told, to shape whose experience matters. Sometimes representation impoverishes and must be refused. ### ***Storytelling*** Telling stories and mobilizing story-making allows us to communicate ideas and experiences through a process of shared imagination, but also to open possibilities for imagining new narratives. Stories are carried through generations, infused and adapted across times and contexts. The choices the storyteller makes shape which moments and characters are emphasized, and how they are framed. The listener understands and interprets the story through the lens of their own world. We continue to harness the art of storytelling—to create fleeting moments of connection through shared stories—to teach, inspire, and to invite reflection and response. ### ***Multimodal Representation*** Identifying, communicating, and responding to different kinds of injustices that occur and reoccur across different societal levels requires engagement across a variety of modes. Widening the boundaries of the types of media that are expected or accepted enables us to reach beyond our own direct experiences and networks, into the worlds of others who might otherwise be left isolated from justice movements. ### ***Collecting Evidence / Archiving*** An act of incremental gathering and arranging objects and testimony to illuminate how an event is experienced. Over time, archives accumulate great storytelling potential. Through the process of archiving, artifacts are arranged in specific constellations, where the meaning of each piece is shaped through its connection to others and to the collective whole. Archives are power. ### ***Justice Imagination*** “The exercise of imagination is dangerous to those who profit from the way things are because it has the power to show that the way things are is not permanent, not universal, not necessary”. (Ursula K. Le Guin, The Wave in the Mind, 2004). Imagination is the human faculty that has the greatest capacity to show that things can be different. It enlarges the field of social possibility and moral understanding by helping us imagine a different reality in place of the one that exists. The link between justice and imagination must be strengthened. Because it is inertia that allows the institutions of injustice to continue unquestioned, we need to claim unabashedly our right, duty, and power to imagine a different justice. ### ***Healing*** A term often used in reference to an individual’s journey towards the restoration of physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual health. Healing is important, and we are all built to heal. But society’s over-emphasis on personal healing shifts the responsibility for transformation away from institutions, towards individuals, serving to obscure structural injustices. Envisioning healing not only as a personal journey, but as a collective act empowers communities to seek answers to systemic issues that cause experiences of suffering at the individual level. As we create braver relationships and visions of liberation, we must stay committed to healing together. ### ***Building*** Building infrastructures, both physical and intangible, is an integral part of any justice movement. What is built rarely remains static, so avoiding over-emphasis on outcome is important, as is an acceptance that outcome may not always be in alignment with what was originally envisioned. Embracing imperfection and compromise helps to avoid the pitfalls of building in ways that are exclusionary. Focusing on the process allows us to maintain awareness of when we are in danger of recreating pervasive structures and where the opportunities lie for cultivating change. ### ***Repairing*** We spend most of our social and intimate existence repairing because the world we live in and the objects and relationships we create are things that break, decay, unravel, and fall to pieces. “Whether it is natural, cultural, physical, or immaterial, injury is forever linked to repair, and repair is forever linked to injury.” (Kader Attia, Repair, 2014) To be moved to repair requires us to first identify, and then to accept, what has been broken. This may not always be obvious. It may require seeking help from others to understand the harm that has been done and how it has manifested. The act of repair requires intentional engagement with pain, accountability, acknowledgment, and imagination. ### ***Remembering*** A collective responsibility to keep the experiences and teachings of the past alive and present in the social consciousness. The act of remembering, in itself, can become an act of resistance. “The State commemorates the struggles it can assimilate, take advantage of, or use to its favor, while the scars and the cracks we were able to inflict on it, the State passes off as anomalies and covers up with cosmetics.” (Anonymous anarchist, quoted in Gelderloos, 2024). ### ***Instituting*** The process of embedding an idea, tactic, practice, or movement within an emergent or pre-existing infrastructure. Institutionalisation can appropriate, dilute, or neuter the power of collective practices, rendering them tepid and non-subversive. Instituting reimagines this through an intentional and consensual act, where practices are allowed to grow and interact in symbiosis with structures, resisting co-optation and maintaining their transformative potency. ### ***Documenting*** Documenting produces evidence of being and of historical struggles. A deliberate process of giving a material, situated shape to ideas, words, and testimony to strengthen their resistance against manipulation, denial, or erasure. “If you’re not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.” (Malcolm X, 1965) Documenting is justice-making. ### ***Restitution*** An act of return containing symbolic and emotional meaning that extends beyond the physical act. Restitution cannot undo the harm caused by the original loss or restore something or someone to a previously unoccupied or unexploited condition. The power of restitution lies instead in the sincerity of the acknowledgement of the appropriation or exploitation that has taken place, in the meaning that is created during the process of return. “The restitutive effort realizes itself only when it does not refrain from accepting and embracing destitution.” (Idelber Avelar, The Untimely Present, 1999) ### ***Rituals*** Rituals aid in finding and sculpting meaning through the deliberate, repeated embodiment of a practice, often in a distinct space. Rituals endow practice and action with symbolic meaning that can be linked to tradition, ancestors, narratives, or even to prefigurative futures and lineage building. They hold more weight than what is said and done outside the ritual. Rituals of justice are like bridges; they can carry people across uncertain and difficult waters. Rituals can also create liminal, ambiguous space, which can be subversive of the normal social order, creating radical equality. // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. **References** Attia, K. *Repair.* Black Jack Editions, 2014. Avelar, I. *The Untimely Present: Postdictatorial Latin American Fiction and the Task of Mourning*. Duke University Press, 1999. Gelderloos, P. *They Will Beat the Memory Out of Us: Forcing Nonviolence on Forgetful Movements*. Pluto Press, 2024. Le Guin, U. *The Wave in the Mind*. Shambhala, 2004. Liu, C. *Traumatized: The New Politics of Public Suffering*. Verso, 2026. Pointer, L. *The Restorative Justice Ritual*. Routledge, 2021. Walker, M.U. *Moral Repair: Reconstructing Moral Relations after Wrongdoing*. Cambridge University Press, 2016. Schechner, R. *The Future of Ritual: Writings on Culture and Performance*. Routledge, 1993. Zolkos, M. *Restitution and the Politics of Repair: Tropes, Imaginaries, Theory*. Edinburgh University Press, 2020. ### The Phantom Archive: from PAD/D’s socially engaged and activist art in the 1980s to the "Radical Unpresent" of 2026 URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-phantom-archive-a-conversation-with-gregory-sholette/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:33:06.000Z *Artists engaging with transitional justice fall broadly within the field of socially engaged art—a practice built on fundamentally different assumptions than art made for the market. To explore that rupture, we spoke with Gregory Sholette: an artist, writer, and prominent theorist of socially engaged practice whose decades of collective work and writing have mapped the fault lines between art world complicity and political resistance from within the belly of the New York art world.* **Amelie Jackubek: How did you first realize that the conventional art world was not the place where you wanted to build your practice?** Gregory Scholette: I can trace my declining faith in mainstream art institutions back to 1979, the year I graduated from Cooper Union. No longer a student, I began to attend meetings in 1980 where artists spoke about their opposition to racism and apartheid, sexism and militarism. We aimed to forge real links between artists and labor unions, the anti-nuclear and pro-environmental movements and advocates for affordable housing. Art was a vehicle for these ends. When my previous professor Hans Haacke’s solo exhibition at the Guggenheim was cancelled over a couple of pieces that put a cold, well-documented spotlight on New York City slumlords, my generation of politically-engaged artists decided our work would have to operate outside the art world. **How did PAD/D emerge, and what was happening politically at the time?** Two things dominated the politics of the early 1980s. Reagan’s conservatism, that spurned anti-imperialist and anti-colonialist movements, especially in Central America, and the implementation of what we now call neoliberal capitalism: the cutting of the social safety net and the transfer of public wealth, resources, and space into private hands. Political Art Documentation/Distribution (PAD/D) came together in early 1980\. PAD/D aspired to both produce an archive and to generate new forms of art aimed at political change. This was, unlike today, a time in Europe and the US when—as the late Tim Rollins used to say—the idea of political art was typically thought of as charcoal drawings of Lenin and clenched, muscular fists. We wanted to change that. **When did it become clear that artists needed to build infrastructures rather than just make artworks?** Less than a year after its founding, in 1980 PAD/D produced its first public statement of purpose in a four-page newsletter stating that: Our goal is to provide artists with an organized relationship to society, to demonstrate the political effectiveness of image making, and to provide a framework within which progressive artists can discuss and develop alternatives to the mainstream art system. *PAD/D, 1st Issue, New York City, February 1981.* This orientation was not new—it had crystallized through members’ prior experience in organizations like Art Workers Coalition, *Heresies Journal,* Artists Meeting for Cultural Change, Red Herring, and Amiri Baraka’s Anti-Imperialist Cultural Union, among other Left-activist cultural entities. PAD/D extended that lesson by opposing both the commercial and nonprofit art worlds, insisting it “Cannot serve as a means of advancement within the art world structure of museums and galleries. Rather, we have to develop new forms of distribution economy as well as art.” (ibid.) Accordingly, within about one year, PAD/D was publishing a newsletter, programming public events, networking with other politically active cultural organizations, and producing art for street demonstrations and projects; PAD/D had become its own artistic micro-party or pseudo-union. **Why did archiving become central, and why was “distribution” added to PAD/D's name?** The PAD/D archive was intended as an instrument for expanding left-wing activism among artists. By accumulating and distributing models for politically-engaged practices, the archive would serve as a sort of tactical toolbox. Again, all pre-Internet. Quite ironic that the PAD/D archive now resides within the MoMa. Political Art Documentation or PAD originally came together to categorize the many boxes of materials about political and activist art that Lucy Lippard had been collecting for several years. When members raised concerns about its service-oriented connotation, Distribution was added—PAD/D—opening space for active art production. **What didn’t work in PAD/D, or what assumptions turned out to be wrong?** PAD/D emerged out of the remnants of the post-1968 New Left. It maintained an alternative network of “Left culture”. It included exhibiting with the 1199 Health and Hospital Workers’ Union and its Bread and Roses art gallery. Nonetheless, with the shrinking of the US organized labor union movement in the 1980s (already well-underway since the 1950s and 1960s), together with the crash and burn of the New Left as it splintered into smaller and smaller factions—some of whose militancy led them to federal prison—PAD/D’s self-imposed separatist track kept it outside the art world even as mainstream museums and galleries began to selectively embrace socially engaged art. The group’s collapse in 1988 was a result of its own success, at least in part. Looking back, what we got very wrong was the demise of the left and the rise of neo-conservatism. We were like the shepherdess who leads the flock from barren desert into the green pasture, but is unable to make the transition herself. **How did your experience in PAD/D lead to the concept of “dark matter” in art?** PAD/D was largely marginalized by the 1980s New York art scene. A few images appeared in Craig Owens’ *Art in America* piece on artists and gentrification, but when his writings were posthumously collected in 1992, all references to PAD/D were excised—though, curiously, a lone index entry remained. So, when I developed the 2010 book *Dark Matter: Art and Politics in the Age of Enterprise Culture*, I used this mysterious disappearance as anti-illustration. Reconstructing the lost visibility of this missing cultural mass leads to archives. At some very fundamental level, the PAD/D Archive represents the sheer overproduction of art necessary for the reproduction of the art world. My friend, the left-feminist art historian Carol Duncan, catalyzed the dark matter thesis by stating in 1983: > We can measure the waste \[of artistic talent\] not only in the thousands of “failed” artists––artists whose market failure is necessary to the success of the few––but also in the millions whose creative potential is never touched \[…\] This glut of art and artists is the normal condition of the art market. My question was: what positive impact might this “glut” have, leading me to explore Marx’s theory of “reserve labor” which underpins a market worth over 60 billion dollars (with contemporary art accounting for about 25% of that 2025 total). That is where dark matter makes sense—the overwhelming number of participants who purchase art supplies and journals, teach classes, attend classes, serve as interns, studio assistants, fabricators, art movers, staff at museums, and, of course, who make art that never becomes visible. Unlike astronomical dark matter, whose gravity holds the universe together, the mainstream art world ignores its own invisible mass of labor. PAD/D established an archive of mostly unknown, uncelebrated, and forgotten artistic productivity. Multiply it by all artists at any moment and you see the scale of the market failure, as Duncan put it, that is necessary to the success of the few. This surplus of dark matter creativity runs through the art world like a multitude of veins in marble—structurally essential, everywhere present, and almost entirely unacknowledged. Dark matter remains both present and absent; detectable, but all but unnameable. **What forms of artistic labor remain invisible in today’s art world(s)?** The circumstances are both the same and profoundly altered. From Thatcher and Reagan onward, capitalism transferred wealth from public to private hands and began reaching beyond the factory and waged labor for new sources of value. Today, mobile networks and ubiquitous online advertising have completed capitalism’s total reach. The Internet played a key role in this, combined with the neoliberal drive to monetize every aspect of our lives brought dark matter into the light. My concept of dark matter foresaw the illumination of this hidden realm. Illuminated dark matter found ways to self-visualize, form groups and collectives, and bypass the art world’s gatekeeping by hijacking neoliberalism’s digital systems to enhance artists’ agency. **How can socially engaged art build and sustain alternative or oppositional infrastructures over time?** The question of how forms of artistic practice and organized political opposition can align to resist the extractive, alienating, and disciplinary mandate of capitalist hegemony is one I've struggled with across decades of art making, collective work, and writing. Theory requires getting down into everyday life, not as it should be, but as it actually is. PAD/D, sought to re-forge links between artists and trade unions, which were once commonplace in the late 19th and early 20th century. The online journal *Labor Art Review*, which I co-founded in 2024, revives these same ambitions. PAD/D’s goal: a networked, parallel left cultural art world with sustainable infrastructure. The PAD/D Archive which, despite all of its motley detail and meandering expressivity, reflects desires for solidarity across art, labor and activism. A decade on, PAD/D’s organizational stepchild, REPOhistory, exhumed forgotten, unseen historical forces, experiments, mini-triumphs, and failures. Its urban interventions were ghostly apparitions proposing other pathways through time. When invited into city “placemaking” efforts, the group acknowledged that such projects often preceded displacement and gentrification. We produced our last public counter-historical intervention in 2000. In 2010, Gulf Labor Coalition forced the Guggenheim to reckon with its defacto anti-union and anti-worker involvement in Abu Dhabi where the foundation (or corporation) decided to build a new museum under severely compromised working conditions that Human Rights Watch called seriously exploitative, with labor activists and government critics in the UAE facing imprisonment and other forms of repression. Such work demands living in the everyday while holding onto what the Russian theorist Viktor Shklovsky labeled the “energy of delusion”, what I call the “phantom archive”. Social Practice City University of New York (SPCUNY: 2021-2027) tried something more modest, but perhaps more durable: redistributing resources within a public institution toward communities excluded from it. It channeled hundreds of thousands of dollars directly to students and faculty, built a community of over a hundred participants, and community links several factors larger. That is real infrastructure, even if it is also fragile due to the perennial uncertainty of renewed funding; SPCUNY ran on Mellon Foundation grants, which don’t last indefinitely. The lesson isn’t that para-institutional projects within the fugitive undercommons—a concept developed by Fred Moten and Stefano Harney to describe forms of collective life and study that evade institutional capture—are doomed, but that they require either a steady influx of resources from a benevolent benefactor, or an impassive host structure, the tolerant “overcommons.” That tolerance is always conditional. **How do you position yourself within the tension between institutional critique, institutional building, and co-optation?** I fear socially engaged/activist art is heading where institutional critique has already traveled: toward becoming entertainment for sophisticated audiences between blockbuster shows. That incorporation produces what I call “bare art”. Taking Giorgio Agamben’s notion of “bare life”, bare art names the condition where art’s protective claims to independence are peeled away layer by layer. Artistic production has been shaped by the demands of networked capitalism, including the expectation to be creative and, like an artist, to think “outside the box”. Institutional critique has also revived through museum staff unions formed in 2019 (in the USA primarily). Many of the staff at the New Museum, Whitney Museum, and Guggenheim graduated with art degrees \[and are\] steeped in that legacy—and are now enacting it not as an art project, but as workers. That’s genuinely new and potentially threatening to the art establishment in a way that artistic institutional critique rarely was. My own positioning has always been uncomfortable. At the New Museum as Chair of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago—while also building alter-institutional structures that operate in the gaps and tunnels of official structures. Throughout, I’ve held onto a distinction between epistemology and ontology—from critique-as-exposure of institutional norms, towards building collective experience and group identification for itself, as a provisional dark matter constellation. **What does the trajectory from PAD/D to Social Practice CUNY reveal about the possibilities and limits of para-institutional practice?** PAD/D was extra-institutional—operating in a dark matter realm and headquartered in El Bohio on the Lower East Side. SPCUNY was truly para-institutional, like a barnacle on a rock, using its resources while maintaining its own autonomy. Together—PAD/D, REPOhistory, Gulf Labor, SPCUNY, *Labor Art Review*—these form not a static archive but a dark temporality, an adjacent shadow time. That accumulated sediment of collective memory, failed experiments, partial victories, and unrealized possibilities is the most durable infrastructure of all, outlasting any institution or funding source. Accessing it requires speculation: recovery, rearrangement, repair, reactivation. **How does socially-engaged art operate across different global, political, and economic contexts, especially under conditions of precarity and conflict?** There are meaningful dissimilarities in how engaged art is practiced in the US versus Europe: the former favoring direct action and the latter more mediated. These distinctions track funding structures: the EU model of direct cultural support builds relationships with governance, while the American privatized model atomizes through individualized risks. The asymmetries between the Global North and South are far more profound. The G.U.L.F. collective named this directly: artists in the Global North who act in solidarity with precarious Gulf laborers end up legitimizing the very institutions they set out to critique. The phantom archive offers a way through this: not a return to the past or a leap to a perfected future, but a temporal folding that brings different moments into productive, sometimes abrasive dialogue. We live in what I call the “Unpresent”—a post-neoliberal condition where historical time no longer moves toward a clear emancipatory horizon but fragments into instability. Revolution, in this frame, is not a single decisive break but patterns of change distributed across time—traceable in the before, after, and between of major political moments. Archives matter here not only for documenting visible uprisings but for tracing the less visible: the mutual aid, informal exchange, everyday cooperation, and loosely organized collective practices that exist alongside—and are increasingly targeted by—capitalism’s extractive reach. These informal systems are not ready-made alternatives, but they are existing social infrastructures that can be observed, analyzed, and potentially redirected toward other forms of organization. // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. *Gregory Sholette is a New York-based artist, writer, and activist whose work explores cultural “dark matter”—overlooked creative labor and suppressed histories. Sholette is the author of The Radical Unpresent: Cultural Resistance in a Fractured World (MIT, 2026).* ### Harvesting Truth URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/essay-harvesting-truth/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:33:43.000Z Taking a bird’s-eye view, the perspectives and practices of transitional justice can be articulated as: reconciliation, truth-telling, accountability, reparations, and reform (including institutional commitments for non-recurrence). \[1\] There are several national and international truth commissions that have sought to determine the truth about human rights violations and mass violence in specific instances. With this framing of the field, it is important to reflect on whether transitional justice can untangle and address the root causes of Sri Lanka’s culture of violence and impunity. Even after some contextualization, my response as a survivor of war, a former practitioner of transitional justice, and, now, an academic studying this field remains a steadfast no. By focusing on truth-telling within transitional justice theory and practice, I hope to open up several new windows into our understanding of how this field reifies existing inequities within the global legal and political order. ### **1\. Determining Truth: International and National Experiences** Truth is determined by asking, “who did what to whom”. By framing it this way, one can view the importance of truth to move forward. There are over ninety international truth commissions that were created using several approaches. Within national jurisdictions, some states have specific public law statutes that allow for public inquiries to determine what happened. National and international truth-seeking projects have their respective opportunities and challenges. Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s reflections from the final report of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (1998) captured some of the opportunities when he noted: “\[…\] the wounds of the past must not be allowed to fester. They must be opened. They must be cleansed. And balm must be poured \[…\] \[to\] heal. It is to take care that the past is properly dealt with for the sake of the future”. \[2\] While these expectations may drive the search for truth, established national and international mechanisms have struggled to bring about the healing and reconciliation associated with truth commissions. ### **1.1 International Truth-Seeking Mechanisms in the Context of Sri Lanka** There are historic and more recent examples where the UN deployed international commissions of inquiries to make determinations about the scope and severity of violence, for example, in the former Yugoslavia and Rwanda. Their findings were then relied on to create the two *ad hoc* international criminal tribunals. These tribunals have successfully prosecuted those that bear the gravest responsibility for the genocide in Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia. With the end of the civil war between the Tamil Tigers and the Sinhala Buddhist state, there was an urgent need to determine whether the parties to the civil war engaged in international criminal conduct. The UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon was able to convince the then Sri Lankan President, Mahinda Rajapaka, of the importance of accountability—if only for a brief moment during his visit to the island at the end of the war. As part of this commitment, Ban Ki-moon set up the UN Secretary-General’s Panel of Experts on Accountability in Sri Lanka \[3\] (henceforward “the Panel”). The Panel was tasked with advising the UN Secretary-General on whether Sri Lanka had taken, and should take, measures with regard to “accountability, in light of the actual nature and scope of all allegations”.\[4\] Given the Panel’s mandate to focus on events taking place between September 2008 and May 2009, the commissioners received information (both public and confidential) from human rights organizations collecting victim testimonies. The repeated efforts to engage with the government of Sri Lanka during the first phase of their mandate were not successful. Then the Panel drafted the almost 200-page report, with significant recommendations that would help Sri Lanka move forward. The report and the search for accountability, framed by the Panel as “the achievement of truth, justice, and reparations” in the hopes of ushering in “sustainable peace in a State after conflict” remains a lofty goal. ### **1.2 Domestic Measures to Determine Truth** Given international pressure—however fleeting it may have been—President Rajapaksa, acting under the auspices of The Presidential Inquiry Act 1947, created the local Commission of Inquiry on Lessons Learnt and Reconciliation (“LLRC”) on May 15, 2010\. The Commission was tasked with looking back at the conflict and “ahead for an era of healing and peace building in the country”.\[5\] The LLRC avoided some of the central thorny issues. Once it had heard from the witnesses, it problematically determined that the Sri Lankan military acted in a manner “consistent with the position that protection of civilian life was a key factor in the formulation of a policy for carrying out military operations”. \[6\] In the wake of these suspect findings, the United Nations investigations discussed earlier alongside another national commission called for the creation of transitional justice mechanisms in Sri Lanka. A United Nations Human Rights Council resolution also urgently requested Sri Lanka to create transitional justice mechanisms to deal with the war time atrocities. Recently, a commission \[7\] focusing on truth, unity and reconciliation was proposed by the former Sri Lankan government. We will have to wait to determine whether it can overcome the challenges chronicled in the earlier discussion. The search for truth in Sri Lanka has either failed or stalled. While a nuanced analysis that examines the anatomy of these truth commissions from a Third World perspective may yield important insights about procedure and process, what remains clear is the arc of global North-global South dynamics in the discovery of the truth. It is with this in mind that I turn to in the next section. Importantly, the premise that the determination of truth will yield some form of accountability and/or justice and will foster reconciliation needs to be further problematized, as there is a potential for revictimizing the victims. On the one hand, once the victims provide their respective evidence and have been re-traumatized, they are left with nothing else. They are expected to carry on. On the other hand, once these commissions deliver their findings, international and domestic politics of the day dictate the possibility of what may happen next. ### **2\. Historical Truth as Root Causes** The Sri Lankan example illustrates the challenges faced by national and international truth commissions. The traditional transitional justice literature presents commissions of inquiry/truth commissions as offering a space for truth, where victims are centered. \[8\] Notwithstanding these promises, the victims’ testimonies are deployed to achieve the goal of potentially determining truth, as seen in the example of the UN Panel of Experts Report. \[9\] At the global register, a UN Security Council referral to the ICC was not possible for Sri Lanka, given the prominent role of Sri Lankan allies such as China, the United States, and the UK. Similarly, the use of Chapter VII of the United Nations Charter, which gives the UN Security Council the power to take *ad hoc* enforcement action in response to threats to peace, breaches of peace, or acts of aggression, as in the cases of Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia, was not possible given the veto of the permanent members of the UN Security Council. Even with a hybrid mechanism, the UN Secretary General would need the consent of the state in question, similar to how the hybrid tribunals of Sierra Leone and Cambodia were set up. Accountability for war crimes was impossible domestically. The majority of Sinhala people would not accept the prosecution of their war heroes. Additionally, there is a long history of impunity that is deeply entrenched within the Sri Lankan legal system. In this context, the interventions by Third World Approaches to International Law (TWAIL) \[10\] scholars become salient. TWAIL scholar, Obiora Okafor, powerfully suggests that fact-finding processes are problematic for several reasons. Okafor poignantly argues that the Third World is conceptualized by truth-seeking inquiries as horrific places, akin to hell. This type of perspective poses challenges for how victims and the violence are viewed and described. Okafor moreover identifies the “one way traffic paradigm” of the fact-finding inquiries, which follows from this binary logic of heaven and hell: In this paradigm, human rights knowledge, scrutiny, and supervision tend to flow from those parts of the world that supposedly invented human rights (i.e., the West) and that observe it almost perfectly, to those regions of the world that tend to know very little—if anything—about it (i.e., the Third World), and that hardly ever observe it. \[11\] This argument is astutely reflective of how the UN Panel of Experts was set up for Sri Lanka. Several months before the Panel took on its task, a secretariat was created to facilitate the work of the Commissioners and to organize the data gathering. The secretariat was made up of transitional justice experts who facilitated the flow of the evidence. In this well-worn framework, human rights knowledge flows to Sri Lanka via the Panel that brings the tools of the saviour to the savage victims. Yet, what is missing from Okafor’s framework is the inclusion of the raw data that must be extracted from the local space so that the law (through transitional justice) can be applied to the facts by the experts. The application of the law to the facts then forms the basis of the report. The victims come forward in search of Western forms of justice and provide testimony in the hope that they may receive some type of reparations. Yet, once their stories are extracted, the potential reparations or justice are never forthcoming. Rather, the victims and their families are left with a form of re-traumatization that they must now contend with as they try to rebuild their lives. The flow of human rights knowledge to Sri Lanka and the extraction of testimonies is part of the market-friendly “conveyor belt” that Ambalavaner Sivanandan theorized in his highly influential essay focusing on the “New Circuits of Imperialism” \[12\], first published in 1989\. He suggests that the ability of underdeveloped countries to shift their status to industrialized nation-states continues to be highly difficult. Sivanandan thus notes: “If there is movement, it is no more than the movement of a conveyor belt that runs on fixed stations. It is the belt that moves, not the stations; if they did, the whole system would collapse”. \[13\] Transitional justice and truth commissions cannot be severed from these processes of capital accumulation of which the determination of truth is part. Sri Lanka has a particular position on the conveyor belt because of the world-making that the British Empire embarked on when they took over the Island. With the fall of the Dutch empire and Napoleon’s takeover of the Netherlands in 1796, the British empire marched into Dutch territories of Ceylon, now known as Sri Lanka. What they found were fragmented “social formations”, without a clear and unified form of contemporary sovereignty. This is the starting point from which the Island was remade to facilitate colonial governance from the centre (Colombo/London). This re-making begins with the ousting of the Nayakkar King of Kandy, who had ruled for over 100 years \[14\] and the ceding of sovereignty by the Kandyan Buddhist aristocrats. They relinquished their sovereignty in exchange for the constitutional protection of Buddhism throughout the entire Island, even though other “social formations” had practiced different faiths for centuries. The adoption of the Kandyan Convention in 1815 then set in motion the modernization of Ceylon, culminating in the reforms precipitated by the Colebrooke Cameron Commission in March 1832. The commission’s reforms ushered in the creation of ethno-racial categories that previously existed as “social formations”, and these categories would then solidify and be continually reinforced by a perverse form of ethno-nationalist Buddhism. With the legal decolonization of Sri Lanka in 1948, these solid ethno-racial categories would further separate social formations into communities with majoritarian political will based on population size and the remaining ethnic and religious “minority” communities. The ensuing struggle for dominance would eventually trigger the civil war, starting with the Black July massacres in 1983. Of course, global and domestic financial systems were deeply implicated in funding the civil war. By 2008, Sri Lanka was borrowing close to 2 billion USD to fund the war and maintain its expenses. Once the war was over, Sri Lanka continued to borrow, thus bringing it to the brink of bankruptcy, necessitating further debt. \[15\] This larger context is not part of the search for truth, as encapsulated within the transitional justice discourse on Sri Lanka. In fact, transitional justice tends to ignore, and at times obscure, the root causes of the past violence. ### **Conclusion** In the making of the Sri Lankan civil war, there is a broader narrative that is often ignored. The missing elements are the colonial and imperial history of the Island. This history illuminates how Sri Lanka ended up in its current “fragile” state, in need of both finances (through debt) and justice. In both international and national truth-seeking processes, the historical realities of how the Island ended up in its current situation are nowhere to be found. Rather, transitional justice experts focus on the elements of international and domestic crimes, without a single thought to what Kamari Clarke has suggested as the “root economic causes” \[16\] of a conflict. Returning to my purpose of opening critical discussions within transitional justice then requires a socio-political, economic, and historical account of a conflict. As Sivanandan suggests, a materialist account is needed. This type of approach sadly is not possible within the liberal framework that transitional justice adopts as means to achieve justice for past violence. // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. This shortened and edited article is a republication of Sujith Xavier, “[Harvesting Truth: Transitional Justice in Post War Sri Lanka” from Navigating the Complex Terrain of Accountability in Sri Lanka"](https://globaljustice.queenslaw.ca/news/special-issue-accountability-in-sri-lanka?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org#Harvesting) a special issue of the PKI Global Justice Journal (2025) PKI Global Justice Journal 2. In his article “[Truth Eaters](%20https://doi.org/10.1017/aju.2025.13),” the author explores how a community-oriented examination of the complex origins of injustice in Sri Lanka can pave the way for anti-colonial justice. **Footnotes** 1\. United Nations Secretary-General, Guidance Note of the Secretary-General: United Nations Approach to Transitional Justice (New York: United Nations, March 2010), accessed via United Nations Digital Library,[ https://digitallibrary.un.org/record/682111](https://digitallibrary.un.org/record/682111?utm%5Fsource=chatgpt.com). This is an official internal UN policy guidance note outlining the United Nations’ framework and principles for supporting transitional justice processes, including truth-seeking, accountability, reparations, and institutional reform in post-conflict and transitional settings. 2\. Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa Report, Truth Reconciliation Commission, 1998 3\. The results of the Panel can be found in the Report of the Panel on Critical Energy Transition Minerals (United Nations Digital Library), [https://digitallibrary.un.org/record/3961113](https://digitallibrary.un.org/record/3961113?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). 4\. Ban, Ki-moon, Secretary-General, releases expert panel's report on accountability with respect to final stages of Sri Lanka conflict, UN Press Release. Secretary-General. Statement, 2011 5\. Sri Lanka, Report of the Commission of Inquiry on Lessons Learnt and Reconciliation (Colombo: Commission of Inquiry on Lessons Learnt and Reconciliation, 2011) 6\. Ibid. 7\. The Independent Commission for Truth, Unity and Reconciliation is a proposed Sri Lankan government–established transitional justice body, announced in 2023. 8\. Jeff Corntassel and Cindy Holder, "Who’s Sorry Now? Government Apologies, Truth Commissions, and Indigenous Self-Determination in Australia, Canada, Guatemala, and Peru," (2008) 9:4 Human Rights Review 465. 9\. The Secretary-General’s Panel of Experts on Accountability in Sri Lanka (2011), appointed by the United Nations Secretary-General, is a UN investigative report. 10\. TWAIL is a tradition that is critical of the field of transitional justice (TJ) as an alternative to international criminal law (ICL). At its core, TWAIL reveals the embedded racial hierarchy within international law and exposes practices of domination, while also calling for the construction of new and alternative legal edifices. Since its inception in the mid-1990s, TWAIL has offered broad and overarching insights into the “politics of resources, the politics of knowledge, and the politics of the professional and practice dimensions of international law and policy.” 11\. Obiora C. Okafor, “International Human Rights Fact-finding Praxis in its Living Forms: A TWAIL Perspective,” Transnational Human Rights Review 1 (2014): 59–105,[ https://doi.org/10.60082/2563-4631.1001](https://doi.org/10.60082/2563-4631.1001?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), [https://digitalcommons.osgoode.yorku.ca/thr/vol1/iss1/2](https://digitalcommons.osgoode.yorku.ca/thr/vol1/iss1/2?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) 12\. A. Sivanandan, “New Circuits of Imperialism,” Race & Class 30, no. 4 (1989): 1–18. 13\. Ibid 14\. Sujit Sivasundaram, Islanded: Britain, Sri Lanka & the Bounds of an Indian Ocean Colony (University of Chicago Press, 2013). 15\. Xavier, et al., “Indebted Impunity and Violence in a Lesser State: Ethno-Racial Capitalism in Sri Lanka,” (2022) 25:2 Journal of International Economics L 277; see also Nimanthi Perera-Rajasingham, Assembling Ethnicities in Neoliberal Times: Ethnographic Fictions and Sri Lanka’s War (Northwestern University Press, 2019) pp. 1-23. 16\. Kamari Maxine Clarke, “The Rule of Law Through Its Economies of Appearances: The Making of the African Warlord.” Indiana Journal of Global Legal Studies 18, no. 1 (2011): 7–40\. https://doi.org/10.2979/indjglolegstu.18.1.7. ### No Regrets URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/no-regrets-interview-with-dione-roach/ Last updated: 2026-10-09T14:32:42.000Z **How does Jailtime Records operate internally? What kind of work is involved that is not visible on the surface?** Internally, Jail Time Records is structured so that on one side there’s the creative and operational team: that’s me and Steve, the co-founders, who direct the project and its artistic side. We have recording studios inside the prison, all run by inmates, where we provide education in sound engineering and music production. The studios are open, and prisoners have unlimited access. When we do projects outside, we have a studio there too, run by formerly incarcerated artists. The invisible work is huge and operates on many levels. There’s the office side, which isn't our favorite since we’re all artists: emails, grant writing, and bureaucratic work. Then there's the groundwork: doing prevention work inside and outside prisons, organizing workshops, one-on-one mentoring, and Steve working with artists in the studio on production. And then there’s all the music production work: finishing songs, mixing, mastering, working with instrumentalists, photography, social media, everything it takes to put music out. **How personal is the work? Which relationships are essential for Jailtime Records?** The work is very personal. Steve and I started the project, and it continues because of a bond grounded in dedication and passion. I’m not sure I would have found the stamina and commitment to push forward if it wasn’t a shared mission. Steve was actually in prison when we started. It really comes from his own experience and the role music played for him while incarcerated. Beyond our relationship, it’s essential to build close connections with the artists we work with. These become almost personal relationships because when people are living in that situation, it goes well beyond working together. You end up involved in their lives, sometimes in big cases, often with their families. **How do different forms of labor (artistic and non-artistic) interact within Jailtime Records?** We mostly work with creativity and art. On one side, there’s the art of the participants, people who are partially or fully incarcerated, or people at risk, so it’s about putting a light on that work, helping them shape it, and giving them professional tools. Then there’s the artistic direction of the project, which we shape together. And then there’s all the other work: writing emails, grants, and accounting. **How do you see the work of facilitation—who engages with it, and why?** We set up the studio inside the prison to be self-running and self-sustainable. The day-to-day is coordinated by the studio manager, who’s incarcerated, and he establishes his own rhythms with the artists. Often, artists tell us they didn't have enough access, or that they had to trade something just to get in. It's understandable, because prison is a difficult place and people find ways to survive. We come in to rebalance things or facilitate communication when there’s been tension. It’s a constant balancing act in a tough environment. **Can you describe a specific moment when you and an incarcerated artist disagreed on how a song should sound, and how did you navigate that tension?** That’s happened a couple of times, but mostly it’s about the artist's expression. We’ve never asked anyone to change their lyrics or story. On the production side, things like how a line is sung can come up as a conversation, and Steve might share his opinion. If someone felt strongly about doing something a certain way, everyone’s open to talking it through. The creative leadership is very collaborative. Different people bring ideas, and we work to fit those ideas within what’s possible. There’s never been a situation where someone felt uncomfortable with how their music was represented. **When you first handed over responsibility for the studio to Vidou H, what did you have to let go of, and what surprised you?** When I handed over the reins, I didn't have much of an idea about music myself. So I didn’t set any real direction; I just hoped he’d make the most of it. I felt confident he had a good vibe. About four months later, I came back and listened to what he’d done, and it was amazing, way more than I expected. I discovered things I hadn't thought of, like electronic and experimental Afro influences coming through. **Looking back, is there a decision you made early on that you would handle differently now?** Within such a difficult environment, sometimes it’s better to keep roles a little more separate or to keep relationships with some artists on a professional level, rather than getting too close. Otherwise, you end up deeply involved in people’s lives, their families, their issues, and that can become complicated. Setting clearer boundaries can help the relationship on both sides and create more realistic expectations. It’s something you learn to manage through the process. But overall, it’s been a great adventure and experience, with no big regrets. // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. *Dione Roach is a co-founder with music producer Steve Happi of Jail Time Records, a non-profit music label born in 2018 at New Bell Central Prison in Douala, Cameroon.* ### Görünməyən Əmək, Bitməyən Mübarizə URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/goeruenmyn-mk-bitmyn-muebariz/ Last updated: 2026-10-15T15:58:12.000Z Mən bu məktubu Azərbaycandan kənarda yazıram. Bir çox həmkarlarım kimi yaşamaq və işləmək üçün Azərbaycanı tərk etməyə məcbur olmuşam. Amma ölkədən çıxmaq təhlükədən tam xilas olmaq demək deyil. Avtoritar rejimlər sərhədlərlə bitmir. Onlar insanın bədəni ilə birlikdə yaddaşına, münasibətlərinə və gündəlik həyatına daşınır. İnsan hüquqları müdafiəçisi olmaq Azərbaycanda sadəcə peşə deyil. Bu, davamlı risk altında yaşamaq deməkdir. Uzun illərdir ki, hüquq müdafiəçiləri, jurnalistlər, feministlər, kuir aktivistlər və vətəndaş cəmiyyəti nümayəndələri təqib, həbs, qarayaxma kampaniyaları və dövlət nəzarəti ilə üz-üzədirlər. İnsanların telefonları izlənilir, şəxsi yazışmaları yayımlanır, ailələri hədələnir, yaxın çevrələri təzyiqə məruz qalır. Bəzən sosial mediada sadəcə bir paylaşım, bir müsahibə və ya bir tədbirdə iştirak insanın həyatını tamamilə dəyişə bilir. Bu işin təhlükəsi yalnız həbs olunmaq ehtimalı deyil. Təhlükə həm də davamlı qeyri-müəyyənlik hissidir. Sən heç vaxt tam təhlükəsiz olduğunu hiss etmirsən. Hava limanından keçəndə saxlanılıb-saxlanılmayacağını bilmirsən. Telefonuna gələn naməlum mesaj səni qorxudur. Yeni insanlarla tanış olanda ehtiyat edirsən. Bir müddət sonra insan bədəni bu qorxuya uyğunlaşmağa başlayır. Kənardan baxanda insan hüquqları işi çox zaman qəhrəmanlıq kimi görünür. Əslində, bu əmək görünməz, yorucu və emosional baxımdan ağır əməkdir. Biz sənədləşdiririk, yazırıq, dinləyirik, tərcümə edirik, insanları bir-biri ilə əlaqələndiririk, dəstək oluruq və bəzən yas saxlayırıq. Həbs olunan dostlarımız üçün kampaniyalar hazırlayırıq. Yoxa çıxan səsləri arxivləşdiririk. Uzunmüddətli təzyiq və əzablara görə travma alan insanlara dəstək verməyə çalışırıq. Eyni zamanda, öz qorxularımızı və tükənmişliyimizi gizlətməyi öyrənirik. Düz 16 il əvvəl mən vətəndaş cəmiyyətinə tələbə antikorrupsiya hərəkatı olan “Dalğa Gənclər Hərəkatı” vasitəsilə daxil oldum. Bu ay 34 yaşım tamam olur və həyatımın yarısını insan hüquqları uğrunda mübarizəyə həsr etmişəm. O vaxt biz gənc idik və inanırdıq ki, dəyişiklik mümkündür. İnanırdıq ki, daha demokratik, daha ədalətli və qorxu içində yaşamayan bir cəmiyyət qura bilərik. Sonralar mən peşəkar şəkildə sülh quruculuğu ilə məşğul oldum və Ermənistanla olan münaqişənin dinc həlli üçün əlimdən gələni etməyə çalışdım. O illərdə dialoq, barışıq və qarşı tərəfi insan kimi görə bilmək mənim üçün həm siyasi, həm də etik məsələ idi. Lakin regionda militarizm və millətçilik güclənirdi və bunu izləmək ağır idi. Mən yeniyetmə olduğum dövrdən bu günə qədər vəziyyət daha da pisləşdi. Demokratiya gəlmədi. Əksinə, repressiyalar daha da dərinləşdi, vətəndaş cəmiyyəti zəiflədi və bir neçə müharibə baş verdi. Bəzən geriyə baxanda düşünürəm ki, həyatımın böyük hissəsi böhran, qorxu və zorakılıq şəraitində keçib. Buna baxmayaraq, mən hələ də insanların bir-biri ilə danışa bilməsinin, münasibət qura bilməsinin və başqa bir gələcəyi təsəvvür etməsinin vacibliyinə inanıram. Son illərdə Azərbaycanda repressiyalar daha da sərtləşib. Ölkə daxilində mövcud olan müstəqil media demək olar ki, məhv edilib. Bir çox hüquq müdafiəçisi və jurnalist həbs olunub və ya ölkəni tərk etməyə məcbur qalıb. Bu gün Azərbaycan vətəndaş cəmiyyətinin böyük hissəsi sürgündə yaşayır. Amma sürgün azadlıq romantikası deyil. Sürgündə həyat çox vaxt parçalanmış həyatdır. İnsan bir anda dilini, evini, gündəlik münasibətlərini və aidiyyət hissini itirir. Yeni ölkədə yenidən həyat qurmağa çalışırsan, amma beyninin bir hissəsi həmişə geridə qoyduqlarında qalır. Sən hələ də həbs olunan dostlarının xəbərlərini izləyirsən. Hələ də ölkədə qalan insanlar üçün narahat olursan. Hələ də ailənin təhlükəsizliyini düşünürsən. Sürgündə insan hüquqları işi başqa formada davam edir. Sürgündə həyat gecə saatlarında təcili kampaniyalar, həbs xəbərləri, beynəlxalq təşkilatlarla görüşlər, tərcümələr, maliyyə qeyri-sabitliyi və daimi emosional yorğunluq ilə müşayət olunur. Bir çoxumuz qeyri-müəyyən vizalarla, qısamüddətli müqavilələrlə və psixoloji tükənmə ilə yaşayırıq. Siyasi repressiyanın təsiri ölkədən çıxdıqdan sonra da bədəni tərk etmir. Ən ağır hisslərdən biri isə görünməzlik hissidir. Çünki sürgündə insan həm öz ölkəsi üçün “xaricdəki biri” olur, həm də yaşadığı ölkəyə tam aid ola bilmir. Sən iki dünya arasında qalırsan. Bəzən insan yalnız öz dilində danışanda nəfəs ala bildiyini hiss edir. Mənim üçün xüsusilə ağır olan məqamlardan biri müharibədən sonra regionda nifrətin, militarizmin və qütbləşmənin necə dərinləşdiyini izləmək idi. Sülh, dialoq və barışıq haqqında danışmaq getdikcə daha təhlükəli və daha izolyasiyaedici hala gəldi. İnsanlar qorxu içində susmağa alışdı. Avtoritar sistem yalnız hüquqları məhdudlaşdırmır, o, insanların bir-birinə inanmaq və birlikdə gələcək təsəvvür etmək qabiliyyətini də dağıdır. Buna baxmayaraq, mən hələ də müqavimətin mümkün olduğuna inanıram. Bəzən müqavimət sadəcə sağ qalmaqdır. Bəzən bir-birini dinləməkdir. Təhlükəsiz məkan yaratmaq, travmanı kollektiv şəkildə daşımaq və insanların ləyaqətini qorumaq da siyasi hərəkətdir. Mən insan hüquqları müdafiəsini yalnız hüquqi və siyasi fəaliyyət kimi yox, həm də qayğı əməyi kimi görürəm. Çünki avtoritar sistemlər insanları təcrid etməyə çalışır, biz isə əlaqələri qorumağa çalışırıq. Bu məktub bəlkə də cavablardan çox suallar daşıyır. 300-dən çox siyasi məhbusu olan ölkədə ədalət nədir? Ədalət yalnız məhkəmə zallarında mümkündürmü? Ki bu da Azərbaycanda hələ ki mümkun deyil… Yoxsa ədalət insanların bir-birinə dəstək verməyi, qorxu içində belə münasibət qurmağa davam etməsi ilə başlayır? Düşünürəm ki,, transformativ və keçid dövrü ədaləti məhz insanların başqa bir gələcəyi təsəvvür etmək gücü ilə başlayır. Amma bunun qarşısında dövlət zorakılığı, patriarxiya, militarizm, millətçilik və yorğunluq kimi çoxlu maneələr var. Xüsusilə də, yorğunluq. Çünki repressiv sistemlər yalnız bədəni deyil, təsəvvürü də tükəndirməyə çalışır. Yenə də, bütün bunlara baxmayaraq, biz hələ də buradayıq. Yazırıq, danışırıq, sənədləşdiririk, yas saxlayırıq və bir-birimizi tək qoymamağa çalışırıq. Bizim əməyimiz çox zaman görünməz qalır. Görünməz qalsa da, bu əmək hələ də davam edir. // This text was produced in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed and co- funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or EACEA. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them. ### Windows of Tolerance URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/windows-of-tolerance/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:18:08.000Z *A window of tolerance is a term used in different kinds of therapeutic processes. It describes an optimal zone where one is able to regulate their emotions and function well in everyday life. It’s a way to understand how our lived experiences affect the ways we encounter the world. It’s also a tool that helps us identify what happens when stressors—internal and external—start to shrink this window, sending one into a state of hyperarousal (a fight, flight, or freeze response) or hypoarousal (the body starts to shut down). This concept allows us to better understand our emotional range, behaviours, and interpersonal relationships, amongst other things. Through different types of support, a window of tolerance can be expanded, resulting in a greater sense of comfort and safety.* We at Feminist Culture House (FCH) have been interested in playing with this concept for a while, toying with it as a metaphor for describing the fluctuating zone(s) of comfort within which cultural workers operate. We think of it transcending instances of individual psychological responses; we notice how it seeps into our lives in insidious and persistent ways. Maybe you feel tired all the time, can’t stay on top of household chores, haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months, are finding it hard to get out of bed, haven’t had time to spend with friends and kin, struggle to get away from screens, are overwhelmed by your to-do list, or are finding it hard to make time for fun and pleasure. Or maybe you wake up in the middle of the night worried about paying your medical insurance, renewing your residence permit, obtaining a steady income, securing affordable housing, navigating social security bureaucracies, paying caretaker bills, dealing with microaggressions and harassment from co-workers, finally getting an appointment to pursue gender-affirming care, or having to advocate for your neurodivergent experience within educational settings. These and many other material and structural conditions also contribute to narrowing not only individual windows of tolerance but our collective windows too. They intersect and slowly accumulate into layers of stressors that limit our capacity to live fulfilling and dignified lives. The intersections of these conditions are, of course, infinite, and are experienced by many people in different contexts; it would be impossible to list them all. As an intersectional feminist collective working in Finland, our focus is to think about how these conditions permeate the art field. Think of an artist who has a multi-year grant, a curator with a full-time position at a contemporary art museum, or a graphic designer working for an agency that has a steady flow of commercial and cultural clients. These art workers probably have a wide window of tolerance, supported by a secured income, professional development and recognition, holidays, time to care for others, and access to different types of subsidised medical and holistic care. Then, think of the members of a theatre collective without any funding: they can only work together a few times per month because they all need to have day jobs, and are only able to meet on weekends or evenings. Or consider a freelance producer, burnt out for several months after their last project but unable to find their next gig, anxiously wondering how to pay this month’s bills. Or a musician who teaches children how to play guitar during the day, plays concerts at night, and works as a food delivery driver during the weekend. Their windows of tolerance are probably so narrow that they barely manage to function beyond the most basic tasks, and have no space for professional development or experimentation, nor time for taking care of themselves and others. While windows of tolerance can be used as a conceptual frame to analyse an individual’s behaviour, we think that this tool also allows us to visibilise how larger societal structures produce conditions that benefit some and disadvantage many—that is, our windows of tolerance are often the result of prevailing intersectional inequalities, and to overcome these conditions, we need collective tools to help us communicate, share, and hopefully expand everyone’s windows. ### **Negotiations** Within the field of arts and culture, it’s rare to work alone. Our practices are propelled by our relationships, and often involve different formulations of cooperation and coming together. Moments of fun, experimentation, solidarity, hospitality, reciprocity, empathy, pleasure, and celebration blossom when we work collectively. Through doing and learning together, we build friendships and connections that can nurture us for many years. The cultural field is often characterised by precarity and scarcity, which creates structures that feed individualism and competitiveness. In the long term, this ends up stripping away possibilities for solidarity and collectivity. Resources, safety, and security therefore become unequally distributed, creating unideal working conditions that compromise people’s wellbeing. For us, this is unsustainable and needs to change. In the hypercompetitive cultural field, sometimes you feel pressured to accept any opportunity you’re offered, rather than taking time to contemplate if it’s a good fit for you, or negotiating the working conditions it entails. Asking questions can feel stressful, or might brand you as ‘difficult’ or ‘ungrateful’. This is particularly pertinent when the ones negotiating are a salaried institutional representative on the one hand and a freelancer on the other. Unfortunately, the power differential between the two usually benefits the institution. Negotiating and getting on the same page is also work! It’s something to consider when scoping a job, offering a fee, or quoting for your services, for example. Ideally, your collaboration started with a clear invitation that clarifies the project’s material conditions, and everyone is on the same page about their respective responsibilities. But remember that working dynamics will undoubtedly change and shift alongside budgets, timelines, capacities, and life situations. Let’s recognise that life happens, that many things are out of our control, and we need to negotiate (and renegotiate) throughout a project. Sometimes we might even need to step away from a project, and that’s okay too. In moments when collaborations give rise to tension and conflict, let’s try to challenge the idea that conflict is taboo, and remember to keep checking in throughout the collaborative process. The following exercises and prompts have been developed to help guide and normalise negotiation conversations: asking questions, sharing needs, and negotiating the terms of a collaboration. To prepare, we first suggest thinking through and naming all the different types of labour you do for a project, and the amounts of time they take. This will help when communicating your boundaries around schedules and responsiveness. Then consider what needs to be shared, how to respectfully recognise people’s different life situations, and what aspects of communication, language, and accessibility are important to you. You might wish to share an access rider too. ### **1\. Visualising your labour** Clearly articulating the routines and demands of your current projects and commitments can help you plan realistically, set boundaries, and encourage others to respect your time. ### **2\. Email signature** Adding a signature to your emails is a helpful way to communicate your work schedule and capacity to others. It can also serve to highlight other aspects of how you work that might be relevant. You might want to include: Name, pronouns / Email + website + social media / I work on: \[list days\]/ I read my emails on: \[list days\] / It might take up to days to reply / I spend % of my time on this work/job ### **3\. Coming together & sharing needs** Prompts to communicate your needs when introducing yourself - (Everyday life) things that are important to me, that I’d like to share - How I best process information - How I like to receive feedback - My ideal conditions / I am at my best when ### **4\. How to work together?** Prompts to structure a collaborative process - How do we imagine this collaboration will take place? - Reasons we want to work together - What skills can we offer each other? - What values/principles are meaningful for us? - Can we agree on how to equally distribute fun / less fun responsibilities? - Can we speak about our different working conditions, & how to support each other? - What resources / other currencies can we offer each other? - How can we incorporate pleasure, fun, & celebration in this project? ### **5\. Communication** Prompts to navigate communication and expectations - My preferred method/platform for communication is - I’m available to communicate during - These are my predicted response times - Social media preferences/energy for using social media ### **6\. Language & accessibility** Let’s discuss… - Language and terminology that’s important to me - Terms that might be hurtful or problematic - Forms of support I appreciate - Accessibility needs ### **CONFLICT AND TENSION** At some point, negotiations—and collaborative processes—might develop into disagreements, arguments, or conflicts. Unresolved disputes are stressful for everyone, and can become more stressful the longer they remain unresolved. While most of us might feel ill-equipped to deal with conflict, the individualistic nature of each situation means there’s no such thing as a conflict ‘expert’, or a fail-safe technique for resolving conflict. Being conscious of when a situation has become polarised is important, and a good indicator that mediation could help you get on the same page. Sometimes a facilitator or ‘neutral’ person in the room can be helpful for conflict de-escalation too. While it might feel challenging in the moment, persisting in talking through difficulty can build goodwill and result in preserving—or perhaps even enhancing—relationships. Conflict can also be transformational and a site for growth—it ushers in new ways of being in the world, understanding oneself, and relating to others. Reaching a resolution may also vary a lot depending on the kind of work you are doing, the context, as well as the people involved, how they’re connected to each other, and how they relate to conflict. Acknowledging that our response to conflict could fluctuate over time might also be helpful. The following lists of questions and prompts might aid you when needing to address conflict in a collaborative process. ### **I’M SENSING TENSION IN THE AIR: WHAT DO I DO?** - I can tolerate the situation - I avoid talking about it - I feel stressed - I can initiate a conversation to acknowledge the tension - I can lead a mediation discussion ### **IF YOU’RE HESITATING OR DON’T FEEL CAPABLE OF INITIATING A CONVERSATION JUST YET:** - Can I ask for some time to think things through / sit with my emotions? - Have I communicated how long I need to reflect, & when I will get back to this? - How do I react when I’m hurt? - How do I feel knowing that I’ve hurt someone? - Can I empathise with how the other person/people might be feeling? - Am I being avoidant/defensive, angry/ungracious? - What do I want to do next with these emotions? ### **WHEN YOU’RE READY TO LISTEN AND HAVE A CONVERSATION** - What do I want out of this conversation? - What forms of communication work best for me in this moment? - How do we structure our conversation so that we all feel heard? - Do we need facilitation? Who can facilitate? - What do we wish to be acknowledged? - How do we sit with difficulty? - Does apologising feel hard right now? - How did our behaviour affect each other? - What steps can we take to fix this? - What happens next? \*\*\* This text is an excerpt from Windows of Tolerance: Tools for Ideal Collaborations in an Unideal (Art) World, a publication by Feminist Culture House. A compilation of exercises, checklists, workflows, prompts for conversation, and practical tips, the publication invites readers to become attuned to the social, cultural, and political implications of the working methods they put into practice, and to implement intersectional feminist working methodologies when collaborating with others. You can download the digital publication for free at [feministculturehouse.org](http://feministculturehouse.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). The publication also includes a print-at-home version of the exercises presented here, and other prompts for conversation and reflection for those interested in collaborative processes grounded in intersectionality. // *Feminist Culture House is an intersectional feminist curatorial and editorial collective based in Helsinki. We produce exhibitions, publications, and tools for change to try and create fairer working conditions, better representation, and more inclusive institutional structures within the art field. Our current working group is formed by Gladys Camilo, Paola Jalili, and Katie Lenanton.* ### Sous le même soleil URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/sous-le-meme-soleil-laura-langenais/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:19:45.000Z Montreal, a sweltering day. The sun beats down, the air is stifling, the discomfort borders on sickness. The concrete streets absorb heat that won't be released until late in the evening. Many flock to the parks, seeking shade and coolness, refuge from this general dizziness. Proximity is a luxury: braving the city's dramatic landscapes in 40-degree humidex to reach one of its large parks is no accident. In a city shaped by decades of uneven development, access to coolness is no accident. By 2026, green spaces will constitute genuine climate infrastructure. Park canopies reduce urban heat islands, improve air quality, absorb rainwater, and contribute to the health \[1\] of city dwellers. Their use for public health purposes, however, is not a recent phenomenon. In the United States, towards the end of the 19th century, the park movement introduced a set of moral qualities attributed to urban parks, and it was also linked to an appreciation of their health benefits . Figures like Frederick Law Olmsted, the landscape architect behind some of North America's largest urban parks, such as Mount Royal Park in Montreal and Central Park in New York, sought to offer city dwellers a solution to the health risks of the industrial city. This democratized access to green spaces echoed the social aims of the large parks emerging at the same time on the other side of the Atlantic. In 1867, the Buttes-Chaumont Park was inaugurated in the 19th arrondissement of Paris, intended to promote social pacification by offering the same access to nature to residents of disadvantaged neighborhoods as to those of the affluent districts. Parks became a matter of public health and the well-being of the working class . \[2\] Nearly a century later, the threats have changed, but the beneficial virtues of green spaces remain. Factory fumes have given way to heat waves, episodes of air pollution, and floods. As rising temperatures make cities increasingly hostile, a question arises: who benefits from parks and their adaptive qualities in the face of climate change? Not all shelters are created equal. In Montreal, coolness follows the same trajectories as wealth. In the affluent neighborhoods of Outremont and Westmount, where the tree canopy covers more than 30% of the territory , \[3\] the shade of trees and large green spaces mitigate the effects of heat waves. Conversely, in several working-class neighborhoods in the east and north of the island, such as Montreal North, Saint-Léonard, or parts of Saint-Michel, the tree canopy is sometimes half as extensive . \[4\] These neighborhoods have some of the highest concentrations of immigrant populations in Montreal. These populations, historically neglected by urban planning policies, are also those with the fewest resources to cope with the effects of the climate crisis. The difference may seem trivial from the air: a few fewer trees, a few more streets. At ground level, however, it is measured in degrees Celsius. Research conducted at Concordia University \[5\] shows that an increase of just 10% in vegetation cover can lower surface temperature by more than one degree. This geography of coolness is no accident: it is the product of a heavy legacy of unequal urban planning, structural underinvestment, and political choices that have organized the city according to discriminatory principles. The climate is changing for everyone, but the tools to cope with it remain profoundly unequal. The organization of cities remains based on class. In Montreal, as elsewhere, climate policies protect some while neglecting many. The climate crisis is a social crisis. // **Footnotes** 1\. Thomas Fisher, “Frederick Law Olmsted and the Campaign for Public Health.”, Places , no. 2010 (November 15, 2010). [https://doi.org/10.22269/101115](https://doi.org/10.22269/101115?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) . 2\. Antoine Picon, “Nature and Engineering: The Buttes-Chaumont Park.”, Romantisme n°150, no. 4 (December 1, 2010): 35–49\. [https://doi.org/10.3917/rom.150.0035](https://doi.org/10.3917/rom.150.0035?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) . 3\. “ The urban forest in Outremont,” City of Montreal , May 22, 2026, [https://montreal.ca/articles/la-foret-urbaine-outremont-18909](https://montreal.ca/articles/la-foret-urbaine-outremont-18909?utm%5Fsource=chatgpt.com) 4\. “Proportion of territory covered by canopy”, Montreal Metropolitan Community , 2023, [https://entreprises-vitaux.cmm.qc.ca/environnement-et-milieux-naturels/proportion-du-territoire-couvert-par-la-canopee/](https://indicateurs-vitaux.cmm.qc.ca/environnement-et-milieux-naturels/proportion-du-territoire-couvert-par-la-canopee/?utm%5Fsource=chatgpt.com) 5\. Li, Lingshan, et al., “Analyzing Spatial Patterns of Urban Green Infrastructure for Urban Cooling and Social Equity.”, Urban Forestry & Urban Greening 112 (July 30, 2025): 128983\. [https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ufug.2025.128983](https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ufug.2025.128983?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) . **Bibliography** Montreal Metropolitan Community. “Proportion of territory covered by canopy,” 2023\. [https://entreprises-vitaux.cmm.qc.ca/environnement-et-milieux-naturels/proportion-du-territoire-couvert-par-la-canopee/](https://indicateurs-vitaux.cmm.qc.ca/environnement-et-milieux-naturels/proportion-du-territoire-couvert-par-la-canopee/?utm%5Fsource=chatgpt.com) Fisher, Thomas. “Frederick Law Olmsted and the Campaign for Public Health.” Places , no. 2010 (November 15, 2010). [https://doi.org/10.22269/101115](https://doi.org/10.22269/101115?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) . Li, Lingshan, Angela Kross, Carly D. Ziter, and Ursula Eicker. “Analyzing Spatial Patterns of Urban Green Infrastructure for Urban Cooling and Social Equity.” Urban Forestry & Urban Greening 112 (July 30, 2025): 128983\. [https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ufug.2025.128983](https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ufug.2025.128983?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) . Picon, Antoine. “Nature and Engineering: The Buttes-Chaumont Park.” Romanticism no. 150, no. 4 (December 1, 2010): 35–49\. [https://doi.org/10.3917/rom.150.0035](https://doi.org/10.3917/rom.150.0035?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) . City of Montreal. “The urban forest in Outremont” May 22, 2026\. [https://montreal.ca/articles/la-foret-urbaine-outremont-18909](https://montreal.ca/articles/la-foret-urbaine-outremont-18909?utm%5Fsource=chatgpt.com) *Laura Langenais est étudiante à la maîtrise en environnement à l’Université de Montréal. Elle a au préalable complété un baccalauréat en sociologie à l’Université Concordia. Le mémoire qu’elle rédige est une analyse des inégalités sociales creusées par les mesures de résilience climatique en milieu urbain. Ses intérêts de recherche se situent au croisement de l’urbanisme, de la justice climatique et des enjeux de transition socio-écologique.* ### Announcing the Transitional Justice with Artists Fellows URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/announcing-the-transitional-justice-with-artists-fellows/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:27:10.000Z AFIELD, Arts of the Working Class, and Framer Framed announce the selection of six fellows for the Transitional Justice with Artists (TJA) Grant. Selected from 364 applications from 34 countries, these practitioners are recognized for their long-term work addressing legacies of injustice and violence. The TJA program supports creative practitioners who address historical harm through artistic methodologies, expanding the “justice imagination,” our collective capacity to envision ambitious forms of repair, truth-telling, and accountability that exist beyond traditional legal frameworks. Over two six-month fellowship periods in 2026 and 2027, the six fellows will each receive €10,000, and participate in a program which includes a peer-to-peer research group to share methodologies and resources; a published feature in the artistic street journal Arts of the Working Class; and a seven-day residency hosted by Framer Framed in Amsterdam. Following a two-month selection process, the jury highlighted how the fellows undertake the “important work of reparation, helping to reconcile cognitive dissonance” across fractured landscapes. By nurturing a sense of agency and power within affected communities, these initiatives remind us that these difficult histories must be “discussed and addressed again and again.” ### **2026 Cohort** **Aida Šehović** – *ŠTO TE NEMA Foundation* (Bosnia & Herzegovina): Countering the 1995 Srebrenica Genocide denial through a nomadic monument and public rituals of collective mourning. **François Makanga** – *Cultural Marronage in the Public Sphere* (Belgium): Confronting Belgian colonial erasure through theatrical walking tours and temporary museum interventions. **Mihaela Drăgan** – *Giuvlipen Theatre Company* (Romania): Dismantling anti-Roma racism and violence and reclaiming narrative sovereignty through dramaturgy, documentary, and Roma Futurism. ### **2027 Cohort** **Astrig Agopian** – *Like There’s No Tomorrow* (Armenia): Building an independent multimedia archive of testimonies following the mass displacement of Armenians from Nagorno-Karabakh. **Luz María Sánchez** – *Vis.\[un\]necessary force* (Norway/Mexico): Equipping civilian search groups with custom wearable technologies to safeguard forensic evidence of enforced disappearances. **Yevheniia Moliar** – *DE NE DE* (Ukraine): Transforming Soviet artifacts in local museum collections into “public assemblies” where conflicting historical narratives can safely coexist. To learn about each fellow, visit [afield.org ](https://afield.org/announcing-tja-fellows/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)// *The Transitional Justice with Artists Grant is co-funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Education and Culture Executive Agency (EACEA). Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them.* ### Global Players URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/arts-of-the-working-class-42/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:04:33.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-42-global-players](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-42-global-players?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- Across the world, by popular voice, an editorial has already been written, and this issue will propel it further: the collective chant of “No Justice, No Peace”, the shorter, punchier descendant of Martin Luther King's Vietnam War era analysis that peace as currently brokered can function as an instrument of power rather than a remedy for it. Alone, peace deals cannot put an end to genocides and wars—only the establishment of justice will. The slogan above expresses the awakening of a collective consciousness in the wake of International Law’s failure to hold accountable the full spectrum of actors (or indeed anyone) implicated in war crimes and colonial violence from Venezuela to Sudan to the Democratic Republic of Congo to Syria to Gaza. If peace alone is inadequate, what about justice? Justice, yes, but when we use the term, what do we mean? Justice by and for whom? This issue, titled Global Players, is the result of a collaboration with AFIELD (Paris) and Framer Framed (Amsterdam), and begins with this question. Dedicated to Transitional Justice, it puts the universality of justice on trial, illuminating the shifting spatio-temporal conditions in which it is negotiated. The origins of Transitional Justice emerge from efforts to confront widespread human rights violations in nations moving from conflict, authoritarian rule, and repression toward peace, democracy, and stability. The aftermath of World War II, particularly the Nuremberg Trials, where Nazi leaders were tried for war crimes, crimes against humanity, and genocide, established a standard for how the international community responds to severe human rights violations, with a focus on accountability, truth-seeking, and compensation. Since then, many nations have sought their own ways of addressing histories of violence and reconstructing their societies: South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission after apartheid, Latin America's transitions from military dictatorship through the 1980s and 90s, and the reckonings in the Balkans after the Yugoslav wars. However, the consequences of enduring violence do not move linearly; they travel in vortical loops of trauma. Following Transitional Justice’s four pillars: the right to know; the right to justice; the right to reparation; and the right to non-repetition, Global Players’ pages engage with what it means to speak of justice when historical violence continues to structure the present in the inseparable conditions of our shared global reality. The false dichotomy of “here” and “there” is exacerbated by an International Law written overwhelmingly in the Global North, where law and art are subjugated to (and collusive with) neoliberal elitism, and where cultural practice carries almost no weight in the formal processes through which justice is rebuilt after conflict. This issue probes the contrary: that an art, less exclusive, more porous, capable of holding contradictions that legal language cannot, might do real work precisely by bearing witness, by restoring the texture of memory, by making legible what tribunals leave unnamed: the distance between legal principle and lived experience. Global Players then reaches toward that conjunction and extends the invitation visually through a collaboration with Tawna, an Amazonian film collective whose practice approaches moving image as testimony, situated storytelling, and sustained attention to contested geographies of experience, currently presented at the first Ecuadorian Pavilion of the 61st Venice Biennale. War and violence, like colonization, take more than rights and land. They strip away the cultural rituals through which people grieve, celebrate, and remember. In Supply Lines, our chapter dedicated to first-hand experience from workers, the conflict facilitator Hamida Giyasbayli reflects on how political exile reshapes the language available to describe in-between states of being. Inés Condori testifies on the looting of dignity suffered by women subjected to forced sterilization in Peru. With these losses go the threads that bind people to one another and to the places they call home, wounds that run in many directions, and that call both for systemic change and for the particular work that artists can do. Moving ahead, the issue widens its lens. Command Centers features a conversation with Gregory Scholette about the intersection of justice and socially engaged art, alongside a critical perspective from the Third World Approaches to International Law (TWAIL) scholar and lawyer Sujith Xavier on the limits of Transitional Justice as a framework. Reverberations turn to subtler, structural forms of harm, including algorithmic governance, urban precarity, and the politics of green space, focusing on work by Wang Yiquan and Laura Langenais. Tactics makes legible the strategies of artists operating in conflict zones and carceral conditions through pieces by Aly Abdallah, ThiYazan Al-Alawi, and Jailtime Records. Side Games closes the issue with Joseph Kaifala’s Interactive Life Path, a meditation on the choices that introspectively, but insistently, determine a life. Finally, we circle back to the cover, where the artist Shokoufeh Eftekhar questions, in poetry, what it means to be determined by the law. Their answer is: I am somehow. This issue brings together an extensive international group of artists, writers, researchers, and practitioners: ThiYazan Al-Alawi, Aly Al-Qarm, Paolo Caffoni, CATPC, Inés Condori, Shokoufeh Eftekhar, Feminist Culture House, Hamida Giyasbayli, Zahara Gómez Lucini, Ozan Güngör, Jailtime Records, Amelie Jakubek, Joseph Ben Kaifala, Laura Langenais, Jesse Laurie, Andy Liu, Lydia Markaki, Renzo Martens, Brunilda Pali, María Inés Plaza Lazo, Krishan Rajapakshe, Gregory Sholette, Ced'Art Tamsala, Abi Tariq, TAWNA, TJA Research Group, Wang Yiquan, Sujith Xavier, and Rico Zyrrano. **Imprint** **Founder / Publisher / Editor at Large** María Inés Plaza Lazo **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Associate Editors** The research group of the Transitional Justice with Artists project (Amelie Jakubek, Abi Tariq, Chantal Wong, Lydia Markaki) **Copyediting** William Kherbek, ezo karamell **Distribution and Administration** Laurentiu Dragota **Layout, Design** Manuel Burger This issue is co-funded by the European Union, in partnership with AFIELD and Framer Framed. --- ## In this issue - [Artist Labor](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/issue-42-renzo-martens/) - [Transformative Justice](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/transformative-justice/) - [Görünməyən Əmək, Bitməyən Mübarizə](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/goeruenmyn-mk-bitmyn-muebariz/) - [Harvesting Truth](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/essay-harvesting-truth/) - [The Phantom Archive: from PAD/D’s socially engaged and activist art in the 1980s to the "Radical Unpresent" of 2026](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-phantom-archive-a-conversation-with-gregory-sholette/) - [No Regrets](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/no-regrets-interview-with-dione-roach/) - [Sous le même soleil](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/sous-le-meme-soleil-laura-langenais/) - [Windows of Tolerance](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/windows-of-tolerance/) - [Con cada punto, una historia que no se olvida](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/women-affected-by-forced-sterilizations/) - [Art Space to Practice Justice](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/art-space-to-practice-justice-lydia-markaki/) - [Linguistica del Tecnofascismo](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/linguistica-del-tecnofascismo-paolo-caffoni/) ### Ovary of a Biennale URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/review-necessary-wishes-matter-of-art-biennale-prague/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:28:03.000Z When the first edition of the Prague Biennale *Matter of Art* took place in 2020, the question of the biennale's format's relevance within the neoliberal paradigm was already present. The agenda of the curators was no longer whether we need a new biennale, but whether the very form itself could survive its own historical success, traditionally associated with scale, international visibility, and spectacular exhibition-making (controversies surrounding several recent iterations of documenta are expressions of this dynamic). Can spectacle itself be replaced by another form of intensity? Can the biennale connect and communicate with the specificities of a local art scene (rather than conform to the global standards of big shows)? Since its very first edition, *Matter of Art* aims to subordinate the spectacular form to the political and social ambitions of the exhibition; to create a space for art that does not depend on scale, prestige, or spectacle. Rather than depending on collaboration, local context, or community-oriented work to *compensate* for the lack of scale, it treats collaboration as an inherent part of the exhibition. ### **Places** This year’s edition, curated by Jaroslava Tomanová, František Fekete, and Jakub Gawkowski, under the title “Necessary Wishes”, clearly continues this tendency, emphasizing not only collective forms of art-making and art appreciation, but also transinstitutional connections, anti-white cube installation strategies, and linkage between local context and major social issues of today. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Rufina-Bazlova-_-Stitch-it-Collective-Biennale-Matter-of-Art-2026-NGP-Jonas-Verespej-HQ3A8767.jpg) Rufina Bazlova \_ Stitch it Collective, Biennale Matter of Art 2026 @ NGP © Jonáš Verešpej. Entering the Great Hall of the National Gallery, one does not first encounter individual artworks but rather an environment. The intense architectural intervention created by Ruina Office transforms the space through scaffolding, dividers, and two projection black boxes (which are symbolically colored red). You pass a towering, enclosed structure erected for the embroideries of Rufina Bazlova and Stitch It Collective and a central Big Top. This “tent” represents a space for the reading group kroužek intersekce, other gatherings, workshops, and public activities. It also provides a lofty structure for sitting and listening to Shella Radio Community’s program. A similar condition appears in GAMPA Pardubice, housed in one of the very few newly built cultural complexes of this type in the Czech Republic. Despite its newness, the building has a complicated history; it often functions more architecturally than institutionally. Its L-shaped interior, defined by exposed brick walls, usually demands highly interventionist exhibition strategies. The Biennale works differently and more simply: many works appear as framed images positioned between two large-scale projections at the end of the gallery. The third location, Tusculum, occupies a residency space sharing a garden with an aftercare hospital in Prague. There is little here that resembles the traditional white cube or prestige-oriented exhibition model. Instead, artworks are embedded within spaces where art attempts to renew and reformulate its own functions and values. ### **Collaborations** What connects these diverse spaces and artworks are their ways of collaborating and sharing. Firstly, there is collaboration between a traditional centralized institution, a small, progressive municipal gallery, and an artist-run residential space. This year, a significant amount of the represented artists are collectives and initiatives such as Taring Padi, Michal durda & Izbová Teplota, kroužek intersekce, Rufina Bazlova/Stitch It Collective, FŮD Collective, Shella Radio, and Stony Tellers. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Shella-Radio-Biennale-Matter-of-Art-2026-NGP-Jonas-Verespej-HQ3A8417.jpg) Shella Radio, Biennale Matter of Art 2026 @ NGP © Jonáš Verešpej. Collaboration forms the basis not only of the production of art, but also its reception; what Luis Camnitzer calls “art appreciation” and what Claire Bishop has dubbed “disordered attention” (that is to say, rich and shared energy as opposed to an undivided, “normative”, passive attention). In this regard, you might listen to the program of Shella Radio not as a sound piece or as music but as a community radio project consisting of DJ sets, discussions, and musical performances. Similarly, you can visit the narrative workshop organised by Stony Tellers and the live readings of kroužek intersekce. The Biennale does not have a catalogue or standard official publication, but instead a zine published by FŮD collective, which is composed of invitations to think with the artists and curators rather than read curatorial statements. Tomanova, Fekete, and Gawkowski take the opportunity to lay out their vision of “Necessary Wishes”, which stems from an almost impossible combination: a wish belongs to the register of desire, imagination, and excess. Necessity connotes survival, obligation, and reality. By placing these terms together, the Biennale describes a prevalent condition in which art exists today: between hope and exhaustion, between political necessity and aesthetic uncertainty. Community-based and collective practices, together with the connections between central art institutions, regional galleries, and artist-run initiatives, are not simply pragmatic solutions characteristic of smaller art scenes such as those in the Czech and Slovak context. ### **Tensions** Several projects address current geopolitical conflicts, particularly those taking place across the Levant as well as the ongoing war in Ukraine. In Prague’s Trade Fair Palace, one encounters copies of paintings of the Ukrainian Army by Davyd Chychkan, as well as a film by AntiGonna dedicated to the queer artist Artur Snitkus. Both Chychkan and Snitkus died at the front during the present war. The exhibition also presents work by the Polish GALAS Collective dedicated to supporting Ukrainian refugees. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Huda-Takriti-Biennale-Matter-of-Art-2026-NGP-Jonas-Verespej-HQ3A0903.jpg) Huda Takriti, Biennale Matter of Art 2026 @ NGP © Jonáš Verešpej. Huda Takriti’s film *On Another Note* (2024) traces the history of her grandmother and mother, both textile and fashion artists. Through a seemingly quotidian narration, the work unfolds experiences of displacement: being moved “somewhere else” (as in the case of Takriti’s mother, who married a Kuwaiti official) and being displaced vertically within one’s own territory. The Palestinian artist Noor Abed’s *we walk in our sleep* (2026), commissioned for the Biennale, unfolds through two parallel monologues by women whose voices never fully meet. The film moves between scenes of everyday life and choreographed interventions in public space, where gestures, movement, and repetition transform ordinary environments into stages of memory and presence. The work connects the mundane and the sacred, the past and the present, allowing suppressed experiences to emerge between words. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Noor-Abed-Biennale-Matter-of-Art-2026-NGP-Jonas-Verespej-HQ3A9139.jpg) Noor Abed, المتجاوزون (we walk in our sleep), 2026, installation view, Biennale Matter of Art 2026, National Gallery Prague – Trade Fair Palace, photo © Jonáš Verešpej. A third projection space in the main exhibition presents portraits of people from Southwest Asia and North Africa (SWANA) living in Prague as captured by Zaher Jureidini and Leila Basma, two Lebanese graduates of FAMU. The exhibition in Pardubice also engages with cosmographical contexts. Two iconic works by Běla Kolářová create moon-like concentric compositions from everyday objects such as snap fasteners, while photographs of installation performances by the Ukrainian artist Fedir Tetynych resemble handmade spacecraft. ### **Bodies** But the most prominent storyline is body-related and queer. For example, Aron Neubert’s portrait series *Warmth which only fire can give us* (1995), follows the final months of Jürgen Baldiga’s life, presenting art not as a privilege but as a necessity. Jan Durina similarly works with textiles and embroidery, masking and revealing, self-creation and auto-theorization through queer-feminist approaches. Nearby, the Slovak artist Tina Bxqt explores the monsterification of bodies through xenomorphic forms, fragments, dissections, and ceramics—the works were also presented for the Academy of Fine Arts in Prague diploma exhibition, from which she graduated this year. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Aron-Neubert-Biennale-Matter-of-Art-2026-NGP-Jonas-Verespej-HQ3A8957.jpg) Aron Neubert, Biennale Matter of Art 2026 @ NGP © Jonáš Verešpej. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Jan-Durina-Biennale-Matter-of-Art-2026-NGP-Jonas-Verespej-HQ3A8899.jpg) Jan Durina, Biennale Matter of Art 2026 @ NGP © Jonáš Verešpej. At the same time as presenting these explorations of embodied experience, the curators acknowledge a certain exhaustion around the concept of identity. Political positions can become too quickly framed as fixed identities or desires. Here, the emphasis on bodies is an invitation to share bodily concerns and forms of care through difference. ### **Ovaries** The film *Ovary* (2021) by Isadora Neves Marques presents perhaps the most symbolic work of the entire exhibition. Originally commissioned for the Liverpool Biennial, the short film consists of fragments: medical examinations, bodies, the sea, and a very brief conversation in which we discover that a gay couple is considering having a child through the implantation of an ovary into a male body. At first, I needed to rewatch the loop a couple of times to reassure myself I was not missing some details. The film deconstructs Lana Del Rey’s song *Let Me Love You Like a Woman*, and engages with the fandom genre of Mpreg (short for male pregnancy), a plot device in which men become pregnant, and questions of heteronormativity and reproductive rights. Yet, it leaves us without definitive answers, nor a full-fledged story, resolution, or happy ending. Instead, Neves Marques places us in a soothing rhythm of waves and repetition: perhaps witnessing a not-so-distant utopia of bodies liberated from fixed gender structures, or even people liberated from hierarchies and privileges. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Isadora-Neves-Marques-Biennale-Matter-of-Art-2026-GAMPA-Jonas-Verespej-HQ3A9955-Edit.jpg) Isadora Neves Marques, Biennale Matter of Art 2026 @ GAMPA © Jonáš Verešpej ### **Fragments** It is these conditions that the neoliberal paradigm was unable to come to terms with. Many forms of liberal politics and aesthetics will obviously go on, including biennales. The question is not literally whether they can survive, but whether they can become places of new social becoming, new (and not only spectacular) forms of production where divisions and fragmentation are symbolic and constitutive of the present moment. In this atmosphere, art cannot but defend diversity, incompleteness, and complexity, and, therefore, even fragmentary, discontinuous ways of making sense. We must respond to the simple fact that reality cannot be fully subordinated to the anthropocentric parochialism inherent in contemporary identity politics or populism. We need to cultivate our ability to cope with diversity and change, our ability to negotiate, and to disagree about basic values. Matter of Art and “Necessary Wishes” attempt to create such avenues. You may claim that these qualities and meanders have always been part of the biennale format, and of art in general. But the issue is not just to feature artworks working in this direction, but rather to motivate the entire format to such perspectives and strategies. // *Václav Janoščík is a theorist, professor, artist, and curator focusing on pop-philosophy, vernacular ontologies, speculative history, the democratization of contemporary art and thinking, political ecology (of affects), the philosophy of technology and media, and gaming. He works in the Faculty of Art and Design at UJEP, UMPRUM in Prague, The New Center, and the University of New Haven.* ### After the Opening URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/interview-gabi-ngcobo-on-he-social-life-of-contemporary-art/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:30:33.000Z This conversation begins with something deceptively ordinary: an exhibition opening that ends too quickly. From there, it unfolds into a meditation on how institutions produce social life through their smallest arrangements—time, seating, food, conversation, memory. Reflecting on the first half of her tenure at Kunstinstituut Melly, Gabi Ngcobo traces a curatorial practice grounded less in management than in listening, improvising, and slowly accumulating gestures that make another institutional culture imaginable. This grounding has shaped Ngcobo’s work across distinct institutional and geographic contexts. From her curatorial practice in Johannesburg as founder of the collaborative platforms Center for Historical Reenactment (CHR) and NGO Nothing Gets Organised and in Pretoria as Curatorial Director at the Javett Art Center, to collaborative projects for the 10th Berlin Biennial and the 32nd São Paulo Biennial, she has consistently approached exhibition-making as a collective and situated form of knowledge production rather than as a vehicle for singular authorship. **María Inés Plaza Lazo: Gabi, what is different about Melly these days?** **Gabi Ngcobo:** For me, it’s the exhibition opening format itself. I know it sounds small, but it’s really important. When I arrived, the institution was still operating with an inherited rhythm: Friday evening openings at 6pm; everybody arrives at once; everything peaks quickly, and by 7.30 or 8pm it’s basically over. People leave because they have dinner elsewhere, or trains back to Amsterdam or The Hague, or other plans. So you get this compressed social moment—very intense, but also very short-lived. And I remember after the first opening—which was very successful, packed, a lot of energy in the house—thinking: after 45 minutes almost everyone was gone. And I was standing there thinking, but it’s only 8\. What just happened? Then there was dinner afterwards. We tried to organize something in a restaurant, and it immediately became a social puzzle. Who do you invite? Who sits with whom? It produces hierarchy in a very informal way. In the end it became almost absurd—we ran out of food, people were eating bread. It was chaotic, and it still didn’t resolve inclusion, it just reproduced it differently. So at some point it became clear we had to do it differently. We moved openings to Saturdays, during the day, and stretched the format—not to make it bigger, but more breathable. People can come in and out. They are not locked into a single peak moment. Families can come with children, and children’s programming doesn’t need to be separated from what is considered the “main” or “serious” part. It can all exist in the same temporal field. We also changed food. We started serving it here, without RSVP, without pre-selecting who eats together. Just making enough for everyone, as much as possible, without that secondary layer of exclusivity that happens after the opening. What surprised me is that it became cheaper than going to a restaurant. But, more importantly, it changes the social dynamic. People stay longer, talk differently, don’t rush into predefined groups. They move, disappear, return, and sit again. There is music, but no pressure to perform participation—you can listen, respond, or just be in it. So it becomes more fluid, less segmented. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1_Abbas-and-Abou-Rahme.jpg) Installation view of Basel Abbas & Ruanne Abou-Rahme: Prisoners of Love: Until the Sun of Freedom, on view from Saturday 18 April to Sunday 27 September 2026 at Kunstinstituut Melly, Rotterdam. Photography: Kristien Daem **MIPL: So the institution becomes less of an event machine.** **GN:** Yes. Less extraction, more inhabitation. And that’s where symbolic change becomes concrete. It’s not about renaming or declaration—it’s about micro-conditions of encounter: time, access, hospitality, fatigue, care. Those small infrastructures that decide whether people can remain together or whether everything is structured around arrival and departure. That’s where the shift is. **MIPL: Can you be more concrete about this shift?** **GN:** I don’t want to trap myself in a checklist of “what I’ve done”. That’s not why I came here. And it’s also not concrete in that sense. I didn’t arrive with a fixed mission of transformation. That’s not how it works for me. **MIPL: But it’s also not about a checklist. It’s more about how we can stay in conversation with these practices, and let them resonate elsewhere.** **GN:** Yes. For me what was interesting about coming to Melly is that there is this six-year rhythm of leadership. Every six years a director changes. And I thought: that’s actually quite beautiful. Because it gives you a frame—a time span that is long enough to work within, but finite enough not to pretend permanence. Each director arrives with a vision, a history, a set of experiences. So the institution becomes a place where you can bring something, but also learn what is already working, what doesn’t need to be transformed, what has its own intelligence. So it’s not only about change. It’s also about listening. With the previous period—marked by Sofia \[Hernández Chong Cuy\]—it’s important to say that what people often call “the name change” was not a single symbolic gesture but a long, intense process. It involved internal pressure, public debate, and it unfolded within a wider global context—COVID, the murder of George Floyd, the intensified visibility of structural violence. It wasn’t an isolated institutional question; it was forced open by events far beyond the institution. And I don’t want to treat that lightly. So the question for me is: how do you stay with these questions over time, instead of closing them too quickly? Instead of saying: the box is ticked, the name is changed, we move on. Because in reality we still talk about the name all the time. I do as well. It hasn’t disappeared; it circulates. Even Google Maps still shows traces of the old name. I notice it when students come, or when people try to find the place. There is still a kind of double naming that lingers. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_Suitcase-Economy.jpg) Suitcase Economy Brunch #5, by Riet Wijnen, on Saturday 28 March 2026 at Kunstinstituut Melly, Rotterdam. Photography: Liza Wolters **MIPL: Yes, I still see it when I type it in—it redirects and Witte de Witte appears in the route.** **GN:** And that tells you something. Institutional change is never fully clean or immediate. It leaves residue. And then there are concrete decisions, but I hesitate when the conversation becomes only about “what you did” in a managerial sense. The more interesting question is how those decisions sit inside a longer process of inhabiting change. For example, downstairs there are different spaces. One was already part of MELLY, and then there was TENT, and other configurations before. When those arrangements shifted, we took over some of those spaces and began to rethink them—especially in relation to education and participation. But I’m not sure the most interesting layer is administrative. It’s more: what kind of social space emerges from that? **MIPL: But I want to insist on the concrete—on what actually changes materially, because otherwise it stays too abstract.** **GN:** I hear that, but I also don’t want to be pushed only into the register of the concrete. What I’m describing is something that resists being fully pinned down. I’ve been here for two and a half years. That’s a decent amount of time, but not enough for everything to solidify. A lot of things are still gestures, still experiments. And that matters. For instance, I was interested in opening a space on the ground floor that could mirror the main institution in another way—like the Cantina space, which predates Melly as Melly. That history is always slightly unstable, because the naming keeps shifting. The idea was a space open in terms of participation—where knowledge production is not tied to a single entry point, where different publics can enter from different directions. Because when we talk about education in museums, we often look at numbers—schools, first encounters, volume. But there are other layers that matter just as much: students from universities here in Rotterdam, people who are isolated, or simply looking for social contact or forms of belonging that don’t exist elsewhere. I wanted a space that could hold that multiplicity. That is still in progress. And part of why it remains in progress is simple: it requires resources. Money. And I don’t say that in a romantic way. I actually find it difficult to say it, because I’m not from here. In other contexts you can sometimes build things that are less dependent on formal funding structures. But here the structure is different. If you want things to be in line with a formalized fairness (Fair Pay), if you want them to be sustainable, you need resources. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3_Hajra.jpg) Installation view of Hajra Waheed: There Is a Fountain Even If Pale That Flows Beneath Us All, on view from Saturday 18 April 2026 to Sunday 6 September 2026 at Kunstinstituut Melly, Rotterdam. Photography: Aad Hoogendoorn **MIPL: At the same time, we are in a broader condition where our relationship to money is entangled with capitalism, while also dependent on it. And maybe this is precisely the moment to rethink that relation.** **GN:** Yes, but that requires time, and bringing people into that idea who may not have experienced that kind of relationality before. In Johannesburg I can do that almost instinctively. But here the “father”, if I can put it that way, is very present—a structure that regulates things, takes care of them, but also controls them quite significantly. And, in some ways, this is the first time I’m working in that kind of context. I see its value, but also its limits. **MIPL: There is something almost post-structural in that tension with authority—something that tries to undo verticality while still operating within it.** **GN:** It’s a tension, not something that resolves easily. Hopefully it becomes a productive one. **MIPL: The tension feels comfortable though, as it allows the space to be otherwise. I felt this strongly at the exhibition of Marilyn Nance and donna Kukama—sitting on those sofas, it felt like a living room. Not metaphorically, but literally. And what struck me was that this furniture was not only for visitors, but for everyone inhabiting the space. Shared infrastructure. And at the same time, it’s modernist furniture.** **GN:** Modernist. I see. I thought I heard “nest”, like “mother nest”—that would be very ambitious. (laughs) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5_2-donna-Kukama.jpg) donna Kukama: I Breathe, You Breathe, on view from Saturday 11 October 2025 to Sunday 29 March 2026 at Kunstinstituut Melly, Rotterdam. Photography: Aad Hoogendoorn **MIPL: How did you come to choose this furniture for a future-oriented program?** **GN:** I didn’t think of it as “choosing modernist furniture”, but I am generally drawn to the 1950s. There’s something there I keep circling around. The furniture also came from earlier projects in the Cantina space. We showed the artist Thato Toeba the room and asked what they saw, and they immediately said: “this room is uncomfortable.” And that was interesting, because comfort is never neutral. It is produced through a coded visual language—often precisely that modernist language of the lounge, of the idea that you can “have a lounge” as a social unit. In many African contexts this is tied to a historical moment—late colonialism, independence, the emergence of a new middle class. There is an aspiration embedded in it: “I now have a lounge, and it will look like this.” A form of self-invention through interiors. So we started looking for furniture with Thato. They were searching for something that reminded them of their grandmother’s house. And what was striking is how often it is the same furniture, just displaced across generations and aspirations. At some point you realize the living room is not just domestic—it is narrative. It carries class mobility, memory, imitation, rejection, all at once. We now have a basement full of this furniture. Not as archive in a formal sense, but as something pragmatic: we don’t throw it away, we reuse it. It circulates through exhibitions, setups, situations. **MIPL: So it’s also quite affordable.** **GN:** Yes, but that’s not the only reason. There is also something about accumulation—about not separating exhibition furniture from life furniture. Paul, the previous deputy director who was here for over three decades, also had a similar sensibility. He had an obsession with chairs. I think I inherited part of that without fully realising it. I also collect chairs. They appear everywhere in my life, in different homes, in different corners. Then suddenly you find yourself in a basement full of chairs, sofas, tables, and you realize: this is a kind of archive, even if it never calls itself that. So we go down, bring things up, rearrange. Not only curatorial, but logistical—assembling temporary social environments. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5_donna-Kukama.jpg) Installation view of donna Kukama: I Breathe, You Breathe, on view from Saturday 11 October 2025 to Sunday 29 March 2026 at Kunstinstituut Melly, Rotterdam. Photography: Kristien Daem **MIPL: It has a patina, a sense of timelessness, but also that ’50s international moment of balance, before the fully deregulated accumulation we see now.** **GN:** Yes. And for me the key thing is that I want things to be used. In my grandmother’s house everything was covered in protective plastic—you couldn’t touch anything, everything was protected from life. **MIPL: I remember that plastic too. It becomes an ornament in itself.** **GN:** Exactly. The whole house becomes an ornament. And in my parents’ house there are still traces of that logic—objects not for use but for display. They signal status, arrival, achievement: “we are here now.” **MIPL: So it carries pride, but also distance from use.** **GN:** Yes. And I am more interested in the opposite direction: things meant to be used, even if they wear down in the process. **MIPL: There’s also a systemic issue in museums here. There are often no chairs. Where do you sit and think?** **GN:** “Where are the chairs?” It sounds banal, but it’s actually a serious question. Since these sofas and chairs started appearing in the exhibitions, I miss them everywhere else. It changes how you experience space—you are not only looking, you are staying. Every exhibition has its own logic of conviviality. In the Marilyn Nance show it became very clear we needed seating. Even with an archive of furniture, we still had to source additional pieces for that context. It keeps accumulating. And at some point I think: we should probably just do an exhibition of the furniture itself. **MIPL: So far, you’ve also dedicated exhibitions to specific bodies of work. Are you changing curatorial approaches too?** **GN:** I didn’t really change them in a clean way. It was already a kind of mess when I arrived—and it remains a functioning mess. When I came, a group show was already running. It was supposed to end in May. I started in January and wasn’t ready to produce a new show by then, so we extended it until September and opened the new season afterwards. That shifted the entire rhythm of the building. We are still trying to find a stable temporality—because exhibitions overlap differently, time stretches and compresses at once. On top of that there is the policy plan cycle in the Netherlands. Every four years you produce a large document that determines funding. It defines what you say you will do, what framework you operate in, what language you use. When I arrived, that was one of the first things I had to do with the team: understand the document and produce it almost immediately. I was appointed in August and by October 2023 I was already planning the writing of it with the Melly team. Everything felt unstable globally anyway. It was a strange moment to formulate a “four-year plan” for anything. And these frameworks often come with keywords—interconnectivity, inclusivity, and innovation, —and you are expected to position yourself within them. So I added another I: improvisation. **MIPL: I want to arrive at Basel Abbas and Ruanne Abou-Rahme’s exhibition and the thread of drawing across the exhibitions.** **GN:** I think in every sense. We work from knowledge, so we also draw from knowledge—from experience, archives, histories that are not always visible. I was also thinking about prisons in that sense: spaces that produce knowledge in constrained, ambivalent ways. Even prison can be thought of as a kind of school. **MIPL: I keep coming back to class consciousness here, too. Drawing can transcend class divisions.** **GN:** It can, but it can also reinforce them. I was also thinking about borders—lines that separate, organise, exclude. With Nohemí Pérez, for example, it is easy to say this is drawing, but I am thinking about the subject matter: people moving through forests, through territories, trying to reach somewhere else. That movement is not abstract—it is material, political. So withdrawal becomes interesting. Not only retreat, but searching for another possibility of life—another relation to those lines already drawn for us. That connects to marooning as well: escape as refusal, not leaving a trace in the way systems expect. And drawing as language itself. We often learn to draw before we write, \[it is\] a pre-linguistic form of thinking. So when language fails, you return to drawing. Another register of articulation. **MIPL: Drawing becomes this axis between beginnings and endings.** **GN:** Yes, but I don’t think about beginnings and endings. I think more in what I’d call “the changing same”. Not starting and finishing, but variation within continuity. Improvisation is close to that. Miles Davis once said: “I’ll play it first, and tell you what it is, later.” I like that—the idea that meaning comes after the act, not before. So I’m not defining this six-year period as a fixed project. It is about listening—to what emerges, what shifts, what returns differently. Call and response: you listen, you answer, and only afterwards you may start to understand what the conversation was. // ### We Are All Politicized, But We Are All Individuals URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/review-anton-jaegers-hyperpolitics/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:31:33.000Z At this point in time, it is evident that we are doing something wrong. And when I say we, I am addressing my generation, born in the 90s: the generation that has traversed the 2008 economic crisis, the Occupy movement, the decade of protests spanning from Brazil to Hong Kong, the COVID pandemic, Black Lives Matter, the war on Ukraine, Women, Life, Freedom, the wildfires in Los Angeles, the genocide in Gaza, the escalation of imperialist aggressions across the Levant, the deportation policies in the US. History has accelerated, despite reports of its demise, and a great deal has happened in less than twenty years. I recall, even as a teenager, my parents’ worry during the economic crisis, but I cannot recall any form of organizing around it. What I do recall clearly from those years is that a computer entered my house for the first time, and since then, my time spent online, professionally and recreationally, has grown exponentially. The digital dimension of our lives mirrors the precarization of everything else. And because our political movements have never properly addressed the social consequences of neoliberalism, its interconnection with internet culture, and the systemic crises that followed, we keep doing something wrong, even as politics saturates every corner of our lives. Scrolling Verso’s website, I came across *Hyperpolitics*, a slim but precise book by the economist and political scientist Anton Jäger. It doesn’t just diagnose, as the title suggests, the character of the political time in which we’re mired; it historicizes it. Jäger describes our current predicament as one of “extreme politicization without political consequences,” and his book traces how we got here across three political phases. Under mass politics, which dominated discourse through the 1980s, party and union membership organized political identity from the top down: your class position told you which side you were on, and belonging to a party or union was a total commitment that fused your private life to your public one. “Post-politics”, spanning the 1990s and 2000s, is what happens when the market moves into the organizing role: neoliberalism dismantles unions and mass parties and replaces collective belonging with individual consumer choice, severing private life from public life. Politics becomes something you no longer have to think about; you're liberated from it, but only because it's been banished from daily life altogether. Anti-politics, emerging after the 2008 financial crisis, reverses that separation, but not by rebuilding the institutions the market destroyed. The internet recombines public and private life instead, flooding your feed, your attention, your private time with political content, but without any of the stable structures that once gave that recombination direction. Political feeling floods back into everyday life loudly and constantly, but it circulates rather than accumulates: it has nowhere to go and nothing binding it together. Jäger observes that in our time “atomization and acceleration goes hand in hand: people are lonelier, but more excited; atomized but more connected; angrier but also more confused.” And, I would add, we are all politicized, but we are all individuals. What sustains Hyperpolitics’ argument is a set of references drawn not only from sociology and political science, but from art and literature, too. The book opens with Wolfgang Tillmans’ photographs of the Berlin rave scene of the 80s and 90s, a generation discovering dissolution and conviviality at the zenith of post-politics, unrepresented and in conflict with the generation before it. From this dynamic, Jäger argues, the vote became a personal, emotive choice rather than a social, collective one, a direct homage to Peter Sloterdijk’s book *Im selben Boot: Versuch über die Hyperpolitik* (1993) (In the Same Boat: An Essay Concerning Hyperpolitics), in which one of the defining features of “hyperpolitics” is how the political subject in Western democracies came to treat voting not as active participation in democracy, but as a means of relieving oneself of the responsibility for its upkeep. ### **Bowling Alone, Betting Against Each Other** Jäger’s chapter on post-politics, its title borrowed from Robert D. Putnam’s *Bowling Alone*, sits at the book’s center. It traces how capital sought liberation from party-based democracy, and how politics itself transformed into public relations. To finance PR imperatives, parties turned increasingly to private investors rather than their own electorates, treating voters as a black box. Political organization becomes the domain of unelected functionaries: the Eurogroup, the European Commission, the Federal Reserve, the Bank of England. Politics becomes technocracy. This matters because it is tempting, watching the far right rise across Europe and the US, to assume we are simply replaying the 20th-century totalitarian script. Jäger’s crucial caveat, however, is that none of this should be mistaken for a simple return to fascism. Paraphrasing his words: we are missing two crucial preconditions for the advent of fascism, a prerevolutionary working class about to take power and the experience of a total war from the population that justifies the violence inflicted on itself. For Jäger, the defining political trend of our era isn't fascism, it’s populism: a phenomenon that borrows fascism’s aesthetics of crisis and leadership, but lacks its organized mass base, its revolutionary opposition, and its will to totalize public and private life. Populism doesn’t need to seize the state through mass mobilization; it needs only to win elections through spectacle, then govern through the same technocratic and media apparatus it claims to oppose. ### **The Swarm** In the chapter on anti-politics—where Jäger argues we currently stand—he names, building on Byung-Chul Han, our characteristic form of collective behavior “the swarm”: mass, leaderless, and reactive, capable of gathering enormous numbers around a single figure or moment, but with none of the durability, accountability, or shared program of older mass movements. This is populism’s native habitat rather than fascism’s: the swarm simply gathers, discharges its energy, and disperses. Across the spectrum, activism today mimics “an abidingly ‘low’ form of politics: low-cost, low-entry, low-duration, and all too often, low-value,” with communities replaced by “swarms of individuals, firm commitments by fleeting passions.” This low threshold has become the default shape of political commitment generally, including online and offline. Where being part of a union or a mass party once meant a durable—often lifelong—identity, dues paid, meetings attended, discipline accepted, being part of a movement or an activist group today usually means something closer to a subscription: you can join a group chat, show up to a protest, attend a few meetings, and leave whenever the group asks more of you than you’re willing to give, all without consequence or accountability to anyone. Nothing structurally binds you to stay once the feeling that brought you there fades. This isn’t a personal failing; it’s what happens when political belonging is organized around an individual’s voluntary choice rather than collective necessity. But it also means that a movement’s size at its peak, however large, tells you very little about what it can actually sustain, since almost none of that size was ever committed to being there. We’ve never seen so many on the streets, which is good, but most of us were there together for the first time, and most of us return to individual life immediately after. The lowest-effort, most diffuse forms of participation happen online, as in the case of Black Lives Matter, when well-meaning people posted black squares to signal solidarity, but with no accompanying proposition, no political planning, no leader, no long-term demand followed. Merely the expression of justified outrage. And even though the internet briefly registered as a subversive tool during the Arab Spring, it has since been claimed by the entire political spectrum. Organizing there requires little accountability: a group chat can be abandoned quietly, unnoticed, observes Jäeger. There are no leaders, only facilitators—mostly bots—and belonging or exclusion is enforced through shaming and “cancelling”: sanitizing the space of difference before anyone is even allowed in. Jäger predicts these outbursts will remain little more than “postmodern renditions of ancien régime peasant uprisings,” oscillating between passivity and activity without shifting the underlying balance of power. ### **Beyond the Swarm** I want to argue that calling the current moment “populist” rather than “fascist” risks making the right’s politics sound as ephemeral, as swarm-like, as the left’s. I don't think it is. The right’s embeddedness in the institutions of Western democracies isn't a recent development, nor is it a strategic alliance of convenience; it is constitutive. Western democracies were built on racial capitalism, on the codified management of who counts as a full citizen and who doesn’t, on borders and carceral systems that long predate the present populist upsurge Jäger is diagnosing. What looks like the right suddenly finding its way into courts, police, and ostensibly center-right parties is really those institutions finding their way back to a project from which they were never fully separate. The right doesn’t need to build a swarm and then convert it into power, it already has the state’s machinery of exclusion available to it, machinery that was there before Donald Trump, Friedrich Merz, or Giorgia Meloni. So the real asymmetry between left and right isn’t that one is organized and the other isn’t; both are shaped by the same neoliberal dissolution of mass institutions Jäger describes. The asymmetry is that the right doesn’t need new institutions to become consequential, because the old ones—courts, police, borders, property law—were never neutral to begin with. The left has no equivalent inheritance to fall back on. Whatever institutional power it’s (putatively) going to have, it has to build from scratch, in a political environment actively organized against it. And it is precisely into that absence that the internet has rushed to fill the gap, offering the left a place to gather without ever asking it to build anything that lasts. ### **Pharmakon, not Villain.** The internet itself isn’t the problem. It’s a *pharmakon*, both poison and cure: it responds to the end of mass politics and to the reconfiguration of politics into a populist base narrative, even as it deepens individual loneliness. It’s symptomatic of two things at once: an urgent hunger for change, and a corrosive lack of the friction and persistence that collectivity and democracy actually require. However, the internet, Jäger writes, borrowing from Mark Fisher's definition of online society as “utopian Stalinist”, is a highly ascetic, morally reactive space, with very little utopia left in it, a space that promises radical openness and horizontal community but in practice enforces conformity through public shaming and ideological purity tests, much like the show trials it borrows its name from. It’s there that “the social” has lost its historical role and acquired a mediatic one, hyperpolitics operating as a lubricant between public and private life. In his closing note, Jäger points to the workplace, one of the few remaining spaces where we are bound to others involuntarily, where we don’t choose our colleagues. “The workplace, even if decollectivized, is the last social space where market dependency pushes for a forced socialization.” If the right’s power comes from institutions we did not choose and cannot easily opt out of, then maybe the left’s answer has to look structurally similar: not a swarm we join and leave at will, but something we’re bound to whether we feel like it on a given day or not. Voluntary, elective belonging, the kind our generation is fluent in, isn’t going to be enough to counter something that doesn’t ask for our participation in the first place. If the right’s politics are consequential because they're embedded, unavoidable, structural, the left’s politics will only become consequential the same way: by building something we can’t simply log off from. In a world where we are no longer forced into anything other than work, where our political commitment operates entirely voluntarily, maybe it’s time to ask how we formalize that commitment in a way that binds us through responsibility, rather than personal satisfaction or moral righteousness. Hyperpolitics is essential reading for those who feel the time is high, not only for change, but for building the sustained infrastructure that change actually requires. // *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Expanded Tempos URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/expanded-tempos/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:32:25.000Z *With “The Infinite Now”, Berlin Atonal, in collaboration with Unsound, restructured the festival experience around duration rather than sequence, inviting sustained listening across a 30-hour continuous program (May 16–17) inside Kraftwerk Berlin. Moving through dusk, night, dawn, day, and dusk again, this year’s edition invited audiences into a sustained atmosphere of focused listening and restfulness. Hundreds of beds filled the vast main concert hall, and soft, pillowed seating was spread across the screening rooms, encouraging the audience to rest, sleep, read, or hold conversations as the listening continued around them.* *In the format of a correspondence, Chiara Pagano and Federica Nicastro reflect on how “The Infinite Now” turned time into attention itself—whether slowing down, listening fully or halfway, or falling asleep at a festival can function as a quiet refusal of the constant performativity and hypervisibility demanded elsewhere, and what does the body retain once sound has passed through it.* ### **C.** Dear F., A few days have passed since the festival nights. My memories are now blurred, yet if I close my eyes, I can still recall the feelings in my body, whose memory works better than my mind's. The vibrations I experienced still linger there: my chest trembling with frequencies, my stomach pulsing with sound, my legs stretching as night comes, my eyes resting as I lie down. I find myself there again, inside the former power plant cathedral that, once more, welcomed me into its belly. This year’s 30-hour continuous program, proposed by Antonal’s curators Adriano Rosselli, Laurens von Oswald, and Harry Glass, sounds unusual, though it reads as an invitation to inhabit time and space differently—to tune into a prolonged rhythm while the earth outside keeps turning. Lately, I find it hard to pause. As much as I try to resist it, my head keeps acting as a dictator, rushing my days, my gestures, my hands, my steps, my relationships. It tells me I would waste time, miss the loop, or lose track of the bombs being dropped across the world. Pausing is a privilege in times of death and destruction. And yet, some form of pause might still be a strategy to persist. Maybe certain breaks are a way to challenge the politics of time by reaching for new, expanded rhythms. Beats and tempos that allow for the creation of alternative times and spaces where we can exist on the same continuum. Breathing with those who are absent, syncing with those who are still present. It seems that images can no longer stir us. But the more we witness their failure in moving us beyond the surface level of our skin, the more I become convinced of the moving quality of sound. There’s a line from the Invisible Committee’s *The Coming Insurrection* (2007) I always love to recall, on how revolutionary movements spread not by contamination, but by resonance, taking on the shape of a music whose focal points, though scattered across time and space, succeed in propagating the rhythm of their own vibration. I like to think of what Atonal and Unsound proposed not just as a program, but as an atmospheric condition for a plurality—an acoustic space that allows everyone to preserve their difference while meeting the other. One can rest while someone else is dancing. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/20260516_7038634357_The-Infinite-Now_Joanna-Chwilkowska-asidron-4.jpg) 7038634357, “The Infinite Now” ©️ Joanna Chwilkowska @asidron. ### **F.** Dear C., I think about the convergence of different temporalities—the festival's tempo, our individual tempos, the tempos of those who accompany us. A continuous, sustained program like this one confronts us with pressing themes concerning prolonged attention, capacity, care work, and exhaustion. These same questions, I think, are interpersonal, tied to our contexts, backgrounds, and privilege, too, as you mentioned. In a city where clubbing dictates the rhythm of sleep-deprived weekends, “The Infinite Now” adopts that same logic of continuity, but tries to re-adapt it to what the body needs to listen to, in its social, biological, and affective drives, reclaiming space for different rhythms and intervals. Conversations around individual boundaries, around preserving one’s peace, and prioritizing oneself feel very present in our day-to-day conversations, almost typical of late-stage capitalism, where most of our relationships are becoming maintenance labor. So, this time, I find myself caught in this tension, trying to locate the collective experience of a shared temporality with others. A festival is a window in time, but what makes “The Infinite Now” different from the sequence-based structure of a festival is the sustained environment it creates for attention. This atmospheric condition clearly unfolded for me on the first day. *7038634357* opens my night with rarefied densities and thundering interludes; I find myself immersed in memories of crepuscular nights, thin fog, an intermittent, dim light—a lonely star. The music is already an invitation toward rest. Throughout the night, drawn-out rhythms, expansive and meditative sounds, the tolling of bells, ethereal chants: the nocturnal atmosphere builds into a narrative that, for many, inevitably leads to reclaiming sleep. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/20260516_The-Infinite-Now_Camille-Blake-10.jpg) 7038634357, “The Infinite Now” © Camille Blake. ### **C.** My nights have been haunted by so many ghosts these last three years. Maybe I have lost the ability to rest amid a relentless pursuit of presence and performativity. Thank you for offering me the idea of reclaiming sleep. We’ve spoken a lot about insomnia lately, but far less about the conditions that might ease us into sleep. On certain evenings, I dim the lights until they hold my eyes in a restful atmosphere, place lavender on my pillow, and let music of expansive, lingering frequencies fill the room. It is, in the end, a matter of carefully staging the conditions that might allow sleep to arrive—which is, I think, precisely what “The Infinite Now” attempted to do. Here, the curatorial gesture became visible not merely through the music program’s selection, but in the design of the affective and temporal conditions that made certain forms of attention, intimacy, withdrawal, and rest possible. I found its dramaturgy less concerned with directing experience than with sustaining a field for it to spontaneously emerge. I remember one such moment. At some point in the evening, I lost track of time entirely. It was when Caterina Barbieri appeared on stage, performing new works. I was lying on a bed when the electronic sounds typical of her compositions carried my body into an altered perception. Cello, tuba, trombone, and trumpet joined the composition one after another; then Kali Malone walked in and reached the front of the platform. At that point, everything melted into a dream-like landscape, where the modular synthesizer made room for a voice to emerge and sing what sounded like the sweetest lullaby. Lying there, eyes closed, I wasn't so different from someone drifting at the room's edges—both of us held by sound without quite choosing to be. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1-DSC_3087_by_George_Nebieridze.JPG) Caterina Barbieri and Kali Malone, “The Infinite Now” © George Nebieridze. In this sense, thinking of the festival as a window in time, as you suggest, the experience at the edge becomes its own form of attention. Sound leans against you when you least expect it: while whispering in a friend’s ear as you wait for a drink, resting in bed close beside your partner, or drifting through the building alone with nowhere particular to be. It arrives sideways—not as something you walk toward, but as something that finds you mid-gesture, mid-conversation, mid-thought. This is perhaps the format’s quiet provocation: that listening doesn’t require positioning yourself correctly, only being receptive to the frequencies that keep moving around you, even when you’re not deep listening. This window in time opened onto sight as well as sound. On the first floor of the Kraftwerk, *Seeing Field*—a space curated by Adriano Rosselli and Felice Moramarco—held a wide mattress with a screen suspended above it, conceived to emulate that particular comfort felt just before falling asleep, or just after waking up. Its long and continuous program didn’t ask for sustained viewing any more than the music asked for sustained listening: you’d catch a few minutes of a piece on your way elsewhere, return hours later, and find the work had moved on without you, shaped now by a different hour, a different hand. The screening became a second clock running alongside the festival’s own, one you could step into and out of without ever losing your place in it—like glimpsing the world reflected in someone’s pupil, a partial, shifting, slightly distorted trace of what they are seeing. In this sense, it became both an eye and a window: a surface of projection and a point of perception, looking outward and inward at once, holding its audience in a quiet exchange between being seen and seeing. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/000j-13-20260516_Seeing-Field_The-Infinite-Now_Joanna-Chwilkowska-asidron-18.jpg) Seeing Field, “The Infinite Now” ©️ Joanna Chwilkowska @asidron. ### **F.** On the second day, during the over three-hour-long durational act of Marginal Consort, the cult Japanese collective improvisational group founded in 1997, convening only on a few special occasions \[since\], I enter and exit the performance hall numerous times, meandering for an interval I cannot quantify to enter another, more speculative realm in the other screening room. I sit to look for comfort and sensorial rest, for a brief moment. *The Feral* (Epoch I, by Fabien Giraud) was playing, looping—a film that lasts one thousand years, entirely created by a learning machine. While I am here, it is hard not to listen to Marginal Consort’s sonic improvisation in the background, so my peripheral attention drifts with it, inside and outside of this screening room. This same performance is also one in which attention drifts from one pole to another. Organized into four stations, each with a different set of instruments, and led by one of the group’s members, the sound has multiple gathering points, and the audience moves within and around them, choosing to chase one or another, deciding how long to invest before moving away, or conveying all these sounds at the center, its focal point, where some others are sitting. As this specific performance turns out to be quite hard to contain, sounds travel across the several spaces of Kraftwerk, making it challenging to find a neutral, stimuli-free zone. Sound becomes invasive, superseding sight as the primary sense. It’s claiming its space, infiltrating the ears, creeping into cornered rooms. Annoyed at first, feeling slightly subtracted from my own agency, a consideration sneaks in while the music does the same, apprehensive of its pervasive, unsolicited quality. The night before, while trying to catch some sleep on one of the beds scattered around in the first floor, in the company of a beloved one, music crept into my drowsiness. In our conversations, we often speak of what the body retains, of somatics, usually concerning the (affective and political) relationships we build with our personal past and historical present. And I wonder now, after meeting here on this occasion, what we retain when we experience sound and space while looking for rest, pauses, conversation, bonds, even touch—alone, or with others. Once out of here, will we hold questions to rethink how to subvert time’s logics and hierarchies? Will we put that into practice or leave it suspended within this lived time frame? On the closing night, on my way out, I leave with vivid impressions of the contemplative, poetic reminiscences of the seductive live performance of a new project by 2K88 + Lauren Duffus + Rainy Miller + Bianca Scout. This collaboration emerged from a back and forth of sonic influences, conjured images and memories, a sort of incarnation that blends the margins of individual experience. While carrying the weight of a weekend overpowered by sensing sonically, I think of what sound leaves in, transpassing infrastructures, concrete, inhabiting space through temporality, dissipating and leaving a gentle imprint or mark on the skin, absorbed, lastly, by the body, becoming experience, becoming a practice. In this way, through its bouncing and resonating, it might solicit something more than just a trace, but that keeps lingering. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/20260517_The-Infinite-Now_Camille-Blake-143-1.jpg) 2K88 + Lauren Duffus + Rainy Miller + Bianca Scout, “The Infinite Now” © Camille Blake. // *Federica Nicastro moves between writing, research, and cultural organising. She works as an organiser and programmer for exhibition spaces, public formats, and collaborative learning programs across Italy and Berlin. In her writing, she intersects theory, critical research, and grey narrative, tracing affective infrastructures and sonic ecologies through text and voice. Her writing has been published on PW-Magazine, NERO, Arts of the Working Class, and performed at Soft Power (Berlin), ponto (Berlin), Centrale Fies (Dro), Vleeshal Centre for Contemporary Arts (Middelburg), among others.* *Chiara Pagano is a performing arts scholar and curator whose work investigates the relationship between power structures, regimes of (in)visibility, and collective memory through the lenses of decolonial studies and feminist epistemologies. Her current research focuses on the politics of (sub)frequencies. She is a PhD candidate in Music and Performing Arts at Sapienza University of Rome and a member of PER-La – Performance Epistemologies Research Lab.* ### Listening Through Noise URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/steffani-jemison-augur/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:33:58.000Z *As I enter the cube of the Westfälischer Kunstverein during a heat wave in Münster, a field of white noise composed from multiple, shifting inputs swallows me.* *One layer stages a commercial bird deterrent device,* The Bird Chase Super Sonic*, which emits recordings of birds in distress as well as predator calls—primarily hawks—in short cyclical bursts. The signals are routed through filters and processing systems that extend and transform their duration and texture. Another layer enters the space from the city itself outside the building: a microphone placed in the plaza continuously transmits the ambient sound of the surrounding city into the exhibition in real time. Nothing is recorded; what is heard is always already in process.* *Inside of “Augur”, Steffani Jemison’s first institutional exhibition in Germany, sound from radios, speakers, and a subwoofer distributed across the space overlap, creating a sculptural experience for the body as it vibrates within the sonic field. The bird calls, when they come, interrupt this field with particular force, but they do not stand apart from it. This configuration suggests a broader approach to the exhibition as a whole, as works manifest as elements within an environment that is continuously formed by technical setups, material surfaces, and forms of attention.* *My conversation with Steffani Jemison unfolded from within this setup. It follows the same logic of distributed attention, moving across sound, surfaces, drawing, and spatial arrangement without consolidating these forms into a single interpretive frame. It ended with frozen yogurt on a sunny June afternoon…* **María Inés Plaza Lazo: As we walk through the exhibition, I keep noticing how much the works change depending on where you're standing. The surfaces never seem to settle. A reflection appears, disappears, then turns into something else. I wondered if you could talk a little about that.** **Steffani Jemison:** The silvered glass works surrounding us really do change as you move around them. From one angle you see one thing, and then from another angle the image shifts completely. Sometimes what feels present suddenly recedes. That has a lot to do with the material process itself. The surface is never entirely stable. The lenticular work outside of this room has a similar quality. As you move, the image changes. At certain moments it almost becomes a blue field. It can feel less like an image than a material surface. I find myself returning again and again to works that don’t fully resolve, works that keep changing with movement and attention. One of the images visible in the lenticular is a tarp. I’ve been working lately with tarps and weatherproof fabrics. They’re such ordinary materials, but I think they're fascinating because they can function in so many ways. They can cover something, protect something, become a temporary roof or a temporary ground. In the United States they’re everywhere. You see them on trucks, at campsites, covering buildings under repair. Lately I’ve been thinking about them in relation to student encampments at US college campuses as well. There, tarps became improvised architectures. They created spaces of shelter, but they also remained exposed. I think that’s part of what interests me. These materials seem to hold multiple conditions at once. The blue surface appears throughout this body of work. Sometimes it almost blends into the sky. It reflects the atmosphere around it while also asserting itself as an object. From another angle, the lenticular exposes a collection of bird deterrent devices that shift and flicker as the light changes. They’re intended to distract and confuse flying birds. I find their weird surfaces strangely compelling (apparently so do birds: according to the online reviews, these are not at all effective deterrents!). ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/260624_arendt_wkv_steffani_jemison_0006press.jpg) Steffani Jemison, **Augur*, 2026, installation view, Westfälischer Kunstverein, Photo: Thorsten Arendt **MIPL: Tell me about this white noise we’re hearing within the exhibition. Where is it coming from?** **SJ:** What interests me about sound is that it has a way of transcending any single origin. We listen to it, and we also listen through it. There isn’t a clear signal emerging from noise here. To borrow language from Roland Barthes: there’s more “grain” than “voice”. One of the sources is a commercial bird deterrent device. It plays recordings of birds in distress as well as predator calls, mostly hawks. Normally it activates for about sixty seconds every ten or eleven minutes. I route those sounds through a series of filters and devices, which creates a continuous environment that keeps changing over time. The other source comes from outside the Kunstverein. We installed a microphone in the plaza, and that live feed enters the exhibition as well. Nothing is recorded. Everything happens in real time. What you're hearing from outside is always the present moment. The space is filled with radios, speakers, and a subwoofer. Different layers move through different parts of the room. And when the bird calls activate, you'll hear them immediately. **MIPL: \[*We listen to the sound of a bird call together.*\] I couldn't tell you which bird this is. Bird language remains largely mysterious to me.** **SJ:** Yes, this one is actually a pigeon. Have you ever heard of the app Merlin? If you hear a bird sound, for example when walking through a park, it identifies the bird for you. So useful for those of us who have a hard time distinguishing among bird calls. The device I use in the exhibition has settings for pigeons, starlings, woodpeckers, crows, gulls, and geese. Different environments call for different sounds. The bird calls mingle with sounds coming from the plaza, which should be familiar. They’re simply the sounds of the city. But once they enter this space, something shifts. They become harder to place. You begin paying attention differently. **MIPL: The installation feels physical. It seems as if the sound waves change the density of the room. It’s a fairly minimal installation in material terms, but it can feel unexpectedly heavy.** **SJ:** As we’re talking, I’m remembering a connection that I hadn’t consciously thought about while making these works. One text that has stayed with me for a long time is *The Confessions of Nat Turner*, published in 1831 after Turner and his community of free and enslaved black Virginians successfully rebelled against slaveholders. Turner describes receiving signs and seeing forms of writing in the landscape itself: hieroglyphs that appear in leaves and marks across fields. I’ve always been fascinated by that image. Partly because it raises questions about legibility. What becomes readable, and under what conditions? But, also, it suggests that language might exist beyond the systems that claim authority over it. In many narratives by formerly enslaved people, literacy isn’t described as something simply handed down by those in power. Language appears as something encountered through multiple traditions, forms of knowledge, and experiences of the world. I reference Turner’s Confession often, but until this moment, I had forgotten how much the image of language in leaves, specifically, has stayed with me. **MIPL: Listening to you, I found myself thinking about trees. Trees are constantly moving, but much of that movement escapes our attention. Looking at the drawings, they reminded me of roots, branches, veins, pathways. Could you tell me a little more about them?** **SJ:** I love that observation. When I made these drawings, I was thinking about roots and branches, yes, in relation to feathers and their veins. Through gesture and scale, I was searching for connections between these similar forms. Leaves and feathers arrive through different evolutionary histories, but sometimes they look remarkably similar because they perform related functions. They distribute movement and energy in related ways. That repetition across scales was very much on my mind. The works on the wall are a series of more than ninety drawings. Each sheet of glass is silvered and then etched individually, so every drawing is unique. I spend a lot of time thinking about drawing and writing as related practices. Both begin with movement. Both leave traces. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/260624_arendt_wkv_steffani_jemison_0135press.jpg) Steffani Jemison, **Augur*, 2026, installation view, Westfälischer Kunstverein, Photo: Thorsten Arendt **MIPL: The drawings appear almost like a means of navigation. Not a map exactly, but something that allows connections to emerge.** SJ: I like that. For me the drawings remain quite open. That’s one reason they're leaning rather than being fixed to the walls. They could always be arranged differently. Sometimes I think about them as a constellation. Or perhaps as a scatter plot. There are many possible pathways through them. Someone might notice a formal relationship between two drawings that I never considered. Someone else might connect works that are far apart in the room. What matters to me is not establishing a single route through the work. I’m interested in creating conditions where relationships can emerge in multiple directions. **MIPL: Earlier, we were talking about maps and constellations. I don’t necessarily see them as opposites. What interests me is that both depend on relationships. A constellation only exists because we decide to connect certain points.** **SJ:** I think that’s true. My relationship to maps has changed enormously over my lifetime. I grew up before the internet. If you were planning a road trip in the United States, you might go to AAA \[the American Auto Association\] and ask for a route. They would print a map for you and highlight the journey. Then there was MapQuest, remember? You could generate directions online, but you still printed them out and followed them step by step. Now we move through the world with constantly updating navigation systems at the tips of our fingers. Mapping systems powerfully shape how we visualize and understand space, power, and control. We move between being immersed in a place and imagining it from above. Between experiencing a landscape and seeing it rendered as information. My recent performance *Cynosure* (2026) touches a bit on this question of how it feels to navigate something, make connections, from the inside out and the outside in.The performance unfolds through a sequence of words. Someone says “floor”. Someone else says “ceiling”. Then “gravity”. Then “push”. Then “pull”. The associations keep expanding. Sometimes they remain abstract. Sometimes they become very specific. Sometimes they become funny. The structure is extremely simple, but what interests me is how meaning develops collectively. The performers create a framework together, but that framework is always changing as they move through it. **MIPL: So performance for you has a defined duration?** **SJ:** It has a beginning and an end. It’s not “durational” in the strict sense. But because it’s structured as a game, it can be activated again in different contexts. The rules remain recognizable, while the experience changes each time. **MIPL: It’s interesting that the word “play” can refer both to a game and to a performance. That makes me think of the backdrop, a night sky.** SJ: Yes. It’s a found theatrical backdrop that circulated for many years as a rental object. What attracted me was the sense that it carried traces of all those previous uses. You can see the folds, how it has been handled repeatedly. **MIPL: The wear almost becomes a record of movement.** SJ: Exactly. \[*Pointing to a handwritten portion of the backdrop*\] And I love that it contains all this practical information as well. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/260624_arendt_wkv_steffani_jemison_0210press.jpg) Steffani Jemison, **Augur,* 2026, installation view, Westfälischer Kunstverein, Photo: Thorsten Arendt **MIPL: Oh, it’s the paint formulas!** **SJ:** Yes, it’s a recipe. Instructions for how the surface might be produced again. I’ve never shown the backdrop as an autonomous artwork. It always serves another function. It operates as a support. **MIPL: So, in a sense, it travels with you.** SJ: It does. And what I find compelling is that it seems to do several things at once. It marks a boundary, but it also opens onto something. It’s a surface that suggests depth. It indicates an edge while pointing beyond itself. **MIPL: That seems connected to the lenticular work’s nature. When I first saw it, I thought of a pigeon’s eye.** **SJ:** The image does resemble an eye, doesn’t it? As I mentioned earlier, this lenticular print emerges from my research into bird deterrent systems. Shiny discs often hung outdoors to create flashes of reflected light. Sometimes people use commercial versions like the one pictured in my work. Sometimes they simply hang old CDs. I began working with these as an extension of my broader investigation into flight. Flight appears in many different traditions and histories. In Black Atlantic thought, it can represent escape, transformation, possibility. It can also carry associations with disappearance, loss, or death. I don’t think those meanings ever settle into a single interpretation. I’ve also spent time looking at modernist paintings where figures appear suspended, floating, falling, or hovering. I’m interested in those moments where orientation remains uncertain. Perhaps that’s another reason I keep returning to reflective surfaces. They never allow perception to become entirely fixed. **MIPL: Which brings me back to the sculpture at the entrance of the exhibition. At first glance it resembles a tree, but at the same time it feels slightly defensive. I wondered whether it is a readymade?** **SJ:** Yes! The sculpture is made from commercially produced bird deterrent spikes. I became interested in them after reading about birds incorporating spikes like these into their nests. What was designed to exclude could become part of a shelter. I kept returning to that reversal, not because it resolves anything, but because it reveals how materials can exceed, or even reverse, their intended purpose. As a sculpture, the system is modular: the elements can be expanded, compressed, rearranged. From a distance you see a larger form—actually two forms, two distinct trees that mingle at the crown. Up close you see many individual components. I find that movement across scale throughout the exhibition. You find it in the drawings, in the sound installation, in the way small gestures accumulate into larger structures. **MIPL: And perhaps also in *Broken Fall (Organic)* (2008-2009).** **SJ:** Yes, I think so. Broken Fall is a reenactment of Bas Jan Ader’s work with the same title \[from 1971\]. I first made it quite early in my practice, and I’ve returned to it in different ways since then. In my version, a young man appears in a very tight frame. He is holding himself up, or trying to, with his arms raised. There is a sense of strain, of trying to maintain position. Then he turns, loses balance, and eventually falls. The sequence is very short, but it repeats continuously. What changes for me in the reenactment is not only the structure of the gesture, but the body that carries it. In Ader’s work, there is already this language of suspension, of failure, of inevitability. When I restaged it, I was also thinking about what it means for that kind of gesture to be held by a different figure, and how differently vulnerability is read depending on who is seen to be in that position. The performer in my version is a Black man, opening new questions about the possibility of play, and the uneven distribution of risk and interpretation that attach to certain bodies in space, especially in relation to ideas like falling, failure, or accident. **MIPL: The act of repetition matters for this atomizing historical reflection. It takes something that might otherwise be read as a singular event and holds it in a loop where it no longer resolves into an origin or an end. It becomes a condition that returns without closure.** **SJ:** I’ve never wanted my practice to settle into a single emotional register. At certain moments it can feel very exposed, almost fragile. At other moments, it can feel oddly neutral, or even detached. I love it when something that looks like falling can also look like holding, when something that looks like failure can also look like persistence. And none of those readings stay fixed for long. I think the exhibition as a whole moves in that way as well, through changes in register that feel almost stable, but unresolved and unresolvable. For me, this evokes the complexity of our ongoing entanglement with one another, our endurance in the face of structural violence, our persistence within a past, present, and future defined by antagonism. // *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Artist Labor URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/issue-42-renzo-martens/ Last updated: 2026-09-13T15:08:01.000Z “I call for the Stedelijk, the Ludwig Museum, the Van Abbemuseum, and Tate Modern to state clearly and simply: Plantation workers in Indonesia, Ghana, Congo, and the Caribbean largely paid for these museums. Local workers largely built them. These are your, their, our museums too. Curators have expended tremendous brainpower and cultural capital to justify to large audiences that conceptual artworks, social practice, and institutional critique can be considered legitimate art displayed in these museums. If all this can be art, I would find it hard to believe, then, that the work of the plantation workers that involuntarily financed these museums cannot also be considered art. This acknowledgment should not happen merely with a plaque, or a thematic exhibition, but by inviting these worker communities, on their terms, to take part together in the future of the museums. It is time for these museums to finally elevate all of these communities and show that the museums themselves can indeed be pedestals, for all of us, places to show ourselves, to gather.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2022_05-Dessin-Cedart-Balot_highres.jpg) Ced’art Tamasala / CATPC, Balot, 2022\. © and courtesy of the artists and KOW Berlin. In his drawings, Tamsala repeatedly uses symbols central to the country's and the collective's history. The figurines on the carpet are Balot sculptures that circulate globally. The Balot sculpture—also called Funji—was carved in 1931 during a Pende uprising against rape and other atrocities under the Unilever plantation system and Belgian colonial agents. It depicts the angry spirit of the beheaded Belgian officer Maximilien Balot, carved to control his spirit and make him work for the Pende people. Today, the sculpture is held in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (VMFA) in Richmond, USA. Loan requests and a personal visit by CATPC to the VMFA between 2020 and 2022 led to no results, though the sculpture was eventually temporarily exhibited in Lusanga in 2024, as part of the Dutch entry for the Venice Biennale. The same figure appears as dart-like munition, the Balot NFT (2022), created when CATPC explored alternative ways of reclaiming its power. The flashes originate from an imaginary satellite symbolizing Luyalu, described by CATPC as a life force animating life, nature, and Earth, expressed through art. // *Renzo Martens is an artist that devises methodologies through which critique can miraculously resolve inequality.* ### Circulation in the Age of AI Models URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/circulation-in-the-age-of-ai-models/ Last updated: 2026-09-13T15:06:35.000Z Let me begin with a passage from Mohammad Salemy’s recent contribution to AWC, followed by my reasons for both agreement and hesitation toward his proposition that AI models resemble Benjamin’s vision of the Angel of History: I asked an AI system using a Large Language Model to translate a text by Arjangn Sepasi from Farsi into English, then to profile the politics of its author based on framing, vocabulary, and commitments. Together, we substituted the author's ideological and literary profile with those of an imaginary other: a female poet, philosopher, and literary critic with no political commitment to any faction—someone with poetic skills and an independent way of thinking outside all existing political parties and dialectical tendencies of the late 1970s; someone who knew people on the left but was not committed to their goals. AI accomplished this, surprisingly, without altering the historical narration or the firsthand account of what took place that day on the streets of Tehran. This experiment in historical reconstruction is the closest thing to Walter Benjamin's concept of the Angel of History, through which the historian's job would be to reconstruct a new historical understanding by putting together fragments of a ruinous past. What emerged revealed a dialectic: while any author's ideology inevitably shapes their narration of history, the more honestly they describe what they actually observed—grounded in the concreteness of reality—the more the truth shines through, regardless of the political, ideological, or stylistic limitations of the narrator. I keep returning to this image because AI models seem to operate precisely through fragments detached from their original conditions and recombined into new forms of coherence. They absorb vast quantities of human expression and produce from this a synthetic continuity. With AI, language has become instantaneous, transferable across contexts and voices, and by prefacing a text entirely produced by a model, Mohammad offers readers a method to open the doors of perception, and not only compare the data, but read in the interstitial space between the lines. And still, I hesitate to fully accept this image. Benjamin's Angel is horrified by the catastrophe piling at its feet while being propelled into the future by the storm of progress. Benjamin, as many will know, is actually taking an image of Paul Klee, *Angelus Novus* from 1920, as his prompt. Many will interpret Klee’s angel in relation to an image of a Jewish child holding his hands in the air. Benjamin, friends with Klee, purchased the print in 1921\. When he had to flee Germany in 1933, he took it with him into exile in Paris. Before he tried to flee further when the Nazis invaded France, Benjamin entrusted the work, together with other important papers, to Georges Bataille, who hid it at the Bibliothèque nationale de France in Paris where he worked. Benjamin committed suicide in September 1940 in Spain, the night before he was due to be deported back to France. After World War II, Bataille gave the print to Theodor Adorno in Frankfurt, who, in accordance with Benjamin's will, sent it on to Benjamin's lifelong friend Gershom Scholem, a scholar of Jewish mysticism who had emigrated from Germany to Mandatory Palestine in 1923. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12.14.35.png) Paul Sochacki, **Self-reflection*, 2018\. Courtesy of the artist. AI models inherit this information, like formulated by a Wikipedia entry: the structure of Benjaminian thought, in a strangely anonymous, flattened form. AI models look backwards through accumulated cultural memory, through billions of gestures of writing and interpretation, all while accelerating the very conditions that fragment memory further. The archives, per Douglas Crimp, become a ruin, and then those ruins become training data. Working with AI feels less like a dialogue with the past than like standing inside an echo chamber of the already-circulating language of an unknown future. I have written this text using AI models as refinement and retrieval tools. I do so openly because I also know that editorial work has never been a pure space of authorship. A newspaper already emerges from montage, citation, editing, rewriting, transcription, translation, conversation, routines, adaptations to markets, material conditions of media and production, and collective contamination between voices. What AI exposes, with a new sort of brutality, is the extent to which writing already depended on recombination long before machine learning arrived. Thinking often advances through reformulation, through repetition, through seeing one's own thought estranged and returned from another angle. At *Arts of the Working Class,* this has become part of our editorial process. AI challenges and informs our work while simultaneously forcing us to confront the conditions under which language now circulates. It accelerates synthesis while exposing how much contemporary language already conforms to predictive structures. It can reveal hidden repetitions inside our own thinking while generating new clichés at industrial scale. It can open conceptual connections and flatten them in the next sentence. Sometimes it becomes useful exactly at the moment one begins resisting its fluency. This tension matters because *Arts of the Working Class* was never conceived as a nostalgic defense of print culture against technological change. The street newspaper emerged inside the contradictions of contemporary circulation from the very beginning. We work simultaneously with analog distribution, Meta platforms, institutional funding structures, PDFs, group chats, museums, Google Workspace, bookstores, monday.com, precarious labor, volunteer labor, friendships, ideological conflict, and increasingly AI systems such as ChatGPT, Gemini, Perplexity, and Claude. The infrastructure of our platform is contradictory before any editorial line is written. I deliberately call it a platform because of what Marek Poliks and Roberto Alonso Trillo write about its definition: “A platform is "a type of incompleteness, a kind of loose interstitiality, an expectation, something that requires someone else to do something in order for it to fully render as a platform. A platform is a vibe (longing)”. (Poliks & Trillo, *Exocapitalism*, p. 29) The opposition between analog and digital interests me less than the question of how we can create forms of meaning through contemporary art—for ourselves and for each other—and how contemporary art circulates materially under the current stage of capitalism, as we see our own perception, labor, and political imagination simultaneously being reshaped. Thus, if AI models extract labor sedimented inside language: years of reading, editing, failed drafts, references, conversations, translation, affective exhaustion, historical memory, the space we have to carve for imagination to inhabit us, *Arts of the Working Class* needs to be a platform and counter-model at the same time. To insist that cultural production itself cannot be treated as raw material for automated models trained to reproduce and reorganize it only, means to treat writers, artists, translators, editors, and designers as if they can exist beyond the models absorbing them, us, refusing the reduction of replacement via synthetic approximation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12.16.03.png) Paul Sochacki, *le monde diplomatique*, 2013\. Courtesy of the artist. ### ***Arts of the Working Class* as Editorial Infrastructure** The existence of AI models makes the material circulation of *Arts of the Working Class* feel even more charged and contradictory. With a print run of 70,000 copies per issue, the street newspaper moves simultaneously between museums and sidewalks—through biennials, bookstores, universities, cafés, institutions, and through vendors selling newspapers in Berlin, Frankfurt, London, and soon, I hope, Madrid. It moves through conversations between strangers, through hesitation, through eye contact, through refusal, through carrying an object physically across the city. It deteriorates in the inappropriate climate of our office in Berlin-Neukölln; if you buy it on the streets, it accumulates traces of use. It circulates through bodies before it circulates through metadata. This is perhaps my greatest reward as a publisher. Because *Arts of the Working Class* never intended to be innocent. It always aimed at class consciousness as a form of cross-pollination between as many fields of social reality as possible. The street newspaper circulates inside economies of symbolic capital, institutional legitimacy, aesthetic prestige, philanthropic funding, and soft power. We negotiate continuously with these structures. The paper moves through contradictions because contemporary cultural production itself moves through contradictions. The point is not to purify circulation, nor to become a pamphlet for a single movement. The point is to remain capable of perceiving tensions before they disappear into seamlessness. Perhaps this is also why art criticism matters differently now—beyond the stabilization of standards and the policing of taste, functions that are increasingly absorbed by other forms of value production—today’s criticism offers a changing form of orientation inside rapidly mutating infrastructures of perception. A platform for critique must remain porous enough for historical conditions to enter it before language hardens around them. The dystopia evolves quickly. Its interfaces evolve too. Its extraction models evolve fastest of all. *Arts of the Working Class* emerged from these pressures and continues to circulate within and against them: a street newspaper positioned along the faultlines of poverty and wealth, art and society, distributed through precarious labor while speaking about its dangers, funded through institutions while interrogating institutions, produced collectively while questioning the ruptures and rapidly growing inequalities shaping forms of collective production. This circulation model—this redistribution model—is the editorial project itself. Our medium is a counter-model. And it is from here that I want to transition into the next part of this lecture: how the distribution model of *Arts of the Working Class* became inseparable from its political imagination and its understanding of redistribution. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12.17.01.png) Paul Sochacki, **Hochwasser*, 2018\. Courtesy of the artist. I invited my husband, Kolja Reichert, then still working primarily as an art critic, to contribute an inaugural essay to the first issue of AWC in 2018\. In it, he wrote: There are two types of central banks. One manages money; the other manages art. One stabilizes financial values; the other preserves aesthetic ones. One protects private property; the other guards what belongs to everyone. One is inaccessible, fortified, surveilled. The other—the museum, the library, the public archive—can still, sometimes, be entered freely. I keep returning to this text because it condensed something we were already trying to articulate before the newspaper fully existed: culture functions as an infrastructure of circulation long before it appears as content. Museums, libraries, archives, newspapers, schools, biennials, universities, public collections, bookstores, cafés, and kiosks all organize the movement of symbols, ideas, desires, legitimacy, and access. They distribute visibility unevenly. They stabilize forms of value often while obscuring the labor that sustains them. Inside these infrastructures lies accumulated human meaning: the spoils of empires, the memory of revolutions, the dreams of workers, saints, migrants, prisoners, aristocrats, colonized and exploited cultures, failed utopias, and unfinished struggles. Thousands of years of images, stories, symbols, and aesthetic techniques, stored as if detached from the conflicts that produced them, while outside these repositories of discourse, people continue to work long hours merely to survive. Art is often described as a luxury. This formulation recurs with astonishing persistence, especially under economic pressure, as if aesthetics and creativity belong to a secondary realm outside of material life. Yet the history of labor repeatedly demonstrates the opposite. Jacques Rancière describes how workers in nineteenth-century France extended their evenings after exhausting labor in order to write poetry and discuss philosophy. Before labor protections, before the welfare state, before social democracy consolidated institutionally, there already existed an insurgency around imagination itself. Workers fought not only for wages, but also for the right to intellectual and aesthetic life—the right to think beyond survival, to participate in the production of meaning rather than merely endure imposed conditions. *Arts of the Working Class* emerges from this lineage, though under radically different historical conditions. The newspaper was founded within the framework of an exhibition I developed together with Paul Sochacki. The oppressive labor conditions inside the art economy quickly became the centre of our exchanges. As a curator working alongside an artist, together with then art advisor and curator Alina Kolar, our then intern Dalia Maini, now AWC’s Editor in Chief, and the graphic designer Hans Loeffler, we found ourselves confronting the strange normalization of exhaustion within cultural work: endless overproduction, permanent networking, symbolic prestige replacing material stability, intellectual labor performed under conditions of increasing precarity—all while the art world expanded as a global industry of wealth concentration, speculation, and institutional branding. The clash between the different hats we wore became obnoxiously visible. Contemporary art continuously speaks about inequality while reproducing extreme hierarchies of visibility and access within its own structures. Critical discourse is circulated internationally through biennials and conferences while many cultural workers struggle to pay rent in the very cities where these conversations take place. Radical theory circulates comfortably through elite institutions while the social conditions necessary to produce that theory aggressively deteriorate. *Arts of the Working Class* emerged directly from this atmosphere. A street newspaper appeared almost intuitively as the appropriate form: cheap to print in mass circulation, easy to carry, difficult to stabilize institutionally, historically associated with political agitation, worker education, public debate, and mass distribution—a medium capable of moving simultaneously through museums and streets, through intellectual production and economic redistribution, through aesthetic reflection and direct material exchange. But the decisive aspect was less a matter of the form itself than the structure organizing it. From the beginning, advertising became part of the editorial logic rather than something hidden. Ads were curated as carefully as essays or artworks. A used bicycle auction placed next to a high-end art auction. A Kältebus emergency shelter beside Gucci. One early spread placed an advertisement by Grisebach auction house opposite the Arbeiterkammer. These kinds of juxtapositions were not ironic provocations; they made visible the contradictory social realities already structuring cultural circulation. The newspaper did not simply describe inequality. It staged unequal actors within the same visual and economic field. Artists, theorists, poets, researchers, activists, workers, students, curators, migrants, and people without any stable relationship to the art world suddenly appeared within the same editorial platform. Academic language encountered street language. Philosophy encountered gossip. Fashion photography encountered political economy. Poetry encountered institutional critique. The newspaper did not attempt to resolve these frictions. It turned contradiction itself into a platform. Perhaps the next step is to distribute editorial control more radically as well—to provoke editorial constellations in different parts of the world rather than maintaining a centralized voice. This also shaped our editorial methodology. Rather than producing a unified ideological line, *Arts of the Working Class* gradually became a space where contradictions accumulate visibly. Marxists negotiate with liberals. Institutional critique circulates through institutions. Luxury advertising appears beside anti-capitalist critique. Radical theoretical language coexists with memes, humor, personal testimony, confusion, and aesthetic seduction. The newspaper continuously risks incoherence because contemporary political subjectivity itself increasingly appears fragmented, over-mediated, emotionally exhausted, historically overloaded. This is why I increasingly think of the newspaper less as an infrastructure than as a platform. Infrastructure explains organization; a platform preserves instability, incompleteness, participation. A platform organizes circulation before it organizes meaning. It determines how encounters become possible, how visibility moves, how strangers enter relations with one another. This instability also shapes the newspaper aesthetically. Every issue feels slightly unfinished, slightly excessive, contaminated by the conditions through which it was produced. Texts collide rather than align. Visual languages shift abruptly. Editorial tones change from page to page. Within a single issue one may encounter fifteen languages—and not a single translation. It is precisely this polyphony, this incomprehensibility depending on one’s own linguistic position, that upholds a pluriversal multiperspectivism. It reminds readers of their own situatedness. My heart still jumps with joy when I see vendors in the Berlin subway offering passionate and highly informed overviews of the current issue—and I quietly buy a copy myself. The paper is also distributed in extreme conditions of survival, and sometimes it just serves as a currency. And this circulation brings me to the core of the newspaper’s political structure: its distribution model. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12.18.08.png) Paul Sochacki, **Krieg und Frieden*, 2018\. Courtesy of the artist. ### **AWC's (Re)distribution Model as Political Form** The distribution model of *Arts of the Working Class* did not emerge from a business plan. It emerged from a contradiction that became increasingly difficult to inhabit passively. Contemporary art continuously speaks about inequality while circulating through infrastructures built on extreme asymmetries of wealth, visibility, and access. Museums commission exhibitions about labor while relying on invisible exploitative labor structures. Biennials discuss extraction while depending on logistical systems of exhaustion, mobility, sponsorship, and unpaid affective work. The newspaper enters this field by employing contradiction as its operational system. It uses it, extrapolates it, and partially alleviates it in the same movement. Distribution becomes a critical point because distribution is where these contradictions are materially organized. It determines who meets whom under what conditions. In AWC, contributions appear inside an institutional frame already coded as legitimate discourse, next to contributions out of open-ended situations that are negotiated outside of legitimacy. By embracing friction, refusal, misunderstanding, and economic transaction as concomitant with each other, AWC allows itself to be banal, informative and difficult. I continue quoting Poliks and Trillo—whose book we review in our 39th issue: To distill “capitalism” into something as pure and simple as value produced through the volatility of the hold, then it's fair to conclude that capitalism is far older than it is putatively understood to be. Almost every historian of capitalism will protest, identifying capitalism strictly with the extraction of surplus value from “producers” \[…\] But this is a much harder leg to stand on in a post-productive economy, where value accumulates onto the surface of hold time and not a chiseled byproduct of hard-muscle labor. (Poliks and Trillo, pp. 74–75) What Poliks and Trillo describe at the level of economic history—value accumulating not through fixed production but through the volatility of circulation itself—is the same logic that organizes cultural exchange. The barter arrangements, the vendor networks, the institutional partnerships: none of these are outside the economic schema they describe. They are instances of it, operating at the scale of a newspaper. Every copy distributed through a street vendor, every advertising space exchanged for institutional collaboration, every issue that enters a museum and a sidewalk simultaneously, is what David Graeber would call a token: a unit of virtual exchange that stacks onto existing systems of value without fully belonging to them. Credit, in his terms, is already a promise—a futures contract on meaning not yet fully realized. The barter deal is a promise of this kind. So is the newspaper itself. *Arts of the Working Class* participates in art fairs, book fairs, and exhibitions through barter arrangements rather than commercial transactions—not because barter is the preferred model, but because the nature of the street newspaper, and its explicit relation to poverty and precarious labor, makes institutions hesitant to enter straightforward commercial exchange. Each barter arrangement with a fair or exhibition is tailored: there is no standard contract, no fixed rate card. Advertising space in the newspaper is exchanged for collaboration—visibility offered in return for visibility received. The terms are negotiated each time, depending on context and what each party needs the encounter to produce. This makes barter legible as both complicity and critique simultaneously. The newspaper enters the infrastructures of the art market—the fair, the biennial, the institutional exhibition—not from outside, but through the same logic of mutual interest that structures those spaces. It accepts visibility in exchange for providing it. And yet the form of exchange differs from standard advertising precisely because it cannot be reduced to monetary equivalence. What circulates is not only exposure but a negotiated relation between two entities whose interests only partially align. The barter does not dissolve the asymmetry between a street newspaper and an art fair. It makes that asymmetry temporarily productive—and visible. This street newspaper makes this visible by refusing to separate circulation from content production and from independent writing. The head of communication strategy for one of the largest museum consortia in Germany has suggested, for example, that we are enriching ourselves by producing this paper. The accusation is instructive. It reveals how deeply the stigmatization of poverty functions as a regulatory mechanism inside cultural economies: a publication that speaks about economic precarity is expected to embody it, to remain structurally marginal, to refrain from occupying the same transactional space as legitimate cultural enterprises. Of course, when confronting him, he denied such allegations. The only exit from this stigma that we have found is to show the numbers. Something I am still hesitant to do, because it makes us even more vulnerable than what we already are. But here we go. As of 2025, 58.2% of AWC's financing comes from advertising sales, and 25.3% from institutional collaborations. Grants account for 4.1%, donations for 8.1%, subscriptions for 4.2%. Of total expenses, 40.5% goes directly to collaborators and contributors—the largest single line item, ahead of printing costs at 19.4%. The core team consists of five people. Around 400 street vendors participate in the distribution network. Approximately 222 contributors publish in the newspaper each year. Per issue, street vendors generate approximately €200,000 in revenue, while the project's direct funding—advertising, grants, and donations—accounts for roughly €50,000\. The ratio is 80 to 20\. The newspaper is not sustained by institutional support. It is sustained by the labor of people selling it on sidewalks. These numbers do not resolve the contradiction embodied by *Arts of the Working Class*. They make it legible. And perhaps that is the only method I have found so far: to create desire and dissect it at the same time. These different modes of encounter are not secondary effects of distribution. They are the structure of distribution itself. The direction of this flow is decisive. Vendors receive newspapers free of charge and retain the full revenue from sales. The editorial and management labor, done by freelancers, is financed through advertising sales, institutional collaborations, grants, and partnerships rather than through vendor income. We all have the same hourly wage of 20 Euros. The organization does not extract profit from circulation itself. Instead, it is structurally positioned as a mechanism through which symbolic production can be partially converted into immediate material income for those performing the labor of distribution. This is what makes redistribution in this case structurally different from donation-based models or patronage systems. Redistribution is not external to circulation. It is embedded in circulation as its operating principle. Around 350,000 newspapers are produced annually and sold at €2.50 each, generating approximately €875,000 in annual vendor revenue. Around 400 active vendors participate in this circulation network through partnerships with street newspaper organizations and independent distribution structures. What is redistributed is not only money. A migrant vendor in Berlin may become the person introducing an art theory essay to commuters in the subway. An internationally recognized artist may appear beside a first-time contributor without institutional affiliation. A luxury auction house advertisement may face a page dedicated to housing struggles or labor organizing. A reader entering through an interest in contemporary art encounters social realities they might otherwise never confront; a passerby purchasing the newspaper for its immediate political relevance unexpectedly encounters poetry, philosophy, or conceptual art. Contemporary art, like any other system of cultural and value production, is increasingly organized through predictive models that reduce uncertainty in reception. Its circulation models become smoother, faster, and more pre-structured. The street newspaper introduces conflict into this system because it requires encounter rather than prediction. It requires interruption of movement, a decision not pre-modelled by behavioral data, a situation where cultural value is not pre-assigned before the encounter takes place. AWC recognizes distribution as inherently political and turns that recognition into its politics, because it is precisely at the level of distribution that cultural production either becomes fully abstracted into predictive systems or remains partially exposed to the contingencies of social encounter. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-07-03-at-12.18.50.png) Paul Sochacki, **Der Schrei*, 2018\. Courtesy of the artist. ### **Circulation as Contradictory Infrastructure of Value, Labor, and Historical Time** What appears to move frictionlessly—information, culture, discourse, images, capital—is sustained by layered forms of logistical, affective, technical, and linguistic labor that disappear when circulation appears most seamless. Platforms optimize this disappearance, whilst AI models accelerate it. This is where Marina Vishmidt’s notion of infrastructural critique becomes revelatory. Critique can no longer operate only at the level of representation, but at the level of organization: how things circulate, through which systems, under which conditions, and through whose labor. In an essay dedicated to Vishmidt’s work, published in the current issue of AWC, no. 41: on Energy, Danny Hayward writes: “\[P\]art of the distinctiveness of Marina’s thinking is that she spoke several different languages—I mean theoretical languages, idioms—all of them existing on different sides of disciplinary and historical boundaries.” This multilinguality is, last but not least, the heart of the structure of *Arts of the Working Class*. It is one of its infrastructural conditions. Each issue operates through collisions between languages, idioms, literacies, and political vocabularies that never fully resolve into transparency. German appears beside Arabic, Spanish beside Kurdish, theoretical abstraction beside administrative language, poetry beside economic data, institutional discourse beside street conversation. Often without translation, AI generated translation, or with arbitrary translation. This sort of opacity is constructed for the sake of making the seamless readability of platforms even more ridiculous than they already are. AWC insists instead on partial legibility. On our pages and website, you encounter texts one cannot fully read, references one cannot immediately find, positions that remain unresolved, very often this is irritating. One becomes aware of one's own position inside language itself. This is also why AI models become difficult to approach either with simple enthusiasm or simple refusal, even though they have helped me through this lecture to formulate my sentences a bit shorter, and, to be clear, insofar as I can hold clarity, about the transversal movement across linguistic and disciplinary boundaries at a speed contemporary cultural labor increasingly demands, caring not to flatten language. Under conditions of overproduction and permanent acceleration, our counter model for the redistribution of economic wealth and political imagination has turned into a survival tool. It assists everyone willing to work inside several discursive systems at once. Like Benjamin’s *Angelus Novus,* contemporary art production is propelled forward while looking backward into accumulating debris: archives, references, exhausted vocabularies, unfinished political struggles, dead languages of critique recombined into new operational forms. AI models reorganize this debris into prediction. But prediction requires enormous quantities of absorbed labor: writing, editing, translation, tagging, formatting, summarizing, annotating, moderating—the distributed intellectual and affective work sedimented into language over decades. Writing now circulates simultaneously as meaning and as training material. And criticism itself increasingly encounters a strange displacement. I think of Caroline Busta, critic and cofounder of *New Models*, together with Lil Internet. She remarks that her primary readers are machines, and her statement is not metaphorical. Texts are now produced inside infrastructures where machinic readability (partially) precedes human reception. AWC situates itself in this interval of interrupted legibility. Its circulation, under these conditions, renders our labor invisible at the moment it becomes computationally useful, producing marginal contact zones that escape full formalization: encounters between vendors and readers; between institutional frameworks and street economies; between editorial intention and algorithmic reprocessing; between historical memory and present extraction. Circulation becomes the site where political imagination is continuously redistributed, interrupted, and contested. // *This essay originated as a lecture delivered as part of the conversation programme *(SUPER)MODELS EVERYWHERE* at Ivorypress, Madrid, on 4 June 2026\. The programme was presented within the framework of *Mayrit Biennial 2026*, Madrid's art and design biennial, curated by Eduarda Neves and Mohammad Salemy.* *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Someone's junk is someone else's treasure beim Zurich Art Weekend URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/someones-junk-is-someone-elses-treasure-beim-zurich-art-weekend/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:37:17.000Z Man\* verläuft sich im Löwenbräu-Areal nicht, weil die Wege unklar wären. Man verläuft sich, weil hier heute weniger Ausstellungen als Institutionen nebeneinander existieren. Museen, Galerien und Projekträume stapeln sich wie Module eines perfekt organisierten Kunstbetriebs. Zürich beherrscht diese Form der Verdichtung besser als jede andere Stadt der Welt: alles funktioniert, alles ist erreichbar, alles scheint das richtige Maß zu haben und am richtigen Platz zu sein. Während der 10\. Edition des Zürich Art Weekend stellt sich die Frage, ob in diesem perfekt organisierten Betrieb überhaupt noch etwas riskiert wird. Kunstwerke erscheinen hier als Teil eines Gefüges aus Beziehungen, Infrastrukturen, Erinnerungen und Zirkulationsformen, deren Konturen sich fortlaufend verschieben. Dies erscheint weder als Chaos noch als Ordnung. Zürich zu besuchen bedeutet, einen Zustand kultureller Sättigung zu erleben, in dem sich ständig die Frage stellt, was eigentlich zirkuliert: Perfektion oder Austauschbarkeit? Oder anders: Was geschieht mit Bildern, Objekten und Erzählungen, nachdem ihre ursprüngliche Funktion erschöpft ist? Was bleibt von ihnen, wenn Geschichte nicht länger als Fortschritt erscheint, sondern als Ansammlung von Resten, Fragmenten und Wiederholungen? Immer wieder tauchen Dinge auf, die bereits ein anderes Leben hinter sich haben. Geschenke werden zu Waren. Waren werden zu Erinnerungen. Erinnerungen zu Bildern. Bilder zu Legenden. In der Ausstellung Re:Gift nehmen diese Fragen konkrete Gestalt an. Kuratiert von John Miller, Stefanie Hesseler und Alison Copeland, erzeugt Re:Gift einen Raum, in dem Zufall, Nähe und Projektion ineinander übergehen und in dem die Frage nach Wert über soziale Beziehungen ausgehandelt wird. Beginnen wir mit Koki Tanakas *Someone's junk is someone else's treasure* (2011), einer Arbeit, in deren Zentrum ein Material steht, das in Südkalifornien meist unbeachtet auf Gehwegen liegen bleibt: vertrocknete Palmwedel. Auf einem Flohmarktstand breitet Tanaka diese, wie kostbare Fundstücke aus. Zwischen beweglichen Decken, Zeichnungen und der Videodokumentation der Aktion entwickelt sich eine eigentümliche Aufmerksamkeit für das, was sonst aus dem Blick gerät. Die Palmblätter tragen Spuren einer Landschaft, einer Klimazone und einer alltäglichen Form des Überflusses. In Tanakas Händen beginnen sie Geschichten über Wert zu erzählen. Man denkt an David Hammons *Bliz-aard Ball Sale* (1983), der in New York Schneebälle verkaufte, oder an Yoshiharu Tsuges Mangafigur *The Man Without Talent*, die versuchte, Flusskiesel an Passant\*innen zu bringen. Mike Kelleys *Love, Theft, Gifting and More Love* verfolgt in einer beinahe absurden Verkettung von Aneignungen eine ähnliche Überlegung. Ausgangspunkt ist eine Zeichnung, die Kelley einst für das Cover eines Gedichtbands seines Freundes Bob Flanagan anfertigte: ein tätowiertes Herz mit dem Schriftzug „Love“. Jahre später entdeckt er das Motiv auf einem T-Shirt. Eine Firma hatte das Bild ohne sein Wissen verwendet, massenhaft reproduziert und in den Kreislauf populärer Konsumgüter eingespeist. Kelley reagiert darauf weder mit juristischer Empörung noch mit nostalgischem Besitzanspruch. Stattdessen produziert er die Kopie der Kopie erneut und verschenkt sie. Die Arbeit entfaltet sich als eine Verkettung von Geschenken, Diebstählen, Verwertungen und Missverständnissen. Ihren Höhepunkt erreicht sie außerhalb des Ausstellungsraums: Kelleys Partnerin Trulee lässt sich das Herz als Valentinstagsgeschenk auf die Brust tätowieren. Das Bild wandert durch Märkte, Körper, Erinnerungen und landet bald auch an einer Stelle meines Körpers. Ein Geschenk an mich selbst, eine Liebeserklärung an Kelley und ein Souvenir dieses Ausstellungsbesuchs. Zu einer anderen Form der Aneignung lädt Rirkrit Tiravanija in seiner eigens für *Re:Gift* entwickelten Arbeit (*lucky no. 2*) ein. Für 21 Franken kann man\* ein Los erwerben. Der mögliche Gewinn ist ungewöhnlich: der Schlüssel zu seiner Einzimmerwohnung. Damit wird kein Objekt, sondern Zugang versprochen. Wohnen erscheint hier als etwas, das zwischen Intimität, Gastfreundschaft, Vertrauen, Privileg und Spekulation mäandert. Zudem gehört das Lotterielos zu den alltäglichen Formen des Glücksspiels, die oft mit Armut und Hoffnungen auf sozialen Aufstieg verbunden sind. Gleichzeitig verwandelt Tiravanija, wie Kelley, seine eigene Biografie in eine Infrastruktur der Begegnung. Kuratiert von John Miller, Stefanie Hesseler und Alison Copeland, erzeugt Re:Gift einen Raum, in dem Zufall, Nähe und Projektion ineinander übergehen und in dem die Frage nach Wert über soziale Beziehungen verläuft. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/KJM_Gulf-Stream.jpg) Kerry James Marshall, *Gulf Stream*, 2003\. Collection Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, MN. T. B. Walker Acquisition Fund, 2004 © Kerry James Marshall Courtesy the artist and David Zwirner, London. Dies führt uns ins Kunsthaus Zürich zu Kerry James Marshalls monumentaler Ausstellung *The Histories*. Auch dort geht es um Zirkulation. Nur zirkulieren hier keine Gegenstände, sondern kollektive Erzählungen, die sich Marshall aneignet und neu organisiert. In diesen weißen Räumen wirken seine Bilder wie Verdichtungen eines Erinnerungssystems, in dem historische Referenzen, populäre Ikonografien und private Szenen ineinandergreifen. Die Serien Vignettes und Souvenirs im historischen Gebäudeteil sind Beispiele für sein Œuvre politischer Geschichte, deren Versprechen zugleich eingelöst und gebrochen wurden. Mit einer beunruhigenden Gelassenheit tragen sie dazu bei, biopolitische Ordnungen im Sinne Foucaults zu erhalten, in denen sich das Private und das Politische, das Wohnen und das öffentliche Erinnern gegenseitig durchdringen. Marshalls Werk zeichnet sich dadurch aus, dass es europäische Landschafts- und Historienmalerei, also Bilder des Kolonialismus par excellence, in Richtung afroamerikanischer Erfahrungen verschiebt. Seine bukolischen Szenen bewegen sich dabei zwischen Rokoko und den traumartigen Bildwelten von Henri Rousseau. Halb entkleidete Paare stehen (fast immer) unter klarem blauem Himmel, umgeben von Schmuck, Ornament und Glanz. Gerade dieser Glanz irritiert. Was hat das Rokoko in einer Geschichte über Rassismus, Segregation und die Nachwirkungen der Sklaverei zu suchen? Genau darin liegt, was Marshall mittels Malerei erzählen will. Seine Bilder zeigen schwarze Subjekte und fragen danach, wie diese in Bezug auf Leid, Lust, Eleganz, Begehren und Schönheit repräsentiert werden. Zugleich entziehen sich diese Subjekte aber auch. In *Souvenirs* (1998) wird dies konkret: Die Werkgruppe verhandelt Erinnerung als zugleich intime und politisch aufgeladene Praxis. In privaten Räumen von Freund\*innen und Verwandten verdichten sich Andenken und nationale Ikonen – von den Kennedys bis zu Martin Luther King Jr. – zu einer komplexen visuellen Grammatik des Gedenkens. Von dort ist es nur ein kleiner Schritt zu Karen Kilimnik, die bei Eva Presenhuber zu sehen ist. Auch hier begegnet man Blumen, Ornamenten und einer Ästhetik des Überflusses, die sich jeder pragmatischen Zurückhaltung entzieht. Im Anschluss an Marshall lässt sich diese Bildsprache weniger als Gegensatz, denn als Verschiebung innerhalb eines gemeinsamen historischen Materials lesen: beide arbeiten an der Frage, wie sich europäische Bildtraditionen in Gegenwartskontexte einschreiben. Sie haben jedoch unterschiedliche Zugriffe auf deren koloniale und geschlechtliche Implikationen. Während Marshall diese Traditionen explizit in eine Politik der Repräsentation überführt und sie mit afroamerikanischen Bild- und Erinnerungsgeschichten verschränkt, bleibt Kilimnik stärker im Bereich affektiver Zirkulationen von Schönheit, Wunsch und nostalgischer Projektion. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ZAW26.-Galerie-Eva-Presenhuber-Exhibition-by-Karen-Kilimnik-VIP-Walkthrough-with-Raphael-Gygax.-Photo-by-Stephen-Nthusi.-Courtesy-of-Zurich-Art-Weekend-2026.jpg) ZAW26\. Galerie Eva Presenhuber, Exhibition by Karen Kilimnik, VIP Walkthrough with Raphael Gygax. Photo by Stephen Nthusi. Courtesy of Zurich Art Weekend 2026 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SINGAiv-HWZ-June-2026-view04-JE-hires.jpg) Installation view, ‘Avery Singer. War\_overlays’ at Hauser & Wirth Zurich, Limmatstrasse, until 5 September 2026 © Avery Singer. Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth. Photo: Jon Etter Ähnlich pompös und entleert wie bei Kilimnik sind die neuen Gemälde von Avery Singer (Hauser & Wirth). Aus digital generierten Bildlogiken entwickelt Singer Kompositionen, die industrielle Produktion, 3D-Rendering und Malerei miteinander verbinden. Ihre Bilder folgen einer Ästhetik kontrollierter Künstlichkeit, die weniger auf Offenheit als auf eine präzise durchgestaltete visuelle Ordnung setzt. Auffällig ist, wie stark sich die Kompositionen an Bildsprachen orientieren, die aus Gaming-Engines, Simulationen und spekulativen Kapital- und Militärökonomien bekannt sind: glatte Oberflächen, streng kontrollierte Perspektive und Körper sowie Objekte, die vollständig in einen kalkulierten Bildraum eingebettet sind. Wenn man\* Singers Bilder betrachtet, wirkt das, was sie zeigen, bereits durch digitale Produktionsweisen, ökonomische Logiken und Bildregime vorgeformt. Die dargestellten Körper (oft weiblich codiert, fragmentiert oder in klar konstruierten Raumrastern platziert) erscheinen als Teil einer durchkomponierten Bildordnung zwischen Kontrolle und Attraktion. Es entsteht der Eindruck, dass Singers Praxis von einer dystopischen Grundhaltung geprägt ist, die sich in etwas Banalem zuspitzt. Casino-Interieurs, digitale Simulationsräume aus Gaming oder dem Militär wirken dabei weniger wie Zitate als vielmehr wie strukturelle Prinzipien. Es entsteht eine Welt, in der Zufall, Risiko und Entscheidung bereits in Regeln und Systeme eingebaut sind, bevor überhaupt etwas geschieht. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_0144.JPG) Exhibition View, *Homage to General Idea*, Mai 36 Galerie, 2026\. Photo Credits: Peter Baracchi Courtesy of the Artist and Mai 36 Galerie, Zurich Umso stärker wirkt die Hommage an General Idea in der Galerie Mai 36\. Am Vorabend wurde in Zürich der achtzigste Geburtstag von A.A. Bronson (Gründungsmitglied von General Idea) gefeiert; die Ausstellung steht spürbar im Zeichen dieses Jubiläums und lässt sich als Fortsetzung einer Praxis lesen, in der Kunst weniger als abgeschlossenes Werk denn als geteilte Form von Leben, Produktion und institutioneller Bewegung verstanden wird. Bei General Idea entsteht Bedeutung in Zirkulationen zwischen Freundschaft, Rollen, Veröffentlichungen und medialen Spiegelungen, die sich gegenseitig hervorbringen und verschieben. Die eigentliche Entdeckung des Wochenendes liegt jedoch wenige Räume weiter: Irma Blank. Ihre Arbeiten verdichten Sprache und Zeit auf andere Weise. Sie entfalten sich nicht über Bildfülle, sondern über Reduktion und Wiederholung. Seit den 1960er Jahren entwickelt Blank ein Schreiben, das Sprache nicht abbildet, sondern in rhythmische Bewegungen, Linien und Atemformen überführt. Die Zeichen bleiben lesbar und entziehen sich zugleich der schnellen Erfassung. Sie bewegen sich in einem Zwischenbereich, in dem Bedeutung nicht festgelegt ist. In unmittelbarer Nachbarschaft dazu, sind bei Gregor Staiger die Arbeiten von Raphaela Vogel zu sehen. Bei Vogel verschränken sich technische Apparaturen, Sound, Video und Skulptur zu Installationen, die weniger auf Fassbarkeit als auf Überlagerung setzen. Daraus entsteht eine Form von Überforderung, in der sich feministische Medienkritik fortschreibt, etwa im Anschluss an Positionen wie Ulrike Rosenbach oder Gabriele Stötzer, in denen sich Bilder vermehren, stören und überschreiben. Dieser Zustand permanenter Verfügbarkeit ist kaum auszuhalten. Vogel arbeitet genau damit und überführt diese Überforderung in etwas beinahe Genussvolles: wie Headbanging zu gutem Punk. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2026_VOGE_GGSZ_8.jpg) Zucker \* Totholz \* Schimmel, 2026 Exhibition view, Galerie Gregor Staiger, Zurich ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/KHZH_HenrikOlesen_09.jpg) Henrik Olesen, *Copies of real-life objects, tools and food*, Kunsthalle Zürich, 2026 Foto / Image: Cedric Mussano Henrik Olesen präsentiert in der Kunsthalle Zürich unter der Leitung von Fanny Hauser eine ganz andere Form der Konzentration. Im Untergeschoss gruppiert Olesen Abgüsse von Lebensmitteln, Werkzeugen und Alltagsobjekten auf Tischen und Podesten: Spargel, Fische, Zitronen, Laptops, Tastaturen, Pinsel. Diese Anordnung lässt Kategorien wie Produktion, Produkt und Produktionsmittel ineinander übergehen, ohne sie aufzulösen. Das Stillleben wird hier zum Zitat, roh und zusammengesetzt. Im oberen Geschoss passiert das Gegenteil: Fülle und Leere, Überlagerung und Distanz treten in ein Spannungsverhältnis. Gerade darin zeigt sich Olesens Interesse an Ordnungen, die sich im Ausstellen selbst neu konfigurieren. Von Olesen führt ein Weg zu Marisol, deren Retrospektive im Kunsthaus Zürich lange überfällig ist. Die bemalten Figuren aus Holz, Bronze und Aluminium bewegen sich zwischen Pop Art, politischer Skulptur und psychologisch aufgeladenem Porträt. Politiker\*innen, Künstler\*innen, Mitglieder von Königshäusern und Familienangehörige erscheinen als blockhafte Körper, die zugleich Nähe und Distanz erzeugen. Besonders eindrücklich ist das Porträt von Desmond Tutu (1988), in dem sich die Figur beinahe abstrakt verschiebt: Kreuz und violette Gewandung markieren weniger eine Person als eine Form geistlicher und politischer Autorität, die sich im Bild stabilisiert und zugleich entzieht. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/11_Marisol_LaVisita.jpg) Marisol, La visita, 1964 Museum Ludwig, Köln, Schenkung Sammlung Ludwig 1976 © Estate of Marisol / 2026, ProLitteris, Zurich Foto: Historisches Archiv der Stadt Köln mit Rheinischem Bildarchiv, Britta Schlier Dies setzt sich in den Zeichnungen von Sandra Vásquez de la Horra anders fort. Die mit Wachs versiegelten Arbeiten entfalten dichte Bildräume, in denen Körper ineinander übergehen, wachsen, sich verzweigen oder auflösen. Köpfe entstehen aus Köpfen, Pflanzen kippen in Wolken, Gesten in mythische Konstellationen. Die Bilder bewegen sich zwischen religiösen, psychischen und kolonialgeschichtlichen Resonanzen, ohne sie zu ordnen oder zu hierarchisieren. Zeichnung erscheint hier weniger als Darstellung denn als Zustand, in dem sich Erinnerung, Imagination und Erfahrung überlagern. Bei Peter Kilchmann sind Francis Alÿs’ *Hand Games* zu sehen. Die Serie kurzer Filme konzentriert sich auf eine der elementarsten Spielformen: Handspiele. Aus hunderten gezeichneter Einzelbilder entstehen Animationen, die Gesten als präzise choreografierte Bewegungen sichtbar machen und Spiel als Form von Kommunikation und sozialem Austausch lesbar werden lassen. In den dunklen Räumen erscheinen die sieben Animationen als einzelne Lichtpunkte. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2026_06_11_GPK_Rami_300.jpg) Exhibition view: ''Francis Alÿs: Handspiele (Hand Games)’’, Galerie Peter Kilchmann, Zurich, June 12 - July 24, 2026 Courtesy the artist and Galerie Peter Kilchmann, Zurich/Paris Photo: Sebastian Schaub Bolita Manos (*Little Ball in the Hand,* 2025) verdichtet das Spiel zu einer Geste des Verbergens und Offenlegens: Eine kleine Kugel verschwindet in einer geschlossenen Hand und taucht wieder auf. In *Hand Stack* (2019–2024) entsteht aus Wiederholung ein rhythmischer Aufbau und Zerfall von Ordnung. *Thumb War* (2023–2024) und *Finger Walk* (2024) verschieben diese Logik in minimale Formen von Kontakt und Widerstand zwischen Fingern und Händen. Es gibt keinen klaren Anfang und kein Ende, die Gesten bleiben in Bewegung, als würden sie sich immer wieder neu beginnen. Wie Jacques Derrida formuliert, verschiebt sich dabei das Verhältnis von Nähe und Differenz in ein „Berühren ohne Besitz“, eine Form von Kontakt, die weder festhält noch fixiert, sondern im Moment der Geste bleibt. // *Octavia Abril ist eine chilenische Schriftsteller\*in, die sensibel auf den Lauf der Jahreszeiten reagiert. Ihre Werke gedeihen, beeinträchtigt durch ihre immer wieder neuen Allergien, die sie aufgrund des Klimawandels und industriell verarbeiteter Lebensmittel erleidet, in den Grenzbereichen zwischen Institutionen und Weinbergen. Mit dieser körperlichen Verfassung beschloss sie, Welten und Worte in gefährlichen Küssen zu schaffen. Sie boykottiert Werbung Plakate, ist aber immer für gute Gespräche zu haben.* ### When a Museum and Its People Align URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/yolande-zola-zoli-the-van-abbemuseum/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:40:17.000Z Collection displays often promise clarity. They tend to organize artworks between smooth sequences and pretentious narratives, offering visitors a legible path through history, style, and institutional achievement. Within this format, time becomes disciplinary, differences are carefully separated, and the museum presents itself as a place where complexity can be held without friction. What follows from this is a boringly familiar economy of attention. Works are arranged to be easily consumed, narratives are stabilized in advance, and even gestures toward diversity can become part of a reassuring surface. In such settings, inclusion risks becoming a matter of visibility alone, while the authority that determines visibility remains largely intact. The approach taken here moves differently. It treats the collection not as a neutral archive but as something shaped by labor, maintenance, inheritance, and ongoing negotiation. Rather than smoothing over these conditions, it allows them to remain present in the ways works are grouped and encountered. The result is less of a single story than a set of relations that do not resolve into a single line of reading. This shift is closely tied to a redistribution of authorship. Curatorial decisions are made transparently and horizontally in dialogue with artists, researchers, museum staff, and local participants whose structuring contributions avoid illustrative automatisms. Each of the temporal frameworks that organizes the exhibition emerges from a specific practice, whether grounded in drawing, storytelling, bodily movement, or cosmological mapping. These are working methods that shape how the collection is activated beyond thematic overlays. Attention is also given to what is usually kept outside the frame of exhibition-making, for instance objects the workers from the museum relate to when thinking of the collection they encounter every day. Forms of care, administrative decision-making, and the often invisible work of maintaining a collection are brought into proximity with the display itself. In this sense, the museum is a site where different kinds of labor and knowledge intersect. After a busy and joyful opening of the new collection, I interviewed Yolande Zola Zoli van der Heide, following the traces of how this approach was stewarded from within the institution, and how it continues to reshape the ways a collection can be inhabited, narrated, and understood. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Collectiepresentatie-Collectie-als-Cosmos-2026-gecureerd-door-Yolande-Zola-Zoli-van-der-Heide-Van-Abbemuseum-Eindhoven.-Foto_-Peter-Cox-Van-Abbemuseum_20260615-516.jpg) Collection as Cosmos (2026), curated by Yolande Zola Zoli van der Heide, Van Abbemuseum Eindhoven. Foto: Peter Cox © Van Abbemuseum 2026 ### **A Museum Learns to Let Go** **MI: You have been working at the Van Abbemuseum for several years now. It feels like a period of intense transformation for the institution.** **YH:** It has really been a collective effort. This is my sixth year here, I started in January 2020. COVID-19 revealed many violent structural inadequacies, but it was also a kind of portal in that it slowed everything down for me including my work at the museum. Beginning my work at that moment meant entering an institution that suddenly had to become visible to itself. Working remotely, behind screens, the museum’s internal rhythms became more legible. You could see the machinery more clearly—the assumptions, the tempo, the invisible procedures that usually remain in the background. At the same time, there was a shift across museums globally. Suddenly, collections were not secondary to blockbuster exhibitions or international loans. They became the primary material. Institutions were forced to work with what was already there. In 2022, I worked on “A Lasting Truth Is Change”, an exhibition with the Van Abbemuseum collection that explored how transformation might be understood inside a heritage institution. It drew on Octavia Butler’s Parable novels as a conceptual grounding—stories in which change is not exceptional. That exhibition became a way of thinking through the collection as something unstable, something that is always already in motion. After that, Charles Esche invited me to develop the next collection display, following “Dwarsverbanden (Delinking/Relinking)”. That invitation eventually became “Collection as Cosmos”. **MI: The pandemic made visible how dependent museums are on proximity, on relationships with neighbours, communities, and forms of labor that are often invisible. This is also connected to Octavia Butler’s thinking. How did the idea of “Collection as Cosmos” emerge within her constellations? Was it shaped by thinking about those invisible forms of labor that sustain the museum, or did it come more from speculative thinking, as in science fiction, cosmology?** **YH:** It is all of that, really. During the research phase, I was interested in expanding the curatorial process beyond the curatorial team (I worked closely with Assistant Curator Abril Cisneros Ramírez, Project Leader Nikita Hurkmans, and Head of Collection Steven ten Thije). This is already at stake when you work with a collection display because the project touches every facet of a museum and requires every department. We worked closely with colleagues from the collection department, not only as custodians of objects but as co-researchers. That already shifted the starting question. Building on the central question that, say, in “A Lasting Truth is Change”, namely: how does change figure in a heritage institution, for “Collection as Cosmos” we began asking something more difficult: how does death operate in a heritage institution? What does it mean for a museum that is structurally built on accumulation, preservation, and continuity to think seriously about endings? That question became the basis for what we later called *Regenerative Time*. We worked with the artist and death researcher G, who invited us into a different register of thinking through grief. One of the key references was *We the Heartbroken* by Gargi Bhattacharyya. The book was read as a group by the members of the collection team as a way of approaching mourning not as metaphor, but as practice. Of course, artworks are not people. But museums are still institutions that hold, care for, and sometimes remove things from circulation. The question became: what kinds of ethical frameworks exist for letting go? Through workshops and discussions with G and the collection team, we began to approach deaccessioning not only as an administrative procedure, but as a form of institutional lifecycle thinking—an attempt to acknowledge that accumulation cannot be infinite. One of the unexpected starting points came from within the collection itself: a 17th-century painting by Italian baroque painter Guercino depicting Andromeda. It had long been an anomaly in a museum primarily focused on modern and contemporary art—rarely shown, almost suspended in institutional time. Rather than treating it as an outlier, it became a case through which to think about endings. Together with colleagues in the collection department, we began to consider whether this work might be deaccessioned. We are currently in conversation with Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen about a possible transfer, should that process go through. If it does, it would mark the first formal deaccession in the museum’s history. **MI: So in a sense, the “heart” of the process came from those who care for the collection on a daily basis, within the institution itself?** **YH:** Yes, but not as a single origin point. What mattered was that the distinction between front of house and back of house started to blur. The people who care for objects daily (the collection team) are often invisible in the public imagination of a museum. Their work is maintenance, care, repair, storage, and cleaning. But without that labor, nothing holds. One of the aims of “Collection as Cosmos” was to bring those layers closer together: to align the institution’s public language with its internal practices. Not in a way that simplifies them, but in a way that makes their interdependence visible. The question, ultimately, was how to make a museum that is closer to living up to what it says it is. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Collectiepresentatie-Collectie-als-Cosmos-2026-gecureerd-door-Yolande-Zola-Zoli-van-der-Heide-Van-Abbemuseum-Eindhoven.-Foto_-Peter-Cox-Van-Abbemuseum20260610-283.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Collectiepresentatie-Collectie-als-Cosmos-2026-gecureerd-door-Yolande-Zola-Zoli-van-der-Heide-Van-Abbemuseum-Eindhoven.-Foto_-Peter-Cox-Van-Abbemuseum_20260615-471-1.jpg) Collection as Cosmos (2026), curated by Yolande Zola Zoli van der Heide, Van Abbemuseum Eindhoven. Foto: Peter Cox © Van Abbemuseum 2026 ### **Constellations Instead of Timelines** **MI:** Do you feel that the gap you described—between institutional language and institutional practice—has been closed? **YH:** No. And I don’t think it ever closes. It is something you work with, not something you resolve. The Van Abbemuseum is nearly ninety years old. It has gone through many shifts—political, curatorial, economic, and institutional changes. But the same questions could be asked of almost any modern art museum. **MI:** That brings me to the locality. People tend to recognise a museum through what is visible and familiar to them. But much of the collection—like Guercino’s *Andromeda*—does not belong to that immediate field of recognition. It sits outside the expected image of a modern and contemporary art museum. **YH:** Yes, exactly. And that expectation is precisely what the exhibition tries to unsettle. Another of its key frameworks is *Unchronological Time*, developed with the Johannesburg working group of Another Roadmap Africa Cluster (ARAC). In a workshop with mediation and education colleagues, ARAC members Lineo Segoete and David Andrew introduced us to their “unchronological timeline” methodological tool: a way of writing personal histories into dominant historical narratives. We went on to develop a Van Abbe edition of the unchronological timeline tool, which is applied in “Collection as Cosmos”. In very simple terms, the question at the center is: if history is usually told as a straight line, how do you interrupt that line with lived experience? That became the basis for the *90 Narrators* project. We are halfway in the process of inviting ninety neighbors from Eindhoven and the wider Brabant region to contribute a small domestic object—something that fits in the palm of a hand. Each object is placed in direct relation to a work from the collection. The object acts as a hinge. It allows an artwork to be read not only through art history, but through memory, proximity, and everyday life. Alongside the museum’s interpretation, you encounter a second narrative—fragile, personal, sometimes unexpected. It is not about replacing one narrative with another. It is about placing them next to each other to provide an additional way of approaching and seeing an artwork. **MI:** I feel invited to remember beyond linearity. **YH:** Exactly! The exhibition purposefully veers away from linear arrangement towards how we experience time in the day-to-day, and that is many times simultaneously in a single moment. Each gallery brings together works from different periods that are not arranged chronologically but relationally. You might move from a seventeenth-century painting to a work from the 1960s to a contemporary installation, and the point is to make many relations and conversations across time. This disturbance of the modernist timeline is something you feel spatially as well. The design by Matilde Cassani Studio reinforces that experience. The skirting motif that runs through the galleries behaves like a decorative petticoat hung across the walls of white cube. It interrupts the neutrality that the white cube is supposed to guarantee. The first skirting pattern that you encounter in the Andromeda gallery, for instance, is by Chris Lebeau, the Dutch Art Nouveau and Art Deco designer, active in the early 20th century, who was influenced by the English textile designer, William Morris, from the century before. I was convinced to work with Matilde because of the pre-modern references she proposed as a way of contending with modernity. **MI:** That collapse of time also becomes material at certain moments. I’m thinking of the textile elements that appear alongside works like Franz Erhard Walther’s. There is a sense of friction between materials, histories, and conceptual registers. And of course, what we see is only a fraction of the collection. **YH:** Yes, exactly. We are showing a very small percentage of the collection. Around 280 works in total, out of around 3,800. Part of the intention was also to bring works back into visibility that have not been shown for a long time. *,* is one example. Karel Appel’s *Between Banner and Flag* (1987) and Cristina Iglesias, *Untitled (Bamboo Sticks)* (1994) in the sculptural arrangements in the “forest” are another. But more importantly, we didn’t want the space to behave like a sequence of rooms divided by walls. In fact, there are almost no walls in the exhibition spatial design. The white cube remains as a baseline condition, but instead of constructing within it, we worked through ornamentation. That decision connects directly to the word cosmos itself. Cosmos refers both to order and to ornament, to structure and to decoration. The exhibition holds those two meanings in tension. We are literally decorating the order of the museum house and arranging artwork in multi-temporal star clusters. Modernist display systems tend to privilege order, clarity, and separation. What we tried to introduce is another logic—one where relation, proximity, and interference matter as much as categorization. **MI:** So cosmos here is not just a metaphor, but a method of relation. **YH:** It is relationality as structure. Each major gallery can be read as a kind of miniature collection display. Works from different curatorial and directorial periods sit together, often without obvious narrative connection. Visitors may not know this, but they sense it: temporal shifts happen constantly. You might encounter a 17th-century painting next to a postwar modernist work and then a contemporary intervention. You are not guided through time, you move through it. One reference that informed this thinking comes from Noleca Radaway, who in her podcast Raising Rebels describes care across a lifetime as being “twice a child and once an adult.” We need care at the beginning and end of life, while autonomy is often overemphasised in the middle. We adapted this idea as a way of thinking about institutional time. Each director arrives with a set of priorities, shapes a moment, and leaves a trace. Thinking through those cycles allowed us to read the collection not as a single narrative, but as overlapping phases of care, transition, and transformation. This is how we selected artworks from every director's tenure and started to reflect on Defne Ayas’s period when she arrived last year. From that, different constellations emerged, temporary alignments of works across time. Not fixed histories, but shifting relations. Small cosmologies within the larger museum. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Collectiepresentatie-Collectie-als-Cosmos-2026-gecureerd-door-Yolande-Zola-Zoli-van-der-Heide-Van-Abbemuseum-Eindhoven.-Foto_-Peter-Cox-Van-Abbemuseum20260610-122.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Collectiepresentatie-Collectie-als-Cosmos-2026-gecureerd-door-Yolande-Zola-Zoli-van-der-Heide-Van-Abbemuseum-Eindhoven.-Foto_-Peter-Cox-Van-Abbemuseum_20260615-415.jpg) Collection as Cosmos (2026), curated by Yolande Zola Zoli van der Heide, Van Abbemuseum Eindhoven. Foto: Peter Cox © Van Abbemuseum 2026 ### **Time as a Commons** **MI: Listening to you speak about cosmologies and time, it becomes clear that these concepts have historically reflected systems of power. Cosmologies often determine who belongs within a world and who remains outside it. Museums have traditionally done something similar through their collections, exhibitions, and leadership structures.** **What strikes me about “Collection as Cosmos” is that this hierarchy is displaced. Instead of being organized around directors or institutional authority, the exhibition is structured through four approaches to time developed with G, Another Roadmap Africa Cluster, Ima-Abasi Okon, and Nolan Oswald Dennis.** **How did these collaborations take shape? And how were these temporalities authored? Although the exhibition is clearly collective, each of these approaches—*Regenerative Time, Unchronological Time, Public Time, and Cosmic Times*—retains a distinct authorship and perspective.** **YH:** Several orders or methodologies are stacked on one another in the exhibition. Alongside the “twice a child, once a man” is the collaboration with the artist interlocutor, each with a time principle. Each temporal principle is rooted in a specific artwork, practice, or tool. They are not abstract curatorial categories that we imposed onto the collection. They emerged through dialogue with artists and collaborators whose work was already engaging these questions. We often piggybacked off the acquisitions process to have these conversations with artists, that is, as their work entered the Van Abbemuseum collection. Take *Regenerative Time*, developed with G. At its center are several sculptural works that sit within the gallery containing Franz Erhard Walther’s costume pieces. One of the sculptures is positioned on a washing machine, suggesting a domestic setting for the grief sculpture. These works entered the collection and became a focal point for thinking about lifecycles, grief, and transformation. What interests me about G’s practice is the way it attempts to give form to experiences that are difficult to articulate through language, particularly grief. Much of her work asks how mourning might be brought into everyday life rather than being treated as something exceptional or distant. A daily drawing practice is central to this. Through drawing, G explores how grief can be shaped, held, and lived with. During the exhibition’s opening program, this practice also informed workshops for families and children, where drawing and coloring became ways of approaching difficult emotions collectively. Those drawings are not separate from the sculptures; they are the foundation from which the sculptures emerge. Together, they offer a way of thinking about grief not as a singular event but as an ongoing process. **MI: And what about *Unchronological Time*?** **YH:** The unchronological timeline is actually an existing methodology developed by Another Roadmap Africa Cluster. It is a tool that allows people to position their personal histories alongside official narratives. For “Collection as Cosmos”, this methodology was adapted through the 90 Narrators project. The personal objects contributed by participants are housed within what we call the Grotto, and they appear throughout the exhibition. These objects function as points of connection between individual memories and the museum’s collection. The project asks how personal histories might coexist with institutional histories rather than being subordinated to them. **MI: *Public Time* seems to operate completely differently again.** **YH:** Yes. With Ima-Abasi Okon, I drew on the solo exhibition that we worked on together in 2025, which centralizes her running practice. The blue inflatable arches that embellish and mark the start and end of the sculpture forest may be familiar to marathon participants. They are the ones found at the start and finish lines of races. In Ima-Abasi’s solo exhibition, visitors would walk through these inflatable archways and retrofitted start and stop points throughout the galleries, reflected on a clock, evoking a sense of time-travelling, because, unlike in a race where a "best time is measured," Ima-Abasi resets a fractured one. Time didn’t accrue but reset with each start and stop line encountered. What I have learned from her work is that time does not have to be understood solely through productivity, speed, or accumulation. Running is not only about racing. It also involves pacing, resting, pausing, and recovery. That thinking then informed the exhibition far beyond the artworks themselves. It shaped how we approached the museum as a physical environment. Visitors may notice chairs, seating areas, and cushions throughout the building. Transitional spaces between galleries are treated as meaningful spaces in their own right rather than simply as passages from one artwork to another. These mark the Public Time research thread. Rest and hangout become part of the exhibition experience. In that sense, *Public Time* is not confined to a single room. It influences how the entire exhibition is inhabited. **MI: And finally, *Cosmic Times*.** YH: *Cosmic Times* is developed through Nolan Oswald Dennis’s *Black Liberation Zodiac (Khunuseti)*, which occupies the uppermost floor of the exhibition. The project proposes an alternative mapping of the night sky. Rather than reproducing dominant Eurocentric constellations, Nolan reimagines celestial knowledge through perspectives and mythologies connected to the African continent and the Global South. The work is part of a much larger ongoing project, but the version in our collection became a crucial point of departure for the exhibition. *Khunuseti* is the Namaqua word for the Pleiades, which are highlighted in Nolan’s work on display. From Nolan, we learned that the Pleiades are associated in different parts of the world with agricultural cycles. Their appearance and disappearance mark moments for sowing and harvesting. In other words, people look to the sky to understand what needs to happen on the ground beneath their feet. Night sky reading reveals your location on Earth. That principle informed the *Cosmic Times* research thread in the exhibition found in the Cosmic Landscape room. There, landscapes from different periods are brought together in a salon-style display. Visitors can read them individually, but they can also encounter them as part of a larger constellation. Across all four temporalities, the question was the same: what do these artworks invite us to do? And how might those invitations reshape the way we understand the collection? **MI: Hearing you describe it in these terms makes the exhibition remarkably tangible. It also clarifies how “Collection as Cosmos” extends beyond the collection galleries and enters into dialogue with the museum’s ground floor, which has been reimagined as a space for participation and collaboration.** **Perhaps, as a final thought, could you say something about that relationship?** YH: For me, one of the works that most clearly connects the upper floors to the ground floor is Haegue Yang’s *Sonic Celestial Rope – Dodecagon Infinite Curl in Red Staccato*. The suspended structure of bells runs vertically at the heart of the building and links different parts of the museum together, ultimately connecting the top part of the building with the bottom. This work was commissioned for this tower space, and it draws from the Korean folklore of Sister Sun and Brother Moon. Koreans tell the story of siblings who transform into celestial bodies by climbing a tree and then a metal chain descending from the heavens to escape a tiger that is chasing them. Although visitors encounter it throughout the collection display, it is activated daily by museum hosts at noon (the highest point of the sun) each day to mark Eindhoven time as a way of reminding us where we are, and perhaps the work to be done directly beneath our feet. The Sonic Celestial Rope is also the work that connects “Collection as Cosmos” to Dommelplein on the ground floor. The ground floor itself is also designed by Matilde Cassani Studio with graphics by Studio Pupilla and conceived as a civic space by Defne Ayas. We wanted to create places where people could spend time without feeling that they needed to consume culture in a prescribed way. There are areas for children to play and rearrange furniture. There is a dedicated children’s corner. There is a quiet room for reflection, meditation, and prayer. There are spaces where families can read together, rest or simply spend time. Alongside these facilities, there are smaller presentations and collaborations with artists, designers and local partners, namely: It also hosts solo presentations by Ad Minoliti, Sarkis, john gerrard, Ayoung Kim, Geo Design department of Design Academy Eindhoven, Studio Woensel-West, with neuro-inclusive tools designed by ADEZIV. The emphasis is not only on viewing art but on inhabiting the museum differently. I am still trying to understand what that means in practice because it is much easier to talk about than to realise. Creating genuine spaces for gathering and lingering is actually quite difficult within a museum. But that is what Dommelplein attempts to do. It creates the conditions for spending time together. And from there, you can move into “Collection as Cosmos”. // ### The question of class consciousness URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/minor-attraction-conversation-class-consciousness/ Last updated: 2026-09-17T16:38:29.000Z *On May 30, 2026, at London’s* Reference Point*, and in the frame of* Minor Attractions*'* Summer Session *festival, AWC gathered to think along a simple question: what are the politics of art circulation? Joined by the art journalist Harriet Lloyd-Smith, Seren Metcalfe of the* Working Class Creative Database (WCCD)*, and* The Art Journal *editor Tom Seymour, the discussion ended up being an interrogation of how culture survives in an era of platform capture and public funding retreat.* *The friction between the physical and the digital is the arena where the struggle for cultural identity is currently being negotiated. Physical zines passed hand-to-hand or a WhatsApp community of thousands require different circulation networks and demand different forms of labor. For the working-class artist, the “democratization” of the digital sphere has meant more visibility and the intensification of labor—a relentless cycle where creating art is inseparable from the exhausting work of self-branding and optimization.* *The following conversation is a critical attempt to map these tensions and to find a way forward that doesn't just move art but also moves the needle as to who gets to exist within the sphere of art.* **Dalia Maini: How does your work as a cultural practitioner reflect on the question of art circulation, Seren?** **Seren Metcalfe:** COVID created a strange but important moment, politically and culturally. Obviously, it was a difficult time in many ways, but it also created conditions for new forms of community organizing to emerge. People were isolated, many had stopped working or had more time, and there was suddenly space to speak to one another differently. Because physical contact was limited, communities had to form digitally—and so many grassroots platforms and mutual support networks emerged during this period because people genuinely needed connection, visibility, support, and solidarity. I also think it’s important to recognize how different the landscape is now for artists compared to previous generations. Older artists who went through art school decades ago often weren't carrying huge student debt, housing was more accessible, people could survive on benefits while developing their practice, and squatting or living cheaply in cities was far more possible. Now people still move to cities looking for the same cultural opportunities, but many cannot afford to live there. Most artists are constantly working alongside their practice, and when they're not physically working, they’re often still logged into another form of labor—social media, self-promotion, networking, visibility. COVID created a rare interruption to that pace. *Working Class Creative Database (WCCD)* began through this online circulation. We started with a WhatsApp group and informal Zoom meet-ups between working-class creatives who often felt disconnected from traditional art infrastructures. Over time, the community grew because it responded to a real social absence. Now WCCD exists as a platform and network of over 2,000 creatives across the UK, alongside exhibitions, talks, events, residencies, publishing, curation, and producing. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/21_300526_NewsOnTheMove_EventPhoto.jpg) News On The Move. Courtesy Minor Attraction **DM: What interests me is that you're not only circulating images or articles—you're circulating people.** **SM:** Exactly. Opportunities, resources, confidence, knowledge, support systems. Our platform exists as a way to circulate working-class creatives themselves. We currently have a shared resources sheet that members contribute to collectively, a members map, a daily WhatsApp community where people ask questions and support each other, and we’re now applying for Arts Council funding to build a larger website and database infrastructure to better facilitate these forms of connection. But social media has transformed what cultural labor looks like, particularly for working-class artists. Instagram is often more important than an artist’s website now. I know many artists who have been discovered for exhibitions or opportunities entirely through it. But this visibility comes with pressure. Artists are no longer only expected to make work—they're expected to continuously document themselves, brand themselves, circulate themselves, and remain visible. There's something classed about this pressure. Working-class creatives often feel they have to give more of themselves publicly to gain access to opportunities or legitimacy. Meanwhile, some of the artists with the least online presence are often those who already possess financial stability or institutional networks. **DM: Social media can democratize visibility and intensify exhaustion at the same time.** **SM:** And self-surveillance. When Instagram becomes part of your labor as an artist, it becomes difficult to know where the work ends. There's also the danger of digital spaces becoming echo chambers—which is why in-person events remain important to us even as online engagement grows. WCCD has always tried to move between digital and physical: online circulation, but also real-world conversations, exhibitions, meet-ups, and support networks. In some ways, one of our aims was to build our own networks of support and opportunity outside traditional gatekeeping structures—almost a kind of self-built nepotism for working-class creatives who historically have been excluded from those systems. **DM: Harriet, what's the role of art publishing in shaping a counterculture of aesthetic and social critique?** **Harriet Lloyd-Smith:** The question is whether art publishing can still shape a counterculture at all without radical magazines taking on the task. Those publications could genuinely set an agenda because there were fewer channels, and the art world was smaller and more print-dependent. Now the critical conversation is fragmented across Instagram, TikTok, Substack, podcasts, academic journals, fairs, and legacy print. The internet didn't kill counterculture, but it atomized it to the point of paralysis. Countercultures require a dominant culture to push against. In art today, that’s the market, the institutions, the governments, and corporations that claim to champion art while setting its terms. They’re increasingly in bed with each other. At what point does a countercultural force become a mainstream one? When does it accept a certain kind of funding? When is it absorbed into an institution? Many publications began as about as anti-establishment as British art publishing gets, and it still took Arts Council money. **DM: If there's no position truly outside the dominant culture, what does opposition even look like?** **HLS:** Probably something more plural and embedded than we’re used to imagining. And that points to a crucial distinction: between reflecting a counterculture—lending it credence by covering it—and shaping one, being involved in its conception. Most publishing today does the former but dresses it up as the latter. Art publishing’s role in shaping counterculture is not through content alone, but through the relationships and communities it builds around that content. Ideas need somewhere to land and grow. Without that, even the most radical editorial position is just broadcasting into a void. There’s also the harder point: countercultures in art publishing have historically been narrow. UK platforms like The White Pube have made this argument for years—any counterculture worth the name has to be plural from the outset, or it just reproduces the narrowness it claims to oppose. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/10_300526_NewsOnTheMove_EventPhoto.jpg) News On The Move. Courtesy Minor Attraction **DM: Seren, how have class structures shaped ways of communicating art for you?** **SM:** Class shapes who enter editorial spaces in the first place. If you’re not from a major city or a creative background, many jobs within the arts aren't even visible to you growing up. Often, the only artistic role presented in schools is “artist” itself—careers in publishing, criticism, curating, editing, and commissioning remain invisible unless you later encounter them through university, relocation, or existing social networks. That invisibility matters because editorial culture is still heavily shaped by access, geography, education, confidence, and social familiarity. A lot of art writing continues to circulate within relatively closed networks. Meanwhile, there are incredibly active artistic communities across the UK that remain underrepresented within mainstream coverage. **DM: And digital publishing hasn’t necessarily opened that up—it’s accelerated a different kind of narrowing.** **SM:** Yes. There’s increasing pressure to produce content quickly, publish quickly, and compete constantly for attention. Endless lists of 5 exhibitions to see this week, short-form cultural commentary designed around shrinking attention spans and platform algorithms. Culture starts being consumed in snippets. We also spoke during the panel about how significant PR companies have become within the gallery system—something I wouldn't even have understood before being in conversation with writers and editors. Increasingly, the same PR agencies represent large numbers of galleries, particularly in London, which can begin to homogenize cultural coverage and shape which exhibitions, artists, and conversations receive visibility. It makes it much harder for younger publications, emerging writers, smaller galleries, and independent platforms to compete for attention in an already oversaturated landscape. **DM: So what does working-class art coverage actually look like?** **SM:** It means resisting that acceleration. Taking time, showing care, and paying attention to practices that may not already be institutionally validated or trending online. Seeking out perspectives from outside dominant cultural centers. Recognizing the importance of smaller communities, DIY organizing, and regional activity. It also means creating space for longer-form writing, criticism, and conversation that actually feels alive rather than rushed to fill a content cycle. But for that to exist, time and financial support need to exist. Slowness itself becomes a resource that not everyone has equal access to. Working-class artists are often navigating multiple jobs, precarious housing, burnout, caring responsibilities, and uneven access to time itself. Within WCCD, we try to think about coverage and programming through conversation, accessibility, mentorship, and collective support rather than authority or exclusivity. For me, working-class cultural coverage is not simply about representing working-class people aesthetically—it’s about building structures of attention, care, and visibility differently. Publishing no longer exists somewhere distant. It exists in our pockets, on our phones, inside our daily lives. That makes questions around who gets circulated, who gets attention, and whose stories get amplified even more important. **DM: Ultimately, circulation is a battleground of political and material agency. If we are to move beyond the exhaustion of self-branding and the narrowing gaze of the algorithm, we must commit to building infrastructures that prioritize solidarity over visibility. We must reflect on how the homogenization of the “feed” influences the tangible, community-driven networks that actually sustain our labor. Only then can we assess if we want to reject it altogether. Critical use of these tools lies in transforming circulation from a tool of platform capture into a mechanism of collective power—ensuring that art remains a vital, lived practice belonging to those who have historically been excluded from the art system.** // *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### The Clockwork and the Fountain URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/art-basel-week-2026/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:18:07.000Z This year, the threshold between the glittering halls of accumulation inside Art Basel and the city outside is defined by Nairy Baghramian's commission at Messeplatz. The work initially appears almost to withdraw from attention: mirrored stainless steel armatures, low-slung benches, forms that recede into light and circulation, and subtle details such as flies printed onto porcelain surfaces. Nothing announces itself as monumental. This slow ignition is crucial. The mirrored steel armatures, depending on the time of day, partially disappear. They behave less like objects than like conditions of visibility. The sculpture is relational in its timing, initiating a sequence of bodily decisions—whether to sit, whether to remain standing, whether to enter a choreography that is already underway. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nairy-Baghramian-Modele-vivant-Sempilant-2026.-Installation-at-the-Messeplatz-during-Art-Basel-in-Basel-2026..jpg) Nairy Baghramian, *Modèle vivant (S’empilant)*, 2026\. Installation at the Messeplatz during Art Basel in Basel 2026 Elena Filipovic, Pauline Pobocha and André Rottmann talked about Baghramian’s work at Art Basel Conversation, which took place behind the 010 exhibition for Tech collectors, providing a drastic recording of the attentive faculties: a physical encounter, instead of subsumption into the growing omniverse of AI slop. At first, no one sits. The sculpture remains formal, even distant—an arrangement of surfaces that resists immediate legibility. Then, one body interrupts the uncertainty, then another. Within minutes, the configuration shifts, and the benches fill. As Pobocha puts it, “you encounter the work *working*,” a formulation that captures how agency emerges as a quantity distributed between object and use, rather than inheriting solely in either alone. Rottmann’s reference to Rodin’s *The Burghers of Calais* helps articulate the register in which these figures operate: suspended, burdened, assembled through tension rather than resolved into monumentality. Baghramian’s citizens are not presented as stable bodies but as arrangements of support and vulnerability—leaning, adjusting, sharing weight with structures that remain visibly provisional. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-06-20-at-13.53.41.png) Berni Searle, *Profile*, 2002\. Installation view at Unlimited, Art Basel. Courtesy of PSM Gallery Across the fair, this attentiveness to fatigue becomes a kind of background frequency. By the time one reaches “Unlimited” on a Monday afternoon, exhaustion is among the most honest forms of relation available. Berni Searle’s hanging semitransparent lambda prints—priced at €60,000—seem to absorb this collective condition: transparent surfaces where traces linger and overlap, recalling the layered inscriptions and histories that *Profile* renders visible on the body. The market display itself oscillates between spectacle and logistics, a space where curatorial ambition often takes on the texture of administration. Ruba Katrib’s contribution appears less as a unifying intellect than as a mediator maintaining fragile compatibility between productions that might otherwise collapse under their own weight. It recalls Spike Island curator Clementine Proby’s self-description on Instagram as a “fancy secretary,” a precise diagnosis of the curator’s role: coordinator of aesthetic labor at the mercy of wealth stratification. Yet the inequalities inscribed within contemporary art still allow moments of unapologetic pleasure to surface, as when imagining the sun catching Oskar Schlemmer’s *Homo, Composition in Metal* (1930–31) on a surprisingly theatrical white wall. Presented by Leandro Navarro and Thaddaeus Ropac, the work arrives carrying its own market history, having sold at Lempertz last year for €163,800\. Nearby, Isa Genzken’s sculptures at Galerie Buchholz introduce a counter-temporality of intimacy before disappearing once more into circuits of private ownership. Elsewhere, a wired sculptural system at Statements unfolds through an artificial dream logic, suggesting that illusion remains one of contemporary art’s most durable technologies. Illusion—and its inevitable disillusionments—was one of the fair’s recurring motifs. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/8.-Ramon-Saturnino-Bulgaria-mexicali-9-01-pm-2022-2026.jpg) Ramón Saturnino, *Bulgaria - mexicali (9:01 pm)* , 2022 - 2026\. Courtesy of the artist and Lodos, Mexico City The absence of the Baloise Prize in 2026 generated murmurs across Statements, not least because galleries learned of its cancellation rather late. Yet Ramón Saturnino’s presentation at Lodos Gallery transcends the ambient frustration. *You, neighbor God, if sometimes in the night, I rouse you with loud knocking, I do so only because I seldom hear you breathe* (2025) assembles wire, plaster, photography, and concrete into a landscape that feels simultaneously geological and political. Tiny photographs retreat into the delicate texture of white photographic paper, as though reluctant to fully reveal themselves. The US–Mexican border appears here as material residue, its memory carried by filigree metal threads anchored to a modest concrete base. Priced at $40,000 for the installation, with individual photographs at $4,500 and the sculptural element at $8,500, the work stages distance as both a physical and affective condition. It brings to mind a conversation I had with Émile Rubino about the subtle ways he inserted traces of his own presence into the leporello of *Brunette Coleman’s Image as Trace II*: interventions that gently destabilize the certainty of representation. Saturnino’s archive of Bulgaria–Mexicali similarly proposes belonging as something negotiated through absence, displacement, and the fragile persistence of images. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-06-20-at-13.59.01.png) Margherita Moscardini, Installation view at Gian Marco Casini's booth, Liste Art Fair. Photo: AWC At Liste Art Fair, I crossed the waves of a vibrant opening crowd to shelter myself in the discreet intervention of Margherita Moscardini at Gian Marco Casini. These paper notes turned into bronzes (€6,000 each) revolve around a deceptively simple question: can sculpture become a territory exempt from state sovereignty? The video *And Remember That Holes Can Move* documents a summit of legal scholars debating precisely this proposition. Around it, reliefs translate legal concepts into sculptural form, the installation priced at €64,000\. Moscardini’s works are not illustrations of theory but operational devices—proposals disguised as objects. Law becomes a medium alongside bronze and language. Terms such as *res communis omnium* shed abstraction and emerge as material presence. It is rare to encounter art that treats legislation as its material. In a fair dominated by ownership, Moscardini imagines the conditions of the unownable. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MJ_Liste_06.jpeg) Maryam Jafri, *Home Office ft. Angola, Iraq, Vietnam, Vicodin* (2021). Courtesy of the artist and Matteo Cantarella, Copenhagen. Not far away, Maryam Jafri delivers one of Liste’s sharpest analyses of global capitalism at Matteo Cantarella’s booth. Advertisements from Iraq, Angola, and elsewhere reveal how aspiration is manufactured differently according to geography, while remaining structurally identical (*Home Office ft. Angola, Iraq, Vietnam, Vicodin* (2021), €20,000). An LG air-conditioner becomes a vehicle for competing fantasies of prosperity. Nearby, branded office supplies associated with cholesterol, anxiety, and depression transform the workstation into a portrait of contemporary labor. The collages from *The Everyday Model* (2021) track anonymous commercial actors across unrelated campaigns, exposing advertising’s interchangeable bodies (€3,000–€4,000). Particularly striking is the artist’s decision to leave certain commentaries blank, allowing absence itself to function as critique. Jafri turns the visual language of marketing against itself with remarkable precision. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-06-20-at-13.58.14.png) Luis Enrique, *Everything leaks*, 2025\. Installation view at Valerie's Factory booth, Liste Art Fair 2026\. Photo: AWC Valerie’s Factory opened strongly, with works reportedly selling within hours. Luis Enrique Zela Koort’s sculptures combine glass, bronze, resin, and Vatican holy water, blessed by Pope Leo XIV, into elaborate ceremonial architectures. One suspended work resembles an oversized rosary, assembled from marine shells used in ancient Peruvian funerary rituals, collapsing Catholic symbolism and Indigenous cosmologies so that nature itself is rendered as sacred—the work was acquired by an Australian private collection. Equally compelling are the glass wall sculptures depicting the eyes of four Amazonian pollinators (also sold), whose sensual materiality transforms ecological interdependence into optical experience. In dialogue with Ramiro Chaves’s modular, biomorphic forms, Bedoya proposes a spirituality grounded in non-human desire. Together, the artists create an environment where transcendence appears inseparable from biodiversity. Ju Young Kim’s sculptures recall the aerodynamic romanticism of Isa Genzken at “Unlimited” on the other side of the hall, translated into a distinctly contemporary register. Combining airplane components, automotive fragments, stained glass, and handcrafted elements, her works inhabit the liminal spaces of global mobility. They feel simultaneously futuristic and nostalgic, as though assembled from the emotional residue of airports. Kim understands transit as a condition of identity. Industrial materials encounter traditional symbols without collapsing into easy hybridity; instead, they remain suspended between origins and destinations. The resulting installations are elegant reflections on acceleration, displacement, and belonging. In an art market that seems eager to underline why there is “only one Basel” after extending the fair that shares its name to other cities—saturating art workers and visitors with movement—Kim’s work captures the peculiar melancholy of perpetual transit. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-06-20-at-13.56.51.png) Chathuri Nissansala's works at Niru Ratnam's booth, Liste Art Fair 2026\. Photo: AWC Chathuri Nissansala’s presentation at Niru Ratnam is among Liste’s most affecting exhibitions, and it turns toward another register of movement. Drawing on the legacy of the Sri Lankan civil war, the artist works through damaged objects as sites of ongoing repair. A headless Buddha and a fragment recalling a Madonna statue are reinforced with beadwork and layered tea bags, forming new skins that register devastation alongside incomplete and uneven processes of restoration. Histories of violence here unfold alongside practices of care, without resolving into a single trajectory. New works developed during her Rijksakademie residency revisit colonial illustrations of Sri Lankan subjects, reworking images once produced as assertions of power and dominance. Beads, fabrics, and found materials accumulate into tactile archives of resilience. Nissansala’s practice suggests fragility not as opposition to strength, but as a condition through which political and material relations are continually renegotiated. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-06-20-at-13.55.14.png) Basel Social Club, Goodie bag. Photo: AWC If Art Basel increasingly resembles a lifestyle brand searching for cultural legitimacy, Basel Social Club has come to function as a parallel proposition rather than a formal opposition. Founded by a constellation of organizers—artist Hannah Weinberger, gallerists Robbie Fitzpatrick and Dominik Müller, and performance curator Yael Salomonowitz—the project unfolds less as a singular event than as a distributed choreography. Durational performance structures the rhythm of the site, extending from interventions in the parking lot by Puppies Puppies (Jade Guanaro Kuriki-Olivo) to Michele Rizzo’s adapted *Higher XTC* and Esben Weile Kjær’s *SUN* in the lobby. The connective performative layer is composed of therapy sessions with Anna Zumthor, workout and yoga classes in a former event hall (temporarily repurposed as a gym), DJs, conversations, and incidental encounters, alongside embroidered napkins at the pop-up restaurant reading “Shouldn’t you be Working?”. Rather than separating programmed from unprogrammed activity, the project allows these categories to remain in constant negotiation. Salomonowitz describes the project through the metaphor of a clockwork. Durational performances activate the building, as do everyday activities that gradually take on performative density. Someone exercising in the gym may become indistinguishable from an artistic performer; a fifteen-minute therapy session can acquire the intensity of a stage. Participation is not imposed but subtly choreographed, and visitors often find themselves already within the script before registering its contours. A defining feature of Basel Social Club is its capacity to inhabit spaces that traditional institutions tend to bypass. This year’s vast former office complex becomes more than a venue; it reads as an urban proposition. The project repeatedly reopens inaccessible buildings to the public, transforming real estate into a temporary commons. Salomonovitz’s enthusiasm for a mobile organ installed in the parking structure distills this logic: mobility here is less about efficiency than about imagination. Our conversation inevitably turns toward economics—everything here is driven by a certain form of intuition. Unlike the fairs surrounding it, Basel Social Club is sustained through a precarious mixture of foundations, sponsors, donors, and features tiered participation for galleries. For example, off-spaces pay nothing; established galleries contribute more. These fees cover the costs involved for installation.Yet even this structure remains fragile. As Salomonowitz acknowledges, each edition unfolds somewhere between care and self-exploitation. The team works extraordinary hours, and the familiar question persists: where does commitment end and unpaid labour begin? Within this fragile balance of exhaustion, what emerges is not cynicism but a sustained commitment to collective practice. The project’s four founders each bring distinct competencies—gallery work, performance, institutional knowledge, local networks—yet hierarchy remains unusually fluid. Decisions emerge through conversation rather than command, which may also explain why the event retains its sense of immediacy. Unlike many cultural initiatives that stabilise into predictability, Basel Social Club preserves a space for improvisation. Rather than positioning itself as Art Basel’s counterpart, Basel Social Club occupies a parallel register within the city’s ecosystem. The fair provides market infrastructure; Basel Social Club generates experiences that are less easily absorbed by market logics. The relationship is not oppositional but interdependent, with galleries circulating between both contexts and visitors moving fluidly across them. What Basel Social Club specialises in is neither critique nor escape, but the proposal of a temporary social architecture in which exhibition-making, hospitality, performance, and urban occupation coexist. In a week dominated by transactions, this proposition acquires particular force. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-06-20-at-14.04.00.png) Shamiran Istifan, *Camera Lucida,* 2026\. Installation view at Kendra Jayne Patrick's office space, Basel Social Club. Photo: AWC The “Office” edition follows “Villa”, “Factory” and “Bank”, expanding this logic on an unusually large scale and producing some of the week’s most compelling ironies, shaped collectively by its participants. Liam Gillick, once selected by Nicolaus Schafhausen for the German Pavilion in Venice, now appears in an underground office environment through the Brussels-based gallery KIN, also founded by Schafhausen—a shift that quietly underscores how easily roles, positions, and institutional alignments can reconfigure within the art world. The relocation reads less as a reversal than as a reminder that artistic meaning shifts with context. Nearby, Kendra Jayne Patrick’s nomadic gallery presents projects that examine value, infrastructure, and capital with notable precision. Rather than treating the office as metaphor, the presentation engages labour itself as exhibition material, acknowledging the systems that sustain artistic production without lapsing into cynicism. The result is one of Basel Social Club’s most incisive interventions. And, as much of it unfolds through circulation and documentation, its clearest register may be found on social media, across the long corridors of four floors. The most resonant encounters are often reserved for the end, in the “banks” of public wealth: the museum collections. After days spent navigating fairs, parties, and professional obligations, *The First Homosexuals* at the Kunstmuseum Basel opens onto a different temporality altogether. The exhibition traces the emergence of homosexual identity through art and visual culture with notable nuance, resisting linear or reductive narratives of progress. Outside the museum, the fountain extends the exhibition’s fin-de-siècle atmosphere into the city. In Basel, where swimming and cooling off in public fountains doesn’t cost a 500 euros fine like in Rome, the boundary between tourism and everyday urban life becomes unusually thin. Feet submerged in cold water, the nervous system finally slows. Basel’s art week rarely allows for decompression; here, a relief becomes available. The city’s most valuable luxury turns out to be time without urgency. // --- ### Cover Image: Nairy Baghramian, *Modèle vivant (S’empilant)*, 2026\. Installation at the Messeplatz during Art Basel in Basel 2026. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Learning from Kudzu URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-conversation-on-animacies/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:18:05.000Z Kudzu leaves can be cooked like spinach. Its stems can be woven into baskets and textiles. Its roots have long been used to produce starches and medicines. In Europe, kudzu is primarily known as an invasive species. In Austria, its cultivation and release into nature are prohibited by law. Kudzu reveals how knowledge is organized through particular systems of orientation. And as Mai Ling Collective suggests, *Orientalism* is not simply the invention of imaginary distinctions between East and West. It is also a way of orienting bodies. It is how certain directions come to appear natural, while others become unthinkable. "Animacies", the exhibition at Kunsthaus Merano curated by Lucrezia Cippitelli and Simone Frangi, explores precisely these questions of orientation. Bringing together artists from across Asia and its diasporas, the third chapter within the trilogy "The Invention of Europe" examines how colonial histories continue to shape relationships between humans and non-humans, memory and territory, identity and belonging. If colonial modernity sought to organize life through rigid binaries—human and nature, subject and object, West and non-West, man and woman—the artists gathered in "Animacies" propose other modes of relation. In the following conversation, Cippitelli and Frangi discuss the exhibition's conceptual framework and the ways the participating artists mobilize alternative epistemologies to imagine more plural ways of inhabiting the world. **María Inés Plaza Lazo: What shifts when a trilogy of exhibitions moves from a focus on Africa, then the Americas, to Asia?** **Simone Frangi:** Let us start by saying that we arrived here through an open call. Our collaboration began with the book *Coloniality and Visual Cultures in Italy*, which examined the persistence of colonial imaginaries in Italian visual culture. We worked with artists based in Italy—most of them with diasporic backgrounds—who were trying to unpack what is often described as a difficult heritage, but which is also a difficult present. Our proposal for this three-year program emerged from that experience. We quickly realized that it is reductive to think about colonial relationships in bilateral terms. Instead, our research revealed multiple transcolonial connections. Lucrezia comes from a trajectory shaped by work in Africa and Abya Yala, while I have worked extensively across the Mediterranean and what Édouard Glissant would call “our worlds.” When we came to Merano, we wanted to bring together these methodologies through what we call “tricontinental epistemologies”, drawing on experiences such as the Bandung \[Conference of 1955\], the Havana \[Conference of 1979\], and the Non-Aligned Movement. These were simultaneously cultural and political platforms, and they offered tools for understanding a territory that is anything but neutral. Merano carries a dense history and an equally complex present. It belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire and was later Italianized under Fascism. Today, linguistic affiliation remains embedded in the social organization of the region. We were also inspired by Alexander Langer, who opposed ethnonationalism and systems of ethnic affiliation. This territory, located at the crossroads of multiple histories, became a lens through which to think about Europe itself. **MIPL: *The Invention of Europe* formulates Europe as a historical construction. Yet that formulation risks becoming ornamental if it is detached from specific histories and material conditions. Merano does not hold the same tensions as Kyiv or Brussels, but it carries its own geopolitical positioning. How do you engage with the place itself, particularly a place that still celebrates aristocratic and class-based social structures?** **Lucrezia Cippitelli:** We engage with Italy as it is. Simone introduced me to Alexander Langer's idea of this region as a prism through which to understand Europe and contemporary power relations. What happened here has happened elsewhere, albeit in different forms. In the first year of the trilogy, Alessandra Ferrini drew parallels between the Italianization of German-speaking communities under Fascism and the treatment of colonized populations in Libya and Ethiopia. These connections are fundamental to how we understand the region, and we invited artists to engage with them. **MIPL: But when thinking about Europe through its relations, how do you avoid reproducing Europe as the central reference point?** **LC:** As an art historian, I was trained within a framework I did not initially question. My perspective shifted when I realized that entire experiences—including those connected to my own family's history in Argentina—were absent from the narratives I had studied. At a certain point, you stop questioning others and begin questioning yourself. Our dialogue with artists from Asia, Africa, or Abya Yala is not primarily about them; it is about understanding where we come from. I remember realizing that the art history I had studied contained virtually no artists who were not white, Western, and European. Once you notice that absence, everything changes. **SF:** One of the central questions of critical whiteness studies is whether examining whiteness risks re-centering it. Yet for us, it is important to understand how the gaze itself has been constructed: not only European identity, but also the ways Europe has imagined what lies outside itself through colonialism, scientific racism, and related processes. These mechanisms were also crucial to the formation of modern Italy. In many ways, the production of a unified and whitewashed national identity preceded and enabled Italian colonialism. *The Invention of Europe* deliberately echoes Valentin-Yves Mudimbe’s *The Invention of Africa*. Mudimbe showed how “Africa” emerged as a colonial construction shaped by disciplines such as geography, botany, and anthropology. We wanted to reverse that perspective and ask how Europe itself came into being as a cultural and geopolitical construct. This is why we examine multiple layers of construction, including material ones. The current exhibition focuses on transfers of matter and histories of circulation. The presence of certain organisms, plants, and materials reveals commercial routes and colonial histories that continue to shape the present. Across the trilogy, we have also explored how local histories illuminate larger structures. In a project with Belinda Kazeem-Kamiński, for example, we investigated how Christianity contributed to the stabilization of whiteness as a norm in this region. Her research uncovered histories of young girls who were purchased, deported, and converted, some of whom ended up in local Ursuline convents. What interests us is how seemingly marginal places can reveal global dynamics. We care about this territory, but also about its demographic transformations, including migration from the Balkans, South Asia, and North Africa. We do not want to romanticize the museum. We know it is a situated institution and, in many ways, a colonial device. The question is what kinds of histories become visible through it. **MIPL: Let’s stay with the terminology of animacy, coined by Mel Y. Chen. What interested you in this term as a curatorial framework?** **LC:** It allowed us to address a dimension of the program we had not yet explored. In the first year, working with artists from Africa and the African diaspora, we focused on whiteness and race. In the second year, *Earthly Communities* examined plantation economies, land, and the colonial transformation of landscapes and ecologies. With this exhibition, we entered the realm of what the West calls “nature”, engaging more directly with questions of gender and binarism. If one were to simplify the trajectory, we first addressed the construction of the Other through race, then the foundations of colonial economies, and now the ways in which colonial modernity has shaped how humans conceive of themselves and their relation to the world. Although gender is part of the conversation, reducing it to a gender question would itself be a Eurocentric gesture. **MIPL: You describe this as a political and epistemological question rather than simply a gendered one. How do the artists connect to this framework?** **SF:** We are wary of exhibitions that merely illustrate concepts. Animacy certainly comes from Mel Y. Chen, but also from thinkers such as Banu Subramaniam, whose work addresses the sexualization of nature, bodily autonomy, and coloniality. What interested us was that many forms of non-binary thinking predate Western colonial modernity, which imposed binary systems in the first place. We therefore wanted to engage with epistemologies that were never structured through those categories. Chathuri Nissansala, for example, works on forms of mothering that exceed the conventional figure of the mother, while Shivangi explores matriarchal lineages that challenge dominant understandings of kinship and inheritance. As a small institution, we mostly work with existing works rather than commissions. The exhibition emerges through a dialogue between the artists’ practices and the questions we bring to them. It is also important for us that the exhibition functions as a community rather than as a unified political statement. Benkhbaatar Enkhtur, for instance, is a Mongolian artist who grew up in Italy. In his work, the mother appears as the custodian of Mongolian spirituality. The pantheon she transmits is hybrid, layered, and constantly evolving. This is why we are not particularly interested in authenticity, which remains an ethnographic category. Last year, artists from Indigenous communities in Abya Yala reminded us: “We're on Instagram, we wear sneakers—we are not people frozen in the past.” **MIPL: Let’s stay with authenticity. Do you share this refusal personally and within the project?** **LC:** At a certain point, authenticity simply ceases to be a useful category. Both of us arrived here through different experiences that led us to question things we had once accepted as natural. For me, a decisive moment came when I read Samir Amin's *Eurocentrism*. He showed how an entire educational system could naturalize a particular worldview while presenting it as universal. What appeared natural—the nuclear family, whiteness, specific forms of cultural production—was in fact ideological. Once you begin to recognize those constructions, categories such as authenticity start to lose their authority. **MIPL: The artists seem to propose something different: not the universality claimed by modernity, but pluriversality—the coexistence of multiple worlds, forms of knowledge, and relationships between humans and non-humans. How does this challenge the narratives of the exhibition?** **SF:** Perhaps this explains our growing interest in different forms of animacy. The first exhibition we organized at Kunsthaus was called *The Insubric Line,* named after the geological fracture where the African and European tectonic plates meet. What fascinated us was that the African plate moved over the European one, creating the Alps. The more-than-human world constantly reminds us that narratives of European purity are fictions. Since then, we have become interested in more-than-human entities not only as witnesses to history but also as carriers of historical traces. This is why materials such as coffee have been central to the program. In one exhibition, Francis Offman presented coffee as a transcolonial map. There is no pure coffee; every blend contains the histories of colonial routes. In Italy, coffee is a symbol of national identity, yet what we consume every day are colonial geographies. The same could be said of karkadè, once known as “the Italians’ tea”. We approached other materials in similar ways. With Abdessamad El Montassir, we looked at the ecological consequences of European extraction projects in Western Sahara. With Belinda Kazeem-Kamiński's Aerolectics, we explored the politics of air and the historical association of Blackness with turbulence, storms, and disruption. Throughout the program, we have sought allies, witnesses, and collaborators among more-than-human entities—tracing how matter itself carries and reveals histories that colonial narratives attempted to erase. In the current exhibition, we were not interested only in how matter has been shaped by colonial histories, but also in how matter responds to them—how it retains agency and helps recover genealogies that colonial attitudes sought to erase. This is why the exhibition is filled with traces, but also with collaborations. Watching Chaitali’s process, for example, you can see her engagement with turmeric as both a negotiation and a collaboration. **MIPL: Speaking of traces and the role of plants—the ways roots connect us to a place—the work of Mai Ling Collective seems central to these questions. What role has the collective played in the exhibition?** **LC:** The composition of the collective itself is significant. As a group of Asian European women and queer subjects, they already challenge ideas of purity, singularity, and fixed identity. Their practice is grounded in being together, questioning collectively, and rethinking authorship itself. They produce artworks, but they also cook together, use food as a space of discussion, and reflect on their own lived experiences. What interests us is how they rethink Europe, language, and the role of the artist—not as a singular genius but as a relational figure. They also operate anonymously. Rather than foregrounding individual authorship, they present themselves as a collective platform that addresses shared concerns, particularly anti-Asian racism in Europe. That gesture recalls forms of collective and digital activism that emerged in the early 2000s, where anonymity became a way of acting politically while refusing conventional forms of visibility. **MIPL: Could you give some examples of how the artists challenge the separation between artistic production and collective knowledge?** **SF:** Many of the artists use their position not only to make artworks but also to sustain communities and social processes. Chathuri, for example, works between Sri Lanka and diasporic communities in Europe, creating connections across generations and building queer genealogies. Ashfika Rahman continues forms of community work initiated by her mother, collaborating with women affected by state violence, militarization, and social marginalization. She also runs an educational project on a boat. What interests us is that these practices do not separate artistic production from activism, care, education, or community work. They move continuously between those fields. At the same time, we remain cautious about how such processes are exhibited. This was already a question in our previous work with René Francisco: what does it mean to exhibit a process? Can a process ever be fully represented? **MIPL: Or fully transparent?** **SF:** Perhaps transparency is not even the point. When you encounter Chathuri's work, you may not immediately know the entire social process behind it. But through the work, you gain access to that process indirectly. The visible becomes an entry point to what remains less visible. **LC:** Shivanjani Lal said something very interesting while we were installing the exhibition. She told us: “I know my work doesn't look very white-cube.” The materials are fragile, the installation is intentionally unslick, and the photographs are printed on extremely thin rice paper. You cannot always see every detail perfectly. But that is precisely the point. She wanted the exhibition to resist a certain aesthetic of perfection. **MIPL: A cliché of purity that still needs dismantling.** **SF:** Exactly. And many of the materials are sourced in Fiji, reflecting a commitment to continue working with local artisans rather than adapting everything to an imagined standard of excellence. **LC:** Which is also why production takes time. **MIPL: My final question brings together many of the themes we have discussed. Oppositions such as self and other, inside and outside, European and non-European, autochthonous and diasporic appear throughout the exhibition only to dissolve. Does the exhibition propose another way of thinking about identity, or does it reveal the instability of identity itself?** **SF:** *Who needs identity?* To quote Stuart Hall and many others. Raising this question is particularly important here because this region remains deeply invested in ideas of identity and tradition. In many cases, those traditions have had to be actively invented and maintained. We have encountered criticism for not working exclusively with Italian or European artists. Such reactions reveal how persistent identity politics remain. Take Binta Diaw. Why is it difficult for some people to understand that she is both Italian and from a Senegalese family background? We are not trying to present ourselves as exemplary, but introducing this kind of productive confusion in this context still creates friction. **MIPL: Perhaps the point is not to hero-ize the artists either.** **LC:** Ultimately, the point is not to replace one identity with another, but to question the categories themselves. That does not mean ignoring their history. On the contrary, it means recognizing that these categories emerged from specific structures of power and from particular ways of organizing the world. Once those structures become visible, it becomes possible to imagine other foundations and other ways of relating to one another. // [*"Animacies" is on view throughout October 11, 2026 at Kunsthaus Merano*](https://www.kunstmeranoarte.org/en/exhibitions/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) --- ### Cover Image: Lucrezia Cippitelli & Simone Frangi. Photo by Lucas Batliner *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Love Knots URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/review-oslo-art-weekend/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:18:04.000Z Poets know love is not all roses. That it is as much about working towards a shared truth as it is about lofty emotions. Adrienne Rich describes love “as a process, delicate, violent, often terrifying.” James Baldwin writes, “love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.” These quotes came to mind inside Cecilia Vicuña’s new installation “Minga for the Sea” at the Kunstnernes Hus in Oslo, her first major presentation in the Nordic region. The Chilean artist, activist, and poet invited Indigenous groups from the Chilean and Norwegian fjords who are defending the ocean and fighting against destructive practices of extraction and pollution. This is because, in the words of Vicuña, “we all love the sea, and this love is at the heart of its defense.” A *minga*, it should be said, is an Andean tradition of communal, reciprocal labor—a coming together to do work no one can do alone—and the title is less of a poetic flourish than literal description. More specifically, Vicuña worked closely for this installation with the Red de Mujeres Originarias por la Defensa del Mar, an Indigenous group of women fighting to protect the Chilean coast, and Sámi activists who oppose the dumping of copper mining waste in the Riehpovuotna/Repparfjord, which is a vital ground for wild salmon. Bringing together two separate groups from such different cultures may feel random on the surface—or perhaps simply a marriage of biography and site specificity—yet the presence of these two groups reveal common struggles and hint at the global entanglements of capitalism: we are told that Norwegian farmed salmon are fed pellets partly composed of small fish caught off the Chilean coast and that Norwegian salmon companies have long operated in Chile. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Kunstnernes_Hus_Cecilia_Vicuna_2026_Istvan-Virag-Kunstdok_WebRes_1.jpg) Kunstnernes Hus, Cecilia Vicuna, 2026\. Istvan Virag, Kunstdok In this sense, “Minga for the Sea” unusually attunes to the wider spirit of the Oslo Art Weekend itself. Beyond its program of openings and events, the weekend depends on a dispersed ecology of curators, artists, organizers, and institutions whose work often resembles a labor of care more than a cultural industry—like a *minga*, which is sustained through countless acts of coordination, hospitality, and commitment that remain largely invisible. Love’s violence and tenderness are immediately present in “Minga for the Sea”, which prominently features two large *quipus*: an advanced pre-Columbian system of communication encoded knowledge, a basis for land rights, and forms of governance realized through knots tied along cords. Vicuña has been making her own *quipus* since the 1960s and, in the Kunstnernes Hus, she has used locally-sourced and untreated wool to create records of memory. Installing them horizontally, such that they appear like banks of fog rolling in over the ocean, each *quipu* features natural detritus from the sea, including organic matter including broken mollusks and driftwood, as well as traces of industrial waste such as netting and cables. The wool itself carries a faint lanolin smell into the galleries, and the daylight falling from the building’s skylit halls catches the fibers so that the works seem to breathe—an effect that makes walking alongside them feel less like viewing sculpture than passing through weather. Vicuña does not collapse cultural distinctions in the work. While the Norwegian *quipu* is more austere and feels very Scandi in its presentation, the Chilean *quipu* features hand-painted signs and a basket hanging over the clouds of material. The contrast is telling: one tradition of protest speaks in spare gestures, the other in painted slogans held aloft; Vicuña lets each keep its own voice. Each room also features poetry, scratched into the wall in pencil, that is something between a love letter, mythology, and a call to arms. Vicuña herself writes in one such text that she imagined “Minga for the Sea” “as a call to unite in a collective effort to liberate the ocean from brutal exploitation, to let it be itself.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Kunstnernes_Hus_Cecilia_Vicuna_2026_Istvan-Virag-Kunstdok_WebRes_15.jpg) Kunstnernes Hus, Cecilia Vicuna, 2026\. Istvan Virag, Kunstdok Whereas many shows tend to wear their politics on their sleeves as a way of signaling that they’re on the “right side of history”, Vicuña’s unity of art, activism, and poetry feels inherently more natural. This not only results from Vicuña being involved in all of these fields for several decades, but also because she gives space to the Chilean and Norwegian activists to articulate their own causes, for instance, through video screens showing social media clips. The exhibition succeeds in bringing together activism and poetry in a way that refuses any false distinction between them. One could object that the show is too beautiful—that turning fishing nets and industrial cable into banks of fog risks aestheticizing the very damage it protests. But this would miss what the *quipu* has always been. A *quipu* is not decoration but a technology of memory, law, and obligation. Vicuña simply reactivates this lineage. If love is, as Rich warned, a process that is delicate, violent, and terrifying, then “Minga for the Sea” is its record of labor—knot by knot, a communal work in defense of what we love. The dissonance with which the show opens never fully resolves. The sea is not yet free. The *minga* is not yet finished. Love is still a knot. // --- ### Cover Image: Kunstnernes Hus, Cecilia Vicuna, 2026\. Istvan Virag, Kunstdok *Shane Anderson is the author of "After the Oracle, Or: How The Golden State Warriors’ Four Core Values Can Change Your Life Like They Changed Mine" (Deep Vellum), "Études" (Broken Dimanche Press), and several chapbooks. His work has appeared in 032c, LARB, The Nation, Ugly Duckling Press, and other publications. He is the translator of "The Great Nowitzki" (Norton) by Thomas Pletzinger, as well as works by Elke Erb (Wallenstein Verlag), Ulf Stolterfoht (Triple Canopy), and many other important voices in German-language poetry. He is represented by Priscilla Posada at Regal | Hoffmann & Associates and lives with his family in Wuppertal.* ### Affordance Gap URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/affordance-gap/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:18:02.000Z Ever push a door open and then it jams? Then you push a bit harder and it still won’t budge? A voice behind you says “pull”. A sign on the handle reads pull, but you push and push until bitter self-awareness strikes. You’re dumbstruck, and you’re also an idiot, and an apparent illiterate who can’t even exit a building without incident. At last, you pull the door open in shame. Happens to the best of us. It happened to the cognitive scientist Donald Norman so often that he obsessively harps on bad door design in his book *The Design of Everyday Things*. An academic bashing shitty doors sounds petty, but the book does get interesting when he argues that no object should require instructions to operate. Norman believes objects tell us how to use them, and he names the ways they communicate that affordance. Most objects have a clear affordance; their design guides their function; we sense how to use them with our brains on autopilot. Our critical faculties only switch on when object interactions fail, frustrate, or limit our imaginations. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Foreground-Cacilia-Brown-Background-Bianca-Pedrina-Series-of-18-Photographs-2021-2025.jpeg) Foreground Cacilia Brown Background Bianca Pedrina Series of 18 Photographs, 2021-2025\. Credits: Simon Veres / MuseumsQuartier Vienna A lot of design concepts are referenced at “The Material Show”, a group exhibition curated by Andreas Fogarasi and Astrid Peterle at MuseumsQuartier Freiraum in Vienna, but affordance isn’t one of them. Still, the concept is spelled out in the exhibition’s introduction, stating the 12 artists were selected because “through their artistic and research practices, they draw attention to those essential components of our environment that we often take for granted without giving them much thought, \[...\] that only draw our attention when they malfunction.” Affordance is also a fair frame for understanding where the show succeeds and where it veers into the chasm between its ambitions and actual impact. For better or worse, you do need an instruction manual to figure out some of the pieces on show. Even then, the instructions aren’t super clear. The prime offender is Hannes Böck’s *Sammlung Bau- und Schmuckstein altes Rom.*, a 15 minute film loop of static shots of 47 stone surfaces that reflect an “interest in constructing meaning” according to exhibition text. The film I saw reflected no such interest. Not only is it shot in a soft focus that washes out concrete detail, the composition is so tight the surfaces could have been filmed anywhere from an Ikea outlet to Vienna’s Natural History Museum. Böck’s isn’t the only piece that radically decontextualizes everyday materials for aesthetic contemplation, but it is the most egregious mismatch between the curators’ socio-historical concerns and the post-Duchampian lexicon informing much of the exhibit. It really was filmed at the Natural History Museum’s archive of Roman construction materials. And the curators are right to observe that those materials were plundered through war and exploitation, but their claim that we “see power displayed on several levels” in the film strains credulity. We see out-of-focus surfaces. If anything, the film swaps meaning for ahistorical superficiality. A calculated disregard for the analysis of power is baked into its structure. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Hannes-Bock-Sammlung-Bar-und-Schmuckstein-altes-Rom-2022.jpeg) Hannes Bock Sammlung Bar-und Schmuckstein altes Rom, 2022\. Credits: Simon Veres / MuseumsQuartier Vienna Nonetheless, Böck’s film is hypnotic. And the exhibit’s homelier conceptual pieces succeed on their own terms. Lara Almarcegui’s *Construction Materials, City of São Paulo*, 2006 translates São Paulo into an educated guess about the weight of the raw materials used to construct it. It reads like the apocalypse as written by an accountant, a pointless exercise in categorizing and measuring piles of rubble without hinting their utility. For *sechs komma vier*, Christoph Weber mixed cement from a limestone block, cast it in molds to replicate the original limestone block, and repeated the process until he exhausted the limestone. It’s the sort of piece that only comes to life when you read about it, but the text isn’t tacked on. A tidy allegory about limited resources and mass production in the form of counterfeit limestone. Weber is the only artist who directly addresses labor in the show, a theme I assumed would pop up quite a bit given the theme. More curious is that humans are almost absent from “The Material Show”. Despite the curator's intention to spotlight “social terms,” humans appear in only two pieces. Neither depicts actual people. Nick Relph’s video *What’s Going On Here* collects low-fidelity scans of the architectural renderings posted on New York City construction sites. These posters are designed to inform the general public about the finished construction project, but they unintentionally depict a city designed to serve money and not people. Relph amplifies that impression with zooms into ultra-pixelated faces, inhuman distortions of CGI commuters, and glitching pedestrians that walk off ledges and into oncoming traffic. As a New Yorker, I think it’s an accurate portrait of the city before its recent moratorium on new construction, a montage that navigates the humor and horror of an environment designed with humanity as an afterthought. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Little-Warsaw-Marble-Street-2000.jpeg) Little Warsaw, Marble Street, 2000\. Credits: Simon Veres / MuseumsQuartier Vienna The largest piece in the show, however, also depicts a human figure. Little Warsaw’s *Marble Street* is a silicone recreation of a building’s façade, nondescript except a militaristic male nude perched on the doorway. The source building was constructed in 1920s Budapest as a club for soldiers. Little Warsaw transform its foreboding façade into drapery, stage curtains that reveal the pageantry inherent in power that power wishes to hide. The piece feels monumental, though monuments rarely limp, hang by a thread, or open into rips, holes, and gashes. Maybe *Marble Street* is a monument to the vulnerability of power, to the reality that behind authoritarian structures and stagecraft power is much weaker than it appears. A more expressive humanity shines in Daria Koltsova’s *The Kiosk*, an installation that elevates a common, cobbled-together kiosk with colorful stained glass. In place of merchandise, Koltsova’s *Postcards from Home* ornaments the kiosk with abstract glass landscapes. The effect is more transcendent than sentimental. Expressive playfulness is also present in Cäcilia Brown’s freestanding arrangements of reclaimed support beams, gravity-defying sculptures that the curators are right to compare with dance. Bianca Pedrina’s exploratory photographs capture the unusual contrasts she encounters in urban terrain. Her sense of spontaneity and discovery stands out in an exhibit dense with heavy matter. Curator Andreas Fogarasi contributes sculptures from his *Nine Buildings, Stripped* series that bundle detritus from demolished Viennese buildings with an element from the new constructions that replace them. In each arrangement new material is placed on top of the old, bound by a steel band, and displayed so that the past frames the present. Or so the bland utilitarian present blocks out the personality of the past. The pieces invite a wealth of perspectives. And their iterative compositional logic gives each variation a singular feel, achieving a rare balance of historical research, conceptual procedure, and poetic sensibility. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Andreas-Fogarasi-from-Nine-Buildings-Stripped.jpeg) Andreas Fogarasi from Nine Buildings Stripped. Credits: Simon Veres / MuseumsQuartier Vienna The curators contextualize Fogarasi’s portraits of demolished Vienna, and the exhibition as a whole in the light of upcoming renovations to the MuseumQuartier and various corruption scandals surrounding the city’s failed construction projects. I felt there was a missed opportunity to highlight the city’s recent eviction and demolition of St. Marx Skatepark, an autonomous, self-designed open-air DIY space. St. Marx Skatepark modeled a future where communities reclaim materials from an environment that doesn’t suit them to construct a world they want to live in. Though the show hints that the use and ownership of raw material is monopolized by power, the articulation is never specific enough to ground that relationship in a tactile sociopolitical reality. The curators direct our attention to the playful malleability of material with the unspoken caveat that only experts get to play, and even then only where permitted. The exhibition’s curatorial ambitions are frustrating. “The Material Show” presents some excellent work, but it also presents itself as so far-ranging and consequential in scope that there is no way it could succeed on its own terms. A more pragmatic approach aligned with the actual qualities of the pieces may have made the exhibition less eloquent and also less mystifying. But maybe it’s impossible to set people’s labors, desires, and histories aside and address material in the abstract without creating ever-spiraling mystifications. Maybe the next time I push a door I’m meant to pull, I’ll smash its glass and install prettier glass. Or I’ll smash the door to dust and make many new doors. Maybe I’ll tie a new door on top of the old one and take photos so close that it stops looking like a door. Or I’ll cast the door in silicone and hang it from the ceiling. If I hang a door on a gallery wall and no one can open or close it, does it matter if the design sucks? Did I solve its dysfunction? Is that the best solution? // --- ### Cover Image: Daria Koltsova, The Kiosk, 2026, and Postcards from Home, 2025\. Credits: Simon Veres / MuseumsQuartier Vienna *Miles Pflanz is a writer, filmmaker, and musician from NYC residing in Vienna.* ### Bruciore individuale, fuoco collettivo URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bruciore-individuale-fuoco-collettivo/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:18:00.000Z *Convulsioni, crampi violentissimi, dolori addominali e muscolari, stanchezza estrema, mal di stomaco e mal di testa, ansia, depressione e stati dissociativi*: incapacità di lavorare. *Esaurimento emotivo ed energetico, isolamento sociale, apatia, stanchezza cronica, disturbi del sonno, tensione muscolare, problemi gastrointestinali e cefalee frequenti:* efficienza professionale compromessa. I primi sono i sintomi che per secoli si sono manifestati nei corpi delle persone tarantate nell’Italia centro-meridionale; i successivi compongono la sintomatologia che contraddistingue il *burnout*: manifestazioni affini di due fenomeni singolari e autonomi eppure analoghi. Se spettasse a me farne la diagnosi differenziale, le definirei entrambe a pieno titolo malattie occupazionali, che dall’antichità sino al contemporaneo rivelano all’apice del loro tracollo il bruciore interiore di chi lavora a ritmi insistenti e incerti. È stato ampiamente comprovato il legame tra il lavoro, nello specifico quello agrario, e i tarantismi: la sindrome mordeva sistematicamente chi lavorava nei campi. L’antropologo Ernesto de Martino rintraccia un’ulteriore prova, ossia che i sintomi comparivano ciclicamente, non a caso, durante il faticoso epilogo dell’anno agricolo. Era in quel periodo che le forze produttive “misuravano se stesse nella vicenda del raccolto”;\[1\] nella stagione estiva si tiravano le somme e si saldavano i debiti. Le inquietudini psicofisiche di tale passaggio scatenavano in chi lavorava la terra un turbamento che pareva potersi placare solo attraverso un apparente ulteriore spreco di energie: una frenetica danza rituale. Eppure proprio cortocircuitando la logica produttiva del consumo energetico, si riusciva in un ballo prolungato ed estenuante a guarire dall’esaurimento. Si bruciava, deliberatamente, insieme, per smettere di bruciare in solitudine. Mi domando se la mia bisnonna Irma, contadina nel centro Italia del primo Novecento, sia mai stata presa dalle ritmiche convulsioni irrefrenabili che fino a quegli anni turbavano le lavoratrici agricole. Dubito che il mio bisnonno sardo, di più alta estrazione, sia mai stato ammorbato dal pizzico simbolico dell’argia (il ragno del tarantismo isolano) e dal suo conseguente rilascio in forma coreutica. Di per certo so che a me, diversi decenni più tardi, centinaia di chilometri più a settentrione e in un contesto lavorativo ben differente e peculiare – l’ambito culturale – è capitato di sentirmi arsa. È un’esperienza estraniante ma tutt’altro che isolata. Difatti il *burnout* è forse la sindrome che per eccellenza contraddistingue la condizione lavorativa contemporanea. Come il morso dei ragni che tarantavano, colpisce maggiormente discriminando per classe. Il lavoro culturale ne è un caso esemplare non perché sia il più colpito in assoluto, ma perché ne rende leggibili le logiche in modo paradigmatico. Lo racconto non solo in quanto sistema che conosco più intimamente, ma perché qui il meccanismo di cattura del desiderio, della dissoluzione dei confini e dell’estrazione, giustificata dall’identificazione affettiva con l’attività svolta, è particolarmente subdolo e potente. Inoltre, in quanto sistema strutturalmente instabile e connotato da ritmi produttivi altalenanti, così come il lavoro agricolo, questa forma di occupazione consuma maggiormente le fasce già fragilizzate in quanto precarie. Mi chiedo però se il lavoro artistico, specchiandosi in sé stesso, sia capace di trovare rimedio alle problematiche che tanto abilmente esaspera. Nell’interrogarmi su come lə lavoratorə della cultura e dell’arte possano riflettere su queste dinamiche, torno a ponderare il precedente antropologico. Per quanto anche lə tarantatə sopportassero il peso dello stigma per la loro condizione di esaurimento fisico e nervoso, esisteva per loro una codificata prescrizione rituale condivisa che forniva alle singole soggettività le coordinate per trovare sollievo nella collettività. Come attuare e attualizzare questa pratica nel sistema lavorativo culturale contemporaneo? Un importante scarto da colmare è costituito dall’atomizzazione, frutto della competizione prestazionale istigata dalle logiche di mercato su cui si fonda e che pervade il sistema dell’arte, rendendo la ricerca di pratiche trasformative tanto complessa quanto necessaria. Non so ancora come, ma auspico che con questa consapevolezza riusciremo a trovare, insieme, strategie alternative per gettare nuovi semi e fecondare la terra inaridita del campo, tutt’altro che innocente, dell’arte. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Ernesto De Martino, La terra del rimorso. Contributo a una storia religiosa del Sud, Il Saggiatore, Milano 1961, p. 159. Cover Image: Costantino Nivola, La danza dell'Argia, 1972\. Foto di Pietro Paolo Pinna per Ilisso Edizioni (all'interno della pubblicazione La Sintesi delle Arti). Cortesía del Museo Nivola. *(lei) è una curatrice, ricercatrice e operatrice culturale con sede a Venezia. La sua ricerca verte sul sistema e sulle forme del lavoro culturale, con una sensibilità curatoriale che si concentra su time-based media e pratiche artistiche che convocano il corpo come archivio incarnato di genealogie, tradizioni, saperi, traumi collettivi e lotte politiche, in particolare quelle femministe intersezionali.* ### Ombre e Presenze URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-conversation-with-mariuccia-secol/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:56.000Z *Da decenni la sua pratica esplora il lavoro femminile, la cura e le forme di resistenza al patriarcato. In questa conversazione con María Inés Plaza Lazo, Mariuccia Secol ripercorre i primi gruppi di autocoscienza degli anni Settanta, le performance del Gruppo Immagine di Varese e il ruolo del rifiuto, delle silhouette e degli oggetti quotidiani. Nel suo lavoro, Secolintreccia politica, etica della cura e materialità. La sua prima retrospettiva, a lungo attesa, curata da Monika Branicka ed Eva Brioschi, aprirà l'11 giugno al Muzeum Susch.* **La tua pratica ha affrontato per decenni l’estrazione strutturale del lavoro femminile e l’invisibilità del lavoro di cura. Quando hai iniziato a riconoscere queste dinamiche e in che modo hanno influenzato il tuo approccio alla pratica artistica?** All’inizio degli anni Settanta le giovani donne del movimento studentesco si riunivano in piccoli gruppi di autocoscienza. A Varese ho iniziato a frequentarne uno, formato da una decina di studentesse universitarie. Ognuna raccontava da dove proveniva il proprio malessere e, discutendone insieme, scoprivamo molte similitudini: non avere un reddito, dover chiedere i soldi al partner, non avere autonomia, non poter uscire liberamente o prendere iniziative. Con le studentesse di medicina si praticavano anche autovisite con strumenti in plastica, diversi da quelli invasivi degli studi medici, mettendo in discussione alcune risposte della medicina. Si parlava anche delle decisioni sui figli e della gestione della casa. Con Milli Gandini e altre artiste abbiamo poi fondato il Gruppo Femminista Immagine di Varese. Siamo entrate in contatto con il gruppo di Padova per il “salario al lavoro domestico” creato da Mariarosa Dalla Costa nel 1972 e abbiamo contribuito al loro giornale Le operaie della casa con favole, fotografie di performance e un grande manifesto su tela con la frase: “Anche l’amore è lavoro domestico”. Nel gennaio 1978 abbiamo organizzato a Milano il convegno nazionale "Donna Arte Società", con settecento partecipanti. Come gruppo abbiamo scritto il documento Vogliamo-Vo(G)liamo, in cui spiegavamo che la nostra era una ribellione a un sistema che, appropriandosi della nostra creatività, l’aveva resa consenziente. Il mio lavoro artistico ha allora iniziato a riguardare gli oggetti della cura e del lavoro domestico: i grembiuli, i piatti fratturati e rammendati, la paglietta per pulire le pentole, la borsa del pane. Anche i vestiti personali, compreso quello da sposa, entrano nelle opere della serie *Casa di bambola*. I vestiti vengono poi fatti a pezzi e ricuciti come arazzo, per cambiare pelle e distruggere il passato, diventando uno stendardo di protesta. Vengono poi le Silhouettes: figure femminili in tessuto ottenute togliendo alcuni fili della trama. Queste “smagliature” rappresentano il dolore della maternità e quello che la donna patisce nella sua vita. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-06-08-at-11.04.50.png) Milli Gandini and Mariuccia Secol at the exhibition Mom Has Gone Out (La mamma è uscita) at the Galleria Cavedra, Varese, March 1-23th., 1980\. In the back the work by Secol *La mamma è uscita*. Courtesy of the artist’s family (private archive). Photo: photographer unknown.Photographic reproduction: Magdalena Typiak **Le silhouette compaiono spesso nel tuo lavoro. In che modo sono state utilizzate per esplorare autonomia e interdipendenza nel tempo?** Le Siluettes rappresentano la donna che subisce e deve liberarsi dal patriarcato. Raccontano diversi dolori femminili, dal parto all’aborto, per il quale si è lottato per ottenere il diritto di farlo. Ma l’aborto non è una felicità: rimane un dolore nella vita della donna. Nel lavoro *Per un bambino non nato* (1977), esposto alla Galleria della Maddalena di Roma creata da Dacia Maraini, sulla silhouette rossa della madre un abitino da neonato rappresenta la tomba sul suo cuore. **Il “rifiuto” è centrale nel tuo lavoro — dal rifiuto del lavoro domestico alla resistenza alle aspettative istituzionali. Potresti condividere un momento in cui il rifiuto è diventato per te un gesto artistico o politico deliberato?** A partire dalle opere della serie Casa di bambola del 1973\. Con queste donne-bambole esprimevo il bisogno di cambiamento rispetto all’inutilità della figura femminile nella famiglia. Gli abiti rappresentano la “creatività del rifiuto”, partendo dal messaggio di Nora nella commedia di Ibsen, che per me significava anche cambiare la mia vita personale. Successivamente altri abiti vengono tagliati e rimessi insieme per formare un nuovo corpo, non più una bambola. È il caso di *Spogliazione* (1974), un arazzo usato dal Gruppo Immagine in una performance ad Arcumeggia, il “paese dipinto”, dove negli anni Cinquanta erano stati realizzati affreschi da pittori tutti maschi. Portammo l’arazzo sotto quei muri affrescati, affermando una presenza diversa. Con le mani rotanti li prendevamo in giro da dietro l’arazzo. C’era anche il grande mantello Io, che avvolgeva le componenti del gruppo alla ricerca di una protezione. **Molte delle tue opere trasformano oggetti quotidiani in dichiarazioni etiche e politiche. Come vedi la relazione tra materialità, cura e visibilità del lavoro nella tua pratica?** Oggetti come il grembiule o la paglietta per pulire le pentole appartengono alla vita quotidiana. Sono oggetti personali ma anche comuni, simboli molto forti che molte donne percepiscono come strumenti di sfruttamento e dominio. I vestiti fatti a pezzi rappresentano materialmente la frantumazione dell’identità femminile nel patriarcato. **Installazioni come Acqua Maternale (1978) affrontano temi di cura, vulnerabilità e interdipendenza. In che modo le forme materiali possono comunicare questi messaggi?** Sono oggetti simbolici molto conosciuti. Attraverso il simbolo si crea il rapporto tra natura ed espressione artistica. Alla Biennale di Venezia la vasca con il liquido maternale era al centro dell’installazione e sopra erano appesi i lavori delle componenti del Gruppo Immagine, che si rispecchiavano nell’acqua. All’esterno c’erano pannelli ricoperti di cartoline con immagini della natura — boschi, deserti, fiori, bacche, luna — quasi a protezione della vasca. Il lavoro era collettivo, ma ogni artista manteneva la propria poetica. Anche questo era il tema della Biennale del 1978: Dalla natura all’arte, dall’arte alla natura. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-06-08-at-11.07.21.png) Barriers (Le barierre), Exhibition at the Porta Ticinese Gallery in Milan as part of the Event Mezzo Cielo (Half of the sky), April 21th – June 12th, 1978\. Left: work by Mariuccia Secol Le barierre (Barriers), unravelling and yarn 180 x 180 x 180 cm; right: Milli Gandini, cross stich. © Mariuccia Secol and Manuela Gandini. Courtesy artist’s private archive. Photo: photographer unknown. Photographic reproduction: Magdalena Typiak **L’ostetricia è stata evocata in *Acqua Maternale* come metafora del tuo approccio al lavoro e alla creazione. In che modo questo principio continua oggi?** Oggi questo principio è più ampio. Allora riguardava soprattutto una dimensione personale; oggi riguarda l’umanità in generale. Se nel 1978 c’era il dolore personale della smagliatura, oggi penso anche alla guerra, ai migranti, a un problema sociale più grande. **In che modo rifiuto, cura e consapevolezza ecologica si intrecciano nella tua pratica?** Oggi c’è un cambiamento. Dopo la distruzione del passato rimane il personale — come il femminicidio o il rispetto dell’individuo — ma emerge anche il rispetto per la natura e per gli animali, un benessere più ampio per tutti. Questo significa rifiutare lo sfruttamento delle persone e anche tecnologie dannose, come le bombe al fosforo. Da queste riflessioni nascono nuove opere, ad esempio quelle realizzate elaborando pagine di quotidiani. **Riflettendo sulla tua prima retrospettiva, cosa speri che il pubblico porti con sé?** La coscienza che un cambiamento, anche se parziale, è avvenuto. Il salario femminile è ancora inferiore a quello maschile e la lotta continua. Alcune conquiste ci sono state grazie alla bravura delle donne. Si spera che anche gli uomini si liberino dalla schiavitù del patriarcato. *Mariuccia Secol:* Unraveling*, a cura di Monika Branicka e Eva Brioschi, inaugura l’11 giugno, 2026 al Muzeum Susch.* *//* --- ### Cover Image Mariuccia Secol, 1980’s. Courtesy of the artist’s family (private archive). Photo: photographer unknown. Photographic reproduction: Magdalena Typiak *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Crude Efforts URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/rudolf-laban-crude-efforts/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:57.000Z “Peaceful intercourse, well-being and economic prosperity,” wrote the Austro-Hungarian choreographer Rudolf Laban in 1947, “depend upon the right assessment of our own and our neighbors’ efforts.”\[1\] Laban pioneered modern and expressionist dance in the 1920s with his movement analysis and notation systems. In the 1930s, he held prominent positions in theater and dance institutions in Nazi Germany, including as director of the Deutsche Tanzbühne (1934-1936), the newly established German Dance Theater, an appointment made by the Propaganda Ministry. Prevailing narratives of Laban’s life and work significantly downplay his commitment to National Socialism by appealing to his eventual exile. Lilian Karina and Marion Kant provide a corrective in Hitler's Dancers. Their archival work demonstrates Laban's willingness to strategically align with state policy to continue his work and emerge as the dominant figure in modern German dance.\[2\] His choreographic vision, meanwhile, contained anti-Enlightenment elements compatible with Nazi aesthetic ideology but also a liberal kernel that would eventually bring him into conflict with the regime. \[3\] ​​The expression of this liberal individualism in the proposed choreography for the 1936 Olympic ceremony—rather than any substantial political position on Laban’s part—led to Laban falling out of favor and, ultimately, to exile in England. There, in the context of postwar reconstruction, he partnered with the industrialist Fredrick Lawrence to bring his dance-based knowledge of body movement to bear on “the economy of human effort” in British factory work. Their theoretical findings are collected in the short coauthored book *Effort* (1947). Animated by the effort graphs of Labanotation, accounts of overwork (temporarily color-blinded cherry pickers), and descriptions of reluctant workers “bathing, swimming or even submerging in a sea of time”,\[4\] *Effort* ultimately set out to contribute to postwar prosperity by maximizing the efficiency of movement on the factory floor. While the book’s emphasis on economy of effort attests to the thermodynamic basis of Taylorist work-science, it also speaks to a less-established connection between modern dance and thermodynamics. By extension, it gestures towards a broader relation between energy and kinaesthetics, or in other words, it raises the question of the extent to which dominant ways of moving and thinking about movement are fueled by hegemonic energy regimes.\[5\] Exploring that question can go some way to explaining how a kinaesthetic philosophy such as Laban’s, geared as it is towards bodily disalienation and societal regeneration, can nevertheless find itself instrumentalized towards productivity flows and workplace discipline. From a conjuncture increasingly defined by energic flows, chokepoints, and supposed “energy transitions”, reading *Effort* today also prompts the question of the continuity of its kinaesthetic, both in terms of how work makes us move today but also questions about the resources of dance to intervene in it. **The work of energy, the dance of work** Laban’s notation system in *Effort* figures movement as a series of time-space patterns, or “effort-rhythms”. They consist of sets of main actions (i.e., slashing, gliding, pressing, flicking, wringing, dabbing, punching, floating), each of which is executed according to a set of motion factors (motion, weight, space, time, and flow). In practice, “one movement melts indiscernibly into the next”,\[6\] so the first step of effort-analysis is to pull these effort-rhythms apart. By making legible the aspects of what otherwise appears as one flowing movement, workers’ efforts can be adjusted to avoid energy waste caused by issues such as strain and lopsidedness. The rechoreographed pattern can then return to muscle memory as an optimized flow, what Laban calls a “real automatism”.\[7\] These time-space patterns are performed by a “human body engine”.\[8\] Efforts consequently produce “waste material” in muscle and nerve tissue that must be replaced by rest and “new fuel”.\[9\] The language is consistent with what the historian Anson Rabinbach identifies as a metaphor of the human motor emerging from the thermodynamic break of the 1850s, which reconceives work as a metabolization of energy; and energy, recursively, as the capacity for work. It’s a break that also leaves its mark on modern dance, argues Felicia McCarren in *Dancing Machines*, and not just as an overt parody of mechanistic movement but in the representation of a *perpetuum mobile*: a figure of inexhaustible energy.\[10\] Isadora Duncan serves as McCarren’s main reference, but the description of a graceful flow in its connection to natural (and cosmic) flows befits the movement philosophy that Laban would later bring into the factory. As *Effort* progresses, its effort-analysis is scaled to include not just human motors but machines, assembly lines, and global supply chains. What emerges is a vision of a world in flow, precisely the kind of dynamic vision of the cosmos formalized by thermodynamic science.\[11\] But the rhythms of this world are out of sync, according to Laban, and harmonizing them begins at the level of individual effort. By unlocking the rhythmicity of work, he contends, work will become not just more enjoyable and less injurious but *regenerative*. By gifting workers the tools of transformative movement, they can improve their character and contribute to a postwar society in touch with the “rhythmic vitality” it had otherwise lost to modernity’s machines.\[12\] As such, and, again, like Duncan's, Laban’s intervention presents itself as a protest against the alienating effects of work that nevertheless grounds itself in the thoroughly modern coupling of work and energy fueling industrial modernity. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/photo-by_-Jonas-Zeidler.jpg) Viktor Szeri's *Fatigue* (2023). Photo by Jonas Zeidler Despite talk of transformation and regeneration, Laban’s industrial choreography inevitably augments Taylorism and its micro-management of working bodies. It becomes particularly clear in a chapter on selecting and hiring workers that encourages covert effort-assessments: Many of the movements seen in conversation, in leisure time, play and games, or even in relative relaxation and rest, reveal much as to the general effort make-up of a man \[…\] Any small twitch of the face or hand might show some habitual efforts which if recognised and recorded, might help to complete the assessment of the aspirants’ effort make-up. \[13\] Like Taylorist piecework, the “human motor” is dissected and scrutinized according to its parts. With no regard for what the assembly-line logic of factory work might actually be doing to the body, *Effort* focuses entirely on what workers bring to the job. Lopsided development is the result of imbalanced individual effort, the overworking of favored capacities, or the wrong people being selected for the task at hand. At a surface level, and through its idiosyncrasies, there’s a clear desire in *Effort* to make work and life more embodied that is hard to argue with. In places, Laban even seems attuned to bodies in their range of differences. Elsewhere, however, the emphasis on diverse effort-capacities gives way to a hiring preference for “those who show a certain all-roundedness of effort-capacities from the very beginning”.\[14\] A closer look at *Effort* would, therefore, suggest that Laban’s effort-work contributes a kinaesthetic dimension to what Marx called the “general intellect”. It shifts the baseline of expected competencies by initiating fresh demands on workers for heightened proprioceptive awareness. As with the otherwise well-intentioned desire to make work less injurious by optimizing flow, the result of a dance-infused work-science is a productivity drive that asserts downward pressure on wages. **Burnout** At some point midway through *Effort*, Laban describes the movements of a stoker as he makes his repeated return from the furnace to the coal heap. What of this stoker today, I find myself asking. Is he still returning to his heap with “skimming glide” and “shoving punch”?\[15\] More to the point, what is the status of Laban’s kinaesthetic of productive flow in a world transfigured by a postindustrial petroculture? How does work make us move today? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/photo-by_-Claudiu-Popescu.jpg) Viktor Szeri's *Fatigue* (2023). Photo by Claudiu Popescu Someone attuned to this contemporaneity is the dancer and choreographer Viktor Szeri. In *Fatigue* (2023), which was awarded the Rudolf Laban Prize for best contemporary dance performance of 2023, Szeri takes Laban’s movement philosophy and inverts it by figuring burnout as a stuckness in flow. The result is something like the postindustrial version of Charlie Chaplin’s factory scene from *Modern Times* (1936). In Szeri’s version, it’s still a case of moving like a machine, but screws and spanners give way to an algorithmic smoothness that dissolves any residual divisions between work and leisure, play and labor. Over the course of 40 minutes, Szeri uncoils his limbs to a soundtrack of reggaeton and dancehall playing at half-speed and pitched down to a haunting, just legible warble. The time-stretching is mirrored in the movement in a mimesis of slow-motion cinema, both for its speed and the scrutiny it affords. By slowing down, Szeri explores the inebriated state of being exhausted and yet hyperaware, observing oneself moving and experiencing movement. Against the trope of being disconnected from one’s body (as in Laban’s theory of alienation), he gives us burnout as a condition of being trapped in the body, at the mercy of rhythms and nervous states that are being modulated beyond the self. Szeri walks on stage to a loop of the opening melody of Rihanna and Drake’s duet “Work”. His moves at first are slight: a gentle sway of the torso that subsequently activates the pelvis and shoulders, hips and knees, movements that unfurl and ripple outward from his core. Pelvic dips fall with an uncanny delay. There is no pulsation, no punch or pop, but also no ease. Each move melts into the next, and yet the sequence is haunted by a sense of struggle, of pushing through, as if moving through thick air. Szeri’s face is expressionless, but his eyes search nervously, alert to gazes coming his way (as threats, or potential hooks to escape this state). At a midway point in the work, Szeri doubles over, hands on his knees as if gasping for air, a sign of exhaustion kicking in. But the gesture is just as quickly recuperated. Szeri finds movement from within the pose, and the flow of the sequence continues. The crescendo of the performance is marked by strobes as a version of Kevin Lyttle’s “Turn Me On” rings out, stretched and pitched low, more groaning pain than horny anthem. As the song plays, Szeri crouches down on one knee, palm on his thigh as his gaze meets the audience. It’s a muted gesture, but it punctures what is otherwise a spectacle of continuous motion. It teases an end, but again Szeri winds back up, shoulder by shoulder, slotting back into the sequence on beat. Here, the stage becomes an inferno as Szeri is bathed in orange light. The burnout is at its most literal as the backdrop becomes a video projection of flames that creep towards Szeri, ultimately engulfing him. From this point, the club music breaks down, with a loop of the opening melody of Justin Bieber’s “Sorry” creating a clearing. There is air again as Szeri’s movements wind down to a gentle and slowed sway. Sweat glistens from his forehead as a set of images projects behind him, flickering at a pace that makes them indiscernible, stretching time in the opposite direction of the choreography. Life flashing before one’s eyes? Possibly, but it also bears resemblance to the experience of having one’s senses haunted by the residue of a day: the image shrapnel of overstimulation, a day overmediated by digital screens and the hypersyncopation of work rhythms. *Fatigue* might seem far removed from the world of *Effort*. It doesn’t aestheticize any particular type of work per se, and the club rather than the factory floor provides its mise-en-scène. The centrality of audiovisual media to its spectacle would likewise be foreign to Laban’s modernist priorities. But these shifts are precisely the point. It’s significant that Szeri privileges the club as a site where work and leisure fuse given the indebtedness of dance music culture to erstwhile (often auto) factories. It’s a story embedded within a larger one, where shoring up postindustrial growth precipitates a turn towards an energy-intensive service economy and digital culture, both of which do their best to keep oil and labor out of sight and mind.\[16\] In spite of it all, Szeri situates us in our late petroculture and suggests that Laban’s kinaesthetic of productive flow is still very much with us. Far from having disappeared or faded away, *Fatigue* points to its wholesale integration as a choreography of everyday life. Crucially, the object provides the medium. While some critical contemporary dance may deploy stuttering, fragmentation, or stillness, Szeri performs his choreographic critique by following modern dance’s commitment to inexhaustible flowing movement.\[17\] This commitment, as found in Laban in another form, rests on a belief in the transformative capacity of movement. In *Effort* specifically, it manifests as the conviction that regeneration will follow from a (self-)knowledge of effort: a reconnection with one’s rhythmic vitality. Fatigue inverts this. Instead of freedom through movement, we get the claustrophobia of burnout, of being stuck in rhythms of self-optimization without knowing how to get out. This makes legible the limits of dance’s commitment to flow: a modernist strategy of disalienation that has been fully integrated as the kinaesthetic of productivism. The inversion is critical. By doing so, Szeri suspends flow as the privileged sign of healthy, graceful, productive movement, and it’s from such suspensions that we can start to move differently, setting in motion flows untethered from the circuitry of accumulation. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Rudolf Laban and F.C. Lawrence, Effort (Macdonald and Evans, 1947), xi. \[2\] Lilian Karina and Marion Kant, Hitler’s Dancers: German Modern Dance and the Third Reich (Berghahn Books, 2004), 16-20. \[3\] For an illuminating exploration of how Laban’s politics translate to his choreographic vision see Ana Isabel Keilson, “The Embodied Conservatism of Rudolf Laban, 1919–1926”, Dance Research Journal 51, no. 2 (2019). While containing clear anti-Enlightenment elements, Keilson understands Laban’s dance philosophy as essentially grounded in political liberalism, pitched as it is towards the attainment of individual freedom through movement. \[4\] Laban and Lawrence, 55. \[5\] Laban’s movement philosophy is emblematic of what Hillel Schwartz identifies as “torque”, a new kinaesthetic of healthy, graceful movement emerging in the 1850s and subsequently codified by various practices and institutions, modern dance and work-science key among them. Though he gestures towards industrialization, Schwartz maintains a reserved sense of causality throughout his essay, and thermodynamic science is conspicuously absent despite the overt association of torque with combustion. See Hillel Schwartz, “Torque: The New Kinaesthetic of the Twentieth Century” from Incorporations, Jonathan Crary and Sanford Kwinter (eds.) (Zone, 1992), 70-127. \[6\] Laban and Lawrence, 45. \[7\] Laban and Lawrence, 66. \[8\] Laban and Lawrence, 3. \[9\] Laban and Lawrence, 5. \[10\] Felicia McCarren, Dancing Machines: choreographies of the age of mechanical reproduction (Stanford UP, 2003), 67. \[11\] Cara Daggett, The Birth of Energy (Duke UP, 2019), 18-20\. In Daggett’s account, the modern concept of energy produced by thermodynamics incorporates an earlier cosmology of energy that places motion at the center of the cosmos. Thermodynamic science is thus a materialism that also inscribes a moralism privileging “dynamism over stasis” (18). \[12\] Industrial conflict will even be solved, says Laban, if only workers and managers can finally learn to read each other’s efforts properly. \[13\] Laban and Lawrence, 41. \[14\] ibid. \[15\] Laban and Lawrence, 52. \[16\] Jeff Diamanti, Climate and Capital in the Age of Petroleum (Bloomsbury, 2021), 66; 78. \[17\] I borrow these terms from André Lepecki in Exhausting Dance: Performance and the politics of movement (Routledge, 2006). Cover Image: Viktor Szeri's*Fatigue*(2023).Photo by Sinah Osner Másolata *Seb Bowcott is a writer and Lecturer of Literary and Cultural Analysis (LCA) at the University of Amsterdam.* ### Greener Pastures URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/interview-with-samuel-leuenberger-biennale-gherdeina/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:59.000Z *On a steep hill above Ortisei in the Dolomites, three hundred snow stakes stand in parallel lines, dotting the high green grass with their black-and-yellow bands. Traditionally used to measure winter snow accumulation, each line here marks a retreating threshold—the last year when snow reached that altitude. This minimal yet stark intervention, ‘Degrees of Elevation’ (2026) is the work of the artistic duo Bas Smets + Eliane Le Roux, who are among the 28 artists selected by the Swiss curator Samuel Leuenberger for this year's tenth-anniversary edition of Biennale Gherdëina, titled “(Future) Paradise Garden”. Not all works are so dramatically installed in nature, though many inhabit public spaces and can be found in the streets of Ortisei, in empty shops, a working restaurant, an old tunnel, a private field, or even inside the local museum. It is in one of these distinctive venues, Hotel Ladinia—whose ground floor and bar were reopened for the occasion—that I sat with Leuenberger to hear how he conceived the project, beginning with the garden, and what drew him to it as a curatorial concept.* SL: I started gardening six years ago when I moved to the countryside, and I only really understood the garden as an emotional and philosophical space once I did the physical work—what it can give you in terms of energy, if you listen to it and work with the existing ecosystem. When I started thinking about the Biennale, I had both things in mind: the physical reality of being surrounded by a garden's ecosystem, and the metaphorical one. I quickly realised it was a very beautiful place to talk about current issues. The garden, as we hear from a lot of artists, is also contested—it's not just paradisiac. Some people want to decolonise it; some think it's only for the rich. Every artist has a different opinion of what it means. Still, the garden-setting takes the edge away when you speak about certain things. It was interesting to think of a paradise garden, a future garden—a place where we can actually speak to each other peacefully. It's similar to dog owners: when you walk your dog in the forest and meet someone else with a dog, you immediately speak to each other, knowing nothing about where the other is from or what their title is. Once you have a mutual interest, you can suddenly speak about social or political situations. The garden became very freeing as a metaphor—an invitation to speak about things we worry about. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1_HQ-BiennaleGherdeina10-2026TiberioSorvilloB0050409.jpg) Bas Sets + Eliane Le Roux, Degrees of Elevation, 2026\. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 10\. With the support of Nuovi Mecenati - Fondazione franco-italiana di sostegno allacreazione contemporanea. Credits: Tiberio Sorvillo **We went on to talk about Gabriela Oberkofler, a South Tyrolean artist and one of the few selected by the curator through an open call, whose installation *The Last Field* (2026) occupies a vacant shop near Ortisei’s pedestrian area. The title refers to a decision made in the 1970s to abandon agriculture and embrace tourism—a loss the work makes tangible: plants salvaged from former farmland are cultivated in glass containers on a table under infrared light, while intricate ink drawings on paper of vegetal forms spread across the walls.** SL: The tourism brochures still speak about the 'last field' and I thought it was beautiful that Oberkofler picked up on that, especially since she is from the region. Tourism isn't something we address directly in this Biennale, but it has been a local decision. In the past, families carved figures to make money during the winter, and then suddenly realised that more and more people were coming and needed infrastructure, hospitality, everything that followed. This work is a reminder that we have to be careful not to go too far—that everything we do here has an impact on the climate. Oberkofler asks questions that mirror what's happening today. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5_HQ-BiennaleGherdeina10-2026TiberioSorvilloB0050644.jpg) Gabriela Oberkofler, DER LETZTE ACKER -THE LAST FIELD, 2026\. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 10\. Thanks to the Moroder Family, Hotel Maria, Decor, Keim Colors. Credits: Tiberio Sorvillo **Hotel Ladinia hosts a sound installation by Dorota Gawęda & Eglė Kulbokaitė, an architectural activation by Lydia Ourahmane, and paintings by Evelyn Taocheng Wang—alongside a collaboration, *Adaptation as Form* (2026), between Gregor Prugger and Leonora Prugger, a father-daughter duo from Val Gardena, who have turned the hotel's own fabric into their medium: radiators, fireplaces, and key racks becoming points of departure for sculptural and painterly gestures.** SL: This is the first time they’ve worked together—there are several artist duos in this Biennale, and I thought it would be interesting to include them. Gregor is from an older generation and has been working with wood in a much more contemporary fashion than his predecessors; when you see his work over the last thirty years you can see what's possible in terms of abstraction and figuration. His daughter, on the other hand, has become a painter—not quite following in her father’s footsteps. She’s interested in capturing the biology and nature very local to here: endemic plants that only grow in one part of the hill, species that can only survive in a very rough environment on top of the mountain—a way of thinking through why certain things belong to certain places. Gregor had exhibited in an earlier edition of the Biennale, but for me—I come from a very grassroots way of exhibiting, with my own space, SALTS—it was important to bring very young voices in and challenge them in this context. I wondered what they would do if they worked together. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/16_HQ-BiennaleGherdeina10-2026TiberioSorvilloB0050978.jpg) Dorota Gawęda & Eglė Kulbokaitė, exhibition view: Dead Ringer I-VI, 2023\. Courtesy of the Artists. With the support of Lithuanian Culture Institute and the Embassy of Lithuania in Italy. With the support of the Swiss Arts Council Pro Helvetia. **In most cases, artists choose their own space. The exceptions are Hotel Ladinia and Sala Trenker, the two group exhibition venues where Leuenberger suggested the pairings himself. Elsewhere, the right location emerged from walks through Ortisei and its surroundings, where curator and artist let the environment inspire them.** SL: We walked with all the artists—it's very simple: walking opens your eyes. When walking and talking you forget about things that are maybe premeditated if you are sitting at a table; so it's very liberating. There is something very nice about discovering a place together: even if I’d seen it five times already, every time I walked with an artist, they would show me a new element or place I hadn’t thought of. For Bosco Sodi, who did the paintings in the trees *Untitled* (2026), thirty-two monochrome square paintings in the trees of Ortisei’s S. Antonio Square, it was one of the biggest experiments—just the fact that he was willing to do it was a very open and risky endeavour: to pair his primordial paintings—quite rough, very much about texture and the surrounding earth—as directly as possible with nature. To me, that was a beautiful gesture of faith. Most people wouldn't dare leave paintings out there, open to the weather. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ-BiennaleGherdeina10-2026TiberioSorvilloB0051034.jpg) Chanelle Adams, Test Pit, 2026\. Excavated earth, wooden stakes, fencing wire, rope, audio guides, street sign 300 x 300 cm. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 10, With the support of the Swiss Arts Council Pro Helvetia. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo **Asked about public space, Leuenberger insisted on the importance of bringing locals along and drew on the example of Chanelle Adams, whose *Test Pit* (2026) cuts a deep excavation into one of the last privately held plots at the outskirts of Ortisei, exposing soil as archive and the Dolomites themselves as remnants of ancient marine life.** SL: I am very much interested in the public space and how we can move between the private and the public in art.The way we do it here in the Biennale: some things are outside, some inside, some in spaces like this hotel. What is fascinating is that you can only do a project this size if the people living here are on board. Those who own the stores, those who have the right to say something—they all need to be convinced. It’s really a communal effort. I learned this in Basel when I curated Parcours: you need to speak all the time openly about what contemporary art is and what it can be, because there are still a lot of misunderstandings. A concrete example is Chanelle Adams’s project done on the private grounds of an older lady. Initially, she was afraid it would be a big sculpture blocking the driveway—a classical idea of sculpture, on a plinth or whatever. It took a little time to explain how far the intervention could go, that it could work with the garden and nature, in ways far less invasive than putting a big chunk of something on her grounds. And, funnily enough, in the end it’s one of the more risqué and radical works in the Biennale—we went as far as digging a hole. We went from a very stigmatised view of what a public sculpture is to a very radical piece in the owner’s backyard. And this all just happened through conversations. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ-BiennaleGherdeina10-2026TiberioSorvilloB0051492.jpg) Lydia Ourahmane, Hotel Ladinia, 2026\. 12 tables, stools, lights. Dimensions variable. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 10, With the support of Institut Ramon Llull and Acción Cultural Española (AC/E). Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo **For someone who has built his practice at the intersection of institutional and grassroots exhibition-making, the question of why contemporary art is important today feels fundamental. I asked Leuenberger how he would answer this question—and as he spoke, he gestured around the room: we were sitting inside Lydia Ourahmane’s installation, *Hotel Ladinia* (2026), inside the Hotel Ladinia closed since 1998, where visitors are invited to bring their own drinks and gather around bespoke tables to play chess and converse, bringing the space back into use.** SL: It’s very simple: we need artists to interpret the current issues of society. Contemporary art really connects to current issues; that’s what makes it good. If something looks too far into the past or becomes merely referential, it loses its interest. Lydia’s work here is a good example: for her, it’s very important to activate the space again, to bring people in who can share stories, sit together, speak. Very simple interventions—the lights, the tables—but they mean something. People have been coming in asking if we reopened the bar, and suddenly we have conversations again. That, to me, is what contemporary art can do. Stepping outside, Ortisei hums with its usual summer business—tourists, hotels, terraces—and its mountains rising improbably on all sides. I am reminded that somewhere above, invisible from where we are, three hundred stakes stand in the high grass, keeping their count. *//* Biennale Gherdëina 10 “(Future) Paradise Gardens” artists include: Chanelle Adams (1992, US); Andrius Arutiunian (1991, Armenia/Lithuania); Jacopo Belloni (1992, Italy); Alice Bucknell (1993, UK/US); Leonardo Bürgi (1994, Mexico/Switzerland); Giulia Cenci (1988, Italy); Sandra Knecht (1968, Switzerland), Dorota Gawęda & Eglė Kulbokaitė (1986, Poland; 1987, Lithuania); Judith Neunhäuserer (1990, Italy); Walter Niedermayr (1952, Italy); Masatoshi Noguchi (1988, Japan/Italy); Gabriela Oberkofler (1975, Italy); Lydia Ourahmane (1992, Algeria); Gregor Prugger and Leonora Prugger (1954, Italy, 1995, Italy); Ana Prvački (1976, Yugoslavia/Romania); Augustas Serapinas (1990, Lithuania); Bas Smets + Eliane Le Roux (1975, Belgium, 1983, France); Bosco Sodi (1970, Mexico); Constantin Thun, Kelly Tissot (1995, France); Álvaro Urbano (1983, Spain); Yuyan Wang (1989, China); Evelyn Taocheng Wang (1981, China); Pedro Abu Wirz and Michael Marder (1981, Brazil/Switzerland, 1980, Canada/Portugal). --- ### Cover Image: Augustas Serapinas, Barn from Saltria, 2026\. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 10\. With the support of Lithuanian Culture Institute and the Embassy of Lithuania in Italy. Thanks to Chemun de Urtijëi, Monica and Hugo Moroder, Walter Wanker, Albert Lagede. Credits: Tiberio Sorvillo. *Cristina Sanchez-Kozyreva is an art critic, editor, and curator based in Marseille.* ### The Test of Infrastructural Critique: URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-test-of-infrastructural-critique-petrossians/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:54.000Z 1) In 1969, artist Mierle Laderman Ukeles made a speculative proposal to turn the Whitney Museum into a waste processing and pollution remediation plant, titled \[name missing\]. What does a proposal like this mean, politically, aesthetically, practically? 2) Mierle Laderman Ukeles famously asked, “After the revolution, who’s going to pick up the garbage on Monday morning?” Who do you think she was asking about? 3) Does infrastructural critique provide another way of posing the question? **Drifts and Shifts** 4) How can we transform Ukeles’ proposal into a concrete gesture for the present? 5) Isn’t what’s missing in the proposal the element of rebellion, or a collective decision-making framework? 6) What happens when we treat the institution not as a horizon (for reform) but as a site of resources—material and symbolic? 7) However, isn’t this the neoliberal norm already? *You saved your park from becoming a parking lot, but it’s called Bank of America Park now. You were able to avoid eviction and stay in your squatted building, but now you have a mortgage. You can have a (crumbling) train station, but there are only two trains now; meanwhile, Elon Musk is building a tunnel between casinos.* 8) Is the “drift” towards the creation of popular tools of survival during the introduction of mass austerity sufficient? 9) How could the “drift” become a “shift”, i.e., “a decisive and popular change in tactics”? 10) How can we move from a standpoint which takes “the institution as its horizon \[…\] to one which takes the institution as a historical and contingent nexus of material conditions amenable to re-arrangement through struggle and different forms of inhabitation and dispersal?” 11) How can solidarity appear in a field that is structured to exclude it? **Scale** 12) How do infrastructural movements within the art field relate to wider movements? 13) How do they (infrastructures) relate to circulation struggles at the supermarket, at a pipeline blockade, or within other gaps in the capitalist infrastructure? 14) Must movements necessarily be appropriate along existing scales as they reappropriate value in movement? 15) Should practices like looting, mutual aid, squatted encampments, and collective care be “scalable”? 16) Are Stefano Harney and Fred Moten right when they say, “scaling up is really scaling down, losing connection rather than gaining it, losing abilities rather than consolidating them, settling for form rather than formation”? 17) How can we possibly hope to confront how fucked everything is without scaling up our activities? 18) How can we avoid getting stuck in a cycle of reproducing the present by only attending to immediate needs? 19) “How do you see the problem of scale in determining what looting can be as an autonomous force, and not just a reaction to its capitalist scale \[which is the\] accumulation of value and the enforcement of property?” **Am I Infrastructurally Critiquing?** 20) By studying the cultural worker’s drift, how do we derive lessons on how to speculatively enact the shift beyond any specific sphere of production or reproduction? 21) Does the global movement to stop the genocide in Gaza offer internationalist lessons in this respect? 22) If all levels of the infrastructural death machine (from local elected officials to global supply chains) are involved in reproducing genocidal violence, and are thus also nodes of the infrastructure that can be actively negated, is this not an object lesson in scale and connection? 23) How do we resist the pressure to individualize needs? Can an infrastructural critique anticipate and prevent governance from recuperating the functions performed by revolutionary movements? 24) Can we imagine a test of/for infrastructural critique? a) You’ve abolished x, but does y still structure the relations that remain? b) You’ve looted the paracetamol and set its price to zero, but does this commodity still mediate between otherwise alienated workers? c) Does a given action or movement against the capitalist mode of production require the reproduction of a false totalization? Does it promote mere survival? Care for care’s sake? Abolition for some but not for others? d) Does a given action engender complicated questions about reorganization, redistribution, and who subjects become as they self-abolish? 25) Does the action transform the categories of analysis? 26) To return to Ukeles: after the revolution, there will certainly be garbage, but will Monday still exist? The following quiz is adapted from [Abolition and Organization: Marina Vishmidt’s Infrastructural Critique](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-test-of-infrastructural-critique/). *Andreas Petrossiants is a writer and editor.* ### Carta desde la Pequeñísima Edad de Hielo URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/carta-desde-la-pequenisima-edad-de-hielo/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:53.000Z Estimados colegas de la cámara frigorífica, Cuando pierda los dedos por congelamiento, mi huella digital será tres perfiles de LinkedIn incompletos. Golpe descomunal contra una torre de pallets. Apenas siento nada (todavía). Cuando el dolor tarda mucho en aparecer, sabes que va a ser insoportable. Me quedaré cojo. Ojalá sea una cojera divertida que me aporte un carácter pirata sin provocar pena. El hormigueo, pros y cons. Pros: el aviso de un placer inminente. Cons: presagio de estar perdiendo la sensibilidad de un miembro cada vez que pedaleo los diez kilómetros que me separan del supermercado fantasma. Solo necesitaré usar pañales para dormir; durante la jornada laboral mi vejiga se olvida, aunque esté a punto de reventar. En mis sueños humedecidos encadené a mi jefe a una estantería industrial y le obligué a verme hacer dibujos con un potente chorro de orina sobre las paredes del centro logístico. Después salí del polígono cabalgando un corcel blanco robado del club de hípica. La dismorfia son unas botas de seguridad con punta de acero y una chaqueta de invierno sudada por un compañero. Media hora de pausa dos veces al día para comer y cenar, comer y comer o cenar y cenar. Todo vale bajo las luces fluorescentes tono ganadería intensiva. En la cantina cocinan platos con productos que están a punto de caducar que retornan a la cámara frigorífica dentro de mi tripas con sobrecrecimiento bacteriano. Ha vuelto el sabor metálico. Empieza a ser obvio que la dirección ha descubierto las ensoñaciones en las que hago volar por los aires el centro logístico y me está envenenando a cuenta gotas para eliminarme sin que nadie se dé cuenta. El sarpullido como canto de sirena. Babe, are you okay? You barely te rascaste hasta sangrar. El planeta estará ardiendo, pero aquí hace más rasca que en una pista de ski indoor. Inventan un chip cerebral que intercambia los acúfenos crónicos por un sonido a elección del usuario. La gama de opciones ha de ser amplia: desde el piar de unos pájaros al amanecer hasta una compilación de episodios de Cuarto Milenio. Siempre que cierro los ojos llevo impreso el negativo de la cámara frigorífica tras los párpados. En esa imagen invertida también están grabadas las siluetas de mis compañeros, trabajando al buen ritmo exigido por los jefes. Si fuera capaz de escudriñar lo suficiente, esa imagen me daría cuenta de que a vosotros también se os están desmigajando los cuerpos, pero se me acaba de empeorar la miopía. A veces imagino que bloqueo la puerta de la cámara frigorífica y que quedamos todos encerrados en ella para siempre. Hay comida para aguantar unas cuantas semanas antes de que empiece lo de comerse unos a otros. Saludos Cordiales, Miguel Guevara Parra --- ### Cover Image: Credit: Miguel Guevara Parra *Miguel Guevara Parra a veces es diseñador, arquitecto nunca más, más que nada es escritor y cuentacuentos. Su práctica artística está sostenida por un creciente archivo de trabajos de sueldo básico, como supervisor de tienda, barita y asistente de fábrica.* ### Munich Learns How to Speak About Itself URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/various-others-2026/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:51.000Z During the day, the Marienplatz is unbearably overcrowded. Tourists drag wheeled suitcases toward the S Bahn. Cleaners in orange uniforms smoke beside delivery entrances before another shift begins. Luxury stores maintain their liturgical glow. On a windy sunny morning earlier this month I stood with a coffee and a pistachio croissant in front of the eleven monitors that the artists Christine Sun Kim and Thomas Mader inserted into the circulatory passage in the iconic square. They do not disrupt the passage so much as catch what it lets fall out of focus. Their animations, tracing the development of American Sign Language, unfold inside historical vitrines once designed for commercial displays. The work gains force from this placement, where language appears shaped by infrastructure itself. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/tempImage1AeLVe.jpg) Christine Sun Kim and Thomas Mader presenting “ABC (Always Be Communicating)” for Public Art Munich, Focus Year 2026. This infrastructure is maintained and celebrated through the Focus Year for Public Art Munich, which distributes six projects across the city as parallel readings of the public sphere. The themes range from water infrastructures of the Isar river to trees as carriers of memory, from football activism to self-organized remembrances of racist and anti-Semitic violence, as well as to the histories of sign language’s global circulation. For “ABC (Always Be Communicating)” Kim and Mader select one word per letter of the ASL alphabet from the pioneering etymological dictionary by Emily Shaw and Yves Delaporte and translate these into abstract animations of transformational grammars. Around the screens, commuters continue moving quickly through the corridor without looking up for very long. With the return of the art weekend Various Others (VO) the city’s own thresholds of attention become briefly visible again. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/VO26_Vectors_06.jpg) Cem A, *Untitled (Elephant in the Room)*, PVC, 2026 © VO Vectors, Bayerischer Rundfunk. Another moment: at Bayerischer Rundfunk (BR), Bavaria’s public-service broadcaster, where Cem A presented a pilot version of a longer unfolding project, Double Bind: On Reality, curated by Hans-Lennart Wiesner for the VO “Vectors” program. The format builds on Cem’s ongoing series “Crit Club” and on the meme logic of his account @freeze\_magazine, where institutional language, internet irony, and systems analysis circulate in the same compressed visual field. Inside the BR’s lobby, a life-size, transparent, inflatable elephant lies on its side, legs splayed. The work is titled *The Elephant in the Room*. It reads literally, like a spatial meme anchored to a joke that does not resolve into commentary but remains suspended in the atmosphere as we pass into the hall where Dr. Niclas Broer, a plastic surgeon, and Julia Barthel, a journalist, answer identical questions while wearing headphones that prevent them from hearing each other. Behind them, a live co-occurrence system tracks overlaps in vocabulary and rendered speech as shifting constellations of alignment and divergence. The moderator, trained in the controlled cadences of public broadcasting, held the frame together through an anodyne tonal stability, even as meaning drifted laterally. What emerged was less a network than its simulation: language producing the appearance of connection while failing to generate shared ground. Rather than opening communication, the system made visible how even highly structured dialogue collapses into parallel monologues, a condition now arguably surpassed by machine-based models that can simulate relationality without requiring it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/tempImagesCYpep.jpg) Christian Ganzenberg speaking to guests during the opening night of Various Others at the foyer of Lenbachhaus Munich. Photo: AWC. A contrasting image: the opening of Various Others in the foyer of the Lenbachhaus. The foyer is already packed when I arrive. It recalled the early years of Gallery Weekend Berlin, before expansion and speculation turned spontaneity into obligation. People still seem genuinely curious here, even when curiosity is shaped by familiar circuits between locals and visiting guests. Christian Ganzenberg’s speech is calm, humble, and joyful, even though he seems wildly busy doing everything as VO’s director. Sustaining this fragile ecology through years when Munich struggled to present itself culturally, beyond inherited wealth and administrative prestige, seems like an impossible mission but Ganzenberg handles it admirably. This year, Various Others defines its tone by embracing proximity itself, and the fact that it operates best through repetition, overlap, and long memory. In Munich, everyone collaborates with everyone, producing warmth as well as exhaustion, an economy of soft dependence that holds the scene together even as it limits how far it can step outside itself. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Museum_Brandhorst_VO26_02.jpg) Kate Newby, *anything, anything*, 2024\. Photo: Robert Hamacher, © Courtesy Kate Newby und Art: Concept, Paris. Museum Brandhorst offers a good example of how to accomplish this feat. The museum no longer presents itself as a closed ensemble of preserved works but as a carrier of the embedded histories of the neighborhood. “Carrying”, curated by Franziska Linhardt, activates Cy Twombly’s Lepanto Room, the Türkentor, and the surrounding spaces of the Kunstareal as sites where cultural display intersects with martial memory. The former Prinz-Arnulf-Kaserne, once home to Ottoman prisoners of war and later inscribed into the Türkenstraße, anchors this geography. Works by Louise Lawler and Kate Newby extend these entanglements within and around the façade, where meaning shifts through location, exposure, and ongoing transmission. Gürsoy Doğtaş reframed Türkenstraße as a linguistic monument to exclusion, asking what it means for generations of Turkish Germans to move daily through streets named after historical violence. Cana Bilir-Meier approached the racist absurdities surrounding the term “Gastarbeiter” (guest worker) through collective rehearsal and song. Leyla Yenirce layers portraits of women fighters, writers, filmmakers, and activists into fragmented constellations accompanied by sound compositions tracing grief and resistance. Refreshingly, the museum no longer feels sealed into postwar Western certainties. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/tempImage1T5lDs.jpg) Leyla Yenirce, *28.01.2026*, 2025\. Foto: Gunter Lepkowski, © Leyla Yenirce, Courtesy the artist und Capitain Petzel, Berlin. Milena Muzquiz’s range of visual reference grows out of Tijuana’s souvenir shops, beaches, and fragmented leisure fantasies, where shells, flowers, and tropical signs accumulate until pleasure itself begins to feel overproduced. From a distance, her ceramic bodies and paintings, presented by Rüdiger Schoettle and Travesía Cuatro, immediately recall the sculptural logic of Mike Kelley, under whom she studied in Los Angeles. Despite the precision of their display, the works remain unstable, excessive, slightly beyond psychological control, carrying border economies, tourist aesthetics, ecological pressures, and decorative appeal without resolving them into narrative clarity. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/tempImageSOavwK.jpg) Milena Muzquiz, Fragment from *All access 1,* 2024, oil on canvas, 134.5 x 134.5 cm, at Galerie Rüdiger Schöttle in collaboration with Travesía Cuatro. Photo: AWC. Upstairs, Elif Saydam builds another system of instability, where ornament manifests a form of material fatigue. Their paintings are driven by the instability of disposable surfaces, materials that break down, stain, and shift through light exposure. The decorative logic becomes inseparable from erosion. Their photographs—sculptures in a way—feel closer to processes of decay than to image-making in any stable sense of the term. Their accompanying text expands this condition through narrative drift, beginning with the story of Anthony E. Pratt, the inventor of Cluedo, and moving on to hotel lobbies and war factories, where entertainment and violence are held inside the same occupational hand. Read alongside Muzquiz, Saydam’s work withdraws from the seduction of ornament at the exact moment it produces it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LOHAUS_SOMINSKY_VO26_02.jpeg) Ilit Azoulay, *Future Ancestors No. # 17*, 2024\. © LOHAUS SOMINSKY and the artist. Ingrid Lohaus collaborates with Mennour Paris for a dialogue between a huge polished volcanic stone by Alicja Kwade and a series of collages by Ilit Azoulay. Both are connected to celestial forms, but the actual protagonist here is the discreet surroundings created by Azoulay, who treats the archive as a site where images function as epistemic units rather than as illustrations of pre-existing knowledge. Her collages bring together ritual objects, scientific imagery, planetary photography, and technological debris without organizing them into a single interpretive frame. Meaning emerges as a consequence of how images are positioned in relation to one another, revealing knowledge itself as a construct produced through visual adjacency and displacement. A healing object placed beside a satellite image does not resolve into symbolism, it exposes the gap between different systems of knowing. We might have entered Gemini season but for Azoulay’s practice, the stars look different on her opening night, and she allows herself to enjoy them beyond hierarchy or synthesis. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Museum_Villa_Stuck_VO26_04.jpg) Ilit Azoulay, Film still from the video work *MARY*, 2025–2026 © and courtesy of the artist. Villa Stuck extended Azoulay’s inquiry into the conditions under which identity becomes legible as knowledge. The exhibition returned to the inherited narratives surrounding Franz von Stuck and his descendants, treating them less as biographical details than as a system through which self-representation is continuously constructed. The villa appears as a layered epistemic space where domestic objects, institutional display, and private mythology coexist as complimentary forms of evidence. Azoulay works through fragments of testimony, archival images, and interrupted speech that circulate without resolving into a unified account. A recorded sentence remains with me: “Looking back, I wish I had been the author of my own story, not merely its subject.” Read within Azoulay’s framework, the statement functions less as confession than as an expression of how authorship itself is distributed across archival arrangements. What emerges is not a recovered narrative but a demonstration of how knowledge about the self is assembled, edited, and stabilized through visual and spatial systems. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Sperling_VO26_04.jpg) Anousha Payne, *Flap against the roof of my mouth*, 2026, watercolour, wax, pine resin, oil pastel,chalk pastel, natural pigments, and dyes on stretched cotton, 210 x165 cm, photo by Sebastian Kissel © Sperling. The 2026 VO Award for galleries, valued at 5,000 euros, is split between Galerie Sperling and Max Goelitz, an outcome that sits slightly askew to expectations for a single winner, given the limited number of participating galleries. The jury, composed of Margherita Belcredi, Kolja Reichert, Álvaro Rodríguez Fominaya, and Lisa Zeitz, describes collaboration, diversity, and fresh perspectives as their guiding criteria, yet these circulate here less as imperatives than as a vocabulary that accompanies the works without ever fully containing them. The split prize reads as a procedural adjustment to a field of activity that does not easily condense into a single exemplary position. The award remains small enough to behave like an annotation within the festival structure, closer to observation than to the establishing of a hierarchy. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Sperling_VO26_05.jpg) Ushara, Performance for “Triangle reshapes the O of my mouth”. Photo Pablo Lauf © Sperling. At Sperling, Anousha Payne developed, with Ushara and Kitty Doherty, “Triangle reshapes the O of my mouth”, an exhibition and performance unfolding around the mythological layers of the life of a moth. Proximal to an evaluative vocabulary without submitting to its priorities, clay bodies retain seams, compression lines, and irregular fractures from drying. Glaze collects in recesses where gravity has accumulated materials over time. Pigment sinks into ceramic surfaces during firing, leaving color as the trace of process rather than as a distinct applied surface. Folkloric fragments, bodily mutation, devotional craft, and ecological residue are among the elements that appear as conditions embedded in the making process. They are held together through the dynamics of weight, touch, and duration. Ushara’s contribution extends the work into sonic space. Breath breaks before coalescing into tone, vocal lines fracture under pressure, repetition operates as rhythm without seeking resolution. Operatic phrasing appears in fragments, dissolving across registers before it can form a consistent address. Sound spreads unevenly across the room, collecting in corners, thinning out near thresholds, returning with a delay that alters duration itself. Silence registers as a shift in spatial density. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Eva-Hesse.-No-Title-1960-Oil-on-Masonite.-Photooto-The-Estate-of-Eva-Hesse-Courtesy-Hauser-und-Wirth-Photo-Jon-Eyer..jpeg) Eva Hesse, *No Title*, 1960, Oil on Masonite. Photo: The Estate of Eva Hesse, Courtesy Hauser und Wirth, Photo: Jon Eyer. At Max Goelitz, Eva Hesse is placed within a curatorial arrangement centering notions of dialogue, lineage, and generational proximity. Color spreads with uneven elasticity across surfaces that resist figurative stabilization; forms develop without asserting compositional authority; humor and impatience remain embedded in material handling rather than interpretation. For the show Lukas Heerich reworks the former Acne Studios space, exposing structural layers of steel, concrete, and light. The gallery in this format stops reading as a neutral container and begins to operate as a spatial condition already in motion, where reflection, shadow, and industrial texture participate in the dynamics of display. Hesse’s works are not framed by architecture so much as caught within its shifts of exposure. The proximity to works by Heerich and Rindon Johnson produces a temporal compression that avoids narrative alignment. Institutional vocabulary continues to circulate, while attention reorganizes itself at a slower and less legible pace. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/tempImageaVmNbq.jpg) Exhibition view of *Sandra Vazquez de la Horra: Soy Energía.* (14.11.25 - 17.5.26) When Elke Buhr described Sandra Vásquez de la Horra’s exhibition at Haus der Kunst as “spiritual” the phrase sounded somewhat inflated. On viewing the works, however, the drawings began operating at a different psychological register altogether. Figures emerged from waxed paper through graphite, stains, and compressed narrative fragments that carried erotic fear, Catholic symbolism, Indigenous cosmology, and political violence simultaneously. The rooms slowed people down. Visitors stopped checking their phones. A collector near the entrance quietly started crying (while pretending to examine the work list). Vásquez de la Horra achieved something rare: her works generated inward pressure without overt theatrical manipulation. Spirituality appeared here as an aspect of material discipline shaped through repetition, vulnerability, and proximity to death. One left carrying the images inside the body rather than forming conclusions inside language. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Haus_der_Kunst_VO26_01-.jpg) Portrait of Authentically Plastic. Photo: Ryan Molnar. Courtesy of Haus der Kunst Andrea Lissoni continues transforming Haus der Kunst through lightness of curatorial touch rather than symbolic confrontation. This matters enormously inside a building still carrying the architectural muscle memory of fascism. Its collaboration with Ritournelle for “Tune” unfolded through sound, moving images and performances by artists like Nkisi, Tikiman and Blawan that dissolved the space’s monumental rigidity without pretending history could be wished away. People sat on floors, teenagers wandered through rooms beside retired couples. Somebody appeared to sleep quietly during the sound piece of Heith. The atmosphere encouraged forms of attention rarely sustained in institutions of this scale. In the intensity of Authentically Plastic’s bass, the building beat like an organism growing through rhythm. As my body vibrated along with the room, my eyes opened to the possibilities that lie beyond exhausted binaries of institutional critique and institutional branding. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/AmedeoMariaSchwaller.jpg) Amedeo Maria Schaller performing among sculptural works of Matt Browning at Kunstverein München. Photo: AWC Tom Engels inaugurated his Kunstverein München program with remarkable restraint. The exhibition of Matt Browning’s works avoids hectoring conceptual overstatement, focusing instead on physical precision, balancing inside contemporary art’s redundant attention economy. Here, Amedeo Maria Schwaller invited audiences to experience the sound and the ceremony of the Shō, an ancient Japanese reed instrument. The work requires a sort of emptiness, and the instrument must be carefully warmed before a performance begins. Schwaller transformed the process of the shō’s maintenance into temporal composition, exposing the fragilities inside systems that normally present themselves as seamless and permanent. His performance unfolded almost imperceptibly across the building. Sustained chords expanded through staircases and corridors as the instrument gradually detuned itself as it cooled. Visitors adjusted their movements instinctively, lowering voices and lingering longer between rooms. The body trusted the sound completely. It ascended and descended, notes changed almost imperceptibly through Schwaller’s delicate maneuverings. It sounded as if Schwaller deposited his soul briefly in the instrument’s pipes, as it intertwined with the intoning bells of the Theatiner church, the rain and a techno parade approaching from afar. I closed my eyes, enjoying every moment of those blissful 15 minutes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/JustinKennedy.jpg) Justin F. Kennedy performing “Ghosting the Crowd” at Maximiliansforum. Photo: AWC Justin F. Kennedy’s “Ghosting the Crowd” at Maximiliansforum unfolded as the final psychological stage of a weekend spent moving continuously between openings, dinners, terraces, cigarettes, and institutional small talk. Familiar dance lyrics stretched into uncanny slow motion beneath the underpass while Navild Acosta drifted through the crowd with deliberate detachment. *You can dance if you wanna* become less an invitation than an exhausted social diagnosis. Kennedy softly interrupted the normal tempo of the passage. People lingered underground long after the performance ended, unwilling to return immediately to the city above with its polished shop windows and expensive calm. The work captured a broader mood running through Various Others this year. Beneath the cultural optimism one sensed fatigue, precarity, and a growing awareness that prosperity cannot guarantee neither emotional nor political stability. --- ### Cover Image TUNE x RITOURNELLE, Tikiman & Richard Akingbehin. Photo: Daria Miasoedova. Courtesy of Haus der Kunst. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Notes Toward A Plural Canon URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/notes-toward-a-plural-canon/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:50.000Z For a long time, relevance in the arts was regulated by a quasi-homogeneous critical establishment: the Western canon. Its contested aesthetic insurgencies—Impressionism, Cubism, Abstract Expressionism, Minimalism—eventually became historical milestones: once absorbed into the institution, they rose the very criteria by which relevancy was policed, and art history's admissions adjudicated. Closely aligned with a Western capitalist ideology championing intellectual and material progress, this canon produced formidable ways of interpreting and contextualizing art that remain indispensable. As the balance of power in the art world shifts, however, the Western canon no longer rules unchallenged. The growing inclusion of work by the geopolitically marginalized—the colonized, women, the descendants of slaves, and so on—is something many of us who come from the so-called minorities celebrate. The 61st Venice Biennale, “In Minor Keys”, reinforces this expanded landscape of cultural legitimacy. Works of remarkable patience and skill—rooted in craft traditions and rich in ornamental sophistication—abound. Their presence demands an urgent reconsideration of beauty and craft-making as serious critical categories; far from decorative, these forms reveal themselves here as finely tuned visual languages for the tasks of navigating histories, ecologies, and the entanglements of contemporary geopolitical life. Nevertheless, in a multifarious network of simultaneously operating regimes of legitimation—each with its own disparate resources, networks, and constituencies—any act of art criticism, especially covering a biennale with an international reach, is, at best, a tribune for those who share enough common ground with the writer. At worst, it is one voice among many others—each community speaking to their own on their own. Without consensus, or, rather, without the supremacy of a single dominant framework, criticism risks either lacking the cultural grounding to fully digest what is shown or losing the echo chamber that once gave it authority. For an art critic—a profession the art world claims to need yet one which it only half-heartedly supports—reviewing large international exhibitions that aspire to map the contemporary moment represents both an intellectual and an emotional conundrum. Of course, the curator faces this challenge first and most acutely: she must make the show before the critic can respond to it. But where the curator asks how—how to frame, select, and give form to a global conversation of works in which she deeply believes—the critic asks what is relevant, a question inseparable from the harder ones that follow: *relevant to whom? And why?* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MZO-Thania-Petersen_9897.JPG) Thania Petersen, *Cosmological Offerings for a Drowning World,* 2026\. 61st International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia, In Minor Keys “In Minor Keys” positions itself within today’s unstable and necessary transition of rewriting the art canon. Throughout the exhibition, works and practices emerge as complex visual languages for crossing our contemporary unforgiving terrains. At the Arsenale, for instance, the South African multidisciplinary artist Thania Petersen presents the large-format beaded hand-embroidery *Cosmological Offerings for a Drowning World* (2026). Based on the artist’s research into the migration of Sufi music as a living archive, the work weaves together the kramats of the Cape Peninsula, Islam’s sacred landscape, with levitating vessels and a sinuous procession of Sufi practitioners in prayer threading across the embroidered surface—thus charting across terrestrial and celestial realms the deep roots and vast oceanic reach of a transcendental spiritual tradition. A similarly layered dialogue emerges in the Giardini, though in this case between materials rather than realms. Marcia Kure’s fierce *Hair Jackets*, made by the multidisciplinary Nigerian artist from synthetic hair and carved wood, conjure powerful standing busts. In doing so, the artist embodies a diasporic sensibility wherein what we often cast as oppositions—the synthetic and the handcrafted, the industrial and the ancestral—merge seamlessly into a unified lived experience. Nearby, emphasis on handmade artistry is seen in the work of the Pakistani contemporary miniaturist, Wardha Shabbir, whose gouaches organically entangle elements from her environments—mostly gardens—and her imagination. These result in a delicate mix of foliage and geometries that brings the miniature tradition into the 21st century. Nearby, mixed-media paintings by the multidisciplinary American artist Tammy Nguyen first appear as rich, collaged narratives overgrown by post-apocalyptic lushness, only to reveal references to geopolitical and spiritual legacies through visual narrative elements of Dante’s *Divine Comedy*. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/AVZ-Wardha-Shabbir-5759.jpg) Wardha Shabbir, *The Tapestry of Resilience*, 2024\. 61st International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia, In Minor Keys What these practices disclose is how beauty has been reintegrated into the contemporary canon as something freighted and expansive. Beauty, long regarded with suspicion—whether as morally escapist in the shadow of historical catastrophe, intellectually shallow by a conceptualism that privileged ideas over sensations, or as politically complicit in the encoding of Western, patriarchal hierarchies of taste—was effectively exiled from serious critical discourse for decades. Yet the artists render that exile obsolete, weaving beauty inextricably into geopolitical, ecological, and spiritual significance. Most importantly, a genuinely globalized art world is now doing what Western modernism could not: decolonizing beauty itself. This is not the first Biennale to assert its thesis through the voices of artists from the African continent, its diasporas, and the broader Global South. Yet the appointment of the Cameroonian-Swiss curator Koyo Kouoh as the first Black woman to curate the Venice Biennale, a curator who was also leading a major institution in South Africa, remains historically notable. However, the consequences of her death are painfully felt in the exhibition itself, which reads at times like an overstocked reserve collection—bursting and generous, yet inconsistent and lacking curatorial precision. The show would have benefited greatly from some restraint and sharp editing. The decision to include several series per artist, for instance, however well-intentioned, ultimately cuts against the works themselves. Cecilia Alemani’s 2022 Biennale, with over twice as many artists, felt considerably more breathable and, as a consequence, more legible. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-28-at-11.12.36.png) Peter Mulindwa, *The Owl Drums Death*, 1982\. 61st International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia, In Minor Keys This becomes especially apparent in the presentation of vivid oil paintings produced in the early 1980s in Kampala, Uganda, by the Nairobi Contemporary Art Institute and including works by Josephine Alacu, Banadda Godfrey, and Peter Mulinda. Allegorically reflecting Uganda's political and social conditions during a tumultuous historical period, they possess the kind of self-evident power and gravitas that demand more room to be properly absorbed. The same applies to the figure of Senegalese artist, poet and playwright Issa Samb (1945–2017)—specifically to his persona, which deserves more than a documentary screened on a monitor placed on the floor and a handful of works presented as though they are ethnographic artifacts. His influence seemed larger than life, expressed through his personality, his words, and singular way of inhabiting the world through his presence. The problem here is not the quality of the artists but the exhibition’s layout choices, which too often rushes encounters that require time and room to breathe. If the exhibition's title promised something—a tuning into the minor keys of existence and spaces to rest—its physical experience did not deliver it. And yet, beneath the visual cacophony, the values associated with Kouoh’s vision were present, carried by the works themselves: warmth, compassion, care for the vulnerable, defense of the natural world, and an attunement to ritual and spiritual healing. It happens that humane values of this kind were actively devalued by the Western canon—dismissed as sentimental, decorative, or at best anthropologically exotic—subordinated to the intellectual and the formal. To foreground them now constitutes a critical expansion: a recognition that the frameworks by which art was judged for over a century were not only aesthetically narrow but also humanly impoverished. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MZO-Maravilla-Guadalupe_9346-Copia.JPG) Guadalupe Maravilla, *El Brujo Disease Thrower*, 2024\. 61st International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia, In Minor Keys Here, ritual and healing dimensions are powerfully present in the work of the Salvadoran artist and healer Guadalupe Maravilla. His *Disease Thrower* series presents throne-like sculptures made from natural materials such as straw as well as found objects collected by the artist while retracing parts of the migratory route he travelled as a child from El Salvador to the United States. Despite the mundanity of their materials, the works appear noble, almost luxurious—as though the ordinary has not only been recontextualized, as the readymade would have it, but genuinely transfigured into the sacred. Equally ritually infused and intense are the sculptural regalia and beaded canvases of Big Chief Demond Melancon, worked in glass beads, rhinestones, velvet and feathers. A Big Chief of the Young Seminole Hunters tribe and a central figure in the Black Masking culture of New Orleans, Melancon creates suits that are instruments of ceremony as well as art objects destined for museums. These works truly become alive in performance. Overall, the exhibition bears a double layer of mortality: the posthumous shadow of Kouoh’s passing and the works themselves circling the same awareness of presence and loss, and not only through ritual and healing. How we live, what we make, how we care for one another—all of this is shaped by impermanence. This knowledge is what makes the humane values running through this exhibition existential and profoundly related to art-making, in whatever form works take. The exhibition also encompassed practices within more established contemporary expressions—documentary film, video installation, conceptual, and archival work, for instance—bringing a different formal language to its broader propositions. Among these, premiering at the Biennale is an excellent film by Tuan Andrew Nguyen, whose work often grows out of extensive research through personal stories and sustained immersion within communities affected by displacement, economic, and freedom struggles—posed against the larger backdrop of postcolonial history. *Ñi demoon ñoo dellusi (Those Who Left are Those Who Return)* (2026) is a two-channel video that unfolds as a cinematographically rich portrait of a feared West African bandit and revolutionary known as Bouba Chinois, where images, testimonies, and narration intertwine masterfully and with humor. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MZO-Tuan-Andrew-Nguyen_9653.JPG) Tuấn Andrew, *Nguyễn Ñi Demoon Ñoo Delusi (Those Who Left Are Those Who Return)*, 2026\. 61st International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia, In Minor Keys Further, Eric Baudelaire and Alfredo Jaar are each given their own spaces—a curatorial generosity that served both artists well. Baudelaire’s five-channel installation *This Flower in My Mouth* is a mesmerizing meditation on the globalized flower industry, moving between the human stories and the vast warehouses that sustain its economy. Jaar’s *The End of the World* (2023–2024) draws the viewer through a long room bathed in an uncomfortable red light toward a small glass vitrine at its far end, containing a compressed cube of metals, materials whose extraction is bound up in environmental devastation and acute socioeconomic exploitation, as the wall texts explain, yet which remain indispensable to our technology-driven consumer society. The discomfort the room produces is real and the formality precise, yet it leaves little mental space for the viewer beyond this efficiently engineered experience. The Puerto Rican artist Sofía Gallisá Muriente's *Ciné Inútil / Useless Cinema I–IX* (2023–2024) presents a series of blurred, out-of-focus film stills taken by police officers who were surveilling leftist groups in Puerto Rico—images so technically inept that the surveillance itself failed with them. There is something poetically satisfying in that fact, even if the work asks whether failed evidence of oppression constitutes, on its own, a sufficient artistic proposition. In 2015, the late curator Okwui Enwezor—often credited with the institutional shift that brought the peripheries into the centre of art discourse in the Biennale he curated—said: “I cannot remember a time more precarious, more foreboding, than the current moment.” That was eleven years ago. One wonders what he would make of now, especially with regard to all the polemics, resignations, and strikes that surrounded this edition. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MZO-Sofia-Gallisa-Muriente_9677.JPG) Sofía Gallisá Muriente, *Ciné Inútil / Useless Cinema I–IX* (2023–2024). 61st International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia, In Minor Keys Armed with inevitably partial knowledge and an open mind, this critic approaches her task with curiosity and an awareness that the rewriting of art history is far from over, and that the process, with all its moving parts, has only just begun. What “In Minor Keys” confirms—despite its organizational shortcomings and the immeasurable loss of its originating vision—is that the fight for a genuinely plural canon remains an absolute necessity. The urgency of that fight will be sharpened considerably by what comes next. It has become common knowledge that works seen at the Venice Biennale in May will reappear at Art Basel in June, and, I suspect, in Paris in October. The market absorbs with extraordinary efficiency postcolonial critique, spiritual healing discourses, protest, craft, and, of course, beauty. It has demonstrated, repeatedly, that it can metabolize anything without taste—only appetite. While I am not opposed to artists earning a living—far from it—ceding art criticism to the market allows speculation to become the sole author of art history. Nobody, not even those who profit from it, would be willing to defend such a prospect openly, not to mention that the market is a poor critic: it has no patience. Which is why we must keep asking the questions that neither have the time nor the interest to ask. For beneath all of it runs the one thing every art community holds in common: the knowledge that we are mortal, and that this is perhaps why we make art. That may be the most minor key of all—and the most enduring. // --- ### Cover image Big Chief Demond Melancon, from Black Masking Culture Series. 61st International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia, In Minor Keys *Cristina Sanchez-Kozyreva is an art critic, editor, and curator based in Marseille.* ### Circuit of Enthusiasm and Exploitation URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/circuit-of-enthusiasm-and-exploitation/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:48.000Z Energy is what gets spent, extracted, and sometimes replenished in the daily reality of para-institutional cultural work. I write from my own experience as one of the people behind the [ReferenzBibliothek for Art in Public in Hamburg (and beyond)](https://referenzbibliothek.info/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), a project I co-initiated with Dörte Habighorst, Malin Kuht, and Sarah Savalanpour as part of [para-education e.V](http://www.para-education.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). in 2025\. What follows is my perspective on a condition I believe many fellow *projektarians*\[1\] share. The ReferenzBibliothek traces individual and collective (her)stories of art in public space in Hamburg from 1981 to the present, and beyond. We collect publications, ephemera, oral histories, and materials donated by artists, activists, and cultural workers—not to preserve them in archival stillness but to reactivate them through contact with new users, new contexts, and new questions. We are interested in what happened alongside and through institutions, not only within them. From the outside, we are perceived as a stable, fully funded structure. Our website is professionally designed and makes no mention of the precarity behind it. We openly invite the public to submit references for the collection, which implies the capacity to process what arrives. Our funding appears substantial—but the bulk of our working hours are absorbed by care-work, structural labor, and communication rather than content development. The reality is that there are four of us, entangled across multiple simultaneous projects, juggling artistic self-employment, budget cuts, and personal lives. The guilt for the unanswered emails sits in my body. I should say clearly: this has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my freelance career. It synthesizes aspects of my practice that had previously been separated (and rarely compensated) in one place—mediation, curation, artistic production, and the organizational labor of collective work. The invitation came through my studies (Master's in Arts Facilitation) at HFBK Hamburg. The project is possible there in ways it could not have been in Berlin: Hamburg's off-scene is smaller, better connected, and has a dedicated institutional structure to support public art continuity that Berlin lacks. But precisely because I care, I want to be honest about the structural conditions under which this project operates. What Kuba Szreder identifies as the central paradox of the projektariat applies here: enthusiasm is not merely a personal disposition, but a resource that project-based capitalism generates and captures. The trap only works when you care. The pressure I feel is a by-product of what I call the *institutional gap*: the condition in which a project is expected to function as an institution while operating with the resources of a DIY practice. A para-institution does not stand against the institution; it stands alongside it, in deviant relation. The Greek *πάρα* means *beside*, *next* to, or *along*. We exist because the institutions that should care for what we gather—the diverse (her)stories of Hamburg's art in public space—have not done so. The[ Behörde für Kultur und Medien Hamburg](https://www.hamburg.de/politik-und-verwaltung/behoerden/behoerde-fuer-kultur-und-medien?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (BKM) has maintained a dedicated office for Kunst im öffentlichen Raum since 1981—a funding line, an administrative contact, and, since 2013, the curatorial position of the City Curator (Stadtkuratorin). But the program’s character has changed. In a conversation with our working group, Achim Könnecke, who headed the program during the 1990s, described that era’s guiding questions: to whom does public space belong, and who has the right to the city? These questions animated projects such as [Park Fiction](https://parkfiction.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (1995 – ongoing), rooted in the [Hafenstraße](https://referenzbibliothek.info/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) occupation movement.\[2\] That the BKM could fund a project born from community resistance suggests a degree of artistic agency that subsequent administrations would not maintain. The shift coincided with Hamburg's “Metropole Hamburg – Wachsende Stadt” strategy (2002), a McKinsey-shaped framework that recast the city as an entrepreneurial competitor.\[3\] The neoliberalization of public art is not only about budget cuts—it is about the replacement of artistic agency with managerial efficiency. The [Stadtkuratorin Program](https://stadtkuratorin-hamburg.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) illustrates the selectivity of who receives structural protection. Previous City Curators appear to have operated within precarious employment structures. The BKM and Kunsthaus Hamburg have since restructured the Program so that the current Stadtkuratorin and her team can access working contracts with social benefits—a meaningful fix, but it is a solution that raises a question: why is this protection available for one layer of the ecosystem and not the next? When an institution outsources labor to a para-institutional project without contracts, without security, without continuity, the gap does not close. It cascades. Expectations flow downward. Resources do not. Here is where energy enters the analysis. Szreder, drawing on Gregory Sholette, describes the invisible creative labor that holds the art world together as dark matter: structurally unseen yet essential.\[4\] Enthusiasm is the key resource that project-based capitalism extracts from its workforce. The system operates by transferring constraints from external organizational mechanisms to people’s internal dispositions.\[5\] You internalize the deadline, the visibility imperative, the fear of exclusion, and your body does the rest. The mechanism of this capture is administrative, reputational, and cumulative. The ReferenzBibliothek operates under the logos of its partner institutions—the Stadtkuratorin Program, Kunsthaus Hamburg, the BKM. These logos grant legitimacy, but legitimacy is not a one-way gift: our partners can list the ReferenzBibliothek among their own outputs as evidence of a thriving public art ecosystem. Our Open Labs appear in their calendars. Our archive feeds their narrative. The teams involved do try to credit us appropriately—we communicate public statements back and forth before publishing, which itself produces unpaid coordination labor. But the most vital participants of the project did not arrive through institutional channels. They came through word-of-mouth, through trust networks that para-institutional work builds precisely because it is not institutional. Meanwhile, the labor that makes all of this possible—websites, accounting, care-work, relationship-building with practitioners sceptical of larger institutions and their curatorial modes of production—is absorbed by our team at freelance rates, without contracts, without the infrastructure salaried positions provide. The enthusiasm is ours. The capital it generates circulates asymmetrically: for our funding institutions, the output sustains credibility; for us freelancers, it sustains the next rent payment. Isabell Lorey calls this condition *self-precarization*: cultural producers tolerate exhausting conditions because of the belief in their own freedoms and autonomies.\[6\] But Lorey's analysis risks flattening something important. The care is genuine. We were asked to create this project and we jumped into it. Our investment grew with its duration and responsibilities. But care alone cannot cover what the work demands. The scope of the ReferenzBibliothek is larger than ourselves—we are building structures for future artists and cultural workers. For that to be possible, the state must reciprocate with structural commitment: long-term funding that relieves us from yearly applications. During our first Open Lab—three weeks at [Hinterconti](https://www.hinterconti.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) in St. Pauli—we turned its walls into a map of Hamburg's public art history. People brought ephemeral materials from decades of artistic and performative practices, many responding to the rise of right-wing violence in Germany. Participants from the [Wohlfahrtsausschüsse](https://referenzbibliothek.info/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), the anti-fascist alliances that organized under the banner [*Etwas Besseres als die Nation*](https://referenzbibliothek.info/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) in the early 1990s, contextualized connections between actions that had previously seemed separate. The energy in those encounters was not something we produced. It was something we created conditions for. But making dark matter visible is not always a gift. We received a poster reading *Freiheit für Irmgard Möller* from a participant. I decided to display it at Kunsthaus Hamburg without context. The artist [Margit Czenki](https://referenzbibliothek.info/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), who took the original photograph, reached out that night: she knew the people depicted, and [Irmgard Möller](https://taz.de/Freiheit-fuer-Irmgard-Moeller/!1556771/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), still alive, has expressed her reluctance to see these materials resurface. *Why did you not ask Irmgard Möller’s permission?* The question cut through every assumption I had made. The poster became a thinking-object that forced us to confront a fundamental tension: just because cultural work goes dark does not mean bringing it to light serves everyone involved. Some people have earned their invisibility. The omission as care is an ethical position that any practice dealing with anti-fascist, anti-racist, and feminist cultural work must learn to hold. The troubles we face as cultural workers in Germany are real and worsening—but the energy we invest is energy we are free to invest. That freedom is not universal. It carries responsibility: to hold stories carefully, to share the microphone with those whose visibility comes at greater cost, and to build structures that outlast our own exhaustion. To my fellow projektarians: take the pressure off. This is not self-care advice. It is a political act. // --- ### Cover Image: Open Lab of the ReferenzBibliothek at Hyper Cultural Passengers (HyCP), April 2026, © AnneLinke Footnotes: \[1\] I borrow this neologism from Kuba Szreder's *The ABC of the Projektariat* (2021). The projektariat describes workers who survive by moving between short-term, project-based jobs, acting as self-entrepreneurs who use each project to build reputation and future income. \[2\] On the Hafenstraße occupation, see Peter Birke, “Right to the City — and Beyond,” in Urban Uprisings, eds. M. Mayer, et al. (Palgrave Macmillan, 2016). On Park Fiction: Christoph Schäfer, “The City Is Unwritten,” in Making Their Own Plans, eds. B. Bloom and A. Bromberg (Whitewalls, 2004). \[3\] Freie und Hansestadt Hamburg, Leitbild: Metropole Hamburg – Wachsende Stadt (Staatliche Pressestelle, 2002). See also Anne Vogelpohl, “McKinseyisierung oder Regierungsprojekt?,” Raumforschung und Raumordnung 75, no. 1 (2017) \[4\] Gregory Sholette, *Dark Matter* (Pluto Press, 2011), 1; Kuba Szreder, *The ABC of the Projektariat* ( Manchester University Press, 2021), 78–79. \[5\] Luc Boltanski and Ève Chiapello, *The New Spirit of Capitalism* (Verso, 2005), 80. \[6\] Isabell Lorey, “Governmentality and Self-Precarization,” in Art and Contemporary Critical Practice, eds. G. Raunig and G. Ray (MayFly Books, 2009), 86–87. *Thesea Rigou Efstathopoulos is an artist and art educator from Cyprus based in Berlin. The ReferenzBibliothek is a project by para-education e.V., initiated by the Stadtkuratorin Hamburg and developed in collaboration with Kunsthaus Hamburg and the BKM. In 2026, the project received funding from the Elbkulturfonds. The 2nd Open Lab at Hyper Cultural Passengers (HyCP) on the Veddel runs throughout April 2026, after which the ReferenzBibliothek moves to WESTWERK until the end of 2026\. The ReferenzBibliothek team consists of Lara Molenda, Dörte Habighorst, Malin Kuht, and Thesea Rigou E.* ### Scrivere come l’AI URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/scrivere-come-lai/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:47.000Z Per il poeta Li-Young Lee, «la parola si produce sul respiro che muore», prende forma nell’espirazione, nella fuoriuscita del fiato assieme al significato. «Più parlo e più il significato si accumula, la vitalità diminuisce in ugual misura». In questa immagine, il linguaggio è inseparabile da una condizione di finitezza: nasce dal consumo del corpo. Le macchine, al contrario, non hanno fiato, non hanno respiro. Possono, tutt’al più, prendere in prestito il linguaggio dal corpo e dal lavoro altrui. Cosa significa, allora, per una macchina essere senza fiato, essere esausta? Quando parliamo di sfinimento nelle macchine, pensiamo subito all’usura: attrito, consumo, guasto. Ma questo tipo di esaurimento riguarda i corpi tecnici, non spiega cosa accade con le macchine che producono linguaggio. Nel campo delle tecnologie digitali possiamo pensare all’hardware, telefoni o computer, la cui durata è spesso limitata in anticipo, tra scelte progettuali e cicli di aggiornamento che rendono progressivamente obsoleti i dispositivi, convincendo così “dolcemente” alla loro sostituzione. Ma che cosa significa parlare di esaurimento nel caso dell’IA generativa? Un modello linguistico di grandi dimensioni come GPT, DeepSeek, Gemini o Claude può essere portato allo sfinimento? Queste domande non hanno risposte ovvie né immediate. Con la diffusione dell’IA generativa, il linguaggio appare come qualcosa che si riproduce all’istante e su larga scala. Il testo sembra abbondante. Sempre disponibile. Praticamente inesauribile. Da un punto di vista fenomenologico, potremmo dire che con l’AI assistiamo a una sospensione della scarsità: scompaiono i limiti che accompagnano la produzione linguistica così come la conosciamo: tempo, attenzione, affaticamento. Si pensi a un insegnante che perde la voce dopo ore di lezione. Oppure allo sfinimento di un traduttore che lavora tutta la notte per rispettare una scadenza. Una cantante costretta ad annullare un concerto per un affaticamento delle corde vocali. Questi limiti non sono accidentali: definiscono la finitezza del lavoro linguistico. Un chatbot, al contrario, può sostenere simultaneamente milioni di scambi senza battere ciglio (si stima che ChatGPT elabori circa 2,5 miliardi di messaggi al giorno), non perché superi questi limiti, ma perché li esternalizza: mette in circolazione lavoro linguistico già sedimentato, senza mai esporsi al suo affaticamento. La promessa di una produzione testuale illimitata rispecchia, in questo senso, la promessa finanziaria di una liquidità infinita. In entrambi i casi, l’abbondanza si regge su una rimozione della scarsità. I discorsi sulla fine del lavoro, nella misura in cui lo immaginano delegato alle macchine, non descrivono una realtà futura: servono a sostenere nel presente la finzione di una ricchezza e di un linguaggio senza costo. Eppure, anche l’AI è soggetta a una forma specifica di degradazione nota come *model collapse*. Il termine proviene dalla recente ricerca nel campo del machine learning e descrive ciò che accade quando i modelli vengono addestrati, di generazione in generazione, su quantità crescenti di dati prodotti da altri modelli, output che nel frattempo hanno “inquinato” la rete – il cosiddetto *slop* – invece che su dati prodotti da esseri umani. In queste condizioni, il sistema perde progressivamente contatto con l’eterogeneità originaria dei dati. Il testo sintetico sostituisce l’input esterno. La varietà statistica si riduce. Le forme rare o minoritarie tendono a scomparire. Le previsioni convergono verso schemi sempre più ridondanti. Il risultato può apparire come una forma di stabilità – il discorso resta fluido – ma sotto la superficie si produce un decadimento informativo. L’output diventa più levigato, ma più povero. Più prevedibile, ma meno ancorato al reale. Già tra la fine degli anni Novanta e i primi Duemila, l’economista Christian Marazzi descriveva la finanza come un sistema linguistico, fondato su una sovrapproduzione di *autoreferenzialità*. Riprendendo la teoria degli atti linguistici – da Austin a Virno – parlava di “performativo assoluto”: enunciati che non rappresentano il valore, ma lo producono. Nei mercati finanziari, tuttavia, questa performatività si sgancia dal corpo parlante: i segni circolano e si convalidano a vicenda senza un ancoraggio stabile nel lavoro vivo. Oggi, allo stesso modo, l’AI generativa promette un’abbondanza linguistica apparentemente illimitata, ma lo fa escludendo operativamente il corpo parlante e il suo lavoro. Ciò che potremmo chiamare “finanziarizzazione del linguaggio,” cioè la produzione di valore attraverso la circolazione autoreferenziale dei segni, appare qui come una dinamica speculativa che, come nei mercati finanziari, assume la forma di una bolla, storicamente definita dal suo scoppio o dal suo “collasso”. Paradossalmente, potremmo ipotizzare che con la crisi di autoreferenzialità l’AI, in contrasto con la sua originaria funzione imitativa della lingua umana, nel tempo arrivi allo sviluppo di varietà linguistiche proprie, fino a far emergere una sorta di identità linguistica. Questa deriva non è nuova. Ogni mediazione tecnica ha prodotto il proprio linguaggio. “Parlare come un libro” non è mai stato solo una metafora, come oggi non lo è nemmeno “diventare un meme”. Ma qui l’affaticamento prende un’altra forma. Non è il corpo a consumarsi, è il linguaggio stesso che continua a circolare anche quando non ha più nulla da cui trarre forza. // --- ### Cover Image: Robot umanoidi Unitree H1 sviluppati dall'azienda cinese Unitree Robotics, con sede a Hangzhou. Hanno eseguito una danza tradizionale cinese, nota come Yangge, durante i festeggiamenti del Capodanno lunare. La performance ha messo in mostra i progressi della Cina nella tecnologia robotica, inclusi movimenti sincronizzati e capacità di equilibrio. *Paolo Caffoni è un ricercatore che si occupa di linguaggio, IA e traduzione alla Hochschule für Gestaltung di Karlsruhe e all’Università Ca’ Foscari di Venezia. La sua ricerca si concentra sul lavoro linguistico e sulle condizioni materiali delle tecnologie della traduzione.* ### Infiltrated Semblance URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/infiltrated-semblance/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:45.000Z Daniel Hopp turned Leopoldplatz in Berlin-Wedding into a sociocultural border zone: From August 2025 to January 2026 the artist exchanged cultural funding for the stories from people on the street. But through the filmic adaptation these stories also transgress their allotted side — all the way into the bourgeois institution of art. *Fictional Healing* is one outcome of this action. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2026_EUL_HOPP_HH_08.jpg) Installation View by Max Eulitz The exhibition at the Kunsthaus Hamburg is formally related to a location only 500 meters away that offers integrated consumption spaces for people struggling with drug addiction. These are excluded from the general perception since March 2024 by a fence that runs in a straight line through the Drob Inn-adjacent August-Bebel-Park. The social expulsion already at work is thus further reinforced by urban planning interventions cursed with a monumental stupidity. By contrast, the fences of the multi-part video installation do not immediately reveal the underlying logic of inclusion and exclusion: The individual parts of the ongoing video work are positioned on both sides. The potentialization of the lining power through silver-sprayed drywall walls at one end of the fences is undermined by transitions enabling gaps at the other end. Upon entering the exhibition, the imposed experience of the boundary is thus oriented toward its disintegration. The restless score by Johannes Haas, which haunts the ear before the eye can seize its cinematic counterpart, does the rest. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-22-at-16.15.15.png) Vido Stills Courtesy: Daniel Hopp & Ania Maria Wanda The erosion set in motion brings to light Babarossa, Saskia, Toni, and Ahmad, among others. Acquaintances from Leopoldplatz. Five screens mediate conversations with people whom visitors of art museums generally keep at a distance. The prerequisite is the suspension of repulsion, respectively the restitution of the repudiated relationship. The requirement of wearing headphones as a threshold to the documentation of conversations, which served as the foundation for the subsequent video work, is constitutive of an encounter on eye level. This bridging also brings the mediator into view: With his drug experiences preceding his artistic career, Daniel Hopp lays open the path to a different relation to oneself. The embodiment of the convergence of street and art makes the contingency of this — albeit fundamental to bourgeois society — separation obvious. Particularly since both are habitually banished to the same transcendence of capitalist valorization: Ruination appears as the abject side of the same desired uselessness, from which art represents the sublime side. The exposed correlation subjects the cultivated purity of art to the anxiety-laden impurity of the street. This defilement is brought to life by retracing the course of the stories from Leopoldplatz to the Kunsthaus Hamburg – for the cinematic realization of these stories to be viewed, the opening up of aesthetic semblance from below must be reproduced. The reversal of the (in)visibility of the base and the lofty culminates in the screening of the concluding film in an off-space secluded by three additional drywall partitions. Even if this work fulfils a conventional exhibitionary purpose, it cannot be experienced separately from its practical genesis. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2026_EUL_HOPP_HH_14.jpg) Installation View by Max Eulitz The point of departure of the collaborative film is a recording of graffiti decipherable from a bridge: „Wer andere übern Haufen kehrt, wird stolpern.“ (“Those who knock others down will stumble.”) The shot conceived by Fetish Terranova calls to mind the possibility—brought into being by jettisoning —of being haunted by the jettisoned. Its actualization is initiated by the confiscation of Horst Antes’s *Figur 1000* from a park on Berlin’s Yorckstraße. Daniel Hopp and an acquaintance from a 12-step program liberate the sculpture from the traditional enclosure for aberrations in a counter-directional afterlife: the resurrection of art in the base. “I must’ve died somehow, surely this is heaven” one hears Max’s recitation of his own poem soar within the seized medium. From this vantage point, the Mustang-driving poet traverses the surroundings of the Drob Inn at will. Roxana takes the liberty to trample on John's. Death becomes an object of contention for Alexey. Daniel transforms the debasement of monsters into a surge of resistance in August-Bebel-Park. Accompanied by the words of Brazilian abolitionist Antônio de Castro Alves, William revives the sculpture through a ritual of unveiling. The out-of-control *Figur 1000*, who consecrates a desperado into a cleric experiencing the mediation of art before this revenant of art strays into a lair frequented by the homeless, is not without reason emplaced by the police portrayed by Christoph and Herty in front of a cultural authority for its reintegration into the community of good taste at the end. After all, the passage from the street to art, paved by *Fictional Healing*, conjures up a reproduction of art that deprives the ground of an appearance, produced on the backs of others. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-22-at-16.18.13.png) Vido Stills Courtesy: Daniel Hopp & Ania Maria Wanda Daniel Hopp’s practice can be conceived as such an infiltration into art. The street is not conciliatorily brought to light through the semblance of art. The semblance of art emerges from an intransigent rebirth on the street. The artist, acquainted with both the elevated and the rejected exteriority, lets one dissolve into the other. The transitorily unfolding de-limitation of the lower and the upper displaces art into a trajectory that points beyond itself. The sacrificial excess experienced in the exhibition renders apparent, on the return toward the exit, the deployment of AI-generated works along the installation’s fences: The first pinning of the pre-appearance at Leopoldplatz by Ahmad, Babarossa, Saskia, and Toni – in which Herby, too, immortalized with a brass set into the floor of the Kunsthaus, may shine on. // *Nils Fock is a PhD candidate at the HFBK Hamburg and the Institute for Social Research under the supervision of Juliane Rebentisch and Christoph Menke with the thesis “Abject Nature. A theory of contemporary art after Georges Bataille.”* ### The Doors are Open URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-doors-are-open/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:44.000Z **What constitutes the "minor" here, and how do these attractions reflect—or reframe—your coordinates in the art system?** JB: Ultimately, it's tongue-in-cheek. We began, and remain,​​ steadfastly ambitious in both size and scope, so the disjuncture of the name is something of a small joke. Regarding the reflection on our coordinates in the art system, the (perhaps faux-)modesty of the name contrasts with an industry steeped in its own culture of misinformation and half-truths. We feel no need to aggrandize our position; our work speaks for itself. SBP: Minor Attractions as a name does not mean that what we show or what we do is minor; very much the opposite. We hope that Minor Attractions acts as a destination as well as a stepping stone, where international galleries can express their localities' rich creative scenes, or where local galleries can further connect with international audiences. We particularly encourage presentations by emerging galleries and not-for-profits who might be using Minor Attractions as their first taste of the London arts and creative scene. **London's art scene is often described as both particularly dynamic and structurally hostile to those who sustain it. How do you navigate that contradiction, and where does Minor Attractions situate itself within it?** SBP: We operate an open-door policy, and everyone is welcome; we are free for a reason. Minor Attractions was founded here in London in response to this sense of hostility towards the arts, whilst also responding to the access, experimentation, and cultural programming we identified as missing from a lot of local and international fairs. London's dynamism has also come from its struggles, and we aren't amiss to that. However, we stand strong in this open-door policy and try to keep costs down for galleries where we can, so that we can continue to platform emerging talent that may not have opportunities to show on such a stage yet. JB: Minor Attractions is committed to creating and maintaining space for everyone. Our pricing structure for galleries also prioritises creating exhibition opportunities for even the smallest of programs, beginning at £100\. We know our commitment to abating that hostility is seen, and we've been fortunate enough to see partners respond reciprocally. **The fair brings together commercial galleries and not-for-profit spaces. What does it mean to speak of "community" within a framework that operates within market logics?** JB: As a matter of principle, we hold that the market is not a particularly good determinant of quality. As such, it implores us as an organization primarily concerned with quality to create room for the non-profit spaces that may be committed to the most radical or niche aesthetics our platform allows. SBP: When we speak of community, we speak of London—how we have all collectively and individually come up through the web of London's art and creative spheres as interns, students, art workers, and art lovers. Going into our fourth edition in 2026, we are continuing to prioritize the presence and collaboration of non-profits, community-based arts organizations, art collectives and educational institutions. This is where the programmatic events side of what we do becomes a gateway for diverse audiences who may not be familiar with what an art fair can be. **What prompted the expansion from a fair into a festival? What shifts when the format opens out in this way?** SBP: The program of events, music, films, and more that runs alongside the gallery booths at Minor Attractions is a key part of what pushes us beyond the realm of your typical art fair. Through a few simple questions—why are art fairs always so quiet? How can we open up this space to the intersections of art and music, art and performance, art and food?—We have grown to understand the differences in audiences who attend these events and the fair, which is where Summer Sessions, our new three-day festival of events from 28-30 May, comes in. JB: There was an entire body of work that was being created that extended beyond the parameters of what we could do in a single space at a certain time of year. A festival became the most logical means of exploring what we wanted to achieve: being responsive at the levels of both site and locale, while reflecting the history of particular venues within specific subcultures. **Summer Sessions unfolds across South, East, and Central London. What does it mean to take a festival through the city rather than contain it within a single postcode?** JB: A key consideration was how the festival was going to interact with the communities on which the art fair is largely founded. Each area has shaped our approach to understanding London's cultural production in different ways, as spreading the festival out has allowed us to address those connections directly, in situ. SBP: There are such distinct cultural and creative diversities in each of the areas we have chosen to host Summer Sessions. Take the St Moritz club as an example: this is one of the oldest clubs in Soho to still hold its late-night license, a cultural icon with images of famous punk, jazz, and pop musicians from the last 60-plus years lining the walls of its venue. We're pairing this iconic space with the launch of the new music app, Cantilever, to celebrate the ethos of St Moritz and its dedication to musicians. **The programme spans music, performance, publishing, and film. What's the connective tissue?** JB: The producers in one medium are rarely limited to that mode of expression. The connective tissue is the people themselves: the writers are the visual artists, the musicians. As for "emerging culture," I understand it to be a series of practices characterized by degrees of market or institutional recognition, but also by the urgency of its own survival. SBP: London’s creative scenes have always been built upon scarcity, hardship, passion, and a drive to see and create what is seen to be missing. As a young organization ourselves, these issues are not lost on us, and as we have built this from the ground up, we are creating a community and network of collaborators, producers, artists, and galleries that fosters collaboration, where we all don't build on top of each other but together. [Summer Sessions](https://minorattractions.com/events/summer-sessions?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) will take place in London from 28-30 May 2026. // --- ### Cover Image: Co-founder and Director Jacob Barnes and Director and Program Curator Sophie Barrett-Pouleau. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Sacrifice of the Land, Sacrifice of the Body URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/sacrifice-of-the-land-sacrifice-of-the-body/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:42.000Z Northern Bohemia no longer reveals at first glance what it once was. Although the characteristic yellow-grey haze of toxic emissions from surrounding industrial plants has disappeared, the region continues to live with the consequences of extraction. The area formally known as the “Black Triangle”, located along the borders of the Czech Republic, Germany, and Poland, was once considered one of the most polluted regions in Europe. Today, this past can seem almost redeemed. It is easy to move through the Ústí and Most regions without seeing the mining infrastructure that shaped them. In the Liberec region, former military land has been remade into a paradise for cyclists, and mushroom pickers need no longer fear poisoning near the former uranium mines. From a distance, it is easy to say the region has recovered. But has this landscape truly been reclaimed? Coal mining in the North Bohemian brown coal basin has a long and deeply rooted history. But the mass transformation came after the Second World War: the mines were nationalized, and extraction intensified dramatically. Underground mining gradually declined, replaced by vast open-cast pits. This industrial expansion came at immense cost: entire villages disappeared, including old Most. The relocation of the Church of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary in 1975 became the enduring symbol of that era. New Most was presented as embodying the promise of a modern socialist future. Northern Bohemia, and the Most region in particular, was conceived as a laboratory of socialist modernity. Within the state socialist vision, mining was portrayed as a force that would help build a socialist society; official state planning promised that the extractive industry would eventually be succeeded by universities, microchip research centres, and, more broadly, hubs of knowledge and innovation. This future was expressed in visualizations showing mines replaced by sleek university buildings. But extraction lasted longer than the promises attached to it, and today, Most ranks among the lowest-rated places to live in Czechia, alongside other post-industrial cities such as Orlová and Karviná. In recent years, the concept of the “just transition” has become the dominant framework for promises, imagining the move away from coal-based energy toward cleaner sources. On the ground, however, “justice” remains uncertain. When I took part in a public hearing in Sokolov, local resident, posed the following query with a wry smile: “The mining company destroyed the villages around us, will justice at least mean our village has a chance to develop?” In reality, regarding funding distribution, one might say that the developers will get a chance to develop even if the village doesn’t, as such schemes are criticized for filling the pockets of fossil oligarchs or of foreign companies. This phenomenon is illustrated by a project planning lithium mining in Cínovec by the company Geomet, which is a subsidiary of the Australian firm European Metals Holdings (EMH). The Sokolov resident’s words express a deeper worry embedded in everyday life in the area—not only concerning health or jobs, but about what comes next. This question cannot be understood solely through the language of policy. In regions like Northern Bohemia, people see that the burdens of pollution, extraction, and economic restructuring have never been distributed equally. Precarity layers on earlier precarity: long-term financial insecurity, the need to hold down multiple jobs, inflation, and chronic stress. Exhaustion feels pervasive among both the people and the land. It manifests through understaffed clinics, underfunded schools, and polluted land, including by uranium, which I think about often when I eat local mushrooms. The exhaustion is also shaped by longer histories of exclusion, including the relocation of Roma communities into disused miners’ housing under false promises of support, creating what later became known as “excluded localities”. Extraction not only transforms landscapes; it also reorganizes social vulnerability. I believe the term “sacrifice zone” remains useful here. The term was originally used to describe areas severely polluted by the mining and processing of uranium for nuclear weapons during the Cold War, but it refers not simply to a polluted place, but rather places and populations treated as expendable, who are exposed to long-term damage so that other places may prosper, remain protected, or imagine themselves to be sustainable. The issue is not only that some places suffer more than others, but that their suffering is normalized as necessary. When we speak about energy transition, we usually speak about kilowatts, infrastructure, and power grids. But there is another kind of energy at stake in these processes: the energy required to live under conditions that demand more from you than they return, social entropy. If energy is the capacity to transform matter, then living in a sacrifice zone means constantly transforming neglect into endurance, scarcity into improvisation, exclusion into survival. To illustrate, I offer a personal anecdote: I once went to buy butter at a small shop under our house. As we chatted, the woman behind the counter told me, almost casually, that she had broken two ribs while skiing, but she was working anyway. She had two jobs and a grandson to support. The conversation was ordinary, almost absurd in its matter-of-factness. But that, too, was part of the landscape: pain normalized, work continuing, bodies carrying more than they should have to. Northern Bohemia, therefore, is not simply a post-coal landscape. It is a place where extraction has left behind exhausted land, exhausted infrastructures, and exhausted social worlds. The consequences are no longer easily visible in smokestacks or open pits. They appear instead as what Marx might call a metabolic rift: a place from which much has been extracted, but to which little has been returned. The question of transition, then, is not only how to replace one source of energy with another. Regional inequalities do not endure because too little money trickles out to the periphery, but because peripheries are systematically organized as places from which value is extracted. Where promises of renewal are repeatedly deferred, depletion turns into anger, and anger hardens into distrust. In this sense, the political problem is not external to the ecological one: when transition arrives without repair, representation, or tangible improvement in everyday life, it is easily experienced as yet another broken promise and becomes likely to feed the rejection of pro-climate measures and the turn to populist parties. // --- ### Cover image: Vrbenský quarry in the period of mining termination in 1963, and after in 2011\. Photo by Katerina Hola *Kateřina Holá is a social worker and anthropologist with a background in art and activism based in Děčín in Northern Bohemia, where they live in the social-cooperative housing project Vzletný Racek. Their work focuses on just transition, energy poverty, extraction, solidarity economies, care, and the embodied effects of exhaustion in peripheral regions.* ### Energy URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/arts-of-the-working-class-41/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:05:30.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-41-energy](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-41-energy?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- Tight fascia, exhaustion. From the energy spent and drained in the routines of our days—from untangling ourselves from demands and expectations. But energy is also generative. And it emerges in the work of Mariuccia Secol in the textures of presence and absence that the stretching of fabric and skin have in common. Energy also pulses through Marina Vishmidt’s notion of infrastructural critique—and in her tireless hours of writing, teaching, and collaborating. For both Secol and Vishmidt, energy is everything, and this issue owes its impetus to their shared attention to energy’s rhythms and resistances. Birthed along the second wave of feminists, Mariuccia Secol’s practice has always been concerned with making energy collectively visible: in the worn fabric of aprons, the reassembled surfaces of fractured everyday objects, and the silhouettes that both reveal and hide the aging and exhausted skin of domestic workers. But her work never abstracted energy into data or symbols; it materializes the force of care, the weight of history, and the ongoing feminist struggle for autonomy and interdependence. Curated by Monika Branicka and Eva Brioschi, her first and long overdue retrospective will open this summer at Muzeum Susch and will offer a rare chance to experience how her forms sustain and transmit energy across decades. The question of energy resonates throughout the intersectional projects emerging from Marina Vishmidt’s work, particularly as explored at the *What Is Infrastructural Critique?* symposium at the Universität für Angewandte Kunst Wien last October. Her closest collaborators gathered to engage with her approach to infrastructures as enduring sites of social and political relations, tracing the long afterlives of slavery and ongoing forms of exploitation. Vishmidt’s infrastructural critique challenges the logic of institutional critique, proposing a form of questioning that cannot be fully represented, but must be enacted across and through institutions. Infrastructural critique is then a way of being attentive to the “dumbness” of certain conditions, as she called it, and of acknowledging how energy circulates through and against the grain of institution and discourse—as Danny Hayward reminds us. By weaving these practices together with contributions from our broader network of writers, artists, and readers, our Energy issue lets these forms and ideas ripple outward, coming alive across five chapters: *Sources*, a conversation with Secol and a glossary on the rich vocabulary Marina coined; *Currents*, on the climate of philosophy; *Grids*, traced by low battery flows and virtual tours; Heat, the intensity of a legacy, friction radiating through figures of entropy, flames to dust; *Converters*, the mechanisms that translate a call for proposals into renewal of ideals within reality; and *Discharges*, the moments of release, play, and reflection that allow for recalibration. Through Mariuccia’s material insistence and Marina’s uncompromising critical gaze, *Energy* emerges as both methodology and manifesto—a call to inhabit the present and trace the invisible forces that hold it together. Energy is ever renewing. As our labor faces challenge and precarity, we're fully current—recharging our visual identity with Studio Manuel Raeder. It doesn’t just display energy; it lets it surge, crackle, and remake the languages and knowledge we inhabit. With contributions by: Mariuccia Secol and María Inés Plaza Lazo, Danny Hayward, Helmut Draxler, Natascha Sadr Haghighian, Rose-Anne Gush, Taylor Le Melle, Marwa Arsanios, Maria Bussmann, Angela Melitopoulos, and Kerstin Schroedinger, Margherita Falqui, Anna Mańka, and Rachel Refael, Patricia Saragueta, Laurentiu Dragota, Dalia Maini, Paolo Caffoni, Katerina Hola, Andreas Petrossiants, Mattin, Tom von Synnika, Miguel (Guevara) Parra, Mehrgenerationenhaus Neukölln, Berlin **IMPRINT** **Founder / Publisher / Editor at Large** María Inés Plaza Lazo (Verantwortliche i.S.d. §18 Abs. 2 MStV) **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Associate Editors** Danny Hayward, Rose-Anne Gush, Annette Krauss, Sofia Bempeza **Copyediting** William Kherbek, Anne Waak Staeff Guenther **Translations** Sumaiya Ali, María Inés Plaza Lazo **Management** Hannah Lu Verse **Distribution** Laurentiu Dragota **Archive, Community** Filipe Lippe **Layout, Design** Studio Manuel Raeder (Manuel Raeder, Cecilia Murgia, Andrew Beltran, Sasha Sulikov) **Print** Die Rheinpfalz Verlag und Druckerei GmbH & Co. KG Oggersheim Printing Center Distribution of printed products Flomersheimer Str. 2 - 4 67071 Ludwigshafen-Oggersheim Alle Anfragen an die Verlagsadresse Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Schillerpromenade 10, 12049 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org Donate via Paypal: [p@artsoftheworkingclass.org](mailto:p@artsoftheworkingclass.org) The current Issue is published with the financial support of the Department of Art and Communication Practices (KKP) at the University of Applied Arts Vienna. KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) hosted and co-organized the conference " What Is Infrastructural Critique?” together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush in October 2025. --- ## In this issue - [We are here and we are in it.](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/we-are-here-and-we-are-in-it/) - [Flames to Dust](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/flames-to-dust/) - [Figures of Entropy as Anchors of Value](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/figures-of-entropy-as-anchors-of-value/) - [Bodies in space, again.](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bodies-in-space-again/) - [Beign moved](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/being-moved/) - [Noise on the Gaps](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-score-by-mattin/) - [Sacrifice of the Land, Sacrifice of the Body](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/sacrifice-of-the-land-sacrifice-of-the-body/) - [The Doors are Open](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-doors-are-open/) - [Scrivere come l’AI](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/scrivere-come-lai/) - [Carta desde la Pequeñísima Edad de Hielo](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/carta-desde-la-pequenisima-edad-de-hielo/) - [The Test of Infrastructural Critique:](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-test-of-infrastructural-critique-petrossians/) - [Ombre e Presenze](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-conversation-with-mariuccia-secol/) - [Bruciore individuale, fuoco collettivo](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bruciore-individuale-fuoco-collettivo/) ### The Institution as Medium URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-institution-as-medium/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:41.000Z *Àngels Miralda and Catherine Czacki are two cultural workers who first met through their collaborative contributions to* Collecteurs Magazine *and over a series of weekly discussions held between 2023 and 2025 with artists, activists, and cultural workers in solidarity with Palestine. What began through political solidarity has since evolved into an ongoing dialogue about the deeper structural consequences of this moment and how it has reshaped the relationship between artists and institutions, eroded freedom of expression, and quietly reorganized the economics of cultural life. In the following conversation, they map a landscape in which autonomy and complicity have become the central fault lines of a contemporary art culture that parallels the petro-capitalist world-building of extraction regimes.* **Àngels Miralda:** We both collaborate with institutions and with so-called “institutional artists”. Shall we depart from this? How do we understand the institutional as a hegemonic art framework? **Catherine Czacki:** What I call “institutional art” is what we see so often within a framework of large contemporary art institutions that is beyond the human scale. I am talking about vast scales of sculptural installation, or even such complex architecture that it takes an unjustifiable and insatiable budget, team, and endlessly expanding resources to make it possible. “Institutional art” is, therefore, an art form that cannot be made by individual artists—it needs the institution to exist; it needs resources and validation, and it relies on its budgetary and spatial capacities for its feasibility. Underlying these structural and economic dependencies, let us understand how they pave the way for the centralization of discourse and practices, or their exclusion. The institutional dismissal of painting, branded as bourgeois or obsolete by academies and art worlds alike, is not incidental. Painting is cheap to make, easy to store and transport, accessible to broad audiences, and above all, it requires no external permission. It is one of the last forms of genuinely autonomous practice: you can make it before your ideas are approved. This is precisely what makes it threatening. The institution has a vested interest in eliminating artistic autonomy because it is sustained by dependency. The same logic extends to craft and the bodily dimension of making. When institutions do engage with craft, it is always on their own terms, folded into the management of artistic biography rather than recognized as a site of independence. **ÀM:** The “institutional art” that you are describing is what I will relate to as “the institution as medium”. The idea of the “post-medium condition”—popularized in Rosalind Krauss’s *A Voyage on the North Sea: Art in the Age of the Post-Medium Condition* (2000)—or the notion that art has liberated itself from any specific form or channel needs to be reformulated. Painting, sculpture, and conceptual art are all alive and well; they are simply not being championed. Instead of a post-medium condition, what we see inside mega-institutions is the display of the institution itself as a medium: its power, its network, its grandiosity communicated through materials with the artist as decorative endorsement. The artist is a vehicle, not a maker. And the scale and grandiosity of the project are the keys to institutional access. Art is only recognised as “art” when it is inside the institution. Which means that any art that tries to exist outside of it must be dismissed, or simply made invisible. It is no coincidence that independent spaces are being defunded; this is a political mechanism of control because, when something genuinely new and experimental can emerge, it becomes more difficult to control and, therefore, to optimize for institutional supervision. The institution as medium is not fundamentally about art, but about blocking the freedom of artistic practice and replacing it with state-approved discourse and aesthetics. The artists, increasingly, are no longer in a position to create art freely, but are controlled by applications and proposals that need approval, and the elimination of spontaneity that is naturally camouflaged in the production complexities of a biennial-esque exhibition. The art becomes part of a process of state hegemony, approved discourse, surveillance, and management of ideology. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-07-at-09.34.35.png) Catherine Czacki, *Vanessa at the YMCA Dressed as a Witch (man lifting weights)*, 2026\. Oil on linen, 13 x 19 inches. Image courtesy of the artist. **CC:** Guy Debord’s predictions about media technology, that infinite images and their circulation would replace embodied experience, are now embedded in how contemporary art is made, discussed, and circulated. “Spectacle” drives how and what is funded institutionally, creating illusions that prioritize the “superficial over the genuine”. Grandiosity creates a factor of surprise for the audience, which is not necessarily new, given how European art was tied to wealthy patrons and the Church. What is new is the belief that these hierarchies have gone away due to a handful of instances of cultural inclusion and clever dialogic smokescreening. In the midst of increased financially motivated militarization, we see enormous physical spaces for art productions, yet little reflection on the expenditure it entails. The justification of expenditure is made based on a belief that one person can conjure an incredible spatial assemblage, when in reality, it is a team of technicians, many of whom work invisibly inside the museum. The artists’ message is mediated into institutional spectacle. The medium is the institution, in the same way that a series of drawings framed in Art Basel is different from work shown in a school or community center. The art fair, as a medium, had to invent entirely new sections (“Statements”) to incorporate the institutional medium as a parameter. I moved out of New York some years ago, but I remain in close contact with many colleagues there. All of us are increasingly aware of how institutions measure artistic success, which enforces precisely the kind of labor system many of us initially went into art to escape. I used to work at an art transport company where I witnessed artworks made of concrete being loaded onto ships at costs exceeding forty thousand dollars—closer to eighty thousand today, with increases in transport and materials costs. At the time, I struggled with illness, debt, and housing issues. It was hard to witness this expenditure and not be sure if I could continue personally to make art, let alone survive on the most basic level. How this structure is justified is one of the confounding aspects of contemporary art. **ÀM:** It can't be justified, and it connects to something structural, not incidental. There is a circuit of institutions that mutually approve artists and curators. One of the ways this is done is through academies and networks connected to private funders, and it can be seen through the circulation of specific artists—for example, those who have attended the Rijksakademie in Amsterdam—being represented in the majority of global biennials. They create a style of corporate curating in which curators no longer need to research; they are provided with a list of pre-approved candidates from the disconnected safety of Amsterdam without ever having to set foot in the regions that artists make work about. This network is often described benevolently as “like-minded institutions”, but it replicates a globalized and carefully controlled society that enriches itself from economic loopholes and expands its sphere of influence through biennials and new institutional outposts. This is a method that seeks to extend institutional territory to exploit more public resources for a specific personal network while excluding everyone else. **CC:** Conquest of territory is the right metaphor. Older traditions, or just community-based forms of art-making, are gobbled up, reframed, and packaged institutionally. The small-scale paintings I recently returned to making are a direct response to this: the craft I began with at a young age, the essence of making. But, also, painting does not position itself as a genius move, because it is so well-worn, removing the need to compete for a tenuous and rarified form of inclusion. Ironically, it also has been an art form that appears solitary, but it has brought me community more than other forms I’ve practiced. This is precisely the kind of autonomy that does not serve the institution, and why institutions benefit most from the seasonal recurrence of declaring one or more media “dead.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_spf15_sandbottle_czacki-v2.jpg) Catherine Czacki, *\~*, 2015\. Paper mache, rocks, bookbinding glue. Installation detail from exhibition at SPF 15, San Diego, CA. Image courtesy of Morgan Mandalay. Some of the most important works in 20th-century art have been concepts executed with everyday materials, happenings, or instructions. Looking at the larger arc of globally diverse art history, multitudes of crafts, making, and methods—far before specific areas are claimed to be invented by avant-garde-ists—you see that many things, not just painting, keep making their cyclical returns. I think we’ve forgotten this radicality of material simplicity, regardless of form. The current obsession with production and technology is structured by the limitation of resources and is a form of economic and social gatekeeping, an uneven playing field that mirrors contemporary politics’ morbid fascination with extreme extraction and teleological time. We are living through wars and events that can be summarized as the ongoing control of access to resources by a small few, a world ethos that then echoes through the arts, via galleries, museums, and biennials. **ÀM:** This is part of a historical acceleration that was set into motion long ago, the end of autonomy of modern art, and the new paradigm of relationality in the contemporary. Modernism ended when Lucio Fontana cut a slit into a monochrome canvas. At that same moment, curating was reinvented. Art as a relation rather than an autonomous object entered the institutionally accepted definition of art. It is in a web with other artworks, with architecture, with time. You see it in Arte Povera, in Land Art. Then it goes further with Rirkrit Tiravanija and Thomas Hirschhorn, where it's not just the gallery but politics and society itself that enter the mix, and the relational becomes more insistent. The curator becomes an increasingly important factor, and in doing so, reduces the role of the artist; the artist takes a step back. This ties in to my recent article for Frieze “[Who Killed the Independent Curator?](https://www.frieze.com/article/who-killed-independent-curator-opinion?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)”, where I discuss these shifts and the increasing focus on the accumulation of institutional power. What you get is a competition between museums to outdo each other to attract more funding, more public, more press. The value of the curator now depends not on the curator themselves, but on holding a position within the corporate structure of the mega-museum. First, the artist took a step back, then the curator. **CC:** Artists become disenfranchised by this system. They and their artworks are used as paintbrushes, absorbed and repackaged, in the total oeuvre of the institutional circuit. The institutionally savvy curators and directors glimmer and attract more funding, treating artists as utility devices. The well-placed culture worker becomes a brand with a stable of artists and historically vetted themes. Even if the art stems from non-Western and community-based models, in the Debordian sense, it becomes absorbed into the image-making and spectacle-circulation process of the dominant art world. New art markets are opened, sometimes in whatever region the genius artist is selected from, altering scenes by picking the one to support. The museum is structured as a global conduit for capital on the loose, mirroring Wall Street, predatory real estate, or gambling. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-07-at-09.35.26.png) Catherine Czacki, *Gaza Broke the World Open*, 2025\. Painting Raffle for The Sameer Project. Oil on Canvas with Natural Earth Paint Acrylik stained poplar frame, 5 x 7 inches. Collection of Sophia Flood. **ÀM:** Yes, and of course, the resources are necessary, but this goes to a handful of people, and the point is that these resources are necessary for all artists, so the current structure is directly opposed to the demands for redistribution championed by contemporary art's dominant discourse, and it structurally prohibits the expansion of the art scene to expand the institution as a medium. There is too much gravitation of resources toward these black hole mega-institutional juggernauts while the rest of the normal art world fights over crumbs for bare-minimum survival. It may be a human condition that we are always trying to get more than we have and more than our neighbor, but in the end, the existence and proliferation of these mega-institutions, and of curators who hold ten positions simultaneously, is a symptom of the avarice that is devouring our world. It is voracious resource extraction and unhinged warmongering. **CC:** These systems need to be addressed because they are not producing art. They are eliminating worlds of it to support one world of it. Much like the voracious war mongering you describe, that seeks a totalized hegemony. ÀM: So what do we do about the institution as a medium? **CC:** At least, we can describe what is happening. On an artistic and curatorial level, we can counteract the circulation of the same curators and artists in favor of expanded networks. We can honor smaller scales as reflecting social and cultural needs with less funding. We must refuse the model of “get inside the institution and keep others out”. Solidarity with Palestine revealed deep fault lines that already existed within the institutional aspects of the art world; issues of true autonomy and how complicity towards financial gain exists within these systems are now irrevocably visible. Naming these problems, revealing the cost to “bare life” of these structures, are the seeds of resistance to total hegemony. We can also create new art worlds where funds are more evenly distributed, allowing more people to create rather than fewer. Angela Davis’ “You have to act as if it were possible to radically transform the world. And you have to do it all the time,” should be a maxim in the arts, the knowledge that we create these systems, and, therefore, we can also change them. // --- ### Cover Image: Catherine Czacki, *It Is*, 2017\. Denim scraps, sock, thread, beads, glazed ceramic. 6 x 22 x 1 inches. Image courtesy of the artist. *Àngels Miralda is an independent curator and art writer based between Amsterdam, the Netherlands and Terrassa, Spain. Catherine Czacki is an artist, writer and musician of Polish/Tatar and American descent.* ### Soft and Hard Frictions URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/artsoftheworkingclass-orgsoft-and-hard-frictions-biennale-arte-2026/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:39.000Z It hasn’t even started yet, and La Biennale is already an overheated chamber of opinions, allegiances, projections, and clickbait. Before entering this system of exhibitions and representations, it is worth setting a few preconditions. First: take time to allow the art to exceed the anxiety that surrounds it. Second: drink water. Third: accept the inevitable comedown after the opening days. Fourth: most importantly, resist the temptation to treat art as something that can be instantly judged, cancelled, or morally resolved. Works and artists operate within concrete political, economic, and institutional frameworks. To engage seriously with them means asking what conditions they emerge from, what interests they serve, and what they obscure. “Though often lost in the anxious cacophony of the present chaos raging through the world, the music continues,” Kouoh wrote in her curatorial statement. “Music” is not necessarily the opposite of silence. To listen, in this context, is not to withdraw from the political, but to sit with forms that refuse the system of power altogether we know. As evoked by the musical title, however, the show is an invitation to engage with motifs and ways of assembling that “are not abstractly determined but rather sifted from a reservoir of art that acts deeply on the soul and mind.” We didn’t have the privilege to meet Kouoh personally, but what transpires from her [professional trajectory](https://www.labiennale.org/en/art/2026/direttrice?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) is that she was a remarkably driven and inspiring individual. Honoring the theme she had chosen: “an exhibition tuned in to the minor keys \[…\] that invites listening to the persistent signals of earth and life, connecting to soul frequencies,” the curators—La Squadra di Koyo, Gabe Beckhurst Feijoo, Marie Hélène Pereira, Rasha Salti, Siddhartha Mitter and Rory Tsapayi—sought to fulfill the guiding vision established by Kouoh during an intensive week-long collaborative session in Dakar, part of which was held under a [mango tree](https://www.labiennale.org/en/art/2026/introduction-koyo-kouoh-koyo%E2%80%99s-team?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Kouoh [believed in life after death](https://www.ft.com/content/ccccbd4a-fa66-40c9-9efc-622a696601b7?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), “in energies—living or dead—and in cosmic strength.” And yet, considering the tension between Kouoh's cosmic belief and the earthly chaos surrounding the Biennale's pre-opening, many in the press and social media now wonder whether a captainless ship can reach its destination. That is, of course, the very entitled, clout-hungry take we read routinely in our feeds. Leading up to the exhibition, polemics insisted on layering an additional rhythm to the curatorial concept, highlighting the friction between participation in the form of National Pavilions and the politics of the represented nations; concerns that have kept artists and cultural practitioners busy in recent years due to ongoing Russian and Israeli belligerency and war crimes. Against this backdrop, the actions around boycotts and politically motivated exclusion keep accumulating. Soon after they were announced, the all-female [jury in charge](https://www.labiennale.org/en/news/international-jury-biennale-arte-2026?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) of the Biennale’s awards stated that they will [not consider ](https://www.e-flux.com/notes/6783485/statement-of-intention-by-the-international-jury-of-the-61st-international-art-exhibition-in-minor-keys-of-la-biennale-di-venezia?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)countries whose leaders are currently charged with crimes against humanity by the International Criminal Court, thus indirectly referring to Russia and Israel. This announcement came only after a letter co-signed by [seventy-four artists and curators ](https://www.e-flux.com/notes/6783477/an-urgent-call-from-artists-and-curators-of-the-61st-international-art-exhibition-of-la-biennale-di-venezia-2026?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)involved in the exhibition called for the exclusion of Israel, Russia, and the United States. Additionally, because Russia was allowed to participate, the European Commission announced that it would [withdraw funds](https://www.reuters.com/lifestyle/eu-threatens-pull-venice-biennale-funding-over-russias-return-2026-03-11/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and the Italian Minister of Culture, Alessandro Giuli, said that [he would boycott](https://www.euronews.com/culture/2026/04/27/italian-culture-minister-shuns-opening-of-venice-biennale-due-to-russia-pavilion?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) the opening. This is what we are left with: a gesture of ethical clarity that instead reinforces a simplified framework in which art is reduced to a proxy for national and moral alignment. The structure of the Biennial itself makes this entanglement tighter. Even if the jury’s position stages transparency, it leaves largely unexamined the conditions under which the Venice Biennale itself operates: uneven resources, diplomatic negotiations, and escalating financial demands: a black hole into which entire national infrastructures are compelled to pour time, labor, and capital—often at the expense of local cultural ecosystems, public infrastructures, and the basic material and mental conditions required to sustain artistic work. “The Biennale has never not been political. It has merely, at certain periods, been successful at not appearing so,” says Rafal Niemojewski, the director of the independent Biennial Foundation think tank, who [makes a thorough attempt](https://biennialfoundation.org/2026/04/la-biennale-tries-to-claim-neutrality-when-the-world-is-on-fire/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) at unpacking the many polemics circulated so far this year, including the story of what happened to the US Pavilion (and how its current artist lost representation from two galleries over it). Amid all these recent developments, one question remains curiously under-articulated: the role of Qatar within this ecosystem. Only a few days ago, e-flux released a [report by Antonia Majaca,](https://www.e-flux.com/notes/6783488/what-did-the-golden-lion-die-of-on-judgment-and-disavowal-at-the-venice-biennale?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) which shone a light on the neo-colonial economic role of Qatar, including a €50 million donation to the Venice municipality, which granted a 90-year land concession and future infrastructural expansion concessions within the Giardini, an exceptional acceleration within a system otherwise defined by long waiting lists, diplomatic negotiation, and inherited institutional presence. [What appears as inclusion is, in fact, a form of expedited entry into one of the most tightly regulated cultural spaces in the world. ](https://www.finestresullarte.info/en/news-focus/qatar-and-beyond-how-do-you-get-a-pavilion-at-the-venice-biennale?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)That said, we are looking forward to seeing their Pavilion and many of this year’s presentations. Being in Venice—that’s a privilege in itself. It is also a condition structured by exclusions, pressures, and uneven access. In light of this understanding, we hold on to the words attributed to Sergei Parajanov (1924-1990), one of the greatest masters of cinema: “I will take revenge on the world through love.” An eccentric genius, he was persecuted during the Soviet era and imprisoned for 15 years on charges of Ukrainian nationalism and homosexuality. His work was featured in the [1977 Biennale of Dissent](https://static.labiennale.org/files/labiennale/Documenti/the-disquieted-muses.pdf%29?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (another Venetian exhibition born of turbulent times), and pleas for his release and the free circulation of his films were made by many in Italy and beyond. A chance encounter between Elsa Triolet, Louis Aragon, and the Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev at the Bolshoi Theater was said to have finally freed him. Whether it is true that the artistic couple succeeded in convincing the Soviet leader to release Parajanov, it feels important to emphasize how vital it is that we actually see the art in person, in Venice or in a theater near you. If the Parajanov anecdote above has direct relevance to the present in Venice, the question must be seen as not a matter of whether to engage, but how. Ultimately, there are many moments where friction becomes explicit and generative. The following are sites of such friction from this Biennale: exhibitions and positions that confront infrastructure, contradiction, and rupture directly, rather than merely absorbing them as background noise. A functioning pier destined for the island of Poveglia, a church lighting system activated by coin, an industrial laundry, casts, residues, and a continuously cooking pot: each element emerges from a specific negotiation, binding the work of Lydia Ouramahne to the conditions of its making. In [*5 Works*](https://nf.foundation/exhibitions/lydia-ourahmane?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), presented by Nicoletta Fiorucci Foundation and curated by Polly Staple, Ourahmane constructs a set of situations that unfold through transactions rather than declarations. Developed in close collaboration with Venetian craftspeople, technicians, and local organizations, the exhibition traces the material and social infrastructures that sustain the city beyond its touristic image. What holds these gestures together is a logic of exchange, where objects carry the imprint of agreements, dependencies, and transfers of use. The exhibition does not step outside the economic and institutional frameworks it inhabits. It moves within them, redistributing attention toward the often invisible networks that make both art and the city possible. At the first-ever Ecuador Pavilion (opening May 6, 2026, Castello 1636/A), the works of the Amazonian collective [TAWNA and Oscar Santillán](https://www.pavilionofecuador.art/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) open a new chapter of art history for the country. The show is curated by Manuela Moscoso and commissioned by Stephanie García Alban and the MAAC (Museo Antropologico y Arte Contemporaneo of Guayaquil). Santillán approaches scientific systems through speculative displacement, while TAWNA insists on knowledge as an ecological relation. Within the Biennale’s economy of visibility, this introduces a friction: knowledge circulates, but it resists capture. The work does not strictly oppose the system an entire art demography has longed to be part of. It rather complicates its capacity to fix meaning. Meaning follows movement in the Lithuanian Pavilion, [*Animism Sings Anarchy*](https://www.instagram.com/p/DXpPXYTCEJL/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) by Eglė Budvytytė (opening May 6, 2026, 1–3 PM, Fucina del Futuro), commissioned by the Lithuanian National Museum of Art and curated by Louise O’Kelly. Developed between Vilnius and Amsterdam, the 16mm film draws on Marija Gimbutas’s research into Neolithic matrilineal and animist societies, translating archaeological material into song, gesture, and shifting bodily states. Shot across museum interiors and the Apulian coastline near Grotta Scaloria, the work is choreographed through sites shaped by water, burial, and excavation. Modest 3D-printed and photocopied figures appear as fragile points around which movement briefly stabilizes before dispersing again. A ritual lament of shared breath and song, [*Elegy*](https://www.elegyinvenice.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) by Gabrielle Goliath (May 5–July 31, 2026, Chiesa di Sant’Antonin) builds a place for mourning. Made possible through the support of the Bertha Foundation and realized in partnership with Ibraaz, Fondazione ICA Milano, Galleria Raffaella Cortese, and the Friends of Elegy, in the wake of its cancellation as a national representation for South Africa, the presentation marks a significant moment in the ongoing life of the project. Installed across eight monumental video monoliths within the historic church, three newly realized suites of Elegy performances respond to interconnected contexts of violence and loss, commemorating the South African student Ipeleng Christine Moholane, two murdered Nama women ancestors, and the Palestinian poet Heba Abunada, killed in Gaza in October 2023. A similar shift of medium structures *Pedagogy of Hope*—Radio Vanessa (May 5–10, 2026, Fondamenta de la Tana 1923, Castello, Venice; online until November 22nd), the new season of [Radio GAMeC](https://radio.gamec.it/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), curated by Lorenzo Giusti and Lara Facco, moves from Bergamo to Venice as a collateral event of the Biennale. Instead of an exhibition, it activates a live broadcast from Radio Vanessa, a historic independent station founded clandestinely in 1978 and still transmitting between the Arsenale and the Giardini. Developed in dialogue with Paulo Freire’s pedagogy of emancipation, the project treats radio as a tool for collective learning under conditions shaped by algorithmic information flows. The Tadeusz Kantor exhibition [*Emballage, Cricotage and Madame Jarema*](https://kantorfoundation.pl/en/tadeusz-kantor-1915-1990-emballage-cricotage-and-madame-jarema/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (May 9–22 November, 2026, Procuratie Vecchie, Piazza San Marco 139–153/A, Venice), curated by Ania Muszyńska and presented by the Starak Family Foundation, operates like a time capsule of unresolved historical material, where practices from a period stretching from 1915 to 1990 are reactivated. Bringing together works by Kantor and Maria Jarema with stage objects and archival fragments, it reconstructs a shared avant-garde field shaped through the Cricot 2 Theatre and preserved today by Cricoteka in Kraków. This sense of structuring extends into [*Strange Rules*](https://berggruenarts.org/it/in-corso/mostre-in-corso-palazzo-diedo/mostre-in-corso-palazzo-diedo-strange-rules?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) at Palazzo Diedo/Berggruen Institute (May 4– November 22, 2026, Fondamenta Diedo, Cannaregio 2386, 30121 Venice), where exhibition-making itself becomes a field of regulation. Rather than presenting a coherent thematic statement, the project operates through constraints, behavioral, spatial, and procedural. What can be done, where, and for how long become aspects of the work. The exhibition does not simply host artworks; it organizes the conditions under which they can appear. In doing so, it makes visible something often left implicit: that participation in the art world is already governed by a set of rules that are unevenly applied and rarely questioned. In this frame, Joshua Citarella and New Models created a museum shop to materialize internet soft culture and the aleatory nature of contemporary experience. The negotiation between structure and experience contracts further in [*Bracha. The Room Is Shared*](https://www.eventbrite.com/e/bracha-l-ettinger-bracha-the-room-is-shared-tickets-1983794687312?aff=oddtdtcreator&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (May 4–10, 2026, Hotel Metropole, Venice), an exhibition by Bracha Lichtenberg Ettinger curated by Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev. Installed in a room where Sigmund Freud once worked on The Interpretation of Dreams, the exhibition limits itself to seven paintings and a few video works. It unfolds over the course of a single week. Access is restricted; time is finite; attention cannot be dispersed. Painting here operates through slow emergence. In this context, the “shared room” is not simply a setting but a condition: viewing becomes a matter of presence, proximity, and duration. Within a system organized around circulation and accumulation, this insistence on limited access and concentrated attention introduces another kind of resistance, one that does not declare itself loudly but reorganizes the terms of encounter from within. [*Organized Rest For Times of Uprising*](https://www.instagram.com/p/DX6s1xeiIdX/?img%5Findex=1&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (May 5–June 15, 2026, Terzospazio), co-curated by Arts of the Working Class, Osservatorio Futura, Parsec, and Sara d’Alessandro Manozzo, shifts the terms of engagement. If the preceding works remain entangled in systems of production, visibility, and constraint, this project addresses the cost of that entanglement directly. Through conversations, workshops, and collective pauses, it proposes rest not as withdrawal, but as a condition for sustaining any form of practice at all. Within a context that rewards constant presence and output, to rest becomes a way of interrupting extraction without exiting the field entirely. // --- ### Cover Image: Lydia Ourahmane, "5 Works" Dorsoduro 2829, 30123 Venezia, Italia. Curated by Polly Staple. Image: Courtesy of the Nicoletta Fiorucci Foundation. *Lilo Ruminawi is a poet, playwright, and film director. She has written and directed the experimental short films La Mancha Viva (2014), Perreo Seco (2017), and the documentary essay El Año sin Árboles (2020). She is currently working on the post-production of her first feature-length fiction film, Tzantza, a retro-futuristic western set in the Salar de Uyuni.* ### Music Becomes a Bridge Between Body and World URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-conversation-with-hans-ulrich-obrist-and-ben-vickers-on-hildegard-of-bingen/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:38.000Z The Pope appears more progressive than many heads of state these days, and at times more outspoken than parts of the art world. In such a moment, the Pavilion of the Holy See in Venice becomes this year, somewhat unexpectedly, a timely backdrop for a curatorial proposition by Hans Ulrich Obrist and Ben Vickers. Turning to Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179) as a figure for whom sound, vision, and transmission cannot be separated, they bring contemporary pop icons and medieval monastic chants into an unorthodox shared field. The conversation unfolds through gardens, listening, and modes of attention that resist fixed categories, while gesturing, somewhat opaquely, toward renewed forms of essentialism. **María Inés Plaza Lazo:** **I wonder what Hildegard von Bingen teaches us to see or hear about the present that contemporary art theory cannot yet articulate?** **Hans Ulrich Obrist:** It’s a great starting point. Ben and I worked together for ten years at the Serpentine. We kept returning to Hildegard. The invitation to the Vatican Pavilion came through Cardinal José Tolentino Calaça de Mendonça—a poet and the Prefect of the Dicastery for Culture and Education of the Holy See. It was a rare constellation: someone shaping culture from within a religious and political space. We felt it could open a different kind of exhibition—not a white cube, but a garden. From there, the idea of a sound garden emerged. For Hildegard, sound is a form of knowledge. In her work, vision moves from breath to chant to understanding. Music becomes a bridge between body and world, macrocosm and microcosm. That felt urgent. The Carmelite garden in Venice became a reference point. We had never been there, but we knew it through the writer Cees Nooteboom, who describes it as a hidden silence near the railway station. That contrast stayed with us. **Ben Vickers:** I would add that Hildegard is an extraordinary polymathic figure. There is medicine, language, theology—she even invents her own language—and then, of course, music and voice. To respond to your question, she offers a way of bringing together these different disciplines into a unified voice. That is one reading, but it is a key inspiration for us today. Very specifically, she holds the artistic, the scientific, and the spiritual as one unified practice. We feel we need more figures like that. **HUO:** Which brings us to Alexander Kluge. Every year on January 1st, I would meet him at 3 PM in Sils-Maria, and we would talk about what would be necessary to pay attention to in the year ahead. I already miss him. \[Kluge passed on March 25, 2026\] From those conversations, I knew how deeply he was drawn to Hildegard. We went to Munich together, and he immediately said what Ben has just articulated: it is about bringing things together, overcoming the fear of integrating knowledge forms. Hildegard was a mystic, composer, herbalist, naturalist, poet, saint, visionary writer—and also the author of extraordinary letters. Maura Satoni’s *Das große Hildegard Lesebuch: Worte wie von Feuerzungen* \[still untranslated into English\] is one of the key studies of her work. She highlights Hildegard’s vision writing: not only the invention of a language, the lingua, but also a form that turns vision into script. Kluge himself is a polymath: student of Adorno, filmmaker with Fritz Lang, writer, theorist, producer, lawyer, and institution founder. For him, Hildegard is about one thing above all: the need to create connections and constellations in the world. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Hildegard-von-Bingen-Scivias-Frontispiece-depicting-Hildegard-receiving-a-vision-dictating-to-Volmar-and-sketching-on-a-wax-tablet-1150.-Ink-and-gold-leaf-drawing.jpg) Hildegard von Bingen, Scivias, Frontispiece depicting Hildegard receiving a vision, dictating to Volmar and sketching on a wax tablet, 1150\. Ink and gold leaf drawing **MI: These points of interdependency are so clear in both Alexander Kluge and Hildegard von Bingen, but are also complex to grasp. It is not only about polymathy or channeling knowledge, but about creating cosmologies that can be shared. I wonder if you could deepen our understanding through Kluge.** **HUO:** Kluge was deeply interested in what a common horizon could be—how we bring constellations together in an age that is so divided and polarized. In an age of wars, how do we still create a shared horizon? That brought him to the question of universalism. Two years ago, with Lorenzo Marsili and the Berggruen Institute, we organized a conference on universalism at Palazzo Tre Oci, around Souleymane Bachir Diagne, whom Kluge was very interested in. Diagne argues that we must think of a common horizon from a non–Western-centric perspective. Kluge was very engaged with that. We will show some of Kluge’s films, present the book Universalism, which is dedicated to him, and reprint the 40 “universalist cards” he designed. It is very moving that his last work was created for Venice. It is sad, of course, that it is his final work, but he worked on it intensely until the very last days. It will be shown in Castello. **MI: In this pavilion, transmission seems to matter more than the medium itself. So I wonder how you understand this shift from objects to states of attention.** **BV:** In the run-up to the press conference, I ran an inventory of the overall project and realized it is composed of around 45 different elements. But in its making, we have a very refined and singular perspective on what we are trying to produce. It doesn’t actually feel that complex. I used the analogy of love in the press conference: it’s complicated to explain, but very simple to feel. And that’s where the difficulty lies—describing something in its parts, when in fact it is something to be experienced, a transmission, as you say. We have to be careful in the context we are working in, because there is an enormous history and scholarship around the theological implications of Hildegard and her work. One thing she herself pointed to is that she was not subject to ecstatic experience in a passive way. She was very clear that these were gifts—things given by God to be transmitted through her on Earth. And this is something that, in an art context, has largely been abandoned in curatorial discourse, museum language, and institutional frameworks. But when you speak privately with artists, you know these ideas don’t come from theory books. They come from dreams, from visions, from conversations, from lived experience, sometimes even just in the shower—an idea drops out of the sky and we don’t know from where. That is very much the mode we are interested in. And it also speaks to why we chose sound. Because in this context, there can be no overcomplication. Sound must be heard. It must be experienced. It is an expression of emotion, but everyone receives it differently. If we attempted the same with visual art in the garden, there would be too many mediating factors in how the work is approached. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3.-Alexander-Kluge-The-Ear-is-the-Eye-of-the-Soul-2026.-Print-on-copper-81-x-46.5-cm.-The-Pavilion-of-the-Holy-See_-The-Ear-is-the-Eye-of-the-Soul.jpg) Alexander Kluge, *The Ear is the Eye of the Soul*, 2026\. The Pavilion of the Holy See, The Ear is the Eye of the Soul **MI: This idea of feeling art—and reconfiguring how we approach it—how does it connect with the spatial division you have chosen for the show: the garden and the scriptorium, between listening and inscription?** **BV:** As we know, in monastic traditions, there are multiple contemplative modes. In the garden, we give primacy to listening, to sound, to walking. We describe it as a sonic prayer. That is one mode of contemplation. Another mode is to sit with words. So the division between the two spaces is not oppositional—they are offering different articulations of the same thing. **HUO:** There was no master plan that began with two spaces. The idea evolved. Ben had long wanted to work in a garden. Then his Eminence the Cardinal, with Cristiano, brought us this site. From there, we understood we needed a more holistic experience for musicians, composers, and artists. That led us to Soundwalk Collective, whom we deeply admire, and with whom we began to shape the garden almost as an instrument. I also had a long-standing concern, from my experience curating the Swiss Pavilion for the Architecture Biennale, about how exhibitions are produced. Each edition starts from zero: things are built, then dismantled, then erased. The question became: how do we avoid this reset? At the Serpentine, we already try to reduce transport and reuse structures. But more fundamentally, what if exhibitions could evolve rather than restart? What brought us to what Adrianna Bilbao and Dogma architects had done for this fantastic pavilion called “Opera Aperta”. It was conceived as a homage to Umberto Eco, but it was essentially a construction site. They renovated the print, or rather the building—it was about a stage of repair. They repaired the structure. We loved this idea that “Opera Aperta” was actually about repairing the building, and that we could simply continue that process and add further layers. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Hildegard-von-Bingen-Scivias-2.1-The-Redeemer-1151.-Ink-and-gold-leaf-drawing.jpg) Hildegard von Bingen, Scivias 2.1 - The Redeemer, 1151\. Ink and gold leaf drawing **BV:** One layer is the archive, departing from the same book that Hans Ulrich was quoting earlier. Sister Maura played a critical role in the canonization of Hildegard as a Doctor of the Church. She is one of the leading scholars on Hildegard. The book Hans Ulrich refers to is one in which she works through Hildegard’s visions and explains them very clearly, in a way that can be understood by any audience—academic or otherwise. She comes from Eibingen, Germany. The Abbey of Eibingen is actually founded on the site of Hildegard’s original monastery. So, of course, we also needed to make that connection to Hildegard directly. In the library, which will grow over time, we are starting with around 100 to 150 books: key primary texts on Hildegard, focusing on multilingual access, so that people coming from all over the world can read these carefully assembled texts in their own languages. There are two further elements in the library. The nuns still cultivate the different herbal formulas that Hildegard described—she wrote two texts on healing compositions of herbs and foods. We will have these teas on site, so that people can read and drink tea at the same time. **MI: This is exciting. I love multilingual archives. I also heard that the Benedictine nuns continue Hildegard’s chant as a living practice, and her herbalism as well.** **I wonder how you understand continuity here, not as preservation, but as something else. What does it mean when repetition becomes a form of transmission across centuries?** **BV:** I have something very specific to say on that in relation to monasticism. The real force of the Benedictine rule—and of monastic rules more broadly—is precisely the act of repetition. The recording we have from Eibingen is part of the liturgy of the Hours. Every single day, according to the Benedictine rule, these offices are sung. There is a synchronization between spaces, and more importantly, it is repetition itself that allows monastic life to exist across centuries. **HUO:** And in a way, your question brings us to the idea of longue durée. As you mentioned, this is something that will continue far beyond the Biennale. It is not only a continuation of last year’s architectural project, but something we see as ongoing research. That has always been our approach—whether in “do it” or “on the move,” or in my handwriting project on Instagram. These are projects that exist over 10, 20 years. Ben shares the same conviction. As the founder of a monastery in Matera some years ago, he has always been interested in long-duration practices. For us, the Biennale is a very short chapter—six months is extremely brief if you think in terms of long duration. We hope this is only the beginning, and that the project will continue to evolve and learn. There are many gardens in the world where this could continue after Venice. It is also a very sustainable project, because there is no transport involved. We simply transmit the sound, and it can reappear in another garden, on another continent. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4.-Alexander-Kluge-The-Soul-on-Its-Globe-2026.-Print-on-copper-81-x-46.5-cm.-The-Pavilion-of-the-Holy-See_-The-Ear-is-the-Eye-of-the-Soul.jpg) Alexander Kluge, *The Soul on Its Globe*, 2026\. The Pavilion of the Holy See, The Ear is the Eye of the Soul **MI: We haven’t spoken about all the major figures involved: the pop icons. How do you bring them together with religion today, especially at a moment when forms of essentialism are reasserting themselves? And how are they shaping contemporary art’s vocabulary—its permissions and its limits?** **BV:** The entire project has evolved from one conversation to the next. Soundwalk Collective has been absolutely instrumental in this, in the sense that they are able to identify many of the artists and musicians we’ve worked with as being very attuned to the subject and to the kinds of sounds we want to produce. Hans Ulrich and I then brought in connections to those artists, knowing so many people who are already deeply inspired by Hildegard of Bingen and have engaged with her work in different ways. Meredith Monk, for example, had already produced an entire album on Hildegard. Laraji is someone who is already working in this contemplative, expressive, transmission-based mode of music. So it may look like a very eclectic mix of people, but for all of them, working around Hildegard felt very natural. It really emerged from a sense of pushing on an open door—inviting people into something that was already resonating with them. **HUO:** It wasn’t that we started from scratch a year ago when His Eminence the Cardinal invited us to do this pavilion. We already had long conversations with Holly Herndon and Mat Dryhurst, who have a very deep connection to Hildegard. We had worked many times with Brian Eno and knew about his engagement with her—he has even composed music inspired by Hildegard. So there was already a foundation of research. From there, we extended it further—towards new horizons. For example, going to a concert by Dev Hynes and realizing to what extent Blood Orange \[his nom de scene\] connects, in an unexpected way, to spirituality. Dev has also produced an extraordinary solo piano piece in response to Hildegard—it is deeply personal, almost like a mystery. With FKA Twigs, too, we wanted to include not only a younger generation, but something more fundamental: the sense that we must overcome the fear of “not knowing” and bring together electronic music, pop music, classical music, and visual arts. In a period where everything is so divided, it feels essential to bring disciplines together again. Some will come for Twigs and discover Terry Riley. Some will come for Patti Smith and discover the poet Raúl Zurita. Some will come for art by Precious Okoyomon or Otobong Nkanga, and then encounter music. Some will come for Carminho and realize that Jim Jarmusch is also a musician. And then, of course, we see that this connects to the broader structure of the Biennale itself—because Venice is not only the art Biennale, but also the music Biennale, the architecture Biennale, and the film festival. So, in that sense, we are already in an interdisciplinary field. And there are natural connections across all of them. **MI: It wouldn’t really do justice to this proposal to reduce it to interdisciplinarity or accessibility.** **I think this exhibition allows us to reframe music as infrastructure, rather than expression. And this is exactly what Holly Herndon and Mat Dryhurst have been developing—first at the Serpentine, then in Berlin \[at KW\] , and coming up in Düsseldorf \[at K21\]: the notion of what they call protocol art.** **So my final question is: how does this notion of protocol art, and of music as infrastructure, destabilize the question of authorship when voices become distributed across humans, machines, and beyond disciplines?** **BV:** I have a simple answer—and then you \[HUO\] have a show to promote \[curated with Holly Herndon and Matt Dryhurst at Palazzo Diedo\]. My simple answer is that the Benedictine rule is the original protocol. It demonstrates what a rule can do. No one in the Benedictine monastic orders set out to revolutionize medicine, invent new agricultural systems, or build structures across Europe. And yet that is what emerged. So it shows how a protocol can operate—and how protocols have always been with us. And that has a very direct relevance today. **HUO:** Yes—and that brings us to another show in Venice, namely “Strange Rules”, the exhibition that Holly, Matt, and I are doing with Adrianna Rissoli at Palazzo Diedo. Holly and Matt have long been working on exactly this idea of rules and protocols as a practice—engaging with the underlying systems that shape how culture is produced, distributed, and perceived today. These rules can take many forms. They can be algorithms, artificial intelligence models, large language models, computational systems. They can also be curatorial structures. They can be infrastructures themselves. In that sense, protocol art uses these tools, but also transforms them into artistic material, as Holly and Matt describe it. So the artwork is not a final product—it is a process governed by instructions. This is exactly what is happening with the datasets of choirs at the Serpentine, which can now continue evolving, next in Düsseldorf. And it is interesting that this is not a tour in the traditional sense—it is an evolving system. We see our project with Hildegard in exactly the same way. We are not sending it on tour from Venice. It will evolve, shift, and transform. So in that sense, it is a move from an exhibition of objects to a system. From the singular to collaboration. And that collaboration can be between humans—but also between humans and machines. // --- ### The Pavilion of the Holy See at the 61st International Art Exhibition of La Biennale di Venezia *The Ear is the Eye of the Soul* Commissioned by Cardinal José Tolentino de Mendonça, Prefect of the Dicastery for Culture and Education of the Holy See Curated by Hans Ulrich Obrist and Ben Vickers, in collaboration with Soundwalk Collective With contributions by Alexander Kluge, Benedictine Nuns of the Abbey of St. Hildegard Eibingen, Bhanu Kapil, Brian Eno, Carminho, Caterina Barbieri, Devonté Hynes, FKA Twigs, Holly Herndon & Mat Dryhurst, Ilda David’, Jim Jarmusch, Kali Malone, Kazu Makino, Laraaji, Meredith Monk, Moor Mother, Otobong Nkanga, Patti Smith, Precious Okoyomon, Raúl Zurita, Soundwalk Collective, Suzanne Ciani, Tatiana Bilbao – MAIO Architects - DOGMA, Terry Riley. Produced by Nicola Picco & Raul Betti – Mattia Marzaro Soundwalk Collective & Tessa Nijdam – Elena Origliasso Venues: Complesso di Santa Maria Ausiliatrice, Fondamenta S. Gioachin, Castello 450 No booking required Giardino Mistico dei Carmelitani Scalzi, Cannaregio 54 Registration required at www.coopculture.it Pavilion Hours: 11 am - 7 pm (from May to September) 10 am - 6 pm (from October to 22 November) Closed on Mondays (except 11 May, 1 June, 7 September, 16 November) www.dce.va Cover Image Alexander Kluge, *The Visionary Hildegard of Bingen with the Flame above Her Head*, 2026\. The Pavilion of the Holy See, The Ear is the Eye of the Soul *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### No More Masterpieces, Please URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/no-more-masterpieces-please/ Last updated: 2026-09-03T06:52:29.000Z *What does it mean to expand a museum of contemporary art by 60,000 square feet in an era when cultural institutions are shaped by concentrated resources, selective access, and shrinking space for risk? To take all this in, and yet continue. For the artistic director Massimiliano Gioni, the expansion of the New Museum has become the setting for an unusually dense experiment in exhibition-making.* *“New Humans: Memories of the Future” assembles more than 700 objects—artworks, scientific images, archival materials, and speculative diagrams—to trace how technological ambition has repeatedly reshaped the idea of the human. We spoke with Gioni about the politics of reproduction today, and what it means to curate a museum beyond niches.* Massimiliano Gioni: I hope people spend a whole day in the exhibition. **Max MacLaren: I definitely had to give myself a lot of time to experience it. You claim to reimagine the museum as a space of circulation and research. How did you conceive of this idea, and how does it conflict with other conceptions of the museum’s function?** MG: There is this mythical idea that the museum should be a space of calm contemplation. In a hyper-connected world, I find that slightly kitsch. It’s essential to this exhibition that there is a variety of materials interacting with one another.\[1\] There are masterpieces—such as Dalí’s *Geopoliticus* or Giacometti’s *Diego Assis*—were borrowed at great effort and complexity, but then there is a vast amount of material in the exhibition that is either in the public domain or which can be acquired and reprinted endlessly. For example, the Albert Robida illustrations are reprints of a book where we cut out the pages and framed them.\[2\] So it’s valueless in a sense, and there are many levels to that. I don’t even think of these exhibitions as art shows in a way; I think of them as visual culture. They contain objects of very different status. The variety of objects allows me to build exhibitions where each element becomes an interpretative tool for the others and for subjects, topics, and themes that extend outside the museum. I think you can achieve this because the exhibition is non-hierarchical and it’s non-prescriptive. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Giacometti-and-Francis-Bacon.jpg) Exhibition view: New Humans: Memories of the Future, 2026\. New Museum, New York. Courtesy New Museum. Photo: Dario Lasagni **MM: If these objects with varying statuses are supposed to escape hierarchical relationships, how did you understand value when developing the exhibition?** MG: The challenge is whether people look at Francis Bacon in the same way they look at a French scientific invention. Can they look afresh at it without thinking of him as the great master of existentialism in the post-war era, but as being on the same level as everybody else in that room? I also need the images to exist on their own without feeling framed in a way that will kill their polysemic complexity. It’s a challenge even to ourselves as museum professionals, to think of making exhibitions differently and to make exhibitions in ways that also learn from the subject itself. The subject here is reproduction in a sense, so why be shy about integrating things that are not “important"? I think artists, like all of us, don’t learn just through exposure to the masterpiece; actually, paradoxically, we learn less and less through exposure to the “masterpiece” and more through its reproductions. **MM: Do you see this focus on reproduction as, in a way, democratizing access to art by turning away from the notion of a “masterpiece”?** MG: I don’t know if it’s democratizing access to art, which of course I would be very happy and sympathetic about. For me, discovering contemporary art had a lot to do with books and magazines because I was not in Milan; I was in the provinces. I think the exhibition reflects that. The Man Rays we show are not vintage prints; they are acquired from the Man Ray Trust for a few hundred dollars, and you print them on your own. Even Max Ernst, I could have gotten the original collages, but then I also think, *why not just show the book?* In a way, this decision works toward de-fetishizing the art object and de-sacralizing the idea of the masterpiece. I find that idea tied to commercial and ideological systems that can be exclusionary, so challenging that it may be a step towards democratization. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Albert-Robida.jpg) Exhibition view: New Humans: Memories of the Future, 2026\. New Museum, New York. Courtesy New Museum. Photo: Dario Lasagni **MM: While this decision is reassessing what can qualify as belonging in the museum, the exhibition still expects a certain level of sustained attention from visitors—even if it is not expressed as contemplation. How do you expect people to access and navigate this kind of experience?** MG: I want to speak to people in a way that is aspirational. I don’t want to water down the content, because I have this mythological audience in mind, which also, paradoxically, might not be the one that actually comes. I can’t point to actual statistics, but I know from conversations with colleagues that most visitors to a museum like MoMA have university degrees. At the New Museum, we have, almost involuntarily, more of a niche public. I’m not saying that I consider these things when I’m planning the exhibition. The subject, in a way, concerns everyone, because our lives are so colonized by images, and this is what the exhibition is dealing with. Still, I think—and I’m brutally generalizing—in American museums, there is often a tendency to speak to the “broadest audience”. I don’t know if the “broadest audience” even exists, and then we create a fantasy of the proper language to speak to them. I find that patronizing. **MM: Does the attention you are asking for still depend on time, education, or cultural privilege?** MG: That plays into questions around accessibility that I think are urgent in the US, and I don’t know if they’re fully addressed. Yet, I remember myself as a lower-middle-class teenager in Italy going to art places, and the excitement was to be in a place where I didn’t fully understand what was being said. I don’t know if it works for everybody, but I was confronted with a language that was different and difficult. Did I feel excluded by it? No. I think there is a potential in the unknown that generates a desire for knowing, and that’s reflected in many of my exhibitions. Visitors should want to look into something like the Robida. I want the viewer to undergo an experience of confusion and doubt that I think is pedagogical. Does that still imagine a specific type of reader or a specific type of viewer? Inevitably. But then I don’t think that making the easy exhibition is necessarily better. I don’t know if that contributes to accessibility, because you could also argue that there is so much text in the exhibition that it becomes an obstacle. Yet, ideally, “New Humans” should function for the viewer in a way that allows them to approach it regardless of their knowledge. Then, almost in concentric circles, if you are a professional, if you are a student, and so on, you’ll find enough to keep you excited and busy. **MM: In working to accomplish this, the exhibition produces a dense environment of images, texts, and objects that don’t unfold linearly. Do you see this as a response to the logic of distracted perception cultivated by digital environments of image consumption?** MG: I am mimicking that experience, but paradoxically, I’m doing it in such a way that it holds your attention and distracts you from the industry of image consumption. The exhibition should become an experience with images that have a complexity that differs from the images you may experience for most of your day. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Becoming-Animal-Gallery.jpg) Exhibition view: New Humans: Memories of the Future, 2026\. New Museum, New York. Courtesy New Museum. Photo: Dario Lasagni **MM: Is it a critique of those environments?** MG: Maybe I’m complicit with ideas that, on paper, I would be against, but I cannot, in all honesty, make an exhibition that has a definite critique because that would prevent me from doing a lot of interesting things that I want to try. I can’t preemptively censor myself in the name of a specific position that I might subscribe to. Ultimately, it’s not about my critique; it’s more about whether the visitors can emerge from the exhibition to then go outside and look at images differently. This is a bombardment of images, but, first of all, it’s a bombardment from which I think you can come out more critically equipped. And second, I do believe that everything in there has an intensity that demands attention and demands a rethinking of your relationship to images. I want you to decide whether it’s a criticism or not—whether we are complicit or not. **MM: How much is your resistance to explicit critique imposed by the character and scale of the New Museum as your exhibition site?** MG: There is no resistance to explicit critique on my part, and I really can say what I like in my exhibitions without any pushback on the part of the New Museum. Again, while my perspective is ultimately what organizes the exhibition, the exhibition is not about me or my ideas or my beliefs. I personally think there is nothing worse than being hit on the head by an exhibition that tries to convince you that the curator’s perspective is worth embracing, almost dogmatically. Even though I think “New Humans” is pretty clear in its politics—particularly when it comes to the conflation of technology and totalitarian ideologies—I am not making an exhibition to put forward a prescriptive attitude toward technology. My job is not to bend artworks and images but rather to open them up so they can be connected with other artworks, other images, and other ideas, which will, hopefully, end up feeding the imagination of the viewers. Essentially, the difference is between believing that art and exhibition-making should provide a single clear message—which I strongly disagree with—and the belief that art and museums should preserve a space for complexity and critical thinking. I believe this space of critical thinking is predicated on an understanding of art and images as intrinsically polysemic and complex entities that should not be over-simplified by the ambitions of the curator or by their political or critical agenda. **MM: How have you constructed these spaces for inquiry while avoiding a conclusive thesis or argument?** MG: For visitors, it is primarily about the position of the artist and the artwork. I wanted to construct the exhibition as a historical survey of various positions that have emerged throughout our entanglements with technology. I try to not exclusively capture dreams or exclusively fears, but to navigate the diverse manifestations of these feelings. People visiting the museum can then place themselves in relation to the objects without feeling confined by a normative position. These exhibitions require a lot of effort to not let my taste get in the way. I’m not showing things only because I like them. Obviously, I wouldn’t show a poster of Mussolini or Lenin if I were judging those objects aesthetically. In order to make an exhibition with this perspective, you need a variety of objects, and you need—in Latin, you would say a forma mentis—an approach that allows you to accept certain objects because they are part of a narrative, not even an argument. They enrich and illuminate each other by their presence. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Simon-Denny-and-Jeremy-Deller.jpg) Exhibition view: New Humans: Memories of the Future, 2026\. New Museum, New York. Courtesy New Museum. Photo: Dario Lasagni **MM: Can you give me an example of this interaction?** MG: In a way, Simon Denny and Jeremy Deller in the “Mechanical Ballets” gallery are the most politically explicit in their room, but sometimes the explicit can kill the argument, because a critique that is so clear might become inoffensive. I wanted them in that room because they expand the narrative, but also, when an artwork is so blatantly political, it can risk being dismissed by anybody who has a different view. It’s the trouble with any ideological work. But I thought that, because you have the Deller and the Denny, you understand that the Frank Gilbreth photographs are still talking to you today. Those photographs cannot be consigned to a historical moment because they are placed in a spatial dialogue with recent works that approach the workplace with similar interests but from different angles. This dialogue allows me to speak about contemporary subjects without being monodimensional. **MM: One related historical tension the exhibition suggests is one you refer to as a “symmetry” between early 20th-century works and contemporary practices. What does that relation between past and present imply for you?** MG: I didn’t want to set up that comparison in a way that felt normative, like saying, “Oh, those were the great artists, and we use them as a paragon for the contemporary artists.” But I also didn’t want to have this kind of consolatory narrative like a “we start from the good old days” type of thing. The artworks are cultural symptoms that visualize crisis. The suggestion is: today’s crisis is similar to that one. That’s why I step on the accelerator of many troubling materials. It’s an exhibition for the opening of an institution where we’re talking about fascism and eugenics. The comparison becomes troublesome because, basically, that comparison is a warning about these technological moments of upheaval. While we survived them, it’s a warning that we’ve been here before, and we have experienced the intimate connection between technology and fascism. I read a review today that claims it’s too nostalgic, but I was not trying to glorify views from the past. Actually, there is a catalog of terrible ideas—racism, notions of inferiority, and superiority—many of which actually became reality. And, obviously, all the conversations around superiority and inferiority that were happening in the 1920s and 30s are also happening today. **MM: The exhibition places those myths of superiority in relation to a dialectic of humanism that develops through and against technological and animal forms. How are you addressing the instability of these categories?** MG: I decided to break away, for a section of the exhibition, from technology understood as utensils or prosthetics, and think more about biotechnologies and biopolitics. That’s why there is a chapter on the third floor dealing explicitly with the dialectic of human and animal. And within that dialectic, more explicitly, also a questioning of the centrality of the white Western subject. It starts off from “New Images of Man” because the original exhibition at MoMA is made in the wake, essentially, of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and the obvious realization that that declaration was far from being universal because, you know, it was 1948\. Even visually, I thought, it’s not just an exhibition of puppets, it’s going to be an exhibition of metamorphic creatures that, at that point, are maybe viewed as subhuman with all the implications of that assumption, because who is deciding whether they are inferior or not? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Christopher-Kulendran-Thomas.jpg) Exhibition view: New Humans: Memories of the Future, 2026\. New Museum, New York. Courtesy New Museum. Photo: Dario Lasagni **MM: That “white Western subject” has historically been defined through its technological capacities and its distance from colonial ideas of animality. Is this narrative being challenged in the exhibition?** MG: That’s why Christopher Kulendran Thomas’ piece, *The Finesse*, is particularly important on its floor because it’s discussing colonial histories and histories of exploitation, but he’s also doing it through technology. One risk of that floor was that you start fetishizing this kind of non-Western-human as a romantic idea of coexistence with nature. Then, in a piece like Kulendran Thomas’ or Julian Creuzet’s *ZUMBI ZUMBI ETERNO*, you have artists who are playing with those topics, but who are doing it through very sophisticated technological means. What I think is a detachment from the Enlightenment idea of the subject is that this subject imagined himself as a machine and the machine as a body, etc., but \[The Enlightenment\] presumed that the subject was in control, and now there is the possibility that we are not in control. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Julien-Creuzet.png) Julien Creuzet, ZUMBI ZUMBI ETERNO, 2023\. Video, color, sound; 10:27 min. Courtesy the artist and Andrew Kreps Gallery, New York **MM: Is there a way in which these works in the exhibition are trying to give us a sense of control over our relationship to technology?** MG: It is a caveat, but this exhibition is not about technology; it’s about the stories we tell about technologies to create and understand them. The wish for the exhibition is to have you go through it in a way that you walk out more critically equipped to address such stories. Sometimes I’d think: if you look at all these cavalcades of inventions and ideas, weren’t many people worried about the radio and the telegraph? You can point to \[Marcel\] Proust writing about the telephone, etc., etc…I don’t know if it’s ultimately a consolatory, conservative position to have that condones technological development, but I don’t think it is. It’s more about *how do I live with it?* I saw the internet being born, and we all thought it was both exciting and the end of the world. I do realize that’s maybe a narrow-minded argument, but it’s also what consoles me a little. **MM: In part, this consolation is derived from the symmetry you describe, which recognizes that many hopes and anxieties we experience today are not unique. At the same time, the inventions you present in the exhibition reveal that social change has continuously occurred through the arrival of new technologies. How does the exhibition relate to the modern myth of progress?** MG: While the exhibition is not necessarily optimistic about scientific progress—you could claim that it’s the exact opposite—it still subscribes, maybe involuntarily, to a vision of the future as more. There are very few examples of utopian thinking, maybe none, that depart from an idea of growth and accumulation, and not even progress, but more. I thought that would have been the main criticism of the exhibition. There are—in the \[Arata\] Isozaki piece *Re-ruined Hiroshima*, for example—references to radical architecture of the 1960s by Archigram and Super Studio, but even those are not completely different models, ethically and politically. That might be a problem, but I would have needed another section or, even, another museum. We could have an entire exhibition containing unrealized fantasies of disconnecting, delinking, de-production, and deceleration. **MM: Does the exhibition attempt to make any suggestions for the future?** MG: I’ve tried to go so deep as to suggest that, essentially, the question many works in there are asking is how to make new life. This is, obviously, probably a delusional, maybe very male, fantasy. As Hal Foster writes in the catalog, the “X-Men”\[3\] think of themselves as engineers of the human soul, like maybe avant-garde artists and dictators probably thought of themselves. I’m not imagining myself as one of these engineers. I’m not aware of exactly where we are, except the experience we all make every day, which is obviously existentially confusing. Again, the meager consolation is we’ve been through it, so we will likely survive it, but the problem is at what cost? Ultimately, the exhibition should be pedagogical in the sense that it helps you learn from these historical ideas, these memories, and use them to reckon with our current existential conditions and crises. *//* --- ### Footnotes \[1\] In the exhibition’s “Prosthetic Gods” gallery there are collages by Hannah Höch, sculptures by Hans Bellmer, and Berenice Olmedo, photos of French inventions taken by “unknown photographers”, and a prosthesis made for WW1 veterans by Anna Coleman Ladd. \[2\] Albert Robida is a relatively minor French illustrator and writer from the late 19th century. He wrote and illustrated stories that imagined future visions, some of which came true to varying degrees. \[3\]Foster refers to Elon Musk, Peter Thiel, and Mark Zuckerberg. Cover Image: Salvador Dalí, Geopoliticus Child Watching the Birth of the New Man, 1943\. Oil on canvas, 18 × 20 1/2 in (45.72 × 52 cm). The Dalí Museum, St. Petersburg, FL. Gift of A. Reynolds & Eleanor Morse, 2000. *Max MacLaren is a writer and artist based in New York City and Los Angeles. His work focuses on systems of power, value, and representation in politics, literature, and art. In addition to writing, he works in sculpture and documentary film.* ### Take a visual tour URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/take-a-virtual-tour/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:36.000Z ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.23.21.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.23.51.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.24.28.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.24.39.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.25.20.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.25.47.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.27.12.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.27.04.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.24.05.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.23.51.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.26.50.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.26.37.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.26.21.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.27.25.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.27.19.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-06-at-17.25.47.png) // This slideshow was first presented in the frame of the conference "What Is Infrastructural Critique?” co-organized by KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush, and hosted at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in October 2025. *Maria Bussmann was born in 1966 in Würzburg (Germany). Having studied at the Academies of Fine Art in Nuremberg and Vienna, she graduated in philosophy and cultural studies from Vienna University. The artist lives and works in Vienna and New York.* ### Flames to Dust URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/flames-to-dust/ Last updated: 2026-09-03T06:52:28.000Z I only have a sensation to offer; it’s the sensation of dust. I’m not even sure if it’s theoretically sound, but it feels right in how it’s unbearable while making me curious about the problem it poses. Dust everywhere. It’s in my mouth, powdering my eyelids, creeping up my nostrils, sitting in my auricles. Not a lair left ungritted, no corner untouched. Last year it tasted like an ending. Now, not so much any longer. The dust became a figure, a toy of speculation, something to spend time with, to pay close attention to without knowing the outcome, a concrete universal perhaps. Endings are really transformations: “change”, as Lauren Oya Olamina says in *Parable of the Sower*. I’m thinking of Robert Morris’ *The Box with the Sound of its own Making* (1961), a work that Marina liked for the way it helped her think about speculation. I could not make any art last year. The mere thought of creating left a bad taste. I also could not motivate myself to show any work. Cultural institutions felt impossible to even enter. In the course of a few months they had fully unmasked and they looked really ugly. The alienation was profound and while it was not altogether new it was new in its scope and depth and it felt irreparable, irreversible. Contemporary Art triggered nausea. Then I learned that more people experienced similar things. It had been a shared experience of an ending, as part of a collective sense of loss and rage, depression, and despair. Having not only been unable to stop a genocide but being complicit in so many ways pulled the plug from many things that had somehow managed to be normalized. During the last ten years the liberal cultural institutions had almost made us believe in the sincerity of their desire for reforms. People working in those institutions seemed to have embraced the necessity to dismantle structural racisms and colonial hegemonies. Turns out, a lot of them quickly faltered under pressure. Some actively turned into genocide defenders and it became clear that freedom of expression, one of their core values, had a price tag. The hurried and anxious obedience of institutional leadership giving in to pressure from right-wing bullies to throw artists and scholars under the bus, exposed the actual priorities of the institutions. Within an order built on property relations, they would merely protect their own ruinous “right to exist”. The liberal order had never been separate from fascism, in fact they share a kernel. Marina paid close attention to this and she spelled it out for us. In this maximally alienated and alienating moment, it’s been preciously helpful to revisit Marina’s analysis of the ruin at the core of the liberal order: the sovereign individual. I came to call last year Year Zero. Marina left in Year Zero. Her razor-sharp analysis and her abundant humor is irreplaceable, yet she left us with invaluable writing that will keep us busy for years to come. In Year One, the genocide is still going on with impunity. Institutions are in a state of blathering agnosia. The space of politics has been largely evacuated and busies itself with warmongering clamor and bullying. The dust has rendered habitual spaces near unrecognizable, friend or foe. Still, something is different. In Year One I observe being oddly more able to collect my thoughts. Suddenly it appears all the more meaningful to gather, to build, to self-organize, to dream and speculate, and to imagine what—in Saidiya Hartman’s words—you have no evidence for at all, outside of the plausible, outside of existing categories. The pulverisation of the liberal order spreads the dust everywhere, most of it toxic, some profoundly nourishing and its spread strangely opens the imagination—or fantasy, as Kerstin Stakemeier would have it—beyond the ruinous ruin the liberal order had been, even when it was still doing fine. All the more, examination of the dust seems crucial. It happens sensuously above all, grappling with the impact, the taste, the sound, the smell of it. It’s a matter of survival to discern the toxic from the nourishing, the able from the irredeemable. Amid the debris might lie socialities that are still recoverable, analysis still valid and sharp, and tools useful for instantiating, communizing, infrastructures, very concretely. While sifting through the dust, the toxic parts especially seem saturated with ideology, while missing all purpose or structure. In their ruinous state, these remains appear highly aestheticized. All gesture, all meme. Following Marina, I read these parts as somehow still cultured or culturally circulated. How to grasp both the ideological residue as well as its structural understory requires analysis. In her essay “New Ruins” (a version of which Marina first gave as a talk in Paris at the White West conference and then in another version in Venice, before rewriting it to be included in the publication Beyond Repair in 2020), she speaks of culture as a shorthand for ideology “while being as structural as it gets”. According to Marina structural critique and critique of ideology, while seemingly divergent, are actually very close. They yield analytic value in their combination not their separation. The main ruin that Marina attends to in “New Ruins” is the fetishization of the sovereign individual, the source of all biopolitical value, moral authority and cognitive credibility in liberalism. She writes: The fetish of the individual (artist or citizen) and the sanctity of the individual’s property rights to their speech and creative imagination should be seen as both a result of and a compensation for the suppression of thinking in terms of community, collectivity, or trans-individual responsibility that decades of neoliberal ideology, as enforced by the conditions of everyday life, have established as the absolute bedrock of whatever social contract we can still talk about. Fascists mobilize the fetish of the sovereign individual to organize wounded individuals who feel their rights are being infringed. During the collapse of the liberal order, the fetish of the individual is mobilized under the rubric of dispossession. An atomized society of wounded individuals, having conceived of their own speech in terms of property rights, now demands blood money for the disenfranchisement. The perpetrators must be named and punished. For Marina, the value of the individual points to a primary route (and root) of fascisms both historical and contemporary. Accordingly, it is no contradiction that the sovereign individual, while being ideologically and opaquely pluralist, is structurally synonymous with the dominant categories under capitalism, whiteness and patriarchy. Marina continues: Why is fascism only named as such when it is whiteness that splinters into lives worthy of life on the one hand, and the death or deportation of other newly or newly forcefully de-humanized whites, as in the Second World War and the Holocaust, but not recognized in the consolidation of whiteness against its predetermined others that constituted and continues to constitute the modern polity? From that vantage point, fascism comes to seem like simply the intensification of the long-engrained lethal tendencies of the existing mode of production and governance. Capitalism without a filter, the grinning face of more and more people rendered surplus on a global scale, which now also includes the planet being burnt in the furnace of accumulation. The lethal tendencies—whose impact was always felt more by some bodies than by others, was always more destructive in some places than in others have come for a whole lot of people and non-people, places and non-places. Now it has arrived once more at whiteness’s doorstep, allotting surplus populations in spades. That’s when liberals suddenly become “alarmed” and declare “firewalls” so that their property rights shall not be infringed by fascism. Yes, there is still a residue of leftover liberals roaming the rubble. They are mostly hiding in cultural institutions, hoping that the firewall holds and they might be spared. Marina writes: Every time an artist is given a free pass to “question” or “problematize” without any consequences, regardless of their own ethical or political beliefs, it’s a feedback loop between the sovereign individuality of the artist and the sovereign “free zone” of the institution of art. Certainly, this is a notion of autonomy that has been comprehensively deconstructed at the level of discourse, but this makes no difference so long as the institution of art is maintained through and affirms the sovereignty of capitalist accumulation through its practical existence as a “space apart”. Marina spoke about art that captures its own making. I want to believe that this would have to include its unmaking, its abolition. Tracing the unmaking of the fetish of the sovereign individual in the dust as a way to unearth the ruinous presets that erected it in the first place. In that spirit, I want to share a short piece I just published with *Reliable Copy*. It features three voices. Allow me to briefly introduce two of them: **Robbie Williams** is a fictitious artist, created as a means to record the sound of his own making. He first appears in 2008 when his SOLO SHOW portrays the work of mixed media berlin, a company producing the works of many known artists but staying largely invisible. The SOLO SHOW is spelled out as the making of many hands and minds and begins the work of abolition. Abolition of alienated labor, of authorship and of the sovereign individual and the sanctity of his property rights. **Seda Naiumad** appears around the same time as Robbie Williams. She is an assistant, equally fictitious, and equally and gradually writing herself into the fabric of the real. She is, by virtue of her reproductive activity, a collectivist, flighty but strategic, associative but not identifying, let alone owning. So now we are in 2025, and it might as well be Robbie Williams’ final SOLO SHOW. Seda Naiumad: I think it was me who saw the marble with its pearlescent shimmer first. It rested next to the base of the stage, between security and the protesters. Its perfectly smooth roundness flashed and twinkled as protesters were moving. When I looked up to Robbie he seemed to have seen it as well. He glanced at it curiously, while his body otherwise seemed calm and held. He was standing on stage next to the curators, his hands holding onto something, maybe a note. For a split second our eyes locked and I could see everything that I felt but could not put in words. It was as if the room, no, actually the world, had come apart—split in two opposing stakes—and we both held our breath, staring at the marble’s curve. I was with the protesters. I had told Robbie before and he had just nodded—not looking happy, more in general, not because of me necessarily. He didn’t say it, but I knew that he knew that this show was going to blow up in his face. It had been ill-fated from the get-go, but ambitions and the pressure from his gallery had dominated the conversation early on. He was convinced he could use his leverage then, to make a difference and win the museum over. “If we just abandon the institutions, they will never change,” he said. I felt he said it more to himself than to me because he knew my position. Institutions had been consistent in being hypocritical and the genocide just fully unmasked their complicity in a rotten system. “Robert Cemil Williams, you know I’m not a liberal,” I responded. “I can’t help you.” I looked at him and saw a flat character. He was not Robbie, who I knew as a friend intimately for so many years, he was the protagonist of a warped social order. And he was not ready to disrupt the social field that had made him. He believed he could negotiate with the museum. And he believed in his leverage. “I have to go, good luck habibi.” Robbie Williams: It was to be my biggest solo show to date. Everybody was excited and had been working tirelessly. Both Tim and Mark had encouraged me to think of this as my personal blockbuster—a move into the upper echelons of the arts. So I don’t know, I just felt unusually hesitant, almost uncertain. Besides, the past two years had been beyond horrid. There were tensions way before the opening. The entire art world was in turmoil, divided over the response (or the lack thereof) towards war crimes committed by Israel. Some people had signed stuff in protest and were then pressured by collectors to remove their signatures. Some people had been laying low in public but were very vocal in private. Some people were confused and felt they didn’t know enough to take an informed position in what they called a polarised situation. Anyways, it was complicated. Sometimes it felt as if it was tearing at the very core of stuff in the arts. I felt devastated by what my feed was showing but also too occupied with production to properly participate in anything. The news kept me up at night, endless heart-wrenching testimonies of death and destruction, but also of defiance and resistance. Palestinians documenting the targeting of their homes, of schools, hospitals, universities. Parents burying their children, infants who lost their entire families, doctors operating without painkillers or anaesthesia, cemeteries bulldozed, farmers salvaging crops from the rubble, starving aid-seekers being shot while collecting moldy flour from aid sites. It was utterly depressing and enraging. At some point activists from Seda’s circle reached out to me asking if I would be ready to cancel the show in protest. Many people were involved in this exhibition, several institutions had teamed up, an architectural firm was commissioned for the displays, and some people who had been supportive throughout my career were backing it. There was simply no way I could pull out. I did think about it, I had to. Who wants to stand on the wrong side of history? But it was impossible, too late in the process to let all these people down. But I could do something from within. I felt I had leverage and was on good terms with the curators. Haha, what a joke! Now, standing on stage next to Tim and Mark, I felt as if the floor had cracked right open, leaving us hovering over a gut of steaming viscera. I could foresee how we would all be devoured and turned into dust. Nothing would survive the nonsense written in Tim’s opening address. Nothing would remain. What a shitshow. My mother’s voice purrs, “Cemil canım, they are afraid of us. Be kind to them.” She always defended them like a good immigrant would. She was married to one of them, so yeah. Was that what I was doing here? Being kind? Then I saw the marble. It was sitting there right in front of the stage—that gaping gut under my feet. It was so small but shiny and round like a pearl. I saw Seda among the crowd. She had seen it as well. We looked at each other for a second. And suddenly all fell still and silent in the midst of the boisterous, urgent chants drowning Tim’s lies. I saw Tim leaning into the microphone, his mouth uttering words I could not hear. He looked like AI, continuing his speech despite the fact that he would be turning into dust any moment now. I saw banners carried by waves of bodies. I saw many faces—some familiar, some not—chanting and clapping, and I saw the marble somehow being the epicentre of all anticipation, all possible outcomes and direction. I remember thinking: it’s so perfectly smooth while all else is rugged. It felt like everything was falling apart except for the pearlescent shimmer of this marble. By the time I was able to get down from the stage, the crowd was traversing towards the exit. I glanced at the marble next to my foot and then at Seda and the protesters swiftly exiting the museum, banners held high and still chanting. Gradually Tim’s voice reappeared from under the clamor “...Our work is grounded in essential values that are non-negotiable. As a museum we are deeply committed to freedom of art and freedom of expression....” My gaze followed the crowd moving by outside, behind the huge glass walls of the modernist building. In the window frame behind Tim a large banner started to appear. It advanced like the wind, unfolding under many hands. Once stretched over the entire glass surface, it read “STAATSRÄSON is GENOCIDE”. I watched the staff and security inside rushing to the window, trying to cover the word GENOCIDE with their bodies. Another glance at the marble and my hand reaches for it. I don’t know whether I actually manage to touch it as it all happens in a single breath. While my eyes are pinned to the shiny round surface, the entire museum around me folds down, everts, and spills its glass and steel structure into the surroundings. The fresh air hits my face like a rock and makes me gasp. I had intended to take the marble and walk out of the museum, but now there’s nothing left to walk out of. Only the marble, still sitting next to my foot, is unaffected. I gasp for air again. Apparently, my body is still standing upright, but I do sense a strange ripple across its surface, almost like a shiver. My lips are moving, channeling the strokes of air, my eyes are touching all that has unraveled around my feet. I can’t discern inside and outside, and I do not dare to look further ahead. Keeping my eyes to the ground, I start walking towards where I suspect Seda is, the crunching sound of pulverized glass under my feet. In the residue, I recognize remnants of my sculptures. “I’m done,” I hear my own voice, “*tamam hadi*, I’m done.” In the distance, I hear chants. Marble: Of course we didn’t destroy the museum. We’re not brutes. Not that we have issues with militancy, but we actually like modernist architecture. What you saw was all in Robbie’s head. This is how he imagines things ending. Quite cliché if you ask us, but to give Robbie some credit, it is kind of consistent with his imagination if you look at his work. So this is not exactly what went down. What did, in fact, happen was that Contemporary Art died that night. Well, not exactly that night, but that’s a longer story. You’re asking why it had to die? Before the revocation, “contemporary” was another word for “complicit”. It was inevitable that something had to happen, and something would have happened anyway if we’d left it to the new reactionaries. But when Contemporary Art ended, it did not end art. Quite the contrary. Contemporary Art had been holding art hostage in an endless present that continuously deferred and suspended the historical. In this deferral, it cultivated a general numbness that it called “aesthetic experience”. Let us tell you, it was really an anaesthetics that eventually became a playground for fascism. Contemporary Art had reigned by means of a whimsical but sophisticated operant conditioning system with unbounded rewards, but also coercive narratives of exclusion. Funnily, it held definitive power without accountability. In short, it was a joke, as Robbie found out that night. What happened was that time had started counting again. The time of the dead is as much as that of the unborn. The time of stones. The time of dust and dirt. The time of things breathing and breaking. The time of names and naming. As Solmaz said: “Let it matter what we call a thing.” It goes without saying that praxis is a thing, that study is a thing. And things are looking pretty bleak. For now, art remains as a thermal shadow, allowing us to disperse and feel out the topologies of the surround. We linger at folds and recesses, traverse open fields of utter devastation, and we find remains of sociality in the stretches between what, for now, we call tradition and anticipation. We find that flatness and roundness are not opposed, and that some properties are preserved even in dust. We learn how to touch these properties and turn them into infrastructures. // This contribution was first presented in the frame of the conference "What Is Infrastructural Critique?” co-organized by KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush, and hosted at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in October 2025. --- ### Cover Image: Mariuccia Secol, *Mom Has Gone Out (La mamma è uscita),* 1980*.* © Mariuccia Secol. Courtesy of the artist’s family. Photo: Magdalena Typiak *Natascha Sadr Haghighian is an artist known for assuming multiple identities. Her official press releases and gallery biographies conflict on country of origin, date of birth, and place of residence.* ### We are here and we are in it. URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/we-are-here-and-we-are-in-it/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:21.000Z Recently, I’ve been taking Marina’s classes. That obviously means something quite different now than it did when she was teaching them herself, but there’s something quite comforting to me in the activity of accompanying her in this way, week by week, class by class, through a period of time that I experienced alongside her and yet very differently. I go backwards in time, but also forwards, to a moment in the formation of her thinking that remains incipient, where the relationship between her own thoughts and those of others remains in process, shifting and yet now unchangeably underdefined. The courses she taught at the Angewandte during the last six months of her life covered the main areas of her research during the previous years of her work, but from new angles. I’ve been doing the reading she set for all four. She only finished two of them, and in the folders on my desktop, containing her notes for the class on Ciaran Finlayson’s book *Perpetual Slavery*, her commentary suddenly breaks off in week 3, with some scattered comments on Saidiya Hartman’s idea of “burdened freedom”: The question of freedom is not just about the development of history or diagnoses of historical narrative, but, as Adorno also acknowledges, the position of the subject within it, noting, however, that narratives very much affect positionality. I’ve been going through the syllabi she prepared and trying to think about where her theory was moving in the last months of the year before last, and in the long first months of the last year, with all of its distinctive twists and doublings back, its noteworthy distaste for the end of the sentence. I’ve been catching up. It’s taken a long time, but I’ve wanted to think about how her theory moves, and in what way it was moving, as well as in what direction, in its final stages. Classes on aesthetics; on the critique of political economy; on US slavery; and what Marina named the “conditions” for it. Art history, totalities since 2008, Ciaran Finlayson’s book *Perpetual Slavery*, infrastructure: it feels right to me to say that these are the main paths along which her thinking was travelling, going both forwards and back. “I remember how you said in 2021,” I wrote in the first draft for this: That theoretical coordinates need to be bracketed or recontextualized in the constant process of collective struggle whose results can be minimal and deferred, if there are any results at all, and I remember the love note that you'd written for us twelve years before you died, that I found in a notebook in our flat, in July 2024, a loose leaf in a collapsing, orange covered book, with lecture notes scrawled on the other side, which ended 'everything has stopped... everything has stopped... though I feel the vibrations still the reports he and I are the stop we are here and we are in it'. I start at the end and go backwards. I’ve been trying to think about how Marina’s theory moves, about how it exists inside of history, about how it provides a language for the history that is inside of it, that we are in, rotating in ways that are both liberating and painfully contorted. I have the materials for the courses because of a minor but to me enormously significant act of infrastructural critique, by Marina’s student Luciano Pecoits, who enrolled on all of the courses retrospectively so that he could download the reading lists and send them to me back in the autumn of 2024, after Marina’s illness ran out of control and she and I were moved to the palliative care ward of the Vienna General Hospital, an event that must have been terribly shocking for the students in her classes, and for which I know, from the bottom of my heart, she would have wanted to apologize. It takes a lot of work to catch up with someone who read faster than you and who was reading for a longer period of time, but I’ve had more than a year now that Marina didn’t. I’ve spent a lot of time in the last months thinking about what a theory should do, or be—about what a theory is. Perhaps it seems self-gratifyingly meta to talk about the (social) ontology of a theory, its being or way of being, rather than more prosaically about what the theory says, or helps us to do, but my own primary engagement with poetry also teaches me about the significance of time in altering the meaning of what is read. I love a lot of books that sat in manuscript form in cardboard boxes for many decades after the deaths of their authors, before they could be published and read, and transformed. I also love, though he doesn’t seem like an immediately relevant point of reference here, the writings of Pier Paolo Pasolini, who said that a death is the epistemological precondition for the understanding of a life. I want to negate that claim, but in what Marina might call its negative relationship to truth it remains helpful to me. I’ll come back to it in what follows. I’ve been thinking about the way that Marina’s theory moves, which is to say about the way that it theorizes movement, but also the resources it provides to describe its own movement, both with and without me, in the months after Marina’s death. In May of this year, at the Performing Arts Forum (PAF) in Picardy, I participated in a collective reading led by the artist Noor Abed of the writings of Palestinian prisoners. They were smuggled out of high-security Israeli jails using the various techniques for smuggling such writings known to political prisoners for as long as there have been politics, and to me mainly through David Beresford's book *Ten Men Dead*, his history of the 1981 Irish hunger strike in the British state internment camp Long Kesh. Because the theme of the meeting at PAF was infrastructure, we talked in that session about how the “conditions” of our own reading of these texts, in a collectively-owned and refunctioned convent in a relatively impoverished and therefore—for international cultural workers—relatively inexpensive part of Northern France, could be thought of as an “infrastructure”, as something that is integral, and not just incidental or loosely connected, to its meaning. At the same event I proposed for inclusion in the reader a text by the architectural theorist Reinhold Martin, a text that I knew Marina loved, and that she cited in her first text on infrastructural critique from 2016, but that I hadn’t yet read: As its name suggests, the purpose of the dumbwaiter was to exclude Black voices and Black ears from the conversation above. The dumbwaiter, then, did not merely regulate the boundaries of a sphere that was reserved, in a Kantian sense, for the public use of reason; it helped to produce that sphere by minimizing interference and distortion, and restricting transmission and communication in a manner that ontically differentiated master from slave. Martin is writing here about the social ontology of a theory—in this case, of classical liberalism—via the mechanical dumbwaiters that Thomas Jefferson installed in his classicized mansion, Monticelli. The dumbwaiter, Marina would later write, in her class notes for the course on infrastructure that she taught at the Angewandte in 2024 (although this was a class she never got to teach, because it was scheduled to take place on the same day that she was moved into palliative care) “repeats the dehumanization of the enslaved in object form \[in a process that continues\] up to the self-driving car”. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3Mariuccia-Secol_Stendardo-Liberazione-1945_Ph.Magdalena-Typiak-1.jpg) Mariuccia Secol, *STENDARDO (LIBERAZIONE 1945)*. Photo: Magdalena Typiak (detail) I am preoccupied with the way Marina’s theory moves, because I am trying to understand, like you, what it is: because I want to know *What Is Infrastructural Critique*. I am preoccupied with this question because I know, by instinct and by education, that I cannot know what it is unless I pay attention to how it moves, which is to say how it has moved in my own hands, as one of its editors, and how it moves now beyond both Marina and me, in circles of mediated, reciprocal influence that I cannot predict or necessarily always hope to follow. I know that Marina was committed to the overcoming of boundaries, such as the “boundaries of a sphere that was reserved, in a Kantian sense, for the public use of reason”; between the art institution and its “outside”; and between political struggles of different kinds; and I know that in committing to all of this she also made her theoretical work as unfinishable as her sentences sometimes seem to be, because the language in which we describe overcoming should itself be overcome. I know, as well, that Marina believed in the power of the boundary, as a social fact, to use Adorno’s term, reliant on an infrastructure, to use Reinhold Martin’s, and providing certain resources of abstraction and speculative indeterminacy, to use hers, though these markers of ownership are themselves provisional and unstable, liable to disappear or scatter under historical or philological scrutiny. Marina knew this too and was convinced of the status of her own project as collective work, carried on by many hands, and many different kinds of hands, in many different “spheres”, all of them with their own boundaries that need to be overcome, often by making use of them, by leveraging their different scales and syntaxes, forms and functions, levels and levers. I know, finally, that in thinking about movement in Marina’s theory, about negation as transformation, as she put it, I cannot entirely remove, delete, or negate myself, and that when I think about myself as one of the editors of her book on infrastructural critique, the creator of what I hope is a dialectical image of it, of its movement at a standstill, I cannot not think about editing in the light of other writers who I love, who have had something to say about the way in which death is itself an editorial act, an aspect of large historical movements that exceed us, though we are here and we are in it: Editing is thus very similar to the choice which death makes of the acts of a life, placing them outside of time \[...\] I was saying earlier that death affects a rapid synthesis of a past life, and the retroactive light that it shines on that life highlights its essential moments, making of them actions which are mythical or moral outside of time. Well, this is the way in which *a life* becomes *a story*. Marina may not have considered all of these concepts to be quite right: the concept of the mythical, for example, or the moral, or “outside of time”, or “death” viewed as something punctual and final. And, come to think of it, she also had her doubts about the concept of “life” as well. But I take some courage from the fact that the copy of the book from which I just quoted belonged to her, and I’m trying to understand what infrastructural critique is: to see how it moves. I know that the image of movement is not quite adequate on its own. I know this because at the Performing Arts Forum in May 2025 I also read an article by Lauren Berlant, in which they write: “Movement is what distinguishes infrastructures from institutions, although the relation between these concepts and materialities is often a matter of perspective.” Which is so admirably clear, but also made me realise, as Marina herself scrawled in 2002 across a Master’s application she’d written, in which some of her ideas about speculation and subjectivity were worked out for the first time: you have to be more specific. So, what kind of movement distinguishes infrastructure from institution? And is movement infrastructure’s *only* distinguishing feature? And how else do we track the “shift”, or as Marina wrote in 2017, “perhaps rather a drift, since the shift is not historical but one that can be observed as temporally concentrated in the wake of the exhaustion of other strategies,” from an institutional to an infrastructural critique? I could start by saying that if we take Reinhold Martin seriously, which Marina did, then another distinction between infrastructure and institutions, besides the one Lauren Berlant proposes, is that the former are “dumb” and the latter are loquacious, and that the dumbness of the one, even when it’s made out of language, such as, for example, the infrastructure of the law, is a “condition” of the loquacity that takes place in the other. As Martin writes: Population and education were organized in an ascending scale into a pyramid of knowledge, at the actual, incomplete apex of which would eventually stand the University of Virginia, with its central organ for managing the attention of young white men, the library. The “dumb” waiter moves silently up its shaft, its inhuman, wooden passageway, towards this apex, the apex of a social pyramid that presents itself as, or that understands itself to be, a “sphere”, and which becomes this only after the people who have been relegated to the bottom of it no longer appear, having been mechanically replaced. “The colonial-era ‘dumbwaiter’ \[...\] repeats the dehumanization of the enslaved in object form’ \[in a process that continues\] up to the self-driving car,” remarks Marina, in early 2024, for that seminar she didn’t quite get to teach. “\[T\]his week’s reading,” she continues, “will be a first venture into the symptomatology of ‘artificial intelligence’”. The dumbwaiter, this “symptom” of intelligence, moves silently up its shaft. It has no idea that the humans that it apes and invisibilizes needed to be replaced, “infrastructurally”, in order for the dining room to be “constituted” as a “sphere”, despite remaining in some other reality—the non-institutional, the “real” one—a pyramid, that is, a hierarchy in which certain kinds of people at the top can talk, without the embarrassment of other, lower kinds of people overhearing. A sphere, or geometrical circle: a space in which all ideas of hierarchy, all gradients, apexes and power verticals are reassuringly, magically smoothed out, into the mellifluous curves of infinitesimals and functions that vanish at a point, which is to say the magical language of a technical rationality in which society all but disappears, or rather disappears and then reappears as something else: a figure of speech, a fiction, a form, curve, circle or concept. It moves, as Lauren Berlant accurately says that an infrastructure must, so that the institution can stay, or remain, fixed, and can eventually be redeemed or sublimated into such notions as liberalism, democracy, freedom, and art. So, this is a lesson about the role of infrastructure, not only in the construction of institutions, but also in the formation of concepts. “Silence,” ca. 1800, is what Reinhold Martin calls it. What about silence ca. 2025? I am trying to understand what infrastructural critique is, and I am trying to think about how it moves. On the first anniversary of Marina’s death, on April 26, 2025, a group of some of her closest friends visited a large exhibition of work by the artist Park McArthur at the mumok in Vienna, some of which Marina had remarked on in passing in her extant writings on infrastructural critique. “The floors are tarrazzo,” begins McArthur’s exhibition text: The floors are marble, wood, and gray concrete. Everything is installed on Level 0 opposite a large glass wall and transparent security gate. Everything on Floors 0 and 1: spread throughout the Temporary Exhibition Gallery by the building’s entrance, the multi-storey High Gallery, the Street Level Foyer Gallery leading back to the museum cafe, and the Skylight Room upstairs. The museums open and close. If you walk into Level 0 of the mumok, as we did on that afternoon, you see “everything all at once, nothing to hide”. “Two oversized blocks of soundproofing foam face off with a pair of highway sign sculptures”. In the exhibition guide, the works are concretely described, but they also repeat, as when McArthur writes, at the end of a text titled “Elsewhere”, that “decommissioned and disassembled, signs depart from this text. Temporary and preserved, stolen, covered, and carried away, they are ignored and avoided—cursed, consequential, and inferred.” The works that are first introduced literally are preserved and inferred “elsewhere” by means of poetic para-text, an erring half-rhyme, which is to say by means of one of the central techniques of Park McArthur’s art. Preserved, inferred. The highway sign sculptures are called *Softly, Effectively.* They resemble two massive non-reflective, or at least only partly reflective, mirrors, “reflect\[ing\] the day’s light through windows facing the sculpture garden.” The gallery text cited on the MoMA webpage listing their acquisition reads: The US Federal Highway Administration (FHWA) declares that traffic control devices ‘speak to us softly, yet effectively and authoritatively.’ In this work—one of forty blank signs the artist had made based on specifications from an FHWA \[Federal Highway Administration\] manual—McArthur omits ‘authoritative’ text and images to challenge the systems that determine patterns of human movement. By subverting the sign’s intended purpose as a wayfinding device, McArthur has created an object that is equally inaccessible to all—a wordless monument to the impossibility of conforming lived experience to a single structure. The signs are “decommissioned and disassembled \[...\] stolen, covered \[...\] carried away”. Silence ca. 1800, silence ca. 2025\. How does infrastructural critique move, per Berlant? What is its form of movement, per Marina? About two months after our visit, one of the people who was there, a person who cared for Marina during the final weeks of her life, was informed that a workshop he was to give at the mumok’s sibling organization, the Kunsthalle Wien, had been cancelled, after he and his collaborator notified the venue that their discussion—due to focus on Walter Benjamin’s 1934 anti-fascist text “Author as Producer”—might touch upon contemporary debates around fascism and genocide. A few weeks after providing their advance warning, they received a message to say that their event had been cancelled. Apparently, too few staff were available to facilitate the workshop. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1Mariuccia-Secol_Stendardo-Liberazione-1945_Ph.Magdalena-Typiak.jpg) Mariuccia Secol, *STENDARDO (LIBERAZIONE 1945)*. Photo: Magdalena Typiak (detail) Just as with Thomas Jefferson’s dumbwaiter as theorized by Reinhold Martin, though, of course, analogies are always precarious—or, as Marina would argue, speculative, because analogies are always unities of identity and nonidentity—we encounter here a situation where labor seems, as if magically, to disappear, just where you might expect it to exist in the most abundant supply. The end result of this disappearance is dumbness, or silence that has been intentionally produced, which is to say, in Park McArthur’s terms, a few hundred feet away at the mumok, or at least in the terms of the critic tasked with composing the label with which her art is displayed: “the creation of an object that is equally inaccessible to all”. Two infrastructures, two sets of conditions: 1\. A blank highway sign, deprived of the signs that would allow it to speak, speaking only of itself. A readymade object, for which the apparatus of the art institution supplies a different language, reclothing it in signs of a different kind: in this case the inclusive, tangibly vague idiom of “lived experience”: the spontaneous ideology of the liberal public sphere. 1. A closed art space, emptied of the public who, through its contentious or even conflictual exchange of “lived experiences,” could be said to constitute a “public sphere”. It could have done so, that is, if we hadn’t already started to see behind that abstract, geometrical shorthand something much more mechanical, which is to say, infrastructural: a stripped-back, material framework for which no second-order language is intended to be supplied, so that we have to supply it here instead. Signs depart from this text, are cancelled, decommissioned, and disassembled, are taken for wonders. What is left once the talks have been “decommissioned” and the instructions have been stripped away is the infrastructure that “helped to produce them” and that served as their conditions: large metal highway signs, aluminum, measurements overall: 71 5/8 x 114 x 1 1/2 inches (181.93 x 289.56 x 3.81 cm); an empty room full of stacked plastic chairs. The kinds of things that Park McArthur describes, or perhaps just notes, in her work, with a close and searching interest that is based in need, or that starts with need but which is always trying to arrive somewhere else, in a concrete movement towards a concrete somewhere else, as Marina once described the practice of negation: In my 2018 book *Speculation as a Mode of Production*, I explored art and financial capitalism as two institutions of contemporary life that deploy a surplus of uncertainty—speculation, risk—to ground their claims on value. At the same time, I was interested in underlining how both are mechanisms of making labor ‘disappear’ using the spells of creativity, freedom, and self-investment. Here, then, is a third way in which labor “disappears” in the magical circle or sphere of contemporary art. And I can guess, though I can only guess—because often it is only possible to guess, or to speculate—that Marina found the image of the dumbwaiter in Martin’s essay, this image of a machine or an infrastructure which allows some men to talk about freedom and justice, while rendering some others “dumb”, an irresistible metaphor for the institution of contemporary art itself, for its “sphere” of discursive or gestural progressivism that so often performatively contradicts itself. I am preoccupied with the way Marina’s theory moves, because I am trying to understand, like you, what it is, though I also know, by instinct and by education, that I cannot know what it is unless I pay attention to how it moves; and I know that often it is necessary to move not forwards but backwards. On the very first pages of Adorno’s *Lectures on Aesthetics*, a book which Marina read in the summer before she moved to Vienna, he talks about what I think might be a principle of infrastructural critique, about the role of the “dumb” or unspeaking in it (the underlining here is Marina’s): In other words, quite simply put: that objectivity of the aesthetic which I assume will occupy us here can result as objectivity only from an analysis of the facts, problems and structures of aesthetic objects—that is to say, the works of art. There is no other path to this objectivity than to immerse oneself in the objects themselves, and I will not hesitate to show you at least \[...\] a few models \[...\] here \[...\] our central methodological tenet should be—if I may use Hegel’s words again—to devote ourselves as purely as possible to the matter without adding too much of ourselves. Silence circa 2025\. An empty room, designed to “carry” signs, or rather, to permit a kind of speech, to be a sort of infrastructure for speech, and yet itself remaining mute, silent: the art institution as dumbwaiter. “\[T\]o devote ourselves as purely as possible to the matter without adding too much of ourselves”: the dumbwaiter as critic. If I search in the English translation of *Aesthetic Theory* for the word “mute”, the first result appears on page 23 of the Continuum edition, in the opening chapter “Situation”, a passage of which Marina assigned as reading for her class at the end of her course on Finlayson’s *Perpetual Slavery*: “Art is modern art through mimesis of the hardened and alienated; only thereby, *and not by the refusal of a mute reality*, does art become eloquent; this is why art no longer tolerates the innocuous.” In 2013, Marina quoted the entirety of that passage in an article on the social enterprise artworks of the artist-entrepreneur Theaster Gates, an article that used this phrase, *mimesis of the hardened and alienated*, as its title. Marina comments there that We can make some extrapolations here, which may not necessarily be Adorno’s own. One is that part of modern art’s very being consisted of emulating that which is alien to it. That is, its \[art’s\] autonomy was based upon a relation of troubled proximity—whether of rejection or mimesis—to the banal social, economic, material facts from which it operated at a remove. “Like all narratives of modernization”, she continued, ‘the one of art cannot help but also evoke the narrative of economic growth, the liberation theology of capital.” She notes in the same text that “A recent exhibition \[of Gates’s\] at the White Cube in London \[was\] titled “My Labour is My Protest” \[and\] presented his work for a UK audience,” and that his ‘entrepreneurial outlook—promoting the virtues of labor in social change, preferably the labor of others, while he interfaces with real estate developers, art institutions, and NGOs—is resolutely and unapologetically ‘post-political’.” I want to stay close, if I can, to the problem of dumbness or silence here, as an aspect of infrastructure, or infrastructural critique, and to the problem of what it means—“not necessarily”, as Marina says, in Adorno’s own sense—to speak about “devot\[ing\] ourselves as purely as possible to the matter, without adding too much of ourselves.” The title of Gates’s White Cube exhibition rhymes, or rather clashes, with the title of the exhibition of another US artist concerned with the systematic impoverishment of Black people, an artist about whom Marina had a lot more to say, and an exhibition that is one of the main focuses of the book *Perpetual Slavery*. That exhibition, *91020000*, by Cameron Rowland, is referred to by a mute, dumb list of numerals that serve the purpose not of identifying the labor, possessively and pronominally identified, belonging to the entrepreneurial figure of an artist-author, who talks “about” this labor while assigning its performance to others, but to the lots in a police auction that provide the artist with readymades. Marina also wrote in “Mimesis of the Hardened and Alienated” about the work of the artist Tino Seghal: In his work, this tendency \[to render the social a contingent aspect of the work’s mythopoesis\] can be described as a kind of optical illusion that presents two dimensions at once, but which cannot be perceived simultaneously. Either you, as a viewer, agree to the social contract of the work—which involves focusing on the immediate, direct experience of orchestrated sociality in Seghal’s case, or a processual and temporal theatre of community in Gates’s—or you try to understand the conditions of possibility of these performances, the performers’ agency, power relations in this ensemble of social mimesis, and so forth. Each perspective cancels out the other, referring any critical approach off limits, or even redundant, because the distance demanded by critique breaks the social contract of frictionless exchange on which this work is predicated (just like in the service industries that it emulates). *Either/or. Either* “My Labor Is My Protest” or “91020000”. “Each perspective cancels out the other”. I am trying to think about how Marina’s thinking moves, and at this point, it begins to move towards what I perceive as a problem of language, as an aspect of subjective experience. The dumbwaiter, the blank metal highway signs and the shuttered art space with its disappearing labor, all rhyme with the numbers assigned to the New York gallery Artists Space as a bidder in a police auction in which, as a nonprofit institution, it was permitted to purchase, at below market prices, items of furniture manufactured by mainly Black prison labor in the State of New York: inexpressive functional numerals that in their new context, the exhibition context of Artists Space itself, become a kind of linguistic readymade, over which a new shell of affect grows, like a hardened and alienated crust, across the surface of an apparently living experience, yours or mine. These objects rhyme with these numerals, they all share this quality of appearance, because in the evacuation of ostensibly living experience each reveals something *about the material conditions of subjectivation*, of a subject existing in the gap between the subject of “My Labor is My Protest” and another subject who doesn’t exist yet, who remains silent, dumb, virtual, a kind of negative potential, latent in the infrastructures of social life “like a spirit like a gas”: in the “banal social, economic, material facts”, in relation to which “art” maintains its troubled proximity—whether of rejection or mimesis—as both autonomy and social fact. On March 11, 2024, Marina gave her second-to-last public presentation at the launch for Volume 3 of the pamphlet series *Diversity of Aesthetics*, titled *Looting*, an edited transcript of an informal discussion between the political theorist Vicky Osterweil and the historians and theorists Saidiya Hartman, Christina Sharpe and Rinaldo Walcott. She proposed some questions prompted especially by a few remarks of Hartman’s, whose writing is at the center of the classes she was teaching in the months before her death. “\[A\]s Hartman brings up so eloquently in the conversation,” writes Marina, “when they do it \[organized theft\], it’s capitalism, or conservation, or development, or what have you, but when we do it, it’s looting. There’s a slight elision of what the ‘it’ is or could be because, of course, scale and systematicity have an enormous role to play. Otherwise, the question of exploitation—whether by race, gender, class—that can differentiate and inscribe the value-form as a structural question would not make sense.” Again, the discussion here touches on a question, familiar to us in the present, of language, representation, visibility, and silence, and especially about the ability of constituted power, usually state power, to use two different words to signify the same practice, based on whether the agent is the state itself or its enemies. The discussion in the rest of *Looting* comes back quite often to this problem of speech or representation, the question of muteness or silence, of what Hartman calls, in an interview with Frank Wilderson from two decades before, “the position of the unthought”, a position which Marina made central to her own reflections on abolition as a category that shifts across a number of political boundaries: movements against anti-Blackness and slavery, against gender, against capital and its value-forms. “What I’m animated by,” says Walcott, “is thinking of looting as a particular form of speech that’s not assimilable to the forms of speech that are already available to us.” A readymade language, one which brings to mind the image of Duchamp’s bicycle wheel, itself a thesis about language in general and perhaps about political language in particular. “All the language around MOVE was an attempt to make them incomprehensible,” says Sharpe. “It’s like, ‘oh, we don’t actually value this,’” says Hartman of the images of rioters, “we are content to see it burn to the ground. Our radical indifference to the national project is on display. The desire to bring about its end is revealed. The repressed and the unspeakable are in plain view.” “Art is modern art through mimesis of the hardened and alienated; only thereby, and not by the refusal of a mute reality, does art become eloquent,” adds Adorno. I’m trying to think about how infrastructural critique moves, and one of the ways in which it moves in its more recent stages is towards these questions of speechlessness, incomprehensibility, illegibility, the non-assimilable, the fugitive, the repressed, and unspeakable, the hardened and alienated, the unthought, the “dumb”, whose inhabitation *as elements of a different kind of language* form aspects of a tradition of Black refusal, or another “form of speech” (Walcott), the refusal of the refusal of a mute reality, to use Adorno’s terms, or “continuous refusal, collective refusal,” to use Cameron Rowland and Thomas Lax’s; a refusal enacted by many hands, and many different kinds of hands, in relation to and across many different kinds of boundaries, to use Marina’s term—though none of these proprietorial markers really mean anything. In other words, what we are dealing with here is the question *What Is Critique*, a question nested within the question *What Is Infrastructural Critique*: a question within a question. “Finally,” Marina wrote in her 2022 Humboldt lecture on infrastructural critique, the source text for her last really finished theoretical articles: All these tasks point to the need to understand the concept of critique at issue in ‘infrastructural critique’. The perspective argued for above cannot leave critique in its own right untouched, with its acknowledged genealogy in the unconditional autonomy of the isolated and European-identified Enlightenment subject that rightly informs most debates around the notion in the sphere of radical theory these days. Instead, the aim is to contribute to the comparatively sidelined history of critique as a material practice of antagonism whose subject, if it has one, is dispersive, uncategorizable, and collective I go backwards in time, but also forwards, to a moment in the formation of Marina’s thinking that remains incipient, which has to do with this idea of the dispersive, uncategorizable and collective subject of critique, emergent within histories of practical negation of the types discussed in *Looting*, but also transformable into the infrastructure of social life: banal social and economic facts. On February 22, 2024, Marina travelled to Troy, New York to give a presentation at the Curtis Experimental Media and Performing Arts Center, her third-to-last public event. Along with the work of Margaret Raspé, she discussed a 1981 short film by Fronza Woods, *Fannie’s Film*. Woods’s work intercuts footage of a Black cleaner in New York, Fannie, talking about her life, and working in an expensive gym whose customer base is sculpted white men and women in their twenties. “The conditions of representation,” argued Marina, In this film displaced onto Fannie, though it is really of course Woods’s film of Fannie, not Fannie’s film at all, are here redoubled in the content of the film—mirrors, frames, devices for the reproduction of docile and active bodies— which then go on to create the conditions for the representation of a kind of labor that disappears in its task, and thus can’t really be represented at all. Which is why its visibility becomes a political question, and potentially a challenging one, especially when intensified by the naturalization of non-white menial labor in a way analogous but not assimilable to the work of the white middle-class housewife (which is also the reason why Black Women for Wages for Housework was always going to be situated differently to the generality of the Wages for Housework campaign). Dumbwaiters, blank metal sheets, inexpressive numerals, incomprehensible languages, hardened and alienated frames, devices for the reproduction of docile and active bodies, white ones. Marina was herself at this point almost silent, having lost her voice due to her illness the month before. She was planning to talk in Troy with the help of what she called, in the amazingly detailed notes for one of her seminars, “this marvellous contraption”: a portable microphone and speaker kit of the kind used by tour guides, the type of tour Andrea Fraser once mimicked during her famous work of second-generation institutional critique *A Gallery Talk* in 1989\. “\[S\]peak to us softly, yet effectively and authoritatively”, says the US Federal Highway Administration (FHWA) of its traffic control devices. Speak softly, yet effectively, redacts Park McArthur, in presenting to us the blank, unspeaking, dumb and mute infrastructural “conditions” of that speech, in the form of a metal sheet, 181.93 x 289.56 x 3.81 cm. Technical specifications, accessibility requirements, legal and financial infrastructures, contracts, exhibition guides, audio guides, microphones and speakers, captions, frames, devices, mirrors, administrative workers, technical assistants, cameras, conference assistants, creative class workers, lecterns, lecturers. I’m trying to see how infrastructural critique moves, which is to say its form of movement, its movement “inside and outside”, to use the language of *Diversity of Aesthetics*, to see the way in which it moves across, and so negates, but also makes use of the existing social power of, the power of the social fact of, *the boundary*, which is to say the boundary between art and life, between institution and society, wage labor and non-wage labor, the Black radical tradition of the fifteenth-century through to today and the much shorter history of Marxist-feminism. In Marina’s remarks about *Fannie’s Film*, about the problem of the mute, the silent, the dumb, the hardened and alienated, the polished and the cleaned, about the infrastructure of a reality in which “my labour” and “my protest”, and also “my body” and “my art”, are situated, a new question about movement emerges, which we can add to the questions that she asked two weeks later, at the launch for *Diversity of Aesthetics*. This question emerges, in Marina’s thinking, as a question about labor, about scale, about infrastructure. It is a question of how a movement of antagonism “in the streets”, for example in the George Floyd uprising of 2020, can begin to articulate itself in the “material” infrastructures of the institution, in the whole compositional field presented to us by the “conditions for … representation”, in particular in the forms of labor that disappear, non-white menial labor, reproductive labor, often Black women’s labor, as well as the financial and legal infrastructures that reproduce such labor as the property of a particular kind of person over long periods of time, “in the long tail of involuntary servitude”, as Thomas Lax puts it in “Continuous Refusal, Collective Refusal”, or over the “long term”, as Rowland puts it, in relation to their own infrastructural work “on time”, which Marina would describe in yet another presentation in March 2024, two days before her talk in Troy. I am trying to connect these thoughts of Marina’s, shared with many others, about the long afterlives of slavery with her thinking about infrastructure, in order to articulate what Deleuze would call the problems and the questions of her work, at the point at which it “trails off into formlessness, which is to say at the point at which it becomes ours. The problem at first seems to be how to “represent” the form of critique that is coming into focus in Marina’s work, in opposition to the “critique” of institutional critique, which is to say the critical movement of the dumb, the mute, the silenced, against existing value forms; and about how to realize this other form of critique *within* the institution, or perhaps more accurately across it, since it can’t really be stably represented, because it is, by definition, non-or anti-representational. Which is why its visibility becomes a political question, per Marina, all incomplete, per her great influences Stefano Harney and Fred Moten. Some work that Marina produced in the months between October 2023 and April 2024: three lecture transcripts, four reading lists, some class notes, two transcripts of responses at book launches, a proposal for an unwritten article, a short artist’s catalogue essay, and some published correspondence with a colleague and friend. “The recursive element of reproductive labour,” she writes for the event in Troy in February—and perhaps this applies to archiving as well, even to editorial work—“is somehow not a representational one. It conveys process \[...\] and is always an offcut of ongoingness, never a condition or even an object of representation.” “THESE FILMS ARE CUT-OUTS OF THE RUNNING THREAD OF THE TIME OF THIS SPIRAL ... INTO AN UNKNOWN FUTURE,” per Margaret Raspé. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2Mariuccia-Secol_Stendardo-Liberazione-1945_Ph.Magdalena-Typiak.jpg) Mariuccia Secol, *STENDARDO (LIBERAZIONE 1945)*. Photo: Magdalena Typiak (detail) In early October, I travelled to Glasgow to give a talk at the School of Art. The topic was Marina’s work and a published conversation between the two of us from late 2021, broken off unfinished and then returned to by me alone, edited and published in an abbreviated form two months after her death. With my hosts, I visited two tiny exhibitions inspired by her writing in independently run galleries in the southside neighbourhood of Pollokshields. Small shopfront spaces, refurbished by the unpaid labor of their founders, the opposite of the mumok with its 700 square meters of five-meter-high column-free, uninterrupted exhibition areas, one on top of the other, which can be subdivided as required, or the Kunsthalle with its large pools of paid labor that sometimes seem to disappear. One of the pieces showing in the exhibition was a film by the group Channels titled *This Is A Window*, narrated by Marina in 2017, which I wrote about in the introduction to her book. Another is a film by Park McArthur, a one-channel video installation in which another voice narrates, to gentle but insistent musical accompaniment, several variations of a story about two people, Crip 0 and Crip 1, taking a daytrip to a beach. A third work in the exhibition, by the artist Dora Budor, consisted of a discarded blue cardboard packing case for bottles of Nicolas Feuillatte champagne, retrieved by the artist on New Year’s Day from the streets of the financial district of Manhattan, and repurposed as a dysfunctional DIY television, its screen a Fresnel lens. The screen was to display for as long as it was switched on a short loop of “artificially restored and colored scenes of Marcel L’Herbier’s 1928 silent film *L’Argent*”, depicting scenes of stock trading on the Paris Stock Exchange. I’m suggesting Marina’s answer to the concern about the recuperation of critique is that this worry about recuperation is really a worry about representation, and that it dissolves at the point at which the dispersive, uncategorizable and collective subject of this other language “takes on an infrastructural dimension”. It does so in the refusal of the refusal of a mute reality, that is, in the transition from the representational to the language of the banal social, economic, material facts, which are only accumulated in the work of Theaster Gates, but which can also be made to speak, “softly, effectively”, confrontationally, antagonistically, or all of the above, about a concrete movement towards a concrete somewhere else, using “words” whose graphemes, morphemes and sinew of connecting syntax may be made out of concrete, or discarded cardboard, or the dry language of artist’s contracts or the financial vehicles, trusts and offshore facilities that sustain the field of contemporary art, or the audio description channel prepared in principle for the blind, or the ASL interpretation for the deaf and the dumb, and, finally, from the forms of organizational politics—themselves transformed and not simply represented—in the classic “sphere” of representation, in art. These hard, inexpressive incomprehensible languages. I’m trying to think about how infrastructural critique moves. In the last months of her life Marina was trying to think about this too. She proposed in a letter to the editors of a literary magazine a text in which, as she said, she would be trying to Develop the speculative more in terms of method, and articulating it with a recent trajectory I've been looking at in[ Notes from Below ](https://notesfrombelow.org/article/engineers-and-communist-materialism?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)and[ Brooklyn Rail](https://brooklynrail.org/contributor/Nick-Chavez?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) from the organizer/engineer Nick Chavez—can we take a speculative approach to political composition through a close engagement with the empirical, or the technical composition of the political? That sounds very general, but maybe a direction to elaborate. An earlier moment of 'methods-based’ reflection, though again not very systematic, is[ here](https://eur03.safelinks.protection.outlook.com/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fmahkuscript.com%2Farticles%2F10.5334%2Fmjfar.58&data=05%7C01%7CL.Mercer%40exeter.ac.uk%7C1356a0e624c14226385a08db68dd5ac1%7C912a5d77fb984eeeaf321334d8f04a53%7C0%7C0%7C638219072144400157%7CUnknown%7CTWFpbGZsb3d8eyJWIjoiMC4wLjAwMDAiLCJQIjoiV2luMzIiLCJBTiI6Ik1haWwiLCJXVCI6Mn0%3D%7C3000%7C%7C%7C&sdata=UgX%2FCT7hPwPIblLxJNrHOs8iygLKX8Xzkn%2F6laZk2QY%3D&reserved=0&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). I think that what she writes here perhaps sounds not general, but complicated, and this is because she is speaking, once again, in a different theoretical language: not now the language of critique as it emerges in the tradition of radical Black studies but in the idiom of workerism, a minority tradition within post-war European communist theories concerned with the workplace as the locus of the political, and the composition of the working class as a motor of historical change. But I think what she is saying about the relation between a “speculative approach to political composition” and the “technical composition of the political” is also about infrastructure, and that the reason why what she is describing is not simply a determinism (where the technical “produces” the political, or creates it), is that she is talking about what happens when the technical is itself treated politically, as a dumb, inarticulate sheet, which can yet be made to speak. I also have to recognize that part of the distinctiveness of Marina’s thinking is that she spoke several different languages—I mean theoretical languages, idioms—all of them existing on different sides of disciplinary and historical boundaries; and that while she was always interested in “making the connection at a systematic level”, as she put it in a discussion with Sven Lütticken in late 2023, or in the problem of totality, she was also interested in gaps: what she called in a text about Budor’s work, the metamorphosis of gaps. Gaps rather than voids, for instance, because a void already hypostatizes its emptiness as completeness, whereas a gap subsists in relation. A void is thus always aspiring to the status of an object, whereas a gap is in time or in language. It’s a spacing that telescopes in and out of a structure, and may give an impetus for connecting beyond it. “In trying to build an imaginary milieu for Budor’s practices,” she wrote in the same essay, “I was drawn, again, to the category of ‘infrastructure’.” Budor’s blue champagne packing crates, drawn from the infrastructure that Marina was drawn to, telescope into the streets of the Manhattan financial district and then return to Europe via the medium of an exhibition in the southside of post-industrial Glasgow, where the gaps left by what were previously champagne bottles, drunk and discarded by revelling city workers in the fading empire of the early-to-mid 2020s, are converted into windows or portals, now looking back out to France again, the financial and artistic centre of a century before: cut-outs off the running thread of time, per Raspé, or “perforated frames stacked and leaning \[as\] so many doors attenuated by holes,” per Marina. Budor’s crates or windows, *Inner Vampires* as she calls them, subsist in relation to the hatch between kitchen and dining area that is the subject of the film *This Is A Window*, shown in the exhibition space next door, and also to the one text that appears on both of Marina’s reading lists for the courses she was never able to finish teaching at the Angewandte in the spring of 2024, on Finlayson’s *Perpetual Slavery* and the concept of infrastructure, respectively. They exist, that is, in relation with the only text that serves as a door, or window, or portal, between these two areas of research, into the banal social and economic history of slavery—“critique” in the Black radical tradition—and into technology as what Marina calls “both a material force and a ‘real abstraction’ in the political genealogy of the present”: these offcuts of an ongoingness cut short, these gaps we can work with. Cameron Rowland’s early work *Pass-Thru*, from their 2014 exhibition “Bait, Inc” at Maxwell Graham Gallery in New York, is also a kind of door, or window, or portal, the physical spatialization of an abstract movement between commodity and money, in the form of the (or a) window between buyer and seller. As physical infrastructure for an abstraction, writes Richard Birkett—in the text that occurs on both Marina’s infrastructure and Black studies reading lists—a “pass thru” is an object commonly found in the world, one in fact seen both in mass-produced and ‘homemade’ forms. Pass-Thrus consist of a rotating chamber, housed in a surrounding box, installed in some businesses to pass cash or goods back and forth. When used in post-offices or banks they are typically industrially fabricated with bullet-proof glass. Those commonly used in low-income urban areas, in liquor-stores or corner stores, are often made by hand, as in Rowland’s versions, with basic Plexiglas as the cost of bullet-proof glass proves too expensive. Paradoxically such cost-saving measures, where one material is called on to ‘pass’ for another, are often adopted in the small businesses most prone to being victims of criminal activity. The pass thru is something that exists on, but also constitutes the facticity of, a social boundary. First, this is a window, to borrow Marina’s phrase from 2017, a hatch or a door perforated by holes, that contains another window, another hatch or door perforated by holes; a window, hatch or door perforated by holes within a window, hatch or door perforated by holes, and the role of this door within a door, of this recursive door, similarly to the role of the question within a question, of the question of what is critique within the question what is infrastructural critique, may serve to answer, but also to block, the question within which it is embedded, depending on how it is used, or posed—or rotated. It is a door or portal that exists so that it can be blocked. In Rowland’s use of it, this (anti-) door within a door becomes, as Ciarán Finlayson puts it, a work of anti-art within the institutions of art, existing in two versions, one of which is fitted with a sheet of cardboard: “a feature carried forward from stores where, between transactions, employees block the Pass-Thru to retain heat or cool air on their side of the partition.” So it also has two forms, almost identical, one of which is for sale and one of which is for rent; two abstract forms, almost identical, but related to two distinct economic, or class, or racial positions, each now a window onto the other, as the art gallery is a window onto the small business on whose systematic impoverishment it relies. As a door within a door, the pass-thru opens a channel between two “areas”, or perhaps we could say “spheres”, or abstract locations, within a grid, at once abstract and physical, of commercial space. It facilitates transactions between these two areas, but it can also inhibit them, and in its rotating performance of facilitation and inhibition, lubrication and blockage, in turn and by turn, it suggests, or illustrates, or represents, the violence that can break in on these transactions from the outside and that is also always latent in them, “immanently”. Then again, it opens another channel between the commercial environment that is divided into two abstract areas—the area of the buyer and the seller, divided, physically, by means of bulletproof glass—and the commercial environment of contemporary art, between the bodega or money exchanger and the “autonomous” and yet also commercial space of art, in which the only large sheet of glass is likely to be the one facing the street, the abstract space, or “sphere”, of “the public”. And because a “real” pass thru is, as the gallery text written by Cameron Rowland states, made out of bulletproof glass, but these pass thrus, which are doubly unreal because they are made as art objects by Rowland, are made from of acrylic glass, because of this, we also have another doubling of levels: a door within a door, representing or mimicking or passing as another kind of door within a door made from more expensive material, existing in two almost identical versions distinguished by their relationship to an abstraction of sale. A door within a door that represents a transaction taking place between two positions within a single commercial environment, while opening up a channel between that commercial environment and another, the space of art. This is a window: onto the social conditions of exchange, which is to say the endless multiplication of levels of abstraction and representation across a spatial grid of violent exclusion that, in the end, is itself social and historical, comprising the “banal social, economic, material facts”, all the elements of a banal social and economic totality, all materials to be used. I’ve been trying to think about how infrastructural critique moves, and the answer that seems to be supplied by Cameron Rowland’s pass-thrus is that it rotates; that it rotates and returns to its beginnings in the invention of the dumbwaiter, this other kind of geometrical physical or mechanical cube, as a means for removing from the “sphere” of the visible and the discursive the social violence and subordination on which it depends. And I’m struggling with a thought about what this means, because I know that in searching for images for infrastructural critique that can convey to you what it is—for images like Park McArthur’s blank metal highway signs, or Dora Budor’s champagne televisions, or Fronza Wood’s mirrors, or Reinhold Martin’s dumbwaiters, or Cameron Rowland’s pass thrus, and, of course, also Marina’s own kitchen-hatch windows and frames—I know that in searching for images like these, I’m speaking strictly at the level of the representative, of the representational. I’m talking, in other words, at the level of metaphors and visual display systems, on which the “sphere” of representation depends, when what I am really trying to describe or represent to you is about the language, a potential infrastructural language, which is also a potential infrastructural subject, a nonsovereign subject or “infrastructural agent”, of refusal, of the refusal of the refusal of that which has been rendered alien, dumb, silent, outside and inarticulate, by the mechanical operation of the infrastructure, including the infrastructure of art; which is to say by a socio-technical apparatus that is always, as Marina argued, an epistemic one as well, since the lesson of the relation of technical and political composition that Marina wanted to write about in an article from mid-2024 *is that both must be seen at the same time*, as a unity, as a principle of method. I’m struggling with this thought because I am just one set of hands, with one particular set of dispositions, and because I need you, the others who are doing this work with me, to help me to understand, which also means not simply to represent but to enact this language of critique, this question within a question or revolution within a revolution, or rotation within a rotation, that can never just be a language of concepts and discursive spheres and procedures, even though it relies on them, and on institutions like this one, the Angewandte, as its “enabling constraint”: as the starting point and resource base for a work that will not be finished until the institution is negated along with the long histories, the burdened and burdening materialisms, that cast their long shadow across it and that make it up. I am trying to understand *what infrastructural critique is*, and I am relying on you to help me to enact this critique here, a critique which makes use of that which it negates and that which it inhabits, inhibits and blocks, and I am trying to see how it moves, and for now I have no other answer for you but that *it moves like this*: rotating, blocking, inhabiting, telescoping in and out of relation, and creating secret windows and doors that look out onto what Marina called, in her very last presentation—given at this institution on March 23, 2024—a concrete universal: an abstraction that is completely saturated with particulars, that is not static, that continually moves and yet which always remains at hand, creating new windows and doors within doors in this world we must leave through the forces of negativity that inhabit it. And, like Marina a year and a half ago, having moved not one step further ahead, despite, or perhaps because of, how much and how far we have moved, it is with “this tentative and elementary research program” that I will conclude. // This contribution was first presented in the frame of the conference "What Is Infrastructural Critique?” co-organized by KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush, and hosted at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in October 2025. --- ### Cover Image: Mariuccia Secol, *STENDARDO (LIBERAZIONE 1945)*. Photo: Magdalena Typiak *Danny Hayward is a poet and critic.* ### Reading Marina Vishmidt in Beirut URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/reading-marina-vishmidt-in-beirut/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:26.000Z **A brief exchange and many more** I did not get to know Marina personally; however, one of the few times I met her was on March 15, 2024, when I had a screening in Vienna at the Artist's Space School, run by Yasmina Haddad and Andrea Lumplecker. For the whole three hours of the screening and the conversation on March 15, I wondered what Marina thought of films that were dealing with land reappropriation, organizing the struggle for de-privatization or communalization of land, the masha'a (a Levantine form of common land), an infrastructure of non-property or infrastructures that allow for another relationship to land. What can film do in relation to those infrastructures that were already in place? What can film add to that which exceeds film, like an organization for legally reverting a land from private property to masha'a, a common? Why film? Or is it an infrastructure of its own? In the same way that critique is one, to follow Marina's words: we also need to turn the question around, to ask whether the discursive and philosophical notion of critique, which has been justifiably queried from so many perspectives over the recent period, can itself be a 'critical infrastructure' for how organizational and political change happens in the space of art, where critique is so often treated as the property of a Eurocentric 'modernism'. I was eager to talk to her more about this and many other things. I wanted to talk to her about how infrastructures that produce non-property can possibly contaminate and flood the art economy and potentially shift or abolish the artist as entrepreneur. Perhaps a naïve and optimistic sentiment. I also wanted to think through with her abolition in Ruthie Wilson Gilmore's understanding: that is, not a void or an absence but a practice of organizing against an infrastructure of neglect, more specifically in relation to the question of property, which was at the center of our discussion that evening. How to produce the hole or the cut in the infrastructure through a practice of organizing otherwise. What about film again? I was keen for this conversation to happen on the way out. We ended up standing outside exchanging a few words and then vanishing. Since Marina's passing, I often think about that night and the conversation that did not happen. But in a way it did happen long ago, when in 2016 I first came across her work on infrastructural critique, "Between Not Everything and Not Nothing: Cuts Toward Infrastructural Critique," published in the compilation *Former West: Art and the Contemporary After 1989*. Back then, I was still co-running a project space in Beirut called 98weeks that specifically thought about how to put into practice feminist politics with particular attention to social reproduction and the labor that produces the art organization, as well as the temporality of research processes, as the name indicates. That year, we were organizing a conference with Sidsel Nelund on work and the reproductive labor of the institution. Perhaps we were not aware of the fact that building a structure as artists and for artists was in itself a critique of existing institutions and their functioning, a reorganization of work and processes of production—and a building of possibilities to experiment with different collective research methodologies, studying and organizing together. We were self-organizing as there was a necessity for the creation of a space to be together, read, research, look at films, and more. It was about the organization of the social around a space that in itself is inherently connected to a wider infrastructure that I will talk about shortly. In the intervals between our work on feminism, social reproduction, the city, its accelerated neoliberalization, and the invasion of global capital since the 1990s, we received small grants from international foundations to be able to pay the running costs of the space that did open for possibilities, but also foreclosed others, as we were part of the intense gentrification of the city. We soon comprehended our economic entanglement with an international funding economy—however minimal—which does not reduce what we were doing, but foresees its limitation. The end of the 1990s and the 2000s saw a program in the arts that was funded by the Ford Foundation for a bigger chunk, and by other international foundations such as the Open Society Institute, the European Union, and more, whose aim was to develop cultural and artistic institutions in the region. These were directly linked to an international US or European funding system that has a specific agenda focused on institutional building in the Middle East. The project of reinforcing the cultural scene—and to a certain extent infiltrating it—was in accordance with US foreign administrations' policies and politics in the Middle East, which aimed at taming any leftist resistance and Islamization in its different strands, perceived as the main force producing anti-US sentiment. Historically, the aim was also to obstruct any real communist or socialist organizing—which was in any case later fizzling away and weakening at the dawn of the 1990s, as the brutal neoliberal bulldozer of the post-civil war reconstruction era attempted and did its best to crush parties, unions, and the last remains of leftist organization. Construction was the dominant soundscape of the city. And many other "buildings" came along. "Capacity building" or "institutional building" had a purpose and a consequence: the separation of culture from political movements. It looked as though political and economic transition and cultural production would become part of a wider NGO economic complex, and a segment of continued imperial hegemony in the region, with its cultural diplomacy. Just to give a comparative example: up until 1982, a lot of the political art, film, music, theater, and literature were funded by the PLO (Palestinian Liberation Organization) or the LCP (Lebanese Communist Party), so as a matter of fact, in this new economy, culture was separated from any ongoing anti-colonial liberation movement and resistance. In the wake of this moment of posts—post-Soviet, post-Oslo, and post-Taef (end of the Lebanese civil war)—anti-colonial struggles and revolutionary movements were tamed or pushed to the background, and often transformed into relics and discourses in the cultural sphere, or mere objects of study (which we did study at 98weeks as well). Three decades later, we see a completely new institutional landscape. What had started in the 1990s with theater makers, artists, journalists, writers, political militants, and others working together, self-organizing and producing thought through their different mediums and collectively, ended up as fully fledged institutions that resembled, at least on the surface, Western models of contemporary art institutions and museums. It undeniably produced a particular neoliberal institution that acts as a symptom of the economy—one that diffuses the inherent tension between arts and politics in fear of losing funders (except a few), or separates arts from politics when needed, with the excuse of privileging so-called artistic autonomy. This does not reduce either practices or institutions to a mere product of the given economic and political contingencies, and more importantly, these were the material conditions of the moment, as many people repurposed the means very intelligently and certainly did not obey funders—quite the opposite. Nevertheless, the policies and economic dependencies reorganized cultural work and disciplined the ground in a literal sense: the separation of disciplines and division of labor. And by no means do I intend to fall into a reactionary, rigidified anti-imperialism that praises cultural authenticity, but I would not deny the cultural erasure and erosion that these 1990s liberal policies led to. In that sense, they steered the separation of visual art—and what was to become contemporary art—from other cultural productions, connecting it to the global art economy. International funding was the sole financing in light of the non-existent local or public funding structures. After 2013, there was a prominent local philanthropic turn. **Infrastructural Critique and the Colonial Mode of Production** So that era and transition to a neoliberal economy did lead to a redefinition of culture, whose means of production were—if we use Mahdi Amel's concept—solely tied to a colonial mode of production facilitated by a national elite or comprador bourgeoisie, following his theoretical and philosophical articulation. Separated from resistance and anti-colonial struggles. The CMP insists on the continuation and persistence of the colonial relations of production on a structural level after so-called independence. For Amel, liberation can only come from the working classes that organize towards a socialist revolution. This would be the only path to break with—or in Marina's words, to produce—a cut: but a critique that makes cuts and lets in air, a critique that takes it upon itself to find or make the holes through which this infrastructure comes into view. And maybe these holes, whether incised by art or political organizing, can be extended to enable a grasping and a torsion to be exercised on those conditions, tugging them into really completely different shapes if necessary, demolishing or abolishing them if not? A cut produced through the reorganization of work or the organization of art workers. And ultimately, a cut in the structure of the colonial mode of production. A cut or a disjunction between the colonial and its mode of production. For Marina, and in her own words: In the general project of infrastructural critique, much of the work I have been doing over the years has been related to displacing the boundaries between production and its conditions. I am trying to think this displacement of boundaries through the specificity of the colonial mode of production, which is distinct from Fanon's neocolonialism or Samir Amin's dependency theory, as the continuation of the colonial relation can neither be ruptured by the subject and consciousness nor through a mere economic or cultural untying from the center, or the metropole, but through class struggle that will lead to a temporal rupture in the mode of production. So perhaps if we want to think about it from the prism of art, a reorganization of art workers would produce this cut—which is a temporal movement, as Nadia Bou Ali writes in her paper "Mahdi Amel's Colonial Mode of Production and Politics in the Last Instance": Amel does not conceptualize the CMP in spatial terms: the CMP is not a "colonized space" but is characterized primarily by its specific temporality, which is that of an impeded history. Amel proposes that the CMP is a contingency turned into necessity because of its specific historical dynamic of "eternal repetition of essence" in colonial societies. This encounter or conjunction creates different rhythms; it is neither continuous nor discontinuous with the past and it introduces a new temporality into the social whole. This is why the question of the historical or history became the central concern of Amel's formulation of the CMP. He argues that the overcoming of the CMP requires an adequate understanding of the specificity of class struggle in this social formation: "The periodization of history was not simply the result of the movement of modes of production, but was the result of the tempo and movement of class struggle." So, for Amel, the colonial mode of production is resisted or fought against through the temporal movement of class struggle. Crucially, for Amel, colonialism not only shapes the economy but also organizes the intellectual field, producing what he calls the colonial intelligentsia: local elites who mediate between global and local circuits of power. Their role is to reproduce colonial ideology, often through the appropriation of discourses of development, liberal democracy, and freedom of art. Thus, educational and cultural infrastructures are in and of themselves sites of struggle. And in that sense, artists and cultural workers organizing their work—refusing, resisting, speculating, repurposing—is what will break down and crack open the historical and political specificities of the infrastructure of coloniality, ultimately aiming for its disruption and abolition. Referring back to Ruthie Gilmore's understanding of abolition as a practice of organizing, following Marina: An organizational rather than thematic appropriation of the labor in art, I would argue, is the only way that a negative critique of autonomy can be initiated by using the institutional and infrastructural resources of that autonomy, allowing it to transversally connect with and through movements elsewhere, and to materialize those movements within the space of art as a concrete rather than gestural politics. Such as the work of grassroots Palestine, the question of funding, Eltiqa in Gaza—whose space has indeed been razed to the ground—these formations and spaces aim at an economic liberation of sorts. While keeping in mind that infrastructures of coloniality are, in and of themselves, unstable, in movement, prone to change, and in a constant dialectical relation with resistance and struggle. **Building in the Cut Between the Colonial and Its Mode of Production: Another Infrastructure, One of Non-Property** And here I wonder to what extent a strategy of repurposing is still a feasible one in a post-October 7th order. As we have watched—and are still watching—infrastructures being razed to the ground while people are genocided by Zionist forces in Gaza, and land grabs and wars continue in the region (and I will refrain from using terms such as scholasticide, epistemicide, and ecocide, but rather speak of a general obliteration of the most basic and necessary infrastructures for the social reproduction of life—from the kitchen, to the home, to the school, to the hospital—as Mai Taha develops in her article "Social Reproduction as Survival and Insurgency in Gaza"). As we also watch the continued war on Lebanon, especially the South, the Bekaa, and Beirut, targeting means of reconstruction such as bulldozer machines, destroying agricultural land and aiming at prohibiting people from rebuilding, reinhabiting their homes and villages, working their land, and reproducing their lives in the southern villages. Instead, we are bombarded with 3D renderings of real estate fantasies and settlers' projections of a Riviera, with war criminals such as Tony Blair appointed at the head of a so-called supervisory peace council—which brings back a pastiche of the British Mandate era, except that this time it is set inside the settler colony. A mandate inside the settler colony, led and financed by real estate developers, along with projects of a duty-free economic zone in the border region of South Lebanon. Within this order, the cut in the colonial mode of production comes with cutting ties, withdrawing, and finding a new space from which to start organizing and building the negation of the artist as entrepreneur. Like the most recent refusal of artists and artist-run spaces in Beirut and the larger region to accept funding from, for example, the Rosa Luxemburg Stiftung, as per their genocide denialism; the boycott of the Goethe-Institut and other German and US foundations; or even returning already cashed grants. The persistent question is how to build in that space of the cut between the colonial and its mode of production—or more precisely, how to build this cut against the fantasized 3D real estate renderings projected on the rubble of annihilation and destruction. This infrastructure emerges from an obstinate and insistent relation to land against colonial land grab, and where counter-speculation to the real estate fantasies takes shape. Insisting on a different property relation and a history of it—such as the masha'a, which disrupts financial speculation and cuts through the colonial land registrar in the depths of its bureaucracy. A cut through the seemingly naturalized and unshakable private property law that organizes it. A hole in the document from the French National Archives in Nantes titled "Instruction on the Dismemberment of Musha' Land" by Camille Duraffourd, a French Mandate officer deployed to Syria and Lebanon (circa 1925), that reveals the ideological agenda which deemed the masha'a an unproductive system and brought about the compulsory partitioning among co-owners of the masha'a. The remains of the masha'a—not as a practice of communally tending the land but as a legal status for the commons (a status that exists in Lebanon and is inherited from the Ottoman land code)—is an antidote to the persistence and reproduction of the colonial mode of production, not only producing a temporal rupture as per Amel but also a spatial one, as it concerns land, its parceling, and legal status. We see practices of the masha'a re-emerging in the Levantine space. Similar to an experiment that I have been part of, which involves legally transforming a land into a masha'a or a common in the North of Lebanon. Once we delved into the bureaucracy of the land registrar, we ended up freezing the land and transforming it into a social waqf, which renders it non-transmittable, non-sellable, and non-exchangeable, so prohibiting any form of transaction. We were keen on creating a legal precedent of sorts, intervening in the gaps of the law, so to speak. A reverse movement towards a history of a complex agricultural system and communal land tenure. Perhaps the masha'a is a form of infrastructural critique of the colonial mode of production, sitting in the land registrar and waiting to take a new shape. And it is shaping and re-emerging within Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine. As Faiq Mari writes in his thesis "Masha' of the Periphery: Collective Labor and Property in Palestinian Liberation Struggle," mapping the different agricultural cooperatives in the West Bank. Or the infrastructures of cooperatives and communes in the North of Syria built on public land after 2013 in the self-governed Kurdish region. Perhaps an infrastructural critique of the colonial mode of production is embedded and inherent in the land registrar apparatus itself. It is another history of property that does not disappear but re-emerges in moments when there is a breakdown in the naturalized order of the private property regime, creating a temporal and spatial rupture in the property relation—whether through the law or outside of it—and therefore in the mode of production. So on that evening of March 15, we were already different artists, different art workers, and cultural workers in relation to the institution; we were different humans or different political animals. That evening, we were not ourselves; we were a collapsed structure we had learned to function in and with. We were the collapsed structures of the liberal status quo that was crumbling in all its apparatuses and cultural institutions. The institution had revealed its incapacity in refusing the Staatsräson. Excuses ranged from "let's do art, not politics" to "let's protect the space of art as an autonomous space for thinking" to "let's decolonize poetically" or "poetry is our language, we are not activists." The political event that is a flood in the infrastructure that produces the institution rifts the institution and breaks open its own inner structure. That conversation with Marina had started long before it did not occurred that night in Vienna on March 15, and continues towards infrastructures of insurgency and liberation from the colonial order—away from cultural diplomacy and its neoliberal order, the colonial mandate and its civilizing mission, and settler colonialism and its genocide. // This contribution was first presented in the frame of the conference "What Is Infrastructural Critique?” co-organized by KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush, and hosted at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in October 2025. --- ### Cover Image: Mariuccia Secol, *The Scream (Il Grido)*, 1971\. © Mariuccia Secol. Courtesy of the artist’s family. Photo: Magdalena Typiak *Marwa Arsanios is an artist, filmmaker, and researcher who reconsiders politics of the mid-twentieth century from a contemporary perspective, with a particular focus on gender relations, urbanism, and industrialisation. She approaches research collaboratively and seeks to work across disciplines.* ### Figures of Entropy as Anchors of Value URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/figures-of-entropy-as-anchors-of-value/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:23.000Z I first met Marina in late 2010 while I was still undertaking my BA in Art Practice at Goldsmiths in London. Soon after, I remember discovering her writing and thinking in various locations: Mute Magazine, Variant, a performative sleepover at London's ICA organised by the group Chto Delat called 'What Struggles Do We Have in Common?', as well as small art galleries and lecture theatres—and being blown away by it. Marina provided a language through which to think the contradictory relations between art and anti-capitalist struggle, and art's relationship to labour and feminism, in their complexity and in how they shaped that moment. It is a truism to say that Marina was part of many groups producing forms of radical culture and organising politically. One example was Full Unemployment Cinema, which, since 2008, had produced screenings, pamphlets, posters, and flyers on cinema and anti-work politics. It took place, at least for some time, at Colorama Cinema on Lancaster Street in London, until that social infrastructure, like many squatted or semi-squatted social centres, was closed down, demolished, and transformed into gentrified housing. In 2015, in one concise paragraph in an essay titled 'Aesthetics of Singularity', Fredric Jameson diagnosed: 'in our time all politics is about real estate.' He continued: 'Postmodern politics is essentially a matter of land grabs, on a local as well as global scale. Whether you think of the issue of Palestine—then referring to the 2014 Operation Protective Edge—or of gentrification and zoning in American small towns, it is that peculiar and imaginary thing called private property in land that is at stake. The land is not only an object of struggle between the classes, between rich and poor; it defines their very existence and the separation between them.'\[1\] Jameson's political diagnosis—which extended to name the system of enclosures of Aztec and Incan empires through to present-day home foreclosures and dispossession, homelessness, unemployment, tendencies to outsourcing and governmental austerity—still holds. Though written slightly later, it spoke to the political and social conditions under which I met Marina: conditions dominated by the sweeping privatisation of public institutions, especially universities in the UK and beyond, aggressive gentrification of whole swathes of London, mass organisation and protest. Colorama Cinema was a DIY cinema in a long-term squat located at 52–56 Lancaster Street. The people running it had installed a massive makeshift bank of seating. In November 2011, Marina—who had also visited our student occupations across London, against impending fees and the full privatisation of the university—invited Rona Lorimer and me to discuss our zine, *Rage*, at a screening she co-organised with Full Unemployment Cinema titled 'Thorough Cleaning Double Bill'. Our zine was a product of collective work with comrades from within the student movement and campaigns fighting against the outsourcing of cleaners. I felt immensely nervous and privileged to be there. To this day, I remember sitting for three hours on top of this impressive, homemade bank of seating, watching three days in the life of Jeanne Dielman—a middle-aged, ostensibly ordinary sex worker—in Chantal Akerman's *Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles*, as Dielman cleaned her home, peeled potatoes slice by slice, prepared and cooked each meal, sexually served men, washed the dishes, and looked after her son, while the camera remains static at one height, placing the viewer in the position of the voyeur. This was part of my introduction to feminist cinema, in the context of a squatted social centre—one of various such projects that existed in London at that time, feeding into university occupations and other projects of practical critique, reclaiming and transforming social space. This specific focus on the politics of social reproduction was part of what became a shared theoretical project. In early 2012, we were part of a Feminist Reading Group in London, started by Zoe Sutherland and Hannah Black, with a specific orientation towards Marxist feminism and a commitment to thinking reproduction against capitalist reproduction—thinking the abolition of those conditions and the abolition of the social form of gender in light of the difficulty of its strategic affirmation, as Marina would later write in 'The Paradox of Self-Abolition'. We began reading 'Gender Distinction, Programmatism and Communisation' by Théorie Communiste, along with various other texts, notably 'The Logic of Gender' by Endnotes. This reading group proved to be an infrastructure for self-education oriented towards collective thought and possibility. We met at each other's homes, in public spaces, and sometimes we travelled, adopting the method of reading aloud and discussing paragraph by paragraph. We worked through a great deal of material, slowly, and expanded in all sorts of directions, producing discussions in person and over email concerning the role of gender within the reproduction of capitalism—already central to Marina's work in its insistent and continuous incisions into the naturalisation of reproductive labour, in which splitting it up, de- and re-contextualising it, and showing its social facticity, was the point. Larne Abse Gogarty described the reading group as 'the sort of experience where you feel you are holding ideas aloft in a magical sort of way, a collective spell of thought and conversation.' **Entropic Maintenance as Unworking** In the context of David Cameron's Big Society of self-managed decline, there was a critique of self-organised infrastructures that promoted survival and resilience over deeper transformations. We might look back on this differently from the standpoint of today's radical attacks on all manner of social infrastructures. In Danny's introduction to *Infrastructural Critique*, he writes: 'In her thinking, infrastructural reproduction will not be affirmed against critique, but neither will critique be affirmed against the reproductive necessity of infrastructure.'\[2\] Both are needed. In Marina's art-theoretical work, certain questions crystallised: How does art behave as a form of, or analogue to, social reproduction? In the co-authored chapter of their book *Reproducing Autonomy: Work, Money, Crisis and Contemporary Art* (2016), Marina Vishmidt and Kerstin Stakemeier use the notion of entropy to analyse art's relationship to social reproduction. They write: 'The problematic of housework as reproductive activity par excellence, in that it seems not to produce anything, but only enables the production of discernible capitalist commodities to go on, can be addressed … through its dimension of entropy and measurelessness. The entropic, limitless character of housework starts to seem like a subjugated but basically functional analogue of the entropic, limitless "activity" that in late twentieth-century art emerges as a sovereign form—a point already grasped several generations ago by 1970s feminist artists …'\[3\] Back in 2016 and the years preceding, Marina and Kerstin diagnosed art as functioning institutionally as a social palliative; art increasingly takes on the role of social services or maintenance work, as capitalism in the West had subsumed creativity. If Marina and Kerstin remove its useful aspects—such as 'the maintenance of life'—they diagnose art and social reproduction as both functioning to reproduce systematically the 'capitalist totality (Adorno)', where art is also called upon in its 'socially reproductive role \[…\] by the state and capital'.\[4\] Underpinning this is communisation theory's proposition that, because of transformations in class composition, affirmation of Fordist models of class struggle was no longer tenable; they look to housework and sociality as sites of unproductive labour, unlimited in their capacity for reproduction. As such, they focus on the negativity or anti-sociality of reproductive labour, its ability to undermine 'use values', its intersection with the 'human strike' in the language of Claire Fontaine, and so on. In its entropic character, art's 'systemic reproductive function' in capital's totality encounters a shared negativity with reproductive labour when, they argue, 'reproductive labour enters the self-image of art'.\[5\] Their examples include Lee Lozano's *Drop Out Piece* (begun 1970) and *General Strike Piece* (begun 1969), where art engages in non-art. As Lozano stops making, Charlotte Posenenske and Lygia Clark withdraw from the art world to do something else. For Marina and Kerstin, this implies that reproduction can function transversally as a category of solidarity within art, showing the contours of a nascent 'infrastructural critique'. They claim that in finding the 'outside' of their work, these artists reject its institutionalised role as reproducer of bourgeois life; the works move within different 'reproductive mediations'—sociology, the study of labour and industry, social work or therapy—as modes of organising life differently. Marina and Kerstin focus on works that withdraw from the institution of art, realising their negative relation to the reproduction of capital at the level of the social—again prefiguring 'infrastructural critique'. As such, they appear to recast determinate negation through reproduction, shifting the emphasis from production to reproduction on a systemic level. Entropy stands in for non-reproduction; anti-sociality (in Lee Edelman's thesis), gendered reproductive labour and artistic labour—forms valued for their valuelessness and uselessness—come to be negatively revealed as measures. Again, in her essay 'The Two Reproductions in (Feminist) Art and Theory since the 1970s', Marina identifies entropy as a modality through which we might experience alienation from the perceived 'usefulness' of reproductive labour—in the sense that 'a woman's work is never done'.\[6\] Jeanne Dielman returns, cutting a figure who embodies this entropic labour, where the sheer repetitive-entropic character of her life-as-work culminated as 'a source of psychic terror and disorganisation', on an affective level, which the protagonist tries to keep at bay with rules and routines, with diminishing success. For Marina, this is maintenance as 'unworking'. Likewise in Mierle Laderman Ukeles' *Dust Paintings*: art that describes this entropic character of work contributes to revealing its absurdity and futility. And Marina notes that all socially necessary labour, waged or not, shares this entropic quality: 'Work that is not recognised as work meets its own unrepresentability as an image—it is that which disappears, which is consumed, which unravels into pathology rather than delivers a product.'\[7\] **The Creation of Voids** The theme of the entropic appeared again in 2022, when Marina gave a talk at a space in Graz called Annenstrasse 53 that I was involved with. In this talk, and in another later that year, she brought her orientation towards entropy into the remit of landscape and nature, addressing the relationship between violence and form, both in relation to art and the geophysical world. Her contribution was pivotal to my recent work on the political aesthetics of the current ecological crisis—work partly inspired by living near what is slated to become Europe's first active lithium eco-mine in the Austrian Alps. The central image of that project articulates a kind of auto-death drive: the company's propaganda shows an electric car driving into the mouth of the mine, returning to the earth. Cara New Daggett writes that 'thermodynamics mapped the new Earth through the figure of energy, a unit that retained its identity through time (energy conservation), even as its tendency to dissipate (entropy) imparted a tragic edge.'\[8\] The entropic, tragic aspect of finite, inevitably dissipating energy gave rise to the anxiety that it needs fixing and recharging. The term *energy* then expanded to include a technical sense, and was, in the 1970s, conjoined to its pair, *crisis*. The 1970s energy crisis gave rise to the invention of the rechargeable lithium battery, developed within ExxonMobil for the electric car—and soon after abandoned—to be renewed today in light of permanent wars and imminent climate collapse, in large part due to the burning of fossil fuels. This mine functions as a significant protagonist in the EU's Green Deal 'twin transition' to a decarbonised and digital economy—a planned transition to renewably charged, automated labour. This transition—which one might suggest we are watching slip past us as we approach the jaws of full rearmament—also resonates with a tendency in contemporary art to return to and reinvent Land Art by focusing on technologies of energy, extraction, and ecological collapse. In her work on these questions, Marina brought into view the spectrum of value and valorisation, and entropy and devalorisation, combining notions of dispossession and devalued labour with 'cheap nature' through her interest in the void and voiding. In this short talk—a kind of response to Danny's poem *Loading Terminal*—she posits art as a means for the production of nothing, the production of voids, referring in passing to an article by Elizabeth Nicula titled 'The Artist is the Void' (published in *Momus* in 2022). In this moment, Marina's art objects are no longer feminist iterations of reproductive labour, but rather the much-hyped NFTs—Non-Fungible Tokens—which come to stand in as the pinnacle of, in her words, 'the climate nihilism of financialised capital'.\[9\] With Nicula, NFTs become a means of creating voids. 'Entropy and exceptions intersect in how capitalist economies and societies operate,' writes Marina in *Infrastructural Critique*—thereby extending the formulation of entropy from housework to include wasted natures. More precisely, in her work, this dynamic once again extends from Marx's 'surplus value' to theorisations of capitalist social relations that focus on capital's 'ex-'—moving beyond simply exploitation to extraction, expropriation, and expulsion.\[10\] In political ecology, as Marina notes, we see this principle clearly: nature is simultaneously constructed and devalued. Its devaluation affects everything from racialised and gendered labour to non-human life or the geophysical world, as a prerequisite for all of its commodification. Here, 'entropic waste is at once the exception to and constitutive of value'.\[11\] The wastedness of Jeanne Dielman's time and labour is thus brought onto a plane with non-human life or geological strata—echoing in some sense the work of Kathryn Yusoff. This logic leads to a kind of permanent 'primary accumulation'. Marina also locates it in the 'world-ecological surplus' discussed by Jason Moore, linking in the exhaustion of resources by the expansion of surplus capital. She diagnoses a 'parallelism between capitalist production and waste,' which 'aligns with the "surplus population" identified by Marx as a corollary to the capitalist mode of production, as well as the devaluation of reproductive labour'.\[12\] In Marina's thinking—and in *Infrastructural Critique*—this making-entropic, this wasting away, is presented as crucial to capitalism's expansion. No longer as an image, or something which simply renders the absurdity of waste visible: entropic figures are anchors of value. Waste is as crucial to capital's reproduction as the reproduction of labour power. This contradiction is identified within Marx's own work, where the absorption and expulsion of labour power are fundamental to his theory of the 'reserve army of labour'—the pool of unemployed workers that keeps wages low and workers disciplined; capitalism needs to absorb labour to produce, but it also must expel labour through automation—through our current transitions—and crises, in order to attempt to maintain profitability. Maintenance as working, not unworking. And Marina extends that same logic of simultaneous absorption and expulsion beyond the worker to encompass the entire living world: the exhaustion of one's body, the expulsion of a community from its land, and the creation of sacrifice zones and terminable landscapes. Recall Jameson: 'in our time all politics is about real estate; postmodern politics is essentially a matter of land grabs; all politics are about the land.'\[13\] We find a metabolism of waste. She writes, 'every act of production by the worker is simultaneously the production of their own superfluity.'\[14\] Within this, processes of racialisation mediate dynamics of surplusing, orienting them towards certain communities: evident in genocides, carceral landscapes made up of refugee camps and the prison-industrial complex, and resource frontiers. 'Violence is the consequence, land expulsions, housing displacement, gentrification and the creation of "sacrifice zones" the cause.'\[15\] Returning to Nicula's void, Michael Heizer's earthwork *Double Negative*—made up of two massive trenches cut into the landscape of Mormon Mesa in Moapa Valley, Nevada—marks a shift in scale where the sculpture, produced by removing 240,000 tons of sandstone from the landscape, shrinks in the face of the vastness of its surroundings, destabilising the viewer's subjective orientation. She writes, 'My sense of being nothing was profound. Compared to this, Double Negative seemed puny. It wasn't 50 years old yet, half a blip in the geological record and the walls already collapsing, perhaps faster than Heizer planned. It looked a lot like any roadside gravel yard, with dusty hillocks of gray-brown rock tumbling into the channel made when a backhoe extracts a load.' The vastness of the desert reduces the monumentality of Heizer's negation, itself in a state of accelerating decay. But significantly, Nicula raises a question: 'Where did the 240,000 irrelevant tons of sandstone go?'\[16\] In Nicula's spatial analysis, 'Heizer's void … takes up the same amount of space as its byproduct'—like the amount of sand or rock extracted from any infrastructural tunnelling. Here, the void starts to index its opposite. The so-called double negative earthwork-as-artwork starts to index what she terms 'industrial earthworks': more impactful, more gigantic, more numerous—what we would normally call capitalist infrastructure. Industrial earthworks are, in her words, 'highways, and dams, and estuaries drained and filled, and massive solar panel arrays over bulldozed desert habitats, and shipping channels. They are mines and military detritus.'\[17\] They are holes and tunnels in the world. Gaping chasms. They are often the result of land grabs and population displacement. Nicula's vision echoes Martin Arboleda's idea in *The Planetary Mine*, where modern cities are invoked as the technologically, philosophically, and economically 'inverted mines' of distant resource hinterlands, where the mineral wealth excavated from the depths of the earth is fixed in the urban built environment. For Arboleda, thinking of cities as 'inverted mines' warrants asking what sorts of spaces of extraction lie behind the fantastically alien skylines of megacities, some of which seem to have been transplanted directly from cyberpunk universes.\[18\] What kind of barren, terminal landscapes are produced in their inverse—or in Marina's term, what voids are made in the world just for these elevated cities to rise up? Extending Nicula's vision, then, Heizer's is an example of art that indexes this form of violent extraction, shaping the landscape, the extraction of natural resources, and labour. *Double Negative* is turned into a kind of icon of American and planetary extraction: 'earthworks such as Heizer's extract for the sake of extraction', Nicula writes. Yet Heizer and Land artists like Smithson did not conceive of the conditions that functioned as enabling constraints of their works—the conditions that also underpinned the turn to 'dematerialised', or attempted de-commodified, entropic works. Yet as Marina shows, dematerialisation as escape was based on an illusion, and Land art was entirely dependent on the conditions of possibility given by—and the infrastructures of—specifically US imperialism and colonial expansion, as well as 'industrial agriculture, Cold War military budgets and the displacement of indigenous communities', which the artists either did not notice or may have imagined they were transcending. To reiterate: the argument that Marina picked up on, just under three years ago, was that like earthworks, Non-Fungible Tokens also make holes for the sake of it—holes for holes' sake, a veritable autonomy of wasted energy—but on a far greater scale than simply extracting 240,000 tons of sandstone. NFTs burn through huge amounts of carbon just to exist, quantities that might equate to months of household energy use. Since the quick fad of NFTs—do they still exist?—Artificial Intelligence now requires inordinate quantities of water and energy just to burn through the data needed to train its programmes, which are currently being used for everything from writing emails to mass surveillance, to making kill lists and enacting annihilation in Gaza: dropping bombs to create new craters, burying buildings with families inside, negating entire villages and obliterating life.\[19\] Beyond this direct violence, domination, and obliteration of nature and humans—as continual capitalist production of nature—AI has pushed a surge in investment in nuclear energy, with Amazon and Google striking deals for small nuclear reactors that will serve AI data centres by 2035.\[20\] **Contradictions of Transition** When art addresses the energy transition, it must also grapple with its central contradictions, particularly the accessibility of raw materials. Very briefly: even according to the EU's own claims, renewable energy technologies—all rechargeable devices, etc.—are 'far more materials-intensive than conventional ones'.\[21\] It is predicted that if critical minerals are required in quantities that are exponentially increasing, huge swathes of the planet will be rendered sacrifice zones—lands degraded and depleted. And the EU can secure only 2–4% of necessary minerals at the extraction stage, highlighting its dependence and potential resource-driven aggression. A clear example of this dynamic is Trump's wish to purchase or simply 'take' Greenland, the world's largest island—not motivated by green energy, since Trump's ethos is 'Drill Baby Drill', but by the strategic opportunities offered by melting ice, new shipping routes, and the needs of the defence industry, a priority sharpened by China's ban on the export of gallium, a mineral required for all guided missiles. Source geographies from which materials are combined and transformed into technology give way to yet more vulnerability, in the extensive diversity of their locations and the histories, potential conflicts, and struggles implied therein. If we look at just one of the 15 named technologies—namely robotics, responsible for transforming labour relations, devaluing living labour, and being integrated across sectors such as industry, agriculture, healthcare, transport, social services, defence, space, and even undersea operations (e.g., deep-sea mining)—the EU controls just 3% of the raw materials needed for production.\[22\] Thus, the extraction phase for these materials maps onto imperial and colonial legacies of dispossession and exploitation, underscoring the geopolitical violence embedded within supply chains, and as such, the nodal points of potential or anticipatory resistance—or 'infrastructural critique'.\[23\] Holding together the economic and geologic poles, we see that capital invests more in the technological side of production over time, while less living labour is required to produce more output. But what composes the material dimension of this rising organic composition of capital is the territories of raw dispossession and extraction at the beginning—and most vulnerable moment—of the supply chain. This technology transforms the organic composition of capital, annihilating or surplusing, in Marina's words, living labour through automation. And, on the other hand, even if we are now seeing the Green Deal as a ghost of its promise, these resources are needed for weapons that destroy landscapes twice over. For Nicula—and Marina—the void of the earthwork cannot counter its harm, and the NFT—but we can add all manner of AI-generated forms or activities—has surpassed land art in its capacity to create inverted horizons. Here, the production of enormous amounts of waste, and the annihilation or nothingisation of the world, is correlative to the production of voids in the landscape, with the absence of use value in NFTs. Throughout Marina's work, the exceptions to value are also the anchors of value, in the sense that unwaged labour and uncommodified nature enter the value cycle as simultaneously free inputs and piles upon piles of waste. **Coda** Finally, in *Infrastructural Critique*, Marina writes: 'infrastructure is always specific', and 'infrastructure defines the material reproduction conditions of forms of social life and accumulation strategies that equate to destroyed life for some and wealth and comfort for others.'\[24\] We know: 'broken infrastructure is loquacious.' Infrastructure becomes louder and louder when it breaks down, just as necessary labour becomes most prominent and most visible when those who undertake it choose to withdraw it. In his introduction to *Infrastructural Critique*, Danny writes that 'infrastructure' appears at the end of *Speculation as a Mode of Production* 'as a sub-category of the useful, a term in a relation, a hole in a thing that it is not'. We know, in Marina's parlance, infrastructure makes possible, just as it makes impossible. Like affirmative theories of social reproduction—which neglect to understand it within capitalist totality—affirmative theories of infrastructure neglect its necropolitical dimensions and its contributions to the totality of value relations. And though she was averse to ossified thought—being infinitely playful and open—certain figures persistently return: the fundamental dialectic of the extraction and waste disposal of labourers, lives, and natures. This is a further instantiation of the core logic that runs throughout Marina's work: the constitutive status of the exception in relation to the rule, or capitalism always needing an outside to feed off. The counter-movement against bad entropies—which, in her terms, are capable of falling into nihilistic atrophy or romantic ruination—is a form of social organisation: cutting gaps, not holes. From trade unionism and struggles against deregulated labour conditions to life-cycle analysis and urban mining—taking the city's riches to rebuild the city, rather than boring holes into the planet; direct action and sabotage against the war machine; strategic struggles against fossil fuel extraction—connecting the struggles, or, to quote Marina from a conversation in *Arts of the Working Class*, these are framed 'as a bare minimum for winning time from the geophysical meltdown that will further degrade the conditions for struggles around life, reproduction, and justice, and the ability to make any defensible gains.'\[25\] // This contribution was first presented in the frame of the conference "What Is Infrastructural Critique?” co-organized by KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush, and hosted at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in October 2025. --- ### Footnotes \[1\] ‘Whether you think of the settlements and the refugee camps, some of them lasting a whole lifetime, or of the politics of raw materials and extraction; whether you think of the dispossession of peasants to make way for industrial parks, or of ecology and the destruction of the rainforests; whether you think of the abstract legalities of federalism, citizenship and immigration, or the politics of urban renewal and the growth of the bidonvilles, favelas and townships, not to speak of the great movements of the landless or of Occupy--today everything is about land.’ Fredric Jameson, ‘The Aesthetics of Singularity’, New Left Review, no. 92 (April 2015): 101–32., p. 131 \[2\] Hayward, ‘Introduction’, Infrastructural Critique (unpublished manuscript) \[3\] Marina Vishmidt and Kerstin Stakemeier, Reproducing Autonomy, Work, Money, Crisis and Contemporary Art (Mute Books, 2016), p. 70\. In 2005, Marina reviewed Open Systems at Tate Modern for Mute Magazine, noting that ‘Robert Smithson was of course powerfully interested in systems, or rather, the entropy attendant on them. If the exhibition is to submit to a systemic analysis, it can be read as manifesting this emergent property, entropy, dissolution hot on the heels of homeostasis.’ Marina Vishmidt, ‘Enjoy Your System’, Mute Magazine, https://www.metamute.org/editorial/articles/enjoy-your-system Marina criticised the exhibition for decontextualising work – whose entropic mode would appear throughout the exhibition as ‘small dysfunctionalities’ – bits of broken equipment, a work needing a clean!, and what she describes as the ‘eschewing of critical context of critique in the presentation of avowedly critical work with specific critical targets’, a tendency that persists since – to name one example, the 1971 cancellation of Hans Haacke’s Guggenheim critique of social systems of accumulation by means of real estate, to artists today who criticise a live-streamed genocide. \[4\] Vishmidt and Stakemeier, p. 70. \[5\] Vishmidt and Stakemeier, p. 71. \[6\] Marina Vishmidt, ‘The Two Reproductions in (Feminist) Art and Theory since the 1970s’, Third Text, 4 October 2017, p. 60 \[7\] Vishmidt, ‘The Two Reproductions in (Feminist) Art and Theory since the 1970s’, p. 63. \[8\] Cara New Daggett, The Birth of Energy: Fossil Fuels, Thermodynamics, and the Politics of Work (Durham: Duke University Press Books, 2019), p. 11. \[9\]/\[10\]/\[11\]/\[12\] Vishmidt, Infrastructural Critique (unpublished manuscript) \[13\] Another example in Marina’s armature of ‘infrastructural critique’ that recalls the theft of both land and labour: Cameron Rowland’s Depreciation (2018). The work is detailed as a ‘Restrictive covenant; 1 acre on Edisto Island, South Carolina’—a site of failed reparations. Rather than seeing empty deserts, or entropic nature that atrophies into forms of nihilism, Rowland’s practice is dedicated to ‘challenging the very category of real estate—through Land Art’ as Johanna Fateman noted. (Johanna Fateman, ‘How Cameron Rowland Became the Leading Land Artist of the 21st Century’, Cultured Mag, 29 January 2025,[ https://www.culturedmag.com/article/2025/01/29/cameron-rowland-artist-dia-beacon-criticism/](https://www.culturedmag.com/article/2025/01/29/cameron-rowland-artist-dia-beacon-criticism/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org).). The work takes a specific historical site: land on Edisto Island that was reserved for formerly enslaved people under General William Tecumseh Sherman’s 1865 Field Order No. 15, the origin of the promise of ‘40 acres and a mule.’ However, as the account goes, ‘In 1866, following Lincoln’s assassination, President Andrew Johnson effectively rescinded Field Order 15 by ordering these lands be returned to their previous Confederate owners.’ The result was that freed slaves were coerced into the exploitative structures of sharecropping, further sedimenting racial capitalism. Rowland’s intervention responds directly to this history. As Marina notes, the work employs ‘legal mechanisms that add friction to how a piece of the fictitious commodity of land is able to circulate.’ In Depreciation, a restrictive covenant is placed on the property. In her notes, Marina writes: ‘Rather than redistributing the property, the restriction imposed on 8060 Maxie Road’s status as valuable and transactable real estate asserts antagonism to the regime of property as a means of reparation.’ This approach exemplifies what Marina termed ‘total infrastructural reflexivity.’ \[14\] Vishmidt, Infrastructural Critique \[15\] ‘Value under capital is thus constituted through its exception—that which is without value or remains unaccounted for. … Entropy is the thematic of waste, the uncounted, the devalued, the invisible.’ The entropic has a political connotation, belonging to the uncounted, the subjugated and the invisible. It raises political and strategic questions for Marina: not simply affirming what falls under this theme, not simply reinscribing it into a perspective of recognition, but rather, what is at stake follows the lines of attempting to identify a key subject in anti-capitalist movements. Thus, she brings into play the navigation of affirmative or negative perspectives without falling into the trap of anti-identity thinking where the only legitimate ‘identity’ is class – which, as she writes, should not be affirmed as an identity. \[16\] Elizabeth Nicula, ‘The Artist is the Void’, Momus (2022) https://momus.ca/the-artist-is-the-void/ \[17\] Ibid. \[18\] Martin Arboleda, Planetary Mine: Territories of Extraction under Late Capitalism (Verso, 2020) epub. \[19\] Ariel Cohen, ‘AI is pushing the world toward an energy crisis’, Forbes, May 2024 https://www.forbes.com/sites/arielcohen/2024/05/23/ai-is-pushing-the-world-towards-an-energy-crisis/ \[20\] Chu and Smyth, Nuclear energy stocks hit record highs on surging demand from AI, FT 2024, https://www.ft.com/content/33eeadbe-edf4-40b5-b973-e76c570d0681 \[21\] European Commission, ‘Critical Raw Materials Act’, < https://single-market-economy.ec.europa.eu/sectors/raw-materials/areas-specific-interest/critical-raw-materials/critical-raw-materials-act\_en>, accessed 16.11.2024 \[22\] The EU aims to ‘onshore’ at least ten percent of each production stage domestically, though currently only about forty percent of the capital-intensive super-assembly phase takes place within the EU market. \[23\] From the perspective of the market share, robots are currently active in industry at eighty percent and provide services at twenty percent, with almost half of those in logistics (Amazon distribution centres and warehouses), but this is forecast to change. We know logistics robots automate processes of production formerly performed by people. At every point in this phase, this quantity of automation correlates with the sloughing off or obsolescence of living labour which functions as variable capital. How does digitalisation in this transition soak up this labour? The EU claims that service robots are set to displace industrial robots in market share and value in the next two decades. Service robots include all the cleaning machines and wearable robotics such as exoskeletons. Their use is set to grow exponentially in civil healthcare and defence, including knee supports that soldiers can wear to increase their stamina at war. The development of fragile electronic skins for interactive robots, and stretchable electronics made up of serpentine, snake-like structures are another source of rapid investment. \[24\] Vishmidt, ‘Infrastructural Critique’ (unpublished manuscript) \[25\] Hayward and Vishmidt, ‘Materialities Shaped by Divisions’, Arts of the Working Class, 32, p. 31 Cover Image: Mariuccia Secol, The Doll's House (No 1.) (Casa di Bambola \[No. 1\]), 1970\. © Mariuccia Secol. Courtesy of the artist’s family. Photo: Magdalena Typiak *Rose-Anne Gush is an art historian, theorist, educator, and sporadic artist and curator.* ### Noise on the Gaps URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-score-by-mattin/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:30.000Z “The appearance of spaces and openings versus the need to present a solid, impermeable front is a recurrent theme in the analysis of the relation between gender normativity and political reaction. Klaus Theweleit’s singular book *Male Fantasies* (1977–78) spelled out the thesis as he read the journals and propaganda of the pre-World War II German Fascist militias, with their horror of fluids, filth, and Communist women, while more recently the poet and writer Danny Hayward revived this inquiry in his reflections on ‘gaplessness’ and the ‘block’ as the body-ideal of far-right affect: ‘Fascists imagine themselves as blocks because the idea that their personalities might contain holes or gaps is unbearable to them. They need to be impenetrable, complete, positively constipated with their own Heroism.’” Marina Vishmidt, in her upcoming book, *Infrastructure Critique: Contemporary Art between Reproduction and Abolition* This quote sums up the fascist reaction that is happening nowadays to the growing uncertainty of our times: how to present whole selves and coherent worlds within a disintegrating, entropic reality? Marina Vishmidt has developed a powerful response to this question through *infrastructure critique*. For Vishmidt, this is not a matter of “epistemic regulation and intellectual hygiene,”\[1\] but rather “a kind of unfreezing of the fast-fixed, one that can also happen within collective processes of debate, education, organising, and struggle.”\[2\] This approach is further developed through her explorations of non-identity thinking, entropy, and self-abolition. In this presentation, I propose to examine how *noise* relates to these concepts and how it may be understood as that which intervenes in and destabilises the closures produced by naturalisation and reification. Such an understanding of noise can enable a disentanglement of both the false totalisations concerning capital’s unbounded power and the fascist impulses that seek to re-naturalise categories such as gender, race, family, and the nation-state. Yet, noise has also been mobilised as a vector of ignorance and uncertainty, in what has come to be known as agnotology.\[3\] The central question, then, is how agency might be constituted within and through the ongoing social noise, how it might be oriented toward the production of conditions of possibility for a transformative reorganisation of the world. Let’s start by showing the gaps in what lately has been perceived as a capitalist totality: **Setting up the context: Bilbao, November 2014: Abolishing Capitalist Totality** In 2014, together with Loty Negarti, I organised a workshop titled *What Is To Be Done Under Real Subsumption?* at Bulegoa z/b, an art space in Bilbao. The guests were Federico Corriente, Anthony Iles, Rob Lucas, and Zoe Sutherland (Endnotes), Demetra Kotouza (SIC), Marina Vishmidt, and Ray Brassier. These contributions, plus several others, will be published in the book that Anthony Iles and I have coedited, *Abolishing Capitalist Totality: What is to Be Done Under Real Subsumption?* (Minor Compositions, February 2026). The question of real subsumption has been central to debates within the ultra-left and communisation currents over recent decades, particularly in the aftermath of the 2008 financial crisis. It concerns how life and labour are incorporated into capital. While Kant understood subsumption as the act of bringing a particular under a universal concept, Marx redefined it materially to describe how living labour becomes subordinated to capital. He distinguishes between *formal subsumption*, where capital imposes the wage relation on pre-existing forms of production, and real subsumption, where production itself is reorganised around the extraction of surplus value through the incorporation of scientific and technical means. Various communist currents, from the Italian autonomists’ “social factory” to groups like *Négation* and *Théorie Communiste*, interpret real subsumption as the total incorporation of life under capital. This raises the problem of whether to understand it historically, as a completed phase, or logically, as an ongoing dynamic of domination that risks ontologising value itself. Communisation emerged as a response to these conditions: an immanent form of revolution without program or transition, aimed at the self-abolition of class relations and the destruction of the categories that reproduce capital, state, property, money, and the worker as such. The question of self-abolition brought a paradox that Ray Brassier pointed in his text *Wandering Abstraction,* which was discussed in the workshop: “If ‘we’ are constituted by the class relation that we have to supersede, then the supersession of this relation is also the overcoming of the agent of the supersession, and therefore the cancelling of the supersession and the reinstatement of the ‘we’. Since ‘we’ have no position apart from the class relation, ‘we’ are nothing outside of it. But then the moment of the abolition of this relation is also that of the abolition of its abolition.”\[4\] Marina already started to problematize this paradox of self-abolition by bringing different perspectives on abolition from radical feminism and black studies. The debates in the workshop and its aftermath were intense: what constitutes a logical conception of self-abolition, how it is grounded in concrete experience, and who the subject of self-abolition might be. Some crude interpretations of real subsumption risk leading to false totalisations, abstract forms of negation, or an almost messianic anticipation of revolution that borders on impotent fatalism. Out of this workshop, a few alternative perspectives emerged. For example, Marina, in her contribution “Procedures of Abolition and Several Paradoxes They Throw Up,” problematizes in an incredibly sharp way the notion that real subsumption entails the total incorporation of life under capital. For her, the premise of total real subsumption, in which capital and life appear wholly coextensive, functions as a false problem, a vacuous tautology that neutralizes contradiction and recodes critique as contemplative idealism, the ideological comfort of much contemporary art-activism.\[5\] *Endnotes* in the workshop proposed instead to look at the specific material and logistical processes through which this subsumption is constituted. In a later text, what would become ERROR, *Endnotes* wrote that, in engineering, error marks the discrepancy between intended function and actual outcome, the point where means fail to achieve projected ends. Error thus delineates, negatively, the boundaries of what is practically possible within a given field of action or set of affordances. As Danny Hayward mentioned in his introduction, it seems that Marina Vishmidt found in Endnotes studies of logistics and errors, a concrete way to go forward by exploring the *conditions* of possibility and the affordances that exist within current infrastructures. For Vishmidt, “infrastructural critique is a reckoning with what it means that infrastructure persists and makes possible only insofar as it also makes impossible.” \[6\] My own interest lies in examining what effects these infrastructures exert upon us, on our modes of perception, relation, and the very constitution of subjectivity. In what follows, I will address forms of abstraction that produce highly concrete effects. Specifically, I will discuss the feedback circuit between infrastructures and subjectivity, how material systems of mediation shape, constrain, and enable our capacities for thought and action, and the noise and the reaction it produces. **Social Noise** What is the fascist fear of noise? This has to do with the inner chaos and terror emerging from the dissolution of the self. For the philosopher Cécicile Malaspina, noise is: “Not just a state of confusion and indecision, noise is also amplified by the panicked attempt to redraw the boundaries of the sense of self. To regain the sense of self as the first object of cognition, thereby becomes the precondition to reasserting its relation with other objects of cognition. At stake, in other words, are not the noises we perceive, but the noise of cognition constituting itself, against the always looming crisis of its dissolution.” \[7\] Noise lies at the core of cognition, insofar as it represents what the concept cannot fully appropriate from the object, a point we will explore further in relation to non-identity thinking. Noise breaks through closure and gaplessness, and is feared by the fascist precisely because it undermines the supposed naturalness of their assumptions. If you don’t have a clear idea of who you are, you are less likely to dominate others. Today, the noise from above, generated by socio-economic exchange, intervenes in the noise from below, reshaping our inner models through what has been called “hormone hacking,” as digital platforms exploit our brain’s reward systems for profit. In response to this biohacking and to increasingly excruciating conditions, a catastrophic reaction emerges, a withdrawal into psychic and bodily closure. Drawing on Kurt Goldstein’s observations of shell-shocked soldiers, Cécile Malaspina describes this reaction as an inability to cope with ordinary stimuli, producing persistent anxiety and panic. For Klaus Theweleit, the *Körperpanzer* (body armour) becomes both defence and identity, the fascist “I” as an impenetrable surface. This dynamic reflects what is happening today at the level of the state, from the genocidal colonial project of Israel to NATO’s militarised demands. The general fear of noise and complexity gets instrumentalised for the benefit of the few. Similarly to the “gaplessness” of fascism mentioned above, the catastrophic reaction produces a state of total enclosure. However, attempts to enclose oneself only amplify the noise. I would argue that, similarly to the shock experienced in the aftermath of the brutalities of the First World War and the effects of industrial weaponry, we now find ourselves amid the dissolution of the modern subject and of the assumptions that had been central to it, autonomy, individual freedom, and an abstract, universal idea of the human, which are increasingly revealed as extremely partial. This, in conjunction with technological advancements that accelerate the dissolution of selfhood by profiting from its disintegration, generates a situation marked by a general catastrophic reaction, a pervasive sense of enclosure. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-05-15-at-11.51.37.png) Marina Vishmidt improvising with infrastructure during the collective final performance of the second workshop What Is to Be Done Under Real Subsumption?, Museum of Modern Art, Warsaw, October 2018\. Other performers: Sean Bonney, Farahnaz Hatam, Colin Hacklander, Anthony Iles, Edyta Jarząb, Sacha Kahir, Mattin, and Paweł Nowożycki. **Opening up Usanitary Gaps!** In my book *Social Dissonance* \[8\], I argued that our sense of self is shaped by two intertwined forms of determination that traverse us through impersonal processes: an alienation from above, producing spectral objectivity, and an alienation from below, producing phantom subjectivity. The first corresponds to the Marxist subject–object inversion, in which our subjective capacities are objectified through commodification while objects like money acquire subjective agency, “the dead seize the living,” as Ray Brassier puts it. The second operates at the neurocomputational level, where the brain’s self-model generates the illusion of a stable identity. Following Thomas Metzinger, what we take as the “self” is merely a representational process, intermittently active and fundamentally unstable. Together, these forms of reification structure reality and condition our experience of subjectivity under capital. However, this *phantom subjectivity* is not only merely the result of a projection taking place in our brains, nor the gap constitutive division or lack that defines the subject in the psychoanalytic realm. It stems from a particular understanding of how the subject relates to the individual in capitalist modernity. Just as a commodity appears to possess clear boundaries and prices, the self, understood as a subject endowed with agency, also presents itself as having a sharply delimited contour. Yet, as Sylvia Wynter, psychoanalysis, and other critical currents have shown, this apparent solidity is illusory. To speak of phantom subjectivity is not to abstract specific lives into a general form of abjection. As Marina clearly explains through her engagement with Black radical thought, from Saidiya Hartman, who traces how the logics and structures of slavery persist in racial capitalism, incarceration, sexual violence, and the policing of Black life; to Fred Moten, for whom the slave figures as the presupposition of an object never permitted subjecthood; to Frank Wilderson III’s ontology of Black suffering and his claim that “this world we might end”; one encounters divergent yet convergent articulations, some more overtly violent than others, of the constitutive brutality of capitalist exploitation and its entanglement with race, gender, disability, and other determinations. The reproduction of *phantom subjectivity* reveals the paradox of being a subject under capitalism: increasingly determined by its logic, yet rendered disposable. Conceptual universals such as equality become redundant, along with vast segments of humanity now reduced to surplus populations or exterminated in a genocide. The phantom subjects appear as the zombies of history, moving without direction, without memory. Yet, as Ray Brassier writes, “The subjectivity of labor as capacity disturbs the automaticity of capital, retarding its relentless advance like an organic residue that is more than a raw material but less than a rival power. It is a phantom subjectivity haunting capital’s spectral objectivity.”\[9\] This is not to fall into theories of *absolute subsumption*, where we are merely functions of capital’s automatic subject. Phantom subjectivity still bears material and organic casualties, the unconscious, our need to sleep, the impossibility of maintaining a constantly activated self-model, and increasing problems with mental health, all of which remind us that there are gaps to a threshold to capital. Yet these gaps are not sufficient to be described as agency, insofar as they are not easily identifiable or mobilised toward concrete forms of antagonism. **Self-Abolition as Activated Negativity** As a response to some of the questions that came up in the Bilbao workshop, especially regarding the paradox of abolition, Marina wrote in an interview with Julia Calver and Mira Mattar in 2016: “Activated negativity comes from thinking how self-abolition can be grounded in some kind of material context, and how it can be a determinate rather than an abstract prescription.”\[10\] A process of self-abolition is already underway: the liberal conception of the autonomous, self-possessed individual is disintegrating into something more fluid, machinic, and perverse. Unconscious forms of abolition manifest in contemporary behaviors and online subcultures, brainrot, bed-rotting, coomerism, gooning, edging, symptomatic gestures of withdrawal, exhaustion, and overstimulation. Especially among the young, these behaviors reveal not merely a lack of motivation but a deeper collapse of the very coordinates of desire and subjectivity that liberal capitalism once presupposed. The Machinic feedback loops of pleasure, fatigue, and distraction are an expression of self-consumption of phantomatic subjectivity that does not know where to go. A project of self-abolition would need to engage with the processes of noise, to redirect them, to propose different kinds of boundaries, without presupposing any fixed notion of the subject–object relationship. It must grasp this relation not from an abstract ideal of white universality, but from within the material and differential conditions that produce it. Marina Vishmidt grapples with these complexities through a similar tension: non-identity thinking is necessary for thinking in noise, understanding how noise lies at the core of cognition and our perception of reality. Rather than positing visibility and opacity as opposites, it operates in their dissonant simultaneity, both transformative and constitutive. Non-identity thinking thus compels a continual redrawing of our categories, orienting critique not only by what we experience but by the transformations toward, and against, which we move. For Marina Vishmidt, “social abjection does not always have to wait for the theorist, sociologist, activist, or artist to valorise it. It can be a shared condition of negativity, the negativity that is already there, in the conditions, as the incipient refusal within obedience, production, and reproduction.”\[11\] Over the years, I have been trying to think about how it might be possible to share this social abjection, this *social noise*, through what could be described as a form of *Open Source Negativity*: a collective effort to make sense of our social determination by exploring the codes that shape our conduct and self-conception, but also the noise that transgresses these determinations. Understanding the complex structural dynamics of alienation seems to me a necessary preliminary step toward a justice of non-equivalent and non-exchangeable agents, capable of recognising and exercising their social potential. There is a growing malaise that emerges from the impossibility of being a subject with the capacity to act within capitalism. It is a kind of social noise, difficult to define in general terms, yet increasingly tangible when observed concretely. These moments, in which a coherent idea of selfhood cannot be realised, are what I have called social dissonance: a structural form of cognitive dissonance rooted in the contradiction between the individual as a subject and its impossibility of realisation. This contradiction lies between the abstract values of democracy, equality, and individual freedom, and their concrete materialisation in exploitation, unfreedom, and the destruction of the planet. This social dissonance has very concrete manifestations, such as: impostor syndrome; the artist’s attempt to self-realize while simultaneously self-exploiting, doing whatever it takes to be (and to remain) an artist; gender dysphoria; posting a cheerful update on Instagram while actually feeling like shit; or being in mental health facilities where, due to funding cuts, reduced staffing makes patients even more vulnerable. Some of the biggest social dissonances that I have encountered are in Germany today: claiming “Never Again” while supporting a genocide and repressing/cancelling pro-Palestinian voices. There is so much negativity produced in this world. Could it be possible to take the concrete negative effects, what Marina calls *activated negativity*, and collectivize them, to push them not only against the fascist, gapless body but also toward phantom subjectivity? To explore the noise in the gaps means to attend to the porosity of *phantom subjectivity*, its deficiencies, entropic processes, and leakages, and to capture them to collectivize, rather than allow capital to convert them into surplus value. In these times, it is necessary to produce a *communisation of noise* to deal with this malaise: an immanent form of negativity that, through its very potency, comes to understand itself as our own making, as that which we reproduce through and as noise. Yet to do this under conditions of extreme adversity is not easy; to open up is not easy. For these very reasons, we need specific, concrete, and material tools to engage with the noise in the gaps. One of these tools is clearly infrastructure critique. So what is infrastructure critique? I will try to answer the question of this conference, I would say it is an exploration of the concrete forms and determinations through which capital shapes material reality and reproduces “vectors of objective and subjective determination by race, class, gender, and so forth,” while also attending to the gaps, errors, and affordances that emerge within it, points of activated negativity through which we can intervene. By tracing both the connections and the fractures that constitute infrastructures, we open the possibility of generating forms of solidarity from their negative effects and contradictions. Through such work, we can begin to move toward the abolition of *phantom subjectivit*y and the production of other ways of being together, ways that do not position us as subjects of capital. // This contribution was first presented in the frame of the conference "What Is Infrastructural Critique?” co-organized by KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush, and hosted at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in October 2025. --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Marina Vishmidt, Infrastructure Critique: Contemporary Art between Reproduction and Abolition (London: Verso, 2026). \[2\] Ibid. \[3\] Robert N. Proctor and Londa Schiebinger, eds., Agnotology: The Making and Unmaking of Ignorance (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2008). \[4\] Ray Brassier, ‘Wandering Abstraction,’ in Abolishing Capitalist Totality: What Is to Be Done Under Real Subsumption?, eds. Anthony Iles and Mattin (London: Minor Compositions, 2026). Available here: https://archive.org/download/abolishing-capitalist-totality/AbolishingCapitalistTotality-web.pdf \[5\] Marina Vishmidt, ‘Procedures of Abolition and Several Paradoxes They Throw Up’ Abolishing Capitalist Totality: What is to Be Done Under Real Subsumption? p. 437. \[6\] Ibid. \[7\] Cécile Malaspina, An Epistemology of Noise (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2018), p. 173. \[8\] Mattin, Social Dissonance (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press / Urbanomic, 2022). Available here: http://www.mattin.org/social\_dissonance\_mattin.pdf \[9\] Ray Brassier, Fatelessness: Freedom and Fatality After Marx (London: Verso: forthcoming in 2026). \[10\] Activated Negativity: An Interview with Marina Vishmidt with Mira Mattar and Julia Calver April 1st, 2016, Makzhin Magazine, Issue 2: Feminisms. Available here: https://www.makhzin.org/issues/feminisms/activated-negativity \[11\] Vishmidt, Infrastructure Critique: Contemporary Art between Reproduction and Abolition (London: Verso, 2026). Cover Image: Marina Vishmidt presenting “Procedures of Abolition and Several Paradoxes They Throw Up” at the workshop What Is to be Done Under Real Subsumption? November 2014, Bulegoa b/z, Bilbao. *Mattin is an artist, musician, and theorist working conceptually with noise and improvisation. Through his practice, writing, and pedagogy, he explores performative forms of estrangement as a way to deal with structural alienation.* ### Bodies in space, again. URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bodies-in-space-again/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:24.000Z The ability to struggle politically is materially constructed by the minerals we ingest through food. Through epidermal methods, lotions are applied to the skin. Through embodied practices: movement, breathwork, massage, sauna. This means that beyond a moral or ideological impetus to divest from certain entities as compulsory consumers, we also have a responsibility to acknowledge that our consumption of certain goods—produced by the corporations we hate—also effectively curtails our ability to resist them or to survive them. Most of the minerals we consume at this point in Europe and America require a transaction. Both consumption as currency and consumption as ingestion can be sites of play, improvisation, and experimentation. And yet we are also compelled to participate in this terrible infrastructure: ingesting toxins beyond our control, being genetically predisposed—because of what the people who gave birth to us were made of, because of what they had to eat and endure to make us at all. Through Hortense Spillers’ concept of the flesh. Through Stella Dadzie’s archival research into the nutrients that were either categorically present or categorically absent from certain diets. Certain eating regimens in Jamaica, Grenada, and Barbados under English colonial rule. Certain minerals and their presence, or absence, affect perception, and maybe even behavior. You could choose not to consume sugar, not because it might make you fat, but because you know that you have easy access to sugar because of the infrastructure that was the transatlantic slave trade. Or because sugar encourages inflammation. Unwanted and chronic inflammation is associated with many diseases. Because this infrastructure of European design also means that the attending of our own bodies must be entrusted to professional specialists, could minimizing inflammation in the body be one of the most delightfully anti-capitalist things we can do? Stress. Trapped emotions. The nervous system. These are also infrastructure, for our perception of what is possible, for our perception of what is threatening, for our ability to tolerate and embrace change and uncertainty. If we follow this logic, we might reframe enclosure, or rather property itself, as a stress response: a mechanism of control designed to mitigate a low tolerance for feelings of fear as they arise in the body. And yet stress is not evenly distributed. It accumulates differently across the various nodes of this social order, which means the body that cannot afford to tend to itself is also the body conscripted into that order’s reproductive mechanisms. Which is why pleasure must be added to the tools we use to struggle against financial capital. Pleasure, improvisation, experimentation, and play are material aspects in the political struggle. Consumption as ingestion becomes, then, a very important lens through which to understand why certain instruments of financial capital, famine, enslaved labor, and genocide can become implicated in social arrangements where these instruments are not concretely present. The political and the bodily are not separate registers. They never were. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4akQv46Qtw](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4akQv46Qtw&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4akQv46Qtw\[/embed\] // This contribution was first presented in the frame of the conference "What Is Infrastructural Critique?” co-organized by KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush, and hosted at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in October 2025. --- ### Cover Image: Mariuccia Secol, Tudia, 2012\. © Mariuccia Secol. Courtesy of the artist’s family and Galeria Monopol, Warsaw. Photo: Bartosz Górka. *Taylor Le Melle is a member of not/nowhere artists’ workers’ cooperative in London.* ### Abolition and Organization URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-test-of-infrastructural-critique/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:29.000Z How can capital's infrastructures be theorized or appraised, let alone sensed, in the interest of abolishing them? A potentially more important question is even more strikingly unapproachable: how can a post-capitalist future be speculatively imagined as it relates to the infrastructures that are set up to reproduce the present and resist collective appropriation? As Marina Vishmidt's project on infrastructural critique (hereafter IC) puts forward, the first step is to recognize that infrastructures are, in the first instance, modes of reproduction, and that interrupting them—or finding them when they are already interrupted by other hands, whether Covid's supply chain meltdown or an electrical blackout—is an opportunity for reappropriation. Sensing or making sense of infrastructures, writes Vishmidt, "is inseparable from the attempt to develop a materialist theory of 'conditions.'"\[1\] Employing Vishmidt's work, I have tried to think through two lines of inquiry. Firstly, can the opposition between abolition and creation (not constitution) be sidestepped from the perspective of infrastructure? How do we give shape to speculative processes from a material understanding of the pair's dialectical relationship? And secondly, what are the imperatives of temporal and spatial scale that make it so ostensibly captivating, so corrosive, and so tantalizing? Confronting the question of scale, particularly from the perspective of time—infinite forks between a communist horizon or futures made destitute not by our own hands—offers a speculative experiment for concretizing modalities of abolition that resist scale as an empirical principle and as an organizational framework. Do material expressions of rebellion prefigure non-accumulative futures as they cut into the infrastructure? How are the grammars and modalities of circulation struggles translated in time? Thinking about the latter series of questions, how might we appraise a speculative query like that of the artist Mierle Laderman Ukeles: "after the revolution, who's going to pick up the garbage on Monday morning?"\[2\] If we sidestep the trap that pits abolition and creation against one another—a false totality in which abolition can mean only the disappearance of that which already exists—and if we insurgently speculate in terms other than those preordained by the spatial and temporal scales of accumulation, then what does it look like to appropriate parts of the infrastructure as it exists without reproducing its relations of reproduction? That is to say, after the revolution there will certainly be garbage, but will Monday still exist? **From a Drift to a Shift** In this essay, I will discuss how Vishmidt's notions of "speculation as a mode of production" and IC are complementary projects for considering how thinking infrastructurally is a methodology of uniting abolitionist theory and practice. By "speculation as a mode of production," Marina means to linguistically relate the creative, even artistic dimensions of financialized capitalism to artistic practice. Marina's deconstruction of the autonomy myth—the idea that art produces (or performs) no value other than financialized surplus—is evidenced by creative capitalism's demand to turn all work into a type of autonomous artistic production. "Creativity," Marina describes, "functions as capitalist populism, assuring every exploited worker and discontented artist that capital's interests coincide with their own."\[3\] IC historicizes the drift away from the artistic strategy of institutional critique as well as the institutions of critique that cropped up to limit the borders of a social field of both creativity and action. "'\[I\]nfrastructure', like 'institution,' is used … to signal a view of the art institution as a site of resources—material and symbolic." She uses "drift" in this instance "rather than shift because the development … becomes more obvious over time, in the wake of the exhaustion of other strategies." \[4\] Perhaps the drift here is something akin to C. L. R. James's notion of the emergence of socialism in everyday acts of struggle, while the shift is more evident in his later writing when he says: "There is nothing more to organize … The task is to abolish organization."\[5\] In the second part of the Maintenance Art Manifesto, Ukeles speculatively proposed to turn the Whitney Museum into a trash processing plant. This is not the same gesture as museums commissioning stopgaps to mass austerity with funding from arms manufacturers profiting from a genocide. But in both instances, there is a double bind, as Marina would say. Ukeles's speculative gesture proposes that the museum become a municipal site for a moment—perhaps only for the almost-instantaneous moment of reading the provocation—but not long enough to negate the institution or indeed the infrastructures for the reproduction of value within which it is a node. But this remains true whether the target of critique stays a museum or becomes a recycling plant. What's missing here is the rebellion or even just the collective decision-making framework that would actively negate it. As many have historicized, the "drift" towards the creation of popular tools of survival during the introduction of mass austerity at the dusk of Western postwar industrial growth can also be read as self-defeating. This is what urban historian Benjamin Holtzman accurately, but too severely for my money, calls "popular marketization"—or in other words, the grim but difficult-to-refute view that the only way to survive neoliberalism, the only way to protect liberal institutions from neoliberalism, is to become indebted and a cheerleader for the system.\[6\] You saved your park from becoming a parking lot, but it's called Bank of America Park now. You were able to avoid eviction and stay in your squatted building, but now you have a mortgage. You can have a crumbling train station, but there are only two trains now; meanwhile Elon Musk is building a tunnel between casinos.\[7\] Though Holtzman's argument is not wrong, it is perhaps diagnosing a shift—a decisive and popular change in tactics—when in fact it is a historical drift: survival pending incorporation and integration rather than revolution. Vishmidt describes that "the shift \[to IC\] needs to be understood as moving from a standpoint which takes the institution as its horizon … to one which takes the institution as a historical and contingent nexus of material conditions amenable to rearrangement through struggle and different forms of inhabitation and dispersal."\[8\] Here Marina uses "shift" rather than "drift" because she is not discussing a historical periodization of the practice's emergence, but rather sketching what it is that needs to be done to actualize it—"it" being a speculative abolitionist future. As Danny describes IC, it is an "interventionist project oriented towards … struggle itself."\[9\] In the context of this text, the reading of this sentence changes: here, IC is not a historicization of critique and its discontents, but a provocation to think differently about the horizons of struggle as it is already happening. Of Vishmidt's two projects discussed here, we could say that speculation as a mode of production works to liberate the practice of critique from the damaging inheritance of Kantian transcendence, while IC dialectically emphasizes modalities of confrontational practice that intervene directly into the structural relations between different modes of the reproduction of value so as to develop and reproduce militant strategies. Taken together—which in many ways they cannot but be—they offer branches between struggles or actions that might otherwise be portrayed as immanently oppositional practices. But Vishmidt's goal is not a synthesis of forms of action into a phenomenological totality. As Kevin Floyd, Jen Hedler Phillis, and Sarika Chandra write: "Totality is not something to be restored through modalities of collectivization, socialization, or nationalization," but rather "a web of violent domination to be abolished."\[10\] As Vishmidt describes: "A lot of contemporary theory today mobilises concepts of totalisation, whether these are feel-good concepts such as multitude or feel-bad concepts such as negation, abolition and world destruction. The role of infrastructural critique, in an optimistic reading, is to put these concepts in motion … to make them speculative rather than totalizing."\[11\] To avoid totalization, as operaismo (workerism) detailed, subaltern subjectivity must not be lionized but understood to appear in moments of struggle for its abolition. This is true for all abolitionist projects, whether of the worker or of racialized capitalism. As Marina writes: "The politics of subjectivity always interferes with the schema of self-abolition.\[12\] Who is the subject that initiates and who comes out of the other side of self-abolition?" For the operaisti, class composition was understood as a dialectical relationship between political composition (class struggle) and technical composition (the development of capital). But as Vishmidt gestures towards in her work, that method needs a further layer of speculative abstraction to avoid a lapse into its own kind of determinism or even an accidental re-enriching of the idealized universality of proletarians. As Joshua Clover remarks following his dedicated inquiry into the riot: "people struggle where they are."\[13\] We could say that this is doubly true. Since at least the 1970s, people struggle where they are because many of them have been made surplus to production or forced into spaces traditionally deemed outside of production: thus, circulation struggles at the supermarket, at the pipeline blockade, or at the gaps in the infrastructure, per Vishmidt. But this is also true on the level of what I have taken to calling workerist performativity:\[14\] they struggle where they are because struggle is where they become—and where they become is where they can abolish themselves. Or as Gilles Dauvé put it: "The proletariat, just like all other real abstractions of capital, are not positions to assume or take up, but targets of communist abolition."\[15\] Such a tangled relationship between the production of the subject and its immediate abolition is perhaps most immediately sensible in the art sector, where as Vishmidt writes, "solidarity appears in a field that is structured to exclude it."\[16\] Vishmidt's crucial point about conditions, quoted above, underlines that infrastructures—like the performative subjectivities such as proletarian, tenant, and worker that are produced in the interest of their abolition—are both the motor and mediating technology of valorization and exploitation, the sinew that constructs the world we seek to set aflame. But they are also, crucially, the roadmaps by which such a world can be speculatively reconstructed anew through its negation. Family abolition provides one example; as M. E. O'Brien writes in *Endnotes*: "Unlike current countercultural efforts to form alternative families, the abolition of the family would be a generalized restructuring of the material conditions of social reproduction dependent on communization and the suppression of the economy."\[17\] We might say that the same must be true for all abolitionist projects. Ruthie Wilson Gilmore describes that abolition is "how and to what end people make freedom provisionally, imperatively … against the disintegrating grind of partition and repartition through which racial capitalism perpetuates the means of its own valorization." Like IC, abolition is both negation and a means of provisional rearticulation. IC, writes Vishmidt, enables us "to ask political questions that can no longer be replied to in the abstract, with the false totalizations of rejection or complicity."\[18\] Because of this relationship with subjectivity that I am proposing here, I argue that IC is a profoundly generative addition to theories of class composition. Like autonomist feminism's emphasis on socially reproductive labor, Marina sees that political and social struggle are governed by and co-constitutive of the capitalist division of labor in the so-called "social factory," and are thus also determinant of its development. As I have argued in my reading of Leopoldina Fortunati's *The Arcana of Reproduction*, by taking the perspective of workers' struggle, it is perhaps evident that rather than a totalizing "social factory" permeating out of the site of production as theorized in the early 1960s, under financialized neoliberalism it is rather the labor of the home—that is to say reproductive labor—which exits sites of domesticity or non-productivity to encapsulate all otherwise alienated sites of valorization and the reproduction of labor power and the valorization process and social movements themselves: not unlike what Maria Mies terms the "housewifization" of labor. Following Vishmidt, the lessons we can glean by studying the cultural worker's drift show how to speculatively enact the shift beyond any specific sphere of production or reproduction. The global movement to stop the genocide in Gaza offers an internationalist crystallization of such a perspective. The larger target of action by Palestinian activists, freedom farmers in the West Bank, journalists and those mourning their targeted killing, university encampments across the planet, cultural and academic boycotts, international humanitarian organizations, and so on, is not just one state or group of states, nor solely an array of arms producers that those states depend on for economic growth, but the entire terms of order that guarantee the continuation of the genocide contrary both to mass popular protest and international law. Movements the world over have been revitalized in their internationalist commitments by attending to the frontlines of the struggle of Palestinians, because the question of liberation takes center stage, because all levels of the infrastructural death machine—from local elected officials to global supply chains—are involved in reproducing the violence, and are thus also nodes of the infrastructure that can be actively negated: whether that looks like Zohran Mamdani's mayoral campaign or the abject terror of capital as small groups of Yemeni rebels block global trade at one chokepoint. As Tareq Beconi described a year into the genocide: "The question for me today is how do we think about this moment of genocide as a way of resuscitating our revolutionary legacy, of going back into our roots and bringing out a political project, a decolonial project, that's not about going back to the past because there's no going back, but it's rather about how do we think about decolonization and revolutionary politics today, in this day and age, thinking about all of these global challenges. And I think that's our most urgent task to date."\[19\] **Do We Care (About Scale)?** A paramount question that Vishmidt's work helps think through asks whether movements must necessarily appropriate existing scales as they reappropriate value. In other words, must practices like looting, mutual aid, squatted encampments, collective care, and so on be "scalable?" In the first instance, this is a trick question that leads to potentially destructive consequences as movements confront it. As Stefano Harney and Fred Moten put it: "scaling up is really scaling down, losing connection rather than gaining it, losing abilities rather than consolidating them, settling for form rather than formation."\[20\] On the other hand: how can we possibly hope to confront how dire everything is without scaling up our activity? To modify Ukeles's question: after the revolution, who will make insulin? After the revolution, who's going to put out the fires? Who's going to teach us how to grow food locally, capable of feeding all, or create supply chains capable of reaching those sites where food cannot be grown? Who's going to organize denazification? As M. E. O'Brien and Eman Abdelhadi's speculative novel *Everything for Everyone* so magically demonstrates, those are the questions that guide the organization of a non-accumulative future: one that understands abolition as a slow process of collective action and experimentation.\[21\] Contemporary discourse about care makes another trap evident: by resisting scale, one can get stuck in a cycle of reproducing the present by attending to immediate needs. But as Clover emphasizes, "You don't have to choose militancy versus care work. They're one thing."\[22\] In their recent book *Pirate Care*, Valeria Graziano, Marcell Mars, and Tomislav Medak offer examples that confront this imperative directly: flotillas trying to break Israel's genocidal siege on Gaza, hacking patented medicines and distributing instructions about how to produce them autonomously, providing life-saving nourishment for migrants traversing ever more fascistic border regimes—which the authors argue can "prefigure alternatives" to the present through their very implementation. With that said, how do such practices prefigure a speculative future in which those rules no longer reign, and will they inevitably take the infrastructural shell of the old into the new horizon? Like Vishmidt and Sutherland's question about the abolition of gender or M. E. O'Brien's on the abolition of the family, what kind of caring or cared-for subject passes through the abolitionist portal? Perhaps prefiguration is the wrong word here; if we think about the abolition of use and exchange value as moments in the movement of capital, then perhaps the potential future that emerges during an abolitionist process is not contained in the action itself, but in its ability to constrict the reproduction of use and exchange values as discrete parts of the commodity. Vishmidt is skeptical of care as an end. She underlines that infrastructures repeat across scales, but perhaps they also mediate between their scales. Management across scales can also imply management of scales, in the sense that management has the chance to develop into care: a reflexive undertaking rather than that mode of optimizing activity or processes for predetermined ends called efficiency or performance. In this way management comes back to questions of scale from the standpoint of each specific situation. Scale is an artifact of the productive imagination and the specific engineering process in question, not a pre-existing frame of reference keeping a predetermined order that technology is designed to respond to, whether in an ameliorative or a punitive way. \[23\] Here, Vishmidt encourages us to be mindful to avoid thinking about survival as a political end rather than as a means for reorganizing shared values, and to resist the urge to individualize needs. Indeed, adherence to the former is what allows modalities of governance to recuperate the functions performed by revolutionary movements. We can think of how the Black Panther Party's breakfast program was coopted by the state to become a technology for enforcing racialized capitalist violence and mass hunger for those made surplus; how feminists identified the role of welfare in enforcing the relegation of non-cis-male workers to the home; and how the slogan "defund the police" was taken up by liberal counterinsurgency to quell the 2020 uprisings and indeed strengthen the police apparatus. Critiquing Judith Butler's well-known argument that public assembly's power comes from collective vulnerability, Vishmidt retorts: "If political actors are held to be acting politically insofar as they organise on the basis of their vulnerability, then no common horizon beyond pain management can be envisioned."\[24\] Care—or some other word that can attend to collective social relations rather than a unidirectional relation between carer and cared-for—must move beyond the framework of the individual body (or groups of individualized bodies or even multitudes of individualized bodies) and into the structural, indeed infrastructural, relations that for now guarantee the "state-sanctioned and/or extralegal production and exploitation of group-differentiated vulnerabilities to premature death," as Ruth Wilson Gilmore defines racism, but which can also be applied to other forms of violence that structure the gendered, racialized, ableist capitalist mode of production.\[25\] If we aim to "scale" the notion of care for one or even a group of bodies, then "there is the issue that it is not value-producing labour which is expanding but, rather, value-extracting capital in relation to labour and life seen increasingly as surplus to its requirements and as waste to be managed and maintained in docility, if not exported and killed."\[26\] Looting is a useful example to consider here because, unlike other price-setting struggles which directly respond to "vulnerabilities," it most obviously conflicts with the logics to which scale is inextricably linked. On the one hand it is an action in which people collectively act to meet their needs (i.e., care for each other). On the other, as Saidiya Hartman and others have described, it is also the mobilization of preexisting forms of sociality that are always already acting to survive the violence of whiteness, heteropatriarchy, and ableism.\[27\] To return to IC as a method for confronting these dilemmas, Vishmidt describes that it "begins from the assumption that it is possible to completely sidestep all the hand-wringing over the limits of the institution and instead acknowledge what resources are there, how they can be repurposed, which ones cannot, and which ones are needed."\[28\] Vishmidt responded to the third volume of *Diversity of Aesthetics* with this question: "How do you see the problem of scale in determining what looting can be as an autonomous force, and not just a reaction to its capitalist scale \[which is the\] accumulation of value and the enforcement of property?"\[29\] To build movements capable of confronting the many intertwined crises of capitalism against neo-Malthusian logics of scarcity that afflict even well-meaning activists, Vishmidt suggests, reappropriating all that is produced by social labor is just the beginning. We need not think about how to mimic the scale of capital's infrastructures—even if we have become dependent on functions that those infrastructures fulfill (medicine, for example)—but rather about how to appropriate parts of the existing infrastructures by repurposing them for uses that are collectively commanded and which may decide to make certain functions obsolete (drilling oil, for example). **Am I Infrastructurally Critiquing?** In Jasper Bernes's *The Future of Revolution*, he attests that it is "only the emergence of proletarian self-activity that provides the conditions for an overcoming of the distinction between movement of communists and communist movement."\[30\] But crucially, "what matters for these moments is learning how to produce communism" rather than "learning how to live in capitalism … once the mass strike transforms into revolution … the tasks facing the councils transform. No longer the expression of a unanimous negation, the councils must socialize wealth and directly organize social reproduction."\[31\] He proposes two tests for sizing up revolutionary futures, whether existing or speculative. The "test of value" puts forward that "the abolition of value \[is not\] itself the sufficient condition for communism when it is in fact merely a necessary one."\[32\] On the other hand, the "test of communism" attests that the production of communism does not necessarily imply the abolition of value. A similar heuristic that attends to organization (of communism) and abolition (of value), I wager, can be modified to apply to the question of infrastructural critique, with specific regard for subjectivity. So: you've abolished x, but does y still structure the relations that remain? You've looted the paracetamol and set its price to zero, but does this commodity still mediate between otherwise alienated workers? As Jose Rosales describes in a forthcoming article that historicizes the organic emergence of destituent power, the flagship actions of the 2001 rebellions in Argentina—barter clubs, unemployed worker pickets, etc.—were essentially scaled-up versions of mutual aid which became reproductive motors of rebellion rather than of financialized capitalism's relations.\[33\] (An intentional shift and not an accidental drift.) Today, circulation struggles—price-setting among them—are perhaps the most capable mode for directly confronting capital precisely because the model of accumulation has shifted so dramatically to sites of consumption and circulation: whether the blockade, blocking weapon shipments to genocidal regimes, looting, or the international feminist general strike. As Clover and Annie McClanahan describe: It may at first seem possible to claim that the change in forms of political organization \[to sites of circulation rather than production\] follows the change in forms of capital, with the immanence and dispersion characteristic of finance and platforms reappearing as decentralized and leaderless protests. This offers homology in its weaker sense. \[34\] In other words, it's incorrect to say that the tactical choices taken by people to struggle "where they are" is just a consequence of capital. It is not just a drift, but rather: \[...\] it is better to say that the contemporary, informal modes of organization arise in response to underlying changes, rising where longstanding features of expanded reproduction fall—something no less true regarding the powers of finance and the algorithm. Each of these phenomena meets the withdrawal of industrial capital with its own orienting counterforms. Such an understanding allows us in turn to recognize that revolutionary movements spread neither by contamination nor resonance, as they do not expand across a two-dimensional surface. They burst through the surface in a thousand places, akin because they share the same soil.\[35\] Etymologically, "infra" means "below" and "structure" means "building." In Vishmidt's writing, words can come to mean different things in different places—not because she is imprecise but because things change in different contexts when they're put in motion, as Danny Hayward reminds us. For example, we can interpret "building" as a verb rather than a noun. And, like Clover and McClanahan's point about the limits of two-dimensionality, we can think of the "below" of infrastructure in a space-time other than that of capital. So: below the building (noun) or below the building (verb); or the building (verb) could be happening below something else. Infrastructure is the superhighway and the austerity that renders it stuck and thus ready for appropriation. It is the technology of austerity and repression—as in Musk's tunnel—as well as the defensive use of tunnels from Saigon to Gaza City. Workers' struggle sets the pace of capitalist development, and thus also the armature of the infrastructures of reproduction that mediate between their struggles and culture, broadly speaking. Perhaps, then, the test of IC—or of all cuts into the infrastructures of reproduction—might read like this: does such an action or movement against the capitalist mode of production require the reproduction of a false totalization? Survival? Care for care's sake? Abolition for some but not for others? Or does it engender complicated questions about reorganization, redistribution, and who subjects become as they self-abolish? // This contribution was first presented in the frame of the conference "What Is Infrastructural Critique?” co-organized by KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush, and hosted at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in October 2025. --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Marina Vishmidt, Infrastructures of Critique (Verso, 2026). \[2\] Mierle Laderman Ukeles, “Maintenance Art Manifesto, Proposal for an Exhibition, ‘CARE’,” \[1969\] in Conceptual Art: A Critical Anthology, eds. Alexander Alberro and Blake Stimson (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2009). \[3\] Marina Vishmidt, Speculation as a Mode of Production (Brill, 2023), TK. \[4\] Vishmidt, Infrastructural Critique, TK. \[5\] C.L.R. James cited in Jasper Bernes, The Future of Revolution: Communist Prospects from the Paris Commune to the George Floyd Uprising (Verso 2025). \[6\] Benjamin Holtzman, The Long Crisis: New York City and the Path to Neoliberalism (Oxford University Press, 2021). \[7\] [https://www.propublica.org/article/elon-musk-boring-company-las-vegas-loop-oversight](https://www.propublica.org/article/elon-musk-boring-company-las-vegas-loop-oversight?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[8\] Marina Vishmidt, “‘Only as Self-Relating Negativity’: Infrastructure and Critique,” p 14. \[9\] Danny Hayward, “Introduction: A Life Lived in Different Circumstances,” in Infrastructural Critique, forthcoming. \[10\] Kevin Floyd, et. al., “Introduction: Totality Inside Out,” in Totality Inside Out: Rethinking Crisis and Conflict under Capital, eds. Kevin Floyd, Jen Hedler Phillis, and Sarika Chandra (New York: Fordham University Press, 2022), 5–6\. In this collection, Vishmidt and Zoe Sutherland co-author an excellent essay, “Totality and Universality in Marxist Feminism,” where they also consider the temporal contradictions of subjectivization and abolition: “But if the ultimate horizon of struggle is the non-reproduction of those identities that confine us, a future in which their politicization is unnecessary, the problem emerges of how feminists might organize collectively, without valorizing or consolidating those same identities.” \[11\] Vishmidt, Infrastructural Critique, forthcoming. \[12\] Marina Vishmidt, “The Paradox of Self-Abolition: a Mapping Exercise,” [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKykupDhX4k](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKykupDhX4k&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[13\] Joshua Clover interviewed by Ronja Mälström, “‘People Struggle Where They Are’: Joshua Clover on Riots, Strikes and Communes That Are Already Here,” Turning Point, November 24, 2024, [https://turningpointmag.org/2024/11/24/people-struggle-where-they-are-joshua-clover-on-riots-strikes-and-commune-that-are-already-here/](https://turningpointmag.org/2024/11/24/people-struggle-where-they-are-joshua-clover-on-riots-strikes-and-commune-that-are-already-here/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[14\] See Andreas Petrossiants, “Tenant Composition: Class Struggle from the Point of View of the Home,” Antipode 57, no. 5 (September 2025): 1977–1994. \[15\] Gilles Dauvé, *Capitalism and Communism*. \[16\] Marina Vishmidt and Danny Hayward, “Materialities Shaped by Divisions,” Arts of the Working Class, no. 32. \[17\] E. O’Brien, “To Abolish the Family: The Working-Class Family and Gender Liberation in Capitalist Development,” endnotes 5 (Fall 2019). \[18\] Vishmidt, Infrastructural Critique, forthcoming. \[19\] [https://al-shabaka.org/podcast/a-year-of-ongoing-genocide-in-gaza-with-tareq-baconi/](https://al-shabaka.org/podcast/a-year-of-ongoing-genocide-in-gaza-with-tareq-baconi/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[20\] Fred Moten, Stefano Harney, Sandra Ruiz, and Hypatia Vourloumis, “Resonances: A Conversation on Formless Formations,” e-flux journal, no. 121 (October 2021). \[21\] M. E. O’Brien and Eman Abdelhadi, Everything for Everyone: An Oral History of the New York Commune, 2052–2072 (Common Notions, 2022). \[22\] Clover interviewed by Mälström. \[23\] Marina Vishmidt, “Pure Maintenance,” South as a State of Mind, no. 10 (Summer/Fall 2018), p 88. \[24 \] Marina Vishmidt, “Bodies in Space: On the Ends of Vulnerability,” Radical Philosophy 2, no. 8 (August 2020): p 34. \[25\] Ruth Wilson Gilmore, Golden Gulag: Prisons, Surplus, Crisis and Opposition in Globalizing California (University of California Press, 2007), 28. \[26\] Vishmidt, “Bodies in Space,” p 44. \[27\] Saidiya Hartman, Vicky Osterweil, Christina Sharpe, and Rinaldo Walcott, “Looting,” in Diversity of Aesthetics, eds. Andreas Petrossiants and Jose Rosales (Common Notions, 2025). \[28\] Vishmidt, Infrastructural Critique, forthcoming. \[29\] Marina Vishmidt, “Conclusion: For Marina Vishmidt,” in Diversity of Aesthetics, eds. Andreas Petrossiants and Jose Rosales (Common Notions, 2025). \[30\]/\[31\]/\[32\] Bernes, The Future of Revolution, page TK. Cover Image: Mariuccia Secol, *Daily Apron (Grembiule quotidano)*, 1988\. © Mariuccia Secol. Courtesy of the artist’s family. Photo: Magdalena Typiak *Andreas Petrossiants is a writer and editor.* ### Beign moved URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/being-moved/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:27.000Z Marina and I (Kerstin) met in the realm of the Cinenova Working Group\[1\] in 2011\. We shared the precious and precarious care for the collection that would frame our friendship. The collective processes and their (dis-)functionalities stemming from the DIY/riot grrrl subterranean microcosms of our teens and twenties was a common ground that traversed into the collective structures of watching and caring about a feminist film and video collection. I was also always drawn to Marina's writings and activisms around work and labour, the Full Unemployment Cinema screenings, and the constant interweaving of life, work, cinema—the ways in which each of those permeated the others, never forming categories of being in the world or 'microcosm(s) of social reality',\[2\] but rather a practice of belonging through films, music, films again and social gatherings, 'while also insisting on specificity—the specificity of particular social spaces with particular material possibilities or "affordances".'\[3\] In the process of making *Rainbow's Gravity*,\[4\] in the spring and summer of 2012, we asked Marina to join us for a research trip to Wolfen, near Bitterfeld in deep Eastern Germany, the heavily industrialised zone where the Agfa film factory is located—the setting and topic of *Rainbow's Gravity*. Our attempt to film this place, in which productive work is made invisible since it takes place in the dark, was a sort of experiment; but it was an experiment also in part because of the strange chemical or molecular dissolution of the boundaries between the medium film, the industrialised product film, and life captured on film, worked through film, and edited through the film apparatus. Our presence in the former factory, as well as our encounter with former factory workers, expressed a precarious, somewhat awkward care for and understanding of the world through film(s), 'displacing the boundaries between production and its conditions'.\[5\] Our attempt was to transform information about the bodily memories experienced and related to us by two former film factory workers into an improvised choreography. 'In this way, the speculative is brought together with the "materialist", with the former the vector of transformation and the latter of social reality. (A)s tendencies, as constitutive of relations rather than objects, and objects as temporary crystals of relations in a wider "social synthesis".'\[6\] In reflecting on our processes, I feel there was always a 'crystallised' continuum in time. These memories of our crossings speak of our own formations and building of autonomous infrastructures of care. 'As if life and capital can go their separate ways.' \[7\] Without having met Marina in the past, I (Angela) am writing these lines as a listener and reader of texts and voices gathered from friends who came from Marina's life in London and Germany. Her powerful weavings describe the unfathomable machine of capitalist powers at present—her lying in wait, hunting and tracing down the tools of resistance embedded in our doings with spirits and matters, with threads following others from activism to art and philosophy. Infrastructural critique, whether in the visual arts or in the socio-political sphere, can intuitively be understood as the structure of a mnemonic crystallisation that determines our future actions. Isn't that precisely what infrastructure means? A foundation for shared imaginary worlds that could subsequently become effective for a shared future? As Maurizio Lazzarato and I noted in our reflections on resistant subjectivities of a machinic animism \[8\]—which is neither a ghostly malfunction of a machine nor a viral political idea from the resistant cosmologies of the Global South—part of the problem of a globally integrated capitalism is infrastructural: our perception, which is part of scientific analysis, is unable to precisely distinguish what a subject and what an object is. Viveiros de Castro's anthropological critique of the colonial Western gaze and Félix Guattari's concern with the dividing categories in our modern subjectivities have rightly stated: 'There is something before the subject/object opposition and we must start from their point of fusion.'\[9\] Viveiros de Castro reiterates this idea and assumes that Guattari prefers to speak of 'objectity' and 'subjectity' to mark their non-separation and their reciprocal imbrication. 'A subject is describing the action and behaviours of things and subjectivity is thus a fusion of multiplicity and not of unity.'\[10\] **The 11th Year** Our—Angela and Kerstin's—understanding of infrastructure points to the machinic qualities as being entangled parts in the making of subjectities: as qualities of connecting towards an exterior, to other machines, a denied machinic unconscious that reigns in the understanding of politics. So let us look first to a proto-machine of modernity itself and examine the industrial making of train lines, spurring the imperial military-capitalist complex in German history: namely the Baghdad Railway. This massive deterritorialisation machine was not only a product of the Industrial Revolution and war, but also operated through forced labour and forced displacement. The non-Muslim minorities in the Ottoman Empire were forced to leave their homes forever. This genocidal policy of total war was linked to a fantasy of omnipotence that echoed the theories of Prussian Clausewitzian military thought, which justified the nation-state extending war to all spheres and spurred German industrialists to seek new territories and clientele to generate profits. The German industrialists of the 19th century believed they could thrive through the powers of imperial control and reign over people whom they perceived, in an Orientalist fashion, as disorganised. In 1914, the German navy, under the Ottoman flag, attacked the Ukrainian Crimea in the Russian Empire. From 1917 onwards, the civil war in Russia began a revolution that invented the concepts of Kinoki forces of cinema, which 'crystallised time' through moving images. In 1928, Dziga Vertov made *The 11th Year*, showing the industrial development in Ukraine, along the river Dnipro, in the eleven years since the October Revolution. Recently we returned to Vertov's film project in the context of our research project 'Industries of Denial'. Thinking and discussing industrialised and infrastructural processes—virtually with Marina in mind—we were 'being moved'. It has been helpful to think an industrialised implementation of the national project of 'denialism' through repetition, contingency, and continuity as an infrastructure. 'Kinoki / Kino-eye' means the visual linkage of people throughout the entire world based on the continuous exchange of visible facts, of cine-documents, as opposed to the exchange of cine-theatrical representations. 'Cinesensation is interpreted by Vertov as a constitutive force. Cinelinkage, connecting the proletariat of all nations through audio-visual means (kino-eye), is an anticipation of television, digital, and satellite networks, which power and the markets utilise for production and enslavement.'\[11\] The power of expression that we could discover in our works with experimental video and cinema led to a new form of connectivity, which we expanded politically towards a critique of the dividing categories and normative objectivations reigning within aesthetic paradigms of representation. An image does not represent reality but points to another image as a form of mnemonic pointer. 'Vertov's new proletariat is not just an ideological reference point but primarily a new aesthetic and productive paradigm of assemblage: the factory instead of the theatre, the cyborg of the collective worker, and the assemblage of human and machine, instead of purely subjective representation.' Away from exclusionary practices of representational normative aesthetics, our autonomous and self-invented expanded cinema form is necessarily philosophical, as we use the machines of crystallising time for new cartographies and documentary forms. We experiment with these machines for seeing and thinking that connect us to new collective agencies of expression and non-linear, transversal, and machinic forms of narrative, of performance, of thinking together. As Maurizio Lazzarato reiterates in his book *Videophilosophy*, on video art and politics, he sees these art practices as vital mnemonic work with 'machines for seeing and thinking' that 'must remain open to all other semiotics and to all other forms of subjectivity and temporality that the multitude and cosmos express.'\[12\] 'Vertov interpreted the Soviet revolution not only as the general collapse of power and of capitalist institutions in Russia but also as a collapse of the human and its world. Cinema was immediately understood as a mechanic expression of forces—assembled in different ways with human forces such as seeing, feeling, perceiving, and thinking—capable of opening up new forms of subjectivation. These forces of the outside that capitalism brings to the foreground are, in the first place, forces of time and of the virtual that can be located within machines that crystallise time as powerful means of expression.' **'Infrastructures Repeat Across Scales'**\[13\] Departing from Vertov's proposition of the Soviet revolution—constructing a 'new' world upon the ruins of the capitalist and feudal systems of the 19th century—we do not want to give a shortsighted analysis of contemporary finance capitalism but rather look at today's forms of denialism through the lens of interpretations from 100 years ago. We look at the repeating structures of systemic denial and structural violence, and at genocidal policies in the construction and formation of nation-states after the breakdown of the imperial states in World War One—in particular the Ottoman Empire and its entanglement with the German Reich. In Lenin's famous work *Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism* (1916), he developed his theories of how financial capitalism at the beginning of the 20th century leads to an aggressive form of imperialism. He showed how German banks and steel, weapons, and railway industries are entangled in neo-colonial expansions, especially in the example of Deutsche Bank. In Lenin's analysis of capitalist economies, railways are viewed as a crucial support for capitalist expansion. He saw the building of railways as an essential component of industrial development, but also as something that reflected deeper contradictions in capitalism. The development of railways was a central machine of capital. Large capitalist enterprises, including railway companies, became monopolies, and these monopolies consolidated power within the hands of a few. The dominance of monopolistic corporations and the concentration of finance capital through large banks controlled the economy—but they needed to expand abroad to maintain their profits, into colonial territories or newly industrialised regions. This process was, in Lenin's view, a hallmark of imperialism in the final stage of capitalism. \[14\] **Train Lines as Borders** The fluidity and passages of a geographically entangled understanding of milieus and shifting subjectities is most at home in trains, while being moved. In train rides as such, what one thinks and what one perceives is imbricated but differential—a gliding temporal setting of belonging and not belonging at the same time, one that entangles bodies to an extra body constructed through the energetic and mechanical history of superstructures propelling us into a distant, moving, fast, and missing realm of disconnection. I (Angela) have often described Benjamin's spleen in modern spaces, his search for trance as a moment enabling oneself to utter thoughts that escapes the overruling power systems of the socially hierarchised patriarchal realms of a place. Trance movements in trains thus allow us to set up a plane of consistency for an emerging 'subjectity'—necessary to recognise ourselves within the infrastructural level of an industrial denial. Within this machinic proliferation, quite singular moments appear in which we can grasp a crystallised moment allowing ourselves to reflect. Today, we are waking up in a very unpleasant crystallisation of this industrialised power of denial that holds people in check and forces them to repeat structures of exploitation. The debt crisis, as Maurizio stated with the words of others, is the imprisonment of class through debt—like driving on the monotonous road of the autobahn with no exit to be taken. A certain way of dying a life while living it, a starving matter making oneself a fixed subject with no potential to change. Hellish. How was the machinic superstructure of the train—which includes a history of wheels, of mechanics, of energetic transformations, the thing that translates circular movements into linear ones—how can this meta-object of progress become the kernel of the financial capitalist imperialism that Lenin analysed so well in his book? 'Industries of Denial’ is about trains, banks and imperial investment projects, rushing into an orientalist phantasmagoric imagination of an East that never existed, that always was a much too diverse cosmos for being propelled into progression of a monotonous societal construction allowing speculation, debt and war become the fundamental bases of Western societies. **Industries of Denial** *Industries of Denial* focuses on the history of the denial of the atrocities the minoritized peoples in the territory of the Ottoman Empire were subjected to by the German-Turkish alliance since the Berlin Conference (1878) which conducted ‘the division of the world’.\[15\] Germany’s alliance has contributed to the genocidal policies of the late Ottoman Empire and the Turkish Republic. Structural denialism was and is operative as a national cultural homogenization factor in today’s Turkey and concurrently in the whole region called ‘the Middle East’. Denialism – as a strategy – constructs positions of power through the assertion of truth and its negation, i.e. the denial of facts, historical events or social contexts. The producibility of facts and the dissolution of community have become operative in the current structures of bio-political governance. In contemporary Turkey, this is used to exercise control over historical narratives by negating ethnic cleansing and cultural erasure. Over and over, we are faced with denialism as the ongoing overarching mechanism that keeps the catastrophe of the Asia Minor Genocides in the first quarter of the 20th century an open wound, an ongoing transgression, and repeating violation across generations, classes, landscapes, and countries. Infrastructure and in particular, the building of railroads by the German Reich not only exploited minoritized people through forced work but also contributed to their systemic negation. Simultaneously, the people themselves, their mere existence, their histories are denied; the denial of the mourning, the denial of loss, the denial of traces and paths through the landscapes. In this moment, we hear Deleuze calling the missing people. “The moment the master, or the colonizer, proclaims ‘There have never been people here’, the missing people are becoming, they invent themselves, in shanty towns and camps, or in ghettos, in new conditions of struggle to which a necessarily political art must contribute.” \[16\] The practice of denialism regarding mass atrocities is usually thought of as a simple denial of the facts. But rather, it is in that nebulous territory between fact and truth where denialism germinates. Denialism marshals its own facts, and it has its own truth. “Turkish denialism regarding the events of the First World War is perhaps the most successful example of how the well-organized, deliberate, and systematic spreading of falsehoods is employing factual statements to construct a false “truth.” (…) Another characteristic of this century of denialism is that it has been an inherent component of the genocide, since the beginning of the events themselves. In other words, the denial of the Armenian Genocide began not in the wake of the massacres but was an intrinsic part of the plan itself.” \[17\] Within the formation of modern nationalism and the violent ruptures modernity implied in the shaping of societies, photography appears as the modern invention that depicts these processes and is itself the optical-technical means that represents this paradigm shift. We started digging, as if we were mnemonic archeologists. Tracing visual testimonies and transferring photo-chemical residues, which were unintentionally shot for technical purposes: observing the building of railways, documenting archeological finds, surveying territories in military operations during WW1, and “archiving the planet”, which was the title of Albert Kahn project. These photographic operations in the decline of the Ottoman Empire create a conflict of interests with the attempts of erasing and deny ‘what had happened’. Thus they were forbidden, some archival records have been denounced many times, some films have been prevented to being made, or all their copies have been lost. But numerous images existed and persisted. Our accumulated collection of archival photographs from a wide range of sources—including military archives, the archives of the German Foreign Office, the construction firm Philipp Holzmann, the archives of Deutsche Bank, photo collections of railway engineers, Christian missionaries, the Near East Relief Foundation, newspapers, the Archives de la Planète, and private photo collections– reveals them as mostly accidental witnesses of the genocidal atrocities that happened in the region, before, during and after WW1\. In some instances, they make even more apparent how denialism operates. // This contribution was first presented in the frame of the conference "What Is Infrastructural Critique?” co-organized by KKP (Sofia Bempeza and Annette Krauss) together with Danny Hayward and Rose-Anne Gush, and hosted at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in October 2025. --- ### Footnotes \[1\] The Cinenova Working Group began forming in 2009 with Em Hedditch, Cay Castagnetto, Megan Fraser, Henriette Heise, Karolin Meunier, Irene Revell, and Marina. I joined between 2011 and 2019\. Marina continued to be involved until her passing. \[2\] Marina Vishmidt, Infrastructural Critique: Contemporary Art Between Reproduction and Abolition (London: Verso, forthcoming), p 26. \[3\] ibid. \[4\] Rainbow’s Gravity, video essay 33 min, Mareike Bernien/Kerstin Schroedinger 2014\. Our research trip was made one year prior to our actual film shoot with a different group of performers. Hence, the footage shown at the symposium and the video still had not been published anywhere. \[5\] MV, p 62. \[6\] MV, p 30. \[7\] Ibid p 64. \[8\] Angela Melitopoulos and Maurizio Lazzarato, “Machinic Animism“ in Félix Guattari in the Age of Semiocapitalism, Deleuze Studies, Vol. 6, No. 2, Edinburgh UniversityPress. 2012, pp. 240-249. \[9\] Ibid. \[10\] Viveiros de Castro in an interview for Assemblages, an audiovisual research by Angela Melitopoulos and Maurizio Lazzarato, 2010. \[11\] Lazzarato, p 27. \[12\] ibid p 20. \[13\] MV p 26. \[14\] Vladimir Lenin (1948), Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism, London: Lawrence and Wishart. \[15\] ibid. \[16\] Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 2: The Time-Image, Minneapolis, 1989, p 217. \[17\] Taner Akçam: Killing Orders, Palgrave Macmillan 2018, p 3. Cover Image: Marina outside the Film Factory in Wolfen, unreleased research footage filmed in 2012, for Rainbow’s Gravity, Mareike Bernien/Kerstin Schroedinger, Ger/UK, 2014. *Angela Melitopoulos is an artist and realizes experimental media art pieces, mostly multi-screen video installations. She named her projects “cine(so)matic essays”. Her methodology foregrounds her interest in mnemopolitics, time, geography, and collective memory in relation to electronic/digital media and documentation.* *Kerstin Schroedinger works on long-term, research-based projects at the intersection of film, sound, and performance, engaging with the social and political formations of time-based media through their historicity and materiality.* ### Institution, Infrastruktur oder Kritik URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/institution-infrastructure-or-critique/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:33.000Z Ich habe Marina persönlich erst gegen Ende ihres Lebens kennengelernt; wir verstanden uns sofort sehr gut. Und es ist ungemein traurig, dass wir den damals gerade erst begonnenen Austausch nicht mehr fortsetzen konnten. Ich kann deshalb hier auch nicht als Experte über ihre Arbeit sprechen, sondern nur darüber, wie produktiv ihr Ansatz für mich war und ist. Denn zweifellos stellt ihre Arbeit eine große Herausforderung für meine eigene dar. Insbesondere in meiner kuratorischen Arbeit war ich stets jener Bewegung verbunden, die als Institutionskritik (Institutional Critique, kurz IC) bekannt geworden ist. Auch wenn ich selbst diesen Begriff aus unterschiedlichen Gründen nur selten verwendet habe, traf und trifft Marinas Kritik am Begriff und an den damit verbundenen Praktiken der IC, vor denen sie ihren eigenen Begriff einer Infrastrukturellen Kritik abhob, immer noch entscheidende Aspekte meiner eigenen theoretischen und praktischen Positionierung. Das heißt, wir unterscheiden uns zweifellos hinsichtlich grundlegender theoretischer und praktischer Einsätze. Und doch gibt es etwas, das unsere Arbeiten miteinander verbindet: natürlich ein Interesse an einem übergreifenden linken Projekt, vielleicht aber auch ein methodisches, im Kern undogmatisches Moment, das mich bei aller Schärfe ihrer Argumentationsweise an ihr besonders fasziniert hat. Marinas Kritik an der Institutionskritik (ich beziehe mich hier im Wesentlichen auf ihren Text von 2015) betrifft vor allem die Institution selbst als einen Ort „falscher Totalisierungen“, die sie in Analogie zu den falschen Totalisierungen des Kapitals sieht. Sie argumentiert hier auf ähnliche Weise wie Terry Eagleton, der bereits zu Beginn der 1990er-Jahre davor gewarnt hatte, den Kapitalismus als ein nahtloses, integratives System zu verstehen – nämlich genau so, wie er selbst, jede Kritik immer schon ins Leere laufen lassend, verstanden werden will. Dementsprechend, so Marina, sei auch die Kritik an den Institutionen selbst immer noch von solchen falschen Totalisierungen betroffen, vor allem wenn sie sich auf zirkuläre, symbolische Selbstreferenzialität beschränke. Demgegenüber sei infrastrukturelle Kritik wesentlich transitiv und stelle Verknüpfungen zwischen dem materiell Gegebenen und dem Möglichen, dem Bedingten und dem Unbedingten her, um von dort aus vor allem strukturelle Gewaltverhältnisse besser zu erfassen zu können und der traurigen Selbstanklage zwischen Komplizenschaft und Anpassung zu entkommen. Das war zweifellos insbesondere gegen Andrea Frasers grundlegenden Text „From the Critique of Institutions to the Institution of Critique“ von 2005 gerichtet, der diese Ambivalenzen herausgestrich, die weitgehende Identifikationen mit der Institution im Sinne eines „We are the institution“ betont und die Konsequenzen dieser Identifikation bis hin zur Melancholie, etwa bei Marcel Broodthaers, herausgearbeitet hat. Man kann diesen Konflikt nun mit guten Gründen relativieren, wenn etwa Sabeth Buchmann sagt, dass Institutionskritik eigentlich zu guten Teilen bereits Infrastrukturkritik war. Das ist sicherlich richtig – durchaus bereits bei Broodthaers, Haacke oder Rosler, umso mehr bei Fareed Armaly, Fred Wilson oder auch Renée Green und zunehmend bei Andrea Fraser – oder wenn Eric Golo Stone sagt, dass institutionelle und infrastrukturelle Kritik gleichsam miteinander verschränkt werden können oder sollen. Marina scheint sich selbst in späteren Texten durchaus in diesem Sinne geäußert zu haben. Mir ist es dennoch wichtig, den kritischen Impuls ihrer Arbeit aufzunehmen und den Cut, von dem sie spricht, nicht vorschnell zu heilen. Denn um theoretische und politische Konflikte fruchtbar zu machen, halte ich es für die unabdingbare Voraussetzung, nicht nur die begrifflichen, theoretischen und letztlich auch die taktisch-politischen Unterschiede zu betonen, sondern darüber hinaus in unserer katastrophischen, krisengeschüttelten Welt gleichsam die letzte Frontlinie zu thematisieren: die Unfähigkeit der Linken selbst, diese Welt noch angemessen im Sinne radikaler emanzipatorischer Zielsetzungen zu erfassen. Um was also geht es in diesem Konflikt? Um seine Schärfe, aber auch seine Potenziale erkennen zu können, müssen wir bei der grundlegenden Unterscheidung beginnen, dass hier eine Form von Kritik gegen die andere steht, dass wir es mit zwei unterschiedlichen Kritikformen zu tun haben. Die entscheidende Frage wird sein, wie sich diese beiden Kritikformen im Verhältnis zueinander verstehen lassen, wie strikt sie sich überhaupt voneinander unterscheiden und inwiefern ihre politische Reichweite gerade in dieser Abgrenzung voneinander wurzelt und damit auch die Überwindung der einen durch die andere als möglich erscheinen kann. Es könnte sich allerdings auch um zwei letztlich aufeinander bezogene Formen unter einem gemeinsamen Prinzip handeln, der Kritik am Kapitalismus etwa in seinen unterschiedlichen Erscheinungsformen, oder gar nur um zwei Varianten aus einer Fülle möglicher anderer Kritikformen. Geht es also um eine, zwei oder viele Formen von Kritik? Um den Konflikt hier produktiv zu machen, müssen wir zweifellos von der ersten Variante im Sinne von zwei einander antagonistisch gegenüberstehenden Kritikformen ausgehen. Es gibt zwar seit langem Versuche, unterschiedliche Formen der Kritik, immanente und externe, literarische und politische, künstlerische und soziale Kritik voneinander zu unterscheiden. Jedoch stehen alle diese verschiedenen Formen nicht notwendigerweise in einem konflikthaften oder gar antagonistischen Verhältnis zueinander. John Roberts hat versucht, in Anlehnung an Hegels Unterscheidung von erster und zweiter Negation eine solche eher konflikthafte Dimension künstlerischer Negationen zu betonen. Der ersten Negation entspräche in seiner Sichtweise die autopoietische Kritik im Sinne von Niklas Luhmann als eine im Wesentlichen auf die Rekursivität der Kunst bezogen, auf ihre Reproduktion qua innerer Differenzierung und weitgehender Abschottung nach außen. Unter zweiter Negation versteht Roberts hingegen Hegels „absolute Negation“, d.h. „den Sprung in die Freiheit durch die Negation der Negation“. In dieser Negationsform sieht Roberts eine „Kraft der Befreiung“ am Werk, wie sie für ihn mit einer „revolutionären Kulturpraktik“ identifizierbar ist. Auf die klassisch marxistische Terminologie bezogen, legt Roberts Unterscheidung nahe, Institutionskritik als eine Kritik innerhalb des Überbaus zu begreifen, während infrastrukturelle Kritik im Namen der Basis agiere. Damit beträfe sie die eigentliche Dimension gesellschaftlicher Veränderung und nicht bloß deren repräsentative Überformung. Auf der Ebene der Infrastruktur zu intervenieren, verspräche darüber hinaus, selbst in die Prozesse gesellschaftlicher Veränderung einzugreifen und den Weg zur Befreiung zu weisen. Tatsächlich hatte bereits Frederic Jameson in seinem Frühwerk „Marxism and Form“ von 1972 den Begriff der Infrastruktur als Gegenbegriff zu dem der Superstruktur verwendet (das ist nicht die klassische Übersetzung von Basis und Überbau!). Infrastruktur beträfe in diesem Sinne nicht bloß die materiellen Verteilungswege im Sinne von Versorgung und Verkehr (Elektrizität, Wasser, Abfall, Internetverbindungen, Lieferketten), sondern immer auch schon die materiellen Grundlagen jeder sozialen und kulturellen Erscheinungsform, also keine rein horizontal-räumliche, sondern eine vertikale und durchaus auch zeitlich-dynamische Dimension. Dies wirft wiederum die Frage auf, wie die Begriffe von Institution und Infrastruktur letztlich in das Basis-Überbau-Schema integrierbar und damit auf die entscheidende Instanz der Marx’schen Revolutionstheorie beziehbar sind. Das Problem hiermit besteht wiederum darin, dass die Basis bereits aus zwei Teilen besteht – den materiellen Produktivkräften und sozialen Produktionsverhältnissen – und diese gemeinsam erst dem Überbau – den ideologischen Repräsentationen von geistigen Einheiten wie Kunst, Recht, Religion oder Philosophie – gegenüberstehen. Es scheint mir allerdings in der marxistischen Theorietradition nicht vollkommen klar zu sein, wie sich die sozialen Produktionsverhältnisse als Teil der Basis zum kulturellen Überbau im Sinne des „das Sein bestimmt das Bewusstsein“ tatsächlich verhalten. Denn wenn das Sein bereits zweigeteilt ist zwischen dem Materiellen und dem Sozialen, dann stellt sich die Frage, wie sich diese beiden Teile jeweils zum Überbau verhalten können, da zwischen dem Sozialen und dem Kulturellen ja kein ähnlich strikter Gegensatz wie zwischen dem materiellen und dem Ideellen angenommen werden kann. Für einen materiellen Determinismus lässt sich durchaus argumentieren, für einen sozialen ist dies jedoch deutlich schwieriger. Er führt, wie deutlich an Bourdieus Habitus-Begriff zu sehen ist, in die Aporie, dass eine solche Theorie dann ja selbst nicht ausgesagt werden könnte – wir könnten außerhalb unserer sozialen Klasse keinerlei relevante Aussagen mehr treffen. Das heißt, die Produktionsverhältnisse, das Soziale, beinhalten bereits notwendigerweise ideelle Vorstellungen über sich selbst; sie müssen daher wohl eher an der Schnittstelle zwischen Basis und Überbau begriffen werden. Es ist genau diese Schnittstelle, die differierende Grenzlinie zwischen Basis und Überbau, an der sich auch die Begriff von Institution und Infrastruktur überschneiden. Denn Institutionen lassen sich selbst am besten als soziale Infrastrukturen begreifen; sie vermitteln immer schon zwischen dem, was in ihrem weiten Verständnis als Bräuche, Sitten, Riten und Gewohnheiten angelegt ist, und ihrem engen Verständnis als kulturell, religiös oder politisch überformte Strukturen solcher sich wiederholender Verhaltensweisen (ideologische und repressive Staatsapparate, der Staat selbst als Super-Institution, aber auch die habituellen Momente des individuellen Verhaltens). Umgekehrt lässt sich auch der Infrastruktur-Begriff nicht auf rein materielle und außerstaatliche Gegebenheiten beschränken. Er beinhaltet notwendigerweise auch soziale und mentale Dimensionen oder Dispositionen, ansonsten wäre ihm schwerlich ein kritisches Potenzial zuzuschreiben. Es wird also zuallererst darum gehen, die beiden Begriffe in ihren logischen Implikationen voneinander zu unterscheiden, um die jeweilige Potentialität, aber eben auch die Problematik im Sinne politischer Beanspruchbarkeit abschätzen zu können. Die Leistung des Institutionsbegriffs als eines im Kern empirischen soziologischen Begriffs besteht sicherlich darin, das Moment der Instituierung zu erfassen, das heißt der Etablierung und Implementierung von sozialen Regeln, Normen oder Werten. Damit agiert der Begriff im Spannungsfeld zwischen individuellen Verhaltensweisen und kollektiven Vorgaben; er bezieht sich auf ein höchst dynamisches Geschehen und keineswegs auf statische Entitäten. Deshalb läuft alles, wie die Diskussionen zwischen Adorno und Gehlen in Rundfunk und Fernsehen gezeigt haben, auf eine Dialektik der ermöglichenden und der repressiven Funktionen hinaus. Jeder kritische Diskurs hat an einer solchen Dialektik teil und impliziert daher institutionelle Momente, ansonsten könnte er gar keinen Geltungsanspruch stellen. Christoph Menke hat diesen Ansatz in seiner Frankfurter Abschiedsvorlesung sogar im Sinne eines „Lobs der Institution“ noch einmal zugespitzt – einem Lob, das er im Anschluss an Merleau-Ponty so verstanden haben will, dass sich die Institution überhaupt erst in ihrer Kritik erfülle. Die Kritik und somit die Überschreitung wird hier zum eigentlichen Sinn der Institution als eine permanente Selbst-Überschreitung – nicht einer permanenten Revolution. So sehr ich mich diesem heute mehr denn je notwendigen Lob der Institution anschließen möchte: Diese Ausweitung des Institutionsbegriffs zum Inbegriff sozialer Dynamiken hat ihren Preis. Sie liegt nicht nur gefährlich nahe an der selbstregulativ-autopoietischen Sichtweise auf die Institution, nur eben ausgeweitet ins infrastrukturelle Feld. Sie impliziert darüber hinaus in der Verschmelzung von Institution und Kritik eine reine Positivität. Der Institutionsbegriff verweist jedoch nicht nur in seiner empirischen, soziologischen Form auf die Schwierigkeit, das Negative zu denken. Das Problem zeigt sich auch in der letztlich transzendentalen Wende, die Menke am Begriff vollzieht, indem er die bei Gehlen noch konservativ verstandene „Transzendenz im Diesseits“ auf ein Zukünftiges und Offenes hin verschiebt. Wenn der Sinn der Institution in der Wiederholung ihrer Einsetzung liegt – und damit in der Abgrenzung von den reinen Bräuchen, Sitten oder Riten –, bleibt das Negative sowohl der Einsetzung als auch der Wiederholung ja gerade auch im Offen-Positiven erhalten. Dieses Negative muss deshalb in seiner doppelten Form adressiert werden. Einerseits betrifft dieses Negative das Nicht-Instituierte, das im Prozess der Instituierung Abgespaltene, Ausgelagerte, Verworfene und Ausgeschlossene. Dieses Ausgeschlossene ist konstitutiv für den Einschluss, denn der Akt der Instituierung vollzieht, auch wenn sich dieser immer wieder öffnet und durchaus das eben Verworfene – allerdings nur teilweise – wieder zu integrieren in der Lage ist. Dem Nicht-Instituierten steht nun andererseits das Negativ-Instituierte gegenüber, also das, was sich mit den unterschiedlichen Formen, Akten und Prozessen der Instituierung selbst – bei den besten Absichten – notwendigerweise mit instituiert. Denn jede Form der Instituierung als eine Art von Positivierung sozialer Verhältnisse ist begleitet von einem negativen Doppelgänger, der erst die Abgrenzung zum Nicht-Instituierten vornimmt, und daher selbst mit instituiert werden muss – als eine Form von Gewalt oder des Krieges, die im grundsätzlich idealisierten institutionellen Selbstbild allerdings kaum aufscheinen kann. In diesem Selbstbild kommt die Gewalt immer von außen; sie ist nicht Teil der je eigenen Rationalisierung, was man im Liberalismus in aller Deutlichkeit sehen kann. Und diese Formen negativer Instituierung können grundsätzlich nicht überwunden werden, weil sie ja ein notwendiges Substrat der positiven Instituierung darstellen; sie bleiben den idealen normativen Ordnungen ebenso eingeschrieben wie deren transzendentaler Verschiebung ins Offene. Dieses Negativ-Instituierte zu adressieren, stellt also die größte Herausforderung des Institutionsbegriffs dar. Der Infrastruktur-Begriff ist nun ebenfalls ein im Wesentlichen empirischer Begriff, der jedoch nicht der Soziologie, sondern der Urbanistik und der Medientheorie entstammt. So haben etwa Steve Graham und Simon Marvin in ihrem Buch „Splintering Urbanism. Networked Infrastructures, Technological Mobilities and the Urban Condition“ von 2001 bereits auf die Verschiebung in der Logik urbaner Infrastrukturen von den nationalstaatlich regulierten, ein spezifisches Territorium abdeckendem Raster hin zum neoliberalen, digitalen Netz untersucht, mit kein gesamtes Territorium, sondern bloß bestimmte Knotenpunkte versorgt werden. Daran anschließend konnte Keller Easterling ihren groß angelegten Versuch starten, im Begriff der Infrastruktur spezifisch urbanistische, neoliberale und digitale Produktion Logiken miteinander zu verknüpfen. Sie situiert diese Produktionslogiken im Spannungsfeld von „shiny surfaces“ und „hidden dispositions“, wobei diese nicht mehr zwischen einzelnen Einheiten – Gebäuden, Objekten, Institutionen oder Staaten – vermitteln, sondern selbst zum eigentlich produktiven Einsatz geworden sind. Als aktive, dezentralisierte und deregulierte Formen halten diese Infrastrukturen das moderne Leben am Laufen: in Form von Lieferketten, Finanzströmen, digitalen Plattformen bis hin zu jenen urbanen Sonderzonen rund um den Globus, die dem direkten Einfluss der Staaten weitgehend entzogen sind. Daher nennt sie all diese unterschiedlichen Erscheinungsformen des Infrastrukturellen „Extrastatecraft". Als empirischer Befund ist das sicherlich toll, vor allem, wenn man in Rechnung stellt, dass 2015 das Wiedererstarken des Staates, wie wir es heute erleben, noch nicht absehbar war. Und doch scheint mir die theoretische Rekonstruktion, die sie im Anschluss an Bruno Latours ANT vollzieht, problematisch. Easterlings Buch wird stets dort schwammig, wo sie sich auf eine „Politik der Infrastruktur“ und mögliche subversive Einsätze bezieht. Für sie sind Infrastrukturen Software, die immer wieder von außen „gehackt“ oder sabotiert werden kann. Sie scheinen uns selbst also gar nicht zu betreffen. Und dass seit den Anfängen der digitalen Kultur der Hacker von gestern der Systemadministrator von heute ist, scheint sie ebenso wenig zu beunruhigen wie die eigentümliche Verschränkung von klassischer Ideologiekritik – die mächtigsten Personen bleiben die eigentlichen Akteure von Infrastrukturen, die deren „hidden dispositions“ steuern – mit der ANT, die genau das „Elend“ einer solchen Kritik beheben will. Das macht deutlich, und nur darum soll es hier gehen, dass ohne explizit politischen Kontext die Frage nach einer möglichen Kritik dieses Infrastruktur-Begriffs nicht funktionieren kann. Und dahingehend verstehe ich auch Marinas Einsatz, auch wenn ich ihre Quellen nicht genau benennen kann. Ein solcher spezifisch politischer Einsatz gehört zum Traditionsbestand der radikalen Linken. Viele Anschläge der 1980er- und 1990er-Jahre betrafen infrastrukturelle Einrichtungen, Ausländerämter etwa mit ihren Karteien oder auch mal ein Gefängnis kurz vor seiner Fertigstellung. Programmatisch wurde dieser Sabotage-Ansatz etwa von post-situationistischen Gruppen in den frühen 2000er-Jahren in Frankreich (Tiquun, Unsichtbares Komitee) aufgenommen und zugespitzt. Doch genau hier zeigt sich auch das fundamentale Problem: dass nämlich diese Infrastrukturen im Wesentlichen seit den 1960er-Jahren genau zu dem Zweck entwickelt wurden, sich gegen mögliche Sabotageakte zu immunisieren. Das berühmte ARPA-Net und die Anfänge des Internets wollten eine Technologie schaffen, die auch einen Atomschlag überleben kann. Das heißt, man kann durch Sabotageakte schon mal eine Weiche außer Gefecht setzen, aber mehr als kurzfristige Unterbrechungen sind mit diesen Mitteln nicht möglich. Das Schlagen einer Bresche in den allgemeinen „Verblendungszusammenhang“ wird so wohl nicht gelingen. Und dieses Problem scheint sich heute immer weiter zuzuspitzen. In den neueren Technologie-Formen wie Blockchain, Künstliche Intelligenz oder Quanten-Computing scheinen Infrastrukturen selbst zunehmend autopoietisch zu werden. Mit seiner Einwilligung muss hier Ingraban Medicus zitieren, einen meiner brillanten PhD-Studenten. Er versucht, diese Technologien mit den Mitteln der Prozessphilosophie als „operative Infrastrukturen“ zu beschreiben und zwar im folgenden Sinn: „‚Technologie‘ verweist heute nicht mehr lediglich auf Geräte, Maschinen oder Anwendungen, sondern auf eine operative Struktur, in der das Wirkliche sich selbst zu setzen beginnt. Der Begriff entfaltet seine Formkraft nicht, indem er bestehende Gegenstände beschreibt, sondern indem er jene Differenz generiert, durch die eine neue Realität möglich wird. Die Revolution ist nicht das, was kommt. Sie ist das, was bereits begrifflich in Bewegung gesetzt wurde.“ Er bezieht sich hierbei auf eine weitere, vierte Ebene der Industriellen Revolution, aber ich fürchte, das hat auch Konsequenzen für jede Vorstellung einer politischen Revolution. Es macht nämlich deutlich, dass wir uns die Infrastrukturen nicht aus der sicheren Distanz ansehen, bewerten oder auch bekämpfen können, wie Easterling das nahezulegen scheint, sondern dass wir ganz grundlegend in unseren je eigenen Subjektivierungsweisen davon immer schon betroffen sind. Hier zeigt sich also ein anderes Problem mit der Negativität als im Institutionsbegriff: Negativität wird nicht einfach in Kauf genommen oder selbst mit instituiert; vielmehr wird ihre Aufhebung und Re-Integration immer schon vorweggenommen und damit neutralisiert, bevor sie überhaupt ihre Wirkung entfalten kann. Wie und wo lässt sich dann noch ein Standpunkt festmachen, von dem aus diese Infrastrukturen kritisierbar wären? Wiederum sollten wir nicht den Kapitalismus und die von ihm mit hervorgebrachten technologischen Seinsweisen im Sinne nahtloser, falscher Totalisierungen verstehen. Sonst würden wir schlicht nicht hier sitzen. Und natürlich wird die die intrinsische Negativität des Kapitals nicht tatsächlich zum Verschwinden gebracht, vielleicht auch nicht mehr im ideologischen Sinn verschleiert, sondern schlicht durch fortwährende Spaltungs- und Segmentierungsprozesse dem konzeptuellen Zugriff entzogen. Genau davon ist auch das kritische Denken selbst betroffen, denn wir bewegen uns zunehmend in stark voneinander abgegrenzten Segmenten. Rein empirisch lässt sich dieser Zustand nur konstatieren, aber kaum herausfordern. Wie wir gesehen haben, können gerade die Begriffe Institution und Infrastruktur in ihrer empirischen Ausrichtung nicht einmal das Problem ihrer eigenen Negativität lösen, was wiederum auch noch die etablierten Formen der Kritik daran mitbetrifft. Wir sollten daher berücksichtigen, dass die Infrastrukturkritik die Fallstricke der Institutionskritik wahrscheinlich nicht einfach überwinden kann, sondern dass sie vielmehr von ihren eigenen Fallstricken heimgesucht zu werden droht, zumindest solange wir Infrastrukturen rein empirisch oder materiell betrachten. Darin liegen zugleich die Stärken und die Schwächen des Infrastruktur-Konzepts. Marina gibt jedoch einen entscheidenden Hinweis, das Problem der Empirie mit dem der Segmentierung zu verknüpfen. Für sie ist Infrastruktur ein „konzeptuelles Diagramm“, also weder eine empirische Entität, noch eine Art einfach zu entschlüsselnder Software-Code dahinter. Verstanden als ein solches konzeptuelles Diagramm, verbinden sich im Infrastruktur-Begriff selbst bereits die unterschiedlichen Ebenen der empirisch-materiellen Realitäten mit dem beschreibenden oder konzeptuellen Zugriff darauf. Infrastruktur wird hier zum methodischen Einsatz, um sowohl diese unterschiedlichen empirischen Facetten als auch deren grundsätzliche Bezogenheit auf ihre transzendentalen Voraussetzungen ebenso wie auf mögliche Ausblicke darüber hinaus zu erfassen. Infrastruktur wird in diesem Sinne zu einem vielfältig vermittelnden Begriff. Ich möchte nun abschließend versuchen, dieses konzeptuelle Diagramm kurz zu skizzieren. Ich weiß nicht, ob Marina das je getan hat. In meiner Sichtweise würde das jedenfalls in etwa so aussehen: In Analogie zur leicht veränderten Basis-Überbau-Unterscheidung, wie ich sie vorhin dargelegt habe, könnten wir von drei Ebenen ausgehen: den mentalen, den sozialen und den materialen oder technologischen Infrastrukturen. Diese haben drei entsprechende Kritikformen ausgebildet: Ideologiekritik, Institutionskritik und Technologie- oder eben Infrastruktur-Kritik. Die Frage wird also sein, wie sich diese drei Ebenen aufeinander beziehen lassen, und ob sich von hier aus auch die drei Kritikformen zu einer einzigen synthetisieren lassen. Ich muss zugeben, dass ich hier skeptisch bleibe. Denn mentale, soziale und technologische Infrastrukturen greifen heute nicht nur in einem bislang unvorstellbaren Maße ineinander; in ihrem dynamischen Impuls prägen sie auch den Vorgriff auf die Zukunft und damit unsere je eigenen Positionierungen immer schon mit. Vor diesem Hintergrund erscheint die Idee einer einheitlichen Form der Kritik äußerst dringlich zu ein, zugleich aber auch ziemlich unwahrscheinlich, da jede Vorstellung von Kritik bereits Teil jener mentalen Infrastrukturen ist, die sie eigentlich kritisieren müsste, und zugleich Teil jener segmentierten sozialen Infrastrukturen, aus denen heraus sie nur agieren kann. Solange daher eine solche einigende Kritik auf Basis der neuen infrastrukturellen Gegebenheiten nicht gefunden werden kann – und ich halte dies für strukturell kaum möglich –, bleibt auch das Verhältnis zwischen den unterschiedlichen Kritikformen konflikthaft, je nachdem, welche Kritikform wir in der Vordergrund stellen, und wie wir damit die anderen beiden ableiten wollen. Hinzu kommt: Wenn Kritik allein auf Grund der mangelnden Selbst-Transparenz nicht bereits die Antwort sein kann, so kann dies nur heißen, dass jede Form von Kritik an bestimmten Formen von Praxis ausgerichtet sein muss. Wiederum kann dies nicht die eine revolutionäre Praxis sein, die sich unmittelbar der einzig richtigen Kritik ergäbe, sondern nur um in sich differente Formen von Praxis, etwa als künstlerische, politische oder philosophische. In Bezug auf künstlerische Praktiken hatte Marina vorgeschlagen, den Kanon der institutionskritischen Künstler\*innen (Haacke, Asher, Broodthaers, Rosler, Lawler, Fraser etc.) deutlich in Richtung hin auf kunstaktivistische Ansätze zu erweitern und damit auch Gruppen wie die Art Workers Coalition und Tucuman Arde aus den 1960er- und 1970er-Jahren bis hin zur Gulf Labor Coalition aus den 2010er-Jahren zu integrieren. Ich stimme dem zu. Die Auseinandersetzungen, die Andrea und ich innerhalb des „Services“-Projekts (1994) hatten, gingen bereits in diese Richtung. Darüber hinaus würde ich jedoch vorschlagen, den Kanon gewissermaßen auch in die andere Richtung zu erweitern, hin zu nicht-kritischen, im Wesentlichen formalistischen Praktiken. Wenn wir den Formalismus nicht einfach als ein ausschließlich selbstbezogenes, ästhetizistisches Phänomen verstehen, sondern im Sinne der russischen Formalisten als ein Set an operationalen Verfahren, das helfen kann, nicht nur die Dogmatisierungen des politischen Diskurses zu vermeiden – das war je der Einsatz von Sklowskys Entfremdungsbegriffs –, sondern auch die Grenzen der sozialen, mentalen und medialen Segmentierungen der Felder noch zu bearbeiten und zu reflektieren, dann ergibt sich ein anderes Bild. Formalismus wird dann zu einem notwendigen, progressiven Einsatz, der letztlich nur im Wechselspiel von künstlerischen und kunstkritischen Engagements zu erfassen ist. Ein solches kunstkritisches Engagement scheinen mir auch die kunstaktivistischen Praktiken notwendig zu haben, die im Projekt ihre eigene, infrastrukturelle Werkform gefunden haben. Projekte und große Projektausstellungen sind also nicht nur inhaltlich zu diskutieren, sondern auch bezüglich ihrer spezifischen Form. Aber das wäre mein eigenes Projekt. In Bezug auf politische Praxis ließe sich zumindest konstatieren, dass sie auf das bezogen werden muss, was man den Marx’schen kategorischen Imperativ nennen könnte. Ich meine jene zwar nicht moralische, sondern politische, aber doch ebenso kategoriale wie imperative Stelle, die sich am Ende des zweiten Teils des Kommunistischen Manifests findet, wo es heißt, dass „an die Stelle der alten bürgerlichen Gesellschaft mit ihren Klassen und Klassengegensätzen eine Assoziation tritt, worin die freie Entwicklung eines jeden die Bedingung für freie Entwicklung aller ist“. Diese Bedingung sehe ich heute leider in kaum einem der vielfältigen politischen Kämpfe erfüllt. Stets geht es um – zugegeben wichtige – partikulare Perspektiven. Vielleicht liegt es auch an meinem eigenen, partikular beschränkten Blick, dass ich in dieser Hinsicht kaum etwas erkennen kann. Und doch muss man sich vergegenwärtigen, dass das Proletariat nie einfach nur die empirische Masse der in den Fabriken ausgebeuteten Arbeiter ist, sondern immer auch ein Statthalter des Universellen, der Klasse, die keine Klassen mehr kennt. Es geht hier also ein Riss durch das Politische selbst, das mithin nicht in empirischen Kämpfen alleine aufgehen kann. Franz Fanon hatte das darin spürbare Paradox in einem vielzitierten Satz dahingehend zugespitzt, dass es nicht nur um die eigene Befreiung, sondern auch um die Befreiung des Fremdenlegionärs gehen muss. Das setzt meiner Meinung nach voraus, das Denken der je eigenen Negativität noch in das politische Denken und die politische Praxis als Fluchtpunkt des Universellen mit einzubeziehen. Als philosophische Praxis können wir wiederum nicht das Wiederholen diskursiver Muster begreifen, sondern bloß das Setzen von Begriffen und die Arbeit oder das Abarbeiten daran. Und die Frage, wie damit das eben skizzierte politische Problem auch philosophisch zu erfassen wäre, stellt sich dann im Spannungsfeld zwischen transzendentalphilosophischer und spekulativer Positionierung, in dem sich Marina bewegt hat. Zumeist hat sie sich wohl spekulativen Seite zugeneigt und mithin der Auffassung, dass das Problem der je eigenen Negativität durch eine Art von Sprung, einen mutigen spekulativen Satz etwa, überwunden werden kann. Es finden sich jedoch auch Ansätze, den Infrastruktur-Begriff im Spannungsfeld von Empirischen und Transzendentalem zu verorten. Das Negative wäre hier notwendiger Teil dieser Spannung; es bestimmt gerade in den Abgrenzungsakten voneinander die Möglichkeiten der Empirie ebenso wie die des Transzendentalen und kann deshalb nicht spekulativ überwunden werden. Vielmehr muss dieses Negative an diesen seinen Grenzen expliziert werden, ansonsten es sich als unheimlicher Doppelgänger in unsere Bemühungen und guten Absichten einschriebe. Es bleibt mithin notwendigerweise an Formen von Kritik und Praxis bezogen und muss aus diesen heraus adressiert werden, wobei es diese selbst immer wieder in ihrem Selbstverständnis herausfordert. Das heißt, die Differenz zwischen dem Empirischen und dem Transzendentalen ist nicht einfach eine transitive Dimension unter vielen; sie ist aber auch kein einziger logischer Widerspruch, der durch einen spekulativen Sprung überwunden werden könnte. Diese Differenz in ihrer gleichermaßen ermöglichenden wie begrenzenden Bedingtheit zu verstehen, darüber hätte ich sehr gerne mit Marina diskutiert. Vortrag gehalten auf der Konferenz „What is Infrastructural Critique? A conference in celebration of the life and work of Marina Vishmidt”, 30\. Oktober 2025 an der Universität für Angewandte Kunst in Wien. // --- ### Cover Image From Maria Bussmann's take a virtual tour: thoughts and images for Marina *Helmut Draxler ist ein österreichischer Kunsthistoriker, Kunsttheoretiker und Kurator.* ### Glossary URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/glossary/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:32.000Z On October 29, 2025, Annette and Sofia opened the conference on infrastructural critique. What follows is an extract from their introduction: It is our great pleasure to welcome you all here today! We are thrilled and honored to host and organize the conference “What Is Infrastructural Critique?” for the celebration of the life and work of Marina Vishmidt. My name is A.K., and next to me is S.B., we are the Heads of the Department of Art and Communication Practices that hosts the conference within the Angewandte. Our department is located at the Institute of Studies in Art and Art Education, where Marina worked as a Professor for Art Theory. The wonderful program of the Conference today and the next two days is curated by Danny Hayward (χέηγαρντ) and Rose-Anne Gush (γκας). Thanks a lot, both of you, for bringing together such an amazing lineup of speakers who will gradually be introduced during the upcoming two days. Thank you to all speakers and the audience for following our invitation in such large numbers. It is exciting to have you all here with us for these three days. We are coming together tonight and in the coming days to discuss a specific part of Marina's thinking with which she expanded, shifted, and derailed the notion and legacy of institutional critique towards what she called infrastructural critique. Infrastructural critique in former Western art and cultural institutions is like looking under the carpet, opening the storage of white institutions and looking for food supplies, and recording the repetition of the capitalist cruelty inherent in the ways of communication, administration, and distribution of labor in the arts. However, Marina pushes it beyond just looking or recording. In her words: ‘...\[T\]he point \[of infrastructural critique\] is to move from a standpoint that takes the institution as its horizon to one which takes the institution as a historical and contingent nexus of material conditions, amenable to rearrangement through struggle and different forms of inhabitation and dispersal.’ Together with Marina, we ask: what do institutional processes enable, and what do they prohibit? Marina has been a beloved friend, a precious colleague, a brilliant and witty thinker, and a person of direct action within and beyond art institutional contexts. Since her arrival at the Angewandte in Autumn 2023, she has been involved in numerous educational activities. And she soon co-organized with a bigger group of colleagues and students the Movie Nights. The Movie Nights are an ongoing series of screenings acting against the continuous repressions of academic freedom within institutional structures—especially in German-speaking countries, although certainly not restricted to them. Until now, the Movie Nights have provided a space for coming together, discussing, and mourning in the face of the ongoing genocide in Palestine. Thank you, Marina, for your courage, for your affection, for your positioning, and comradeship. Shortly after Marina passed away, I wrote a poem as an obituary that I would like to share with you. The title is: “We Lose” we leave behind the restorative sleep the Agrimonia the garden of uncanny blesses the waters of joy we lose our bodies, our breasts our hair our thoughtful work we lose our nightmares, our wounds our beloved spoken word our botanical epithets in our hearts we leave behind our curse against the masters our anger towards injustice the main theme in our life’s fugue (φιούγκ) we lose our brains our salve (σάελβ) of world activation we lose wearing gloves, skirts, thick coats we lose dialectics we lose phonetics we lost Marina. Vienna, April 27, 2024 When we built our introduction, I knew that this bridging would be a difficult one. So bear with me. We lost Marina, and yet she is with us today, in our hearts, in our struggles and thoughts. And as Marina was never too tired to emphasize, whatever we do, we do it as many, and so has been the work towards this conference. This conference could not have taken place without the labor of many people. So we take time and thank these people for their generous support and resources: Once again, we thank Danny and Rose-Anne, who did an incredible job in bringing together all these wonderful people. We thank our colleagues at the departments of the Institute of Studies in Art and Art Education; the moderators (Alexi Kukuljevic, Amanda Holmes, and Nanna Heidenreich); the technicians and videographers (Fine Freiberg, Tatia Skhirtladze, Thomas Mitterböck, Maximilian Maitz); the Administration and Facility and Event Management (Martina Dragschnitz, Alexandra Frank, Shirley Thurner); and the student assistants from Angewandte and TU Graz (Meret Caderas, James Elsey, Marija Jančić, Edo Katavic, Valentina Santner, Anna Schoissengeyer, Ronja Wolf). And thank you to Rosen Eveleigh (εβελέη) for their design of the poster and leaflet cover. What follows is a brief, partial glossary of some of the terms that came up most often during the three days of the conference. Not definitions, but means of orientation, heatmaps of a terrain. The quotes come from Marina’s forthcoming *Infrastructural Critique: Contemporary Art between Reproduction and Abolition* (Verso, 2026). **Glossary** **infrastructure** The “conditions” of an artistic field or form of activity—everything that needs to exist in order for that field or activity to exist. “At a fundamental level, infrastructural critique begins from the assumption that it is possible to completely sidestep all the handwringing over the limits of the institution and instead acknowledge what resources are there, how they can be repurposed, which ones cannot and which ones are needed.” **institution** Structures in which some of us are enfranchised and others excluded. “As we investigated the ‘exceptionality’ of artistic labor—the idea that such labor is constitutively distinct from labor of other kinds, including wage labor—our conversations would often return to the conditions of the field: its infrastructure. And, over time, these discussions compelled a shift in my thinking, from a notion of critique that called on a certain discourse or performance of citizenship—what we could call, essentially, a discourse of institutional accountability—to one that took a more ‘immanent’ view on the means of production of the institution or its conditions of possibility: a shift from institutional to infrastructural critique.” **gaps** Relational possibilities within infrastructures, as that which both makes possible and impossible: “But I would suggest that this heavily caveated micro-history of form involves a mis- or non-recognition of another means, a path of errancy when it comes to form and its wavering possibilities. This could be called the metamorphosis of gaps. Gaps rather than voids, for instance, because a void already hypostatises its emptiness as completeness, whereas a gap subsists in relation. A void is thus always aspiring to the status of an object, whereas a gap is cut into time, or language. It’s a spacing that telescopes in and out of an (infra)structure, and may give an impetus for connecting beyond it.” **reproduction** An infrastructure is not just a thing—the infrastructural conditions have to be reproduced, with all the usual implications in terms of gendered and devalued labor. “By thinking the \[institutional/aesthetic\] frame as a location in a contested social field, along with the resources this makes available, the frame can be demystified, not just ideologically but materially. This has been an undertaking that has long proved central to feminist organising and theory, in whose Marxist variants the question of ‘conditions’ was always connected to the conditions of reproduction, that is to say, the work that is involved (gendered, unwaged, ‘abject’ or devalued) in creating the conditions in which other work (waged work, artwork) can appear and acquire value.” **abolition** What needs to be done away with? By whom? How? Who decides? What comes out the other side? “The limits of what the institution is able to incorporate or include are also the points at which institutional critique passes into the key of abolition, disclosing the infrastructural neutrality of the great majority of critical artistic practices as always and only a weapon of the propertied.” **transversality** How to build connections in the gaps, new relations and alliances, both between different groups but also between different forms of practice (art, nonart, the political, the social etc.). “Throughout all of my work, I have always wanted to know the conditions of legibility for practices to register in a field even when they might originate from elsewhere, and how practices originating in that field can work transversally or away from its demarcated boundaries.” **negation** How to make our acts of negation active? For a generative, generous negation, without sterility, without nihilism. “\[The\] direction of travel is, as already noted, that of negation, but negation as a process that is constantly differentiating itself and creating other possibilities. How to draw the boundary between this restless negativity as a guiding rope for emancipation and the hopeless mutability of a society committing suicide-by-commodity remains an enormous array of questions for another day—a day that cannot be postponed.” **repetition** “infrastructure is that which repeats”—but how to make repetition into a form of possibility? “\[R\]epetition is normalized into everyday routine, and, when it stops functioning, an aperture is cut into its artifice—through which history and power relations can be seen. Think of the global financial crisis; think of the water disasters in Flint or Detroit. The transcendental repetition is abstract (capitalism, class contempt, anti-Black racism) and the infrastructural repetition is found in the material conditions of possibility (captive regulations, lead pipes, privatized governance) that sustain social relations in a particular shape over time.” **speculation** Speculation can be “open” (possibility, nonidentity) and “closed” (the endless expansion of the same, as we see with financial instruments, for example). “From being hypothetically separate from the economy, the artist becomes a creative tasked with diligently optimizing their quantified self, an increasingly abject and coercive situation, and the two senses of speculation—artistic thinking and financial operations—converge, something we have observed not just in the more familiar critical descriptions of the artist as entrepreneurial subject par excellence, but also in more recent developments such as crypto-art and NFTs, where the moments of artistic creation and market valorization can no longer be kept apart, and neither can coercion and speculation in a stagnant, crisis-prone economy (freedom of finance, subjugation of labor).” **recursion** How to make sure that all terms in a relation act on one another, that nothing is final? “This reflexivity about the conditions of the artist’s participation in culture as a market agent, an instigator and delegator of various types of canny, brand-building action, and the resistance to separating this embedding from the histories and actualities staged by the work, is recursive. In its many-sided thoroughness, \[Cameron\] Rowland’s approach puts you in mind of a crystal drill, if there is such an appliance. It creates sightlines by means of cutting through (language, provenances, histories) but the cutting apparatus is already a prism.” **critique** How do we take critique back from the museum, the traditions of European modernism? How do we disappropriate it? “The resources necessary to flesh out this other practice of critique, in an apparent paradox, owe substantially to contemporary debates around ‘identity politics’, since those debates can also show the salience of a relational non-identity and negativity for any notion of critique that would make claims on the infrastructure that provides it with its conditions—that is to say, with the material possibilities of critique as well as its object.” // --- ### Cover Image: Mariuccia Secol, Anche l’amore è lavoro domestico, Gruppo femminista Immagine di Varese (Silvia Cibaldi, Milli Gandini, Clemen Parrocchetti, Mariuccia Secol e Mariagrazia Sironi), manifestazione, 1975. ### A Minor Form of Life URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/interview-with-dipesh-chakrabarty/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:35.000Z *This interview was conducted after Dipesh Chakrabarty gave the keynote to the conference “The Climate of Philosophy: The Ecological Crises as a Challenge for Philosophy and the History of Ideas” at the University of Wuppertal in November 2024, organized by Melanie Sehgal and Martin Mulsow. The conference discussed the challenges that the current planetary ecological crisis poses for the ways in which we tell, and today need to retell, the history of philosophy and the history of ideas. We resumed the vibrant conversation some months after the conference, picking up some of its threads and starting new ones. A German version of the interview will be published in* Das Klima der Philosophie. Die ökologische Krise als Herausforderung der Philosophie- und Ideengeschichte *(forthcoming).* **MelanieSehgal**: In “[The Climate of History: Four Theses](https://www.journals.uchicago.edu/doi/10.1086/596640?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)” you speak of the “crash of your postcolonial train of thought” into the planetary environmental crisis. Could you describe how this crash happened? What made you realize that the climate crisis poses a problem for the humanities and your own work? Who or what brought the news? And how did you experience this crash? [**DipeshChakrabarty**](https://history.uchicago.edu/directory/dipesh-chakrabarty?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org): Let me take a step back and say a little bit about how I think. That’s not an egotistical question because I’m deeply interested in how disciplines think and train you to think. I came to history late in life, in my PhD years. I had done my undergraduate degree in science, in physics and geology. After majoring in physics, I went to business school as a failed Maoist and then became a historian. So I was always interested in this difference between how you would think as a physicist or a geologist and how you would think as a historian. The question What is history? has always been with me.[*Provincializing Europe*](https://press.princeton.edu/books/paperback/9780691130019/provincializing-europe?srsltid=AfmBOopX526HEnc4MOIcf8fnmFF1yKvnU5niZ056aZGZLtG8jNFu5ZiJ&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)was published twenty-five years ago, and a Portuguese journal,*Ler História*, recently wanted me to write something about the origins of this book. While working on that essay, I realized that, in my life, since the time I became a migrant, every book I’ve written or every project I’ve undertaken – they have all, each one of them, started, unselfconsciously, from a sense of loss Think of*Provincializing Europe*. I was very comfortable in India with whatever Europe meant in our practical life. Europe was not thematized as an issue. Nobody ever said Karl Marx was European. It didn’t matter that he was European. Traffic lanes were a European invention. Driving on the left, as you do in India, is a European invention. Even fighting in any weather was a European invention because previously wars were always interrupted by weather. But this was not an issue. It’s only when I left India and moved to Australia and then to the US that the university systems – through the courses they offered and the research they hosted in the humanities – were much more aware of the fact that they were European institutions that had been grafted on lands that once belonged to indigenous nations. Besides, I realized that institutions and practices – that bore names such as democracy, the parliament, or, let’s say, elections – were visually different from the institutions that went by the same names in India. Thus I became more and more aware of something called Western or European civilization – there were indeed courses taught under that name – and I realized that, for all my Indian admiration for him, Marx was a European thinker after all, and that Europe as an element of my “Indian” life and identity was a problem to think about. But if I hadn’t left India this problem wouldn’t have come up. So, in some ways, at the origins*ofProvincializing Europe*, there was a story of displacement and a loss of the familiar. I now think of the problem as*migrancy as method*. My thinking about the climate question also came out of a sense of bereavement or mourning because the 2003 fires in Australia that eventually made me interested in anthropogenic climate change destroyed a lot of the nature spots around Canberra I had come to love. This love was part of how I tried to be at home in Australia. Calcutta had no “outdoors”. You had to look up to the sky to find nature, it was so built up. There are many outdoorsy sites in Australia that my Australian friends introduced me to. I realized that my love of those places was mediated by my Bengali romanticism about nature, which itself was in turn mediated by Bengali films and literature. But this was not all that different from what European settlers did. When you grow up in one place, and you go to another, you keep reimagining the place you’ve lost. That’s one way in which you invest in the new place. It’s displacement, it’s the loss that makes something an issue. I now realize that, for me, this has been a structure that has often repeated itself in my work. Another thing to say is that because I came to history late, I was already interested in questions that are not necessarily historians’ questions. Through my undergraduate studies in physics and geology, I retained an interest in the history and functioning of the physical world. So, while during my PhD years I formally trained in the methods of humanist history, I had an interest in probing the limits of the discipline as it were, in understanding the many legitimate questions that lay beyond the purview of the methods of my discipline. So I was interested in seeing if the methods of recorded history – extremely useful in reconstructions of human pasts – could be pushed to address questions that maybe, properly speaking and in a disciplinary form, belonged to philosophy. In other words, I was by temperament both faithful to my disciplinary training and someone who strayed a bit. A dabbler. The initial dabbling, when I was doing*Provincializing Europe*, was through deconstruction and poststructuralism. That was in continuity with reading Marx’s philosophy and being interested in philosophical questions. A part of physics was also into philosophical questions. It’s only much later that I realized that Immanuel Kant spent a lot of his early career reading Isaac Newton and writing on gravitation. What happened with the climate question was that it actually took me back to my physics and geology days. Intellectually, it was truly exciting. It was a way of catching up with an older part of myself I had left behind, recuperating it. Autobiographically as well, my father was a teacher of physics and my mother was a teacher of literature. I was kind of putting them together. In a lot of ways, it was a very good experience. But it came out of its sense of loss, again, of a migrant, somebody who had learned to fall in love with a very different landscape through other images of landscapes. And climate-induced fires had destroyed those landscapes. I went back to Australia soon after the fires and the sense of loss was visceral. The fires destroyed about three hundred houses in Canberra, and about thirty people died (which sounds small by Indian standards but not by Australian measures). When I went back to these spots I loved, they looked like scenes from Hollywood nightmare films like*Mad Max*(dir. George Miller, 1979). People dumped stolen cars right in front of those places. They were simply burnt metal by now. I asked my friends why the fires were so bad, and they said “climate change.” I hadn’t heard about climate change. Most historians hadn’t heard about climate change, even though the Intergovernmental Panel on climate Change (IPCC) was already fifteen years old. Things were being written about climate change, but social scientists or humanists were not reading them, they were reading about globalization. I was late, but I was one of the first among the late comers to this question. I began to read up on climate change. When geologists said humans had become a geological force, I had some sense of what a geological force is from my undergraduate years. I knew how metamorphic rocks were formed through intense heat, tremendous pressures, and so on. I knew how sedimentary rocks were formed. When I read that humans had become a geological force, I had some sense of the magnitude of what was being expressed. But force is also a physical concept. Humans being a “force” implies a very different kind of agency on their part, not what historians meant by agency. See, I came out of the late 1960s and the ’70s when the idea that everybody had agency was very prominent. Later on, I realized that agency was, for social scientists, the democratization of the classical idea of the hero. In a classical society, the hero was exceptional. In modern society, everybody has agency. Everybody is a little bit of a hero. That’s the kind of agency we talked about. Geological agency is something we’ve never, in writing history, thought about at all. To think of humans not as victims of geological forces like those released by an earthquake but as victims of themselves having become a geological agent – that was new! Then I read a geophysicist say that with our numbers, technology and levels of consumption of the various resources the earth provided, we have a physical impact on the planet similar to that of the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs. So there’s a mental picture of ourselves with our numbers and technology being a*thing*or an object. This is a real contrast that with the kind of philosophical critique of thingification of humans, for instance. If you make somebody a slave, you make them into a thing, so in my social scientist thinking, being rendered into a thing was always something very bad. But here I was reading geologists saying: we have become a thing; we collectively have a physical impact. We can wipe out life. For me, that was a kind of shock and a flash of insight. Suddenly, I felt that whatever I was trained in, the historian’s method, which clearly separated geology from human history, was like the ground under my feet being taken away. And that came with a sense of disorientation but also, for me, with a tremendous sense of excitement. **Melanie**: This is really interesting because it shows how important it is – especially, but not exclusively, in view of the climate question – to have a wider disciplinary training from the start, to not specialize too early. Because even if you were not an expert in physics or geology, your undergraduate training gave you an openness to hear the news of climate change. You also spoke, in a personal way, of a sense of writing against a background of loss. At our[conference in Wuppertal](https://www.uni-wuppertal.de/de/universitaet/veranstaltungen-termine/termine/detail/how-climate-change-changes-the-climate-of-our-disciplines/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), you spoke of the “loss of the givenness of the world” as a descriptor of our present in the Anthropocene. What does this “loss of the givenness of the world” entail? How do we feel it? **Dipesh**: In India now with every flood, every landslide in the Himalayas, people are reminded, even by journalists, that the Himalayas are a young mountain and are still growing. There’s a geological fact that comes into everyday reporting, into geopolitical discussions of what’s happening to the Himalayas, like China and India making the Himalayas the most militarized mountain range in the world. The dangers of militarizing that mountain range, building roads, exploding dynamites and such, can’t be explained without talking about the instability of the mountain because it’s still growing. When you have to think about the age of a mountain, then that’s a symptom that the givenness of the world is gone. But that doesn’t mean that it has already entered your own consciousness, that you feel it. I was reading it as a symptom because most people don’t feel it. Most privileged, middle-class people don’t feel it. **Melanie**: In Wuppertal, you also spoke about the importance of the disciplines to encounter the world, to open the door to the world. Are these two things connected – the general loss of the givenness of the world in the Anthropocene and the need for the disciplines, especially the humanities, to open themselves to the world in a new way? **Dipesh**: Yes, they are connected. It came up at your conference, and I’ve been thinking since, What does it mean to encounter the world? In every language, there are expressions where the language is struggling with the failure to represent. One example, and this is a Wittgensteinian thought, is the feeling of pain inside your body. When the doctor asks you, What are you feeling?, you use words like cramp, or some other word, which will not be translatable. In every language, you have a different kind of word to explain what your stomach is experiencing. So the encounter with the world is actually at that point where your system of representation is under serious strain. When that happens to a discipline, that is when you need to read another discipline, to borrow their means of representation. Wittgenstein says, if a lion spoke to us, we would not understand what the lion was saying. And I think this is not true. We somewhat understand what the lion is saying. We somewhat understand what our dog is saying. The lion has some kind of thinking, from which I’m not totally separated. We communicate, however, imperfectly. Therefore, to encounter the world, as the world is always wrapped up for us in systems of representation, would mean to get to a point where your discipline suffers a crisis of its capacity to represent the world. That is when you would feel interested to stray into another discipline, to at least see how your discipline produces its internal blind spots. **Melanie**: Like a diffraction? **Dipesh**: Yes, like a diffraction, or using Paul de Man’s expression in[*Blindnessand Insight*](https://www.upress.umn.edu/9780816611355/blindness-and-insight/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)(1971)*,*I often think that a discipline is a combination of insight and blindness. Without blindness, you can’t have insights. But sometimes you get to a point where you think, now I need to dabble. **Melanie**: What would that other discipline be for you? Geology, physics? **Dipesh**: In the context of my work on climate change, it’s become geology, physics, evolutionary biology. But when I was writing*Provincializing Europe*, I got quite deeply into Martin Heidegger, through translation. There was one year when I used to read Heidegger every morning, I had two translations of[*Being and Time*](https://critinq.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/85e6b-heidegger-martin-being-and-time-completetext.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)(1927), and I had five or six commentaries. Every morning, I’d get up and read both the translations and the commentaries, page by page, paragraph after paragraph. And I always liked the John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson translation, which is more difficult than[the one by Joan Stambaugh](https://blogs.sussex.ac.uk/sussexphenomenology/files/2013/05/Martin-Heidegger-Joan-Stambaugh-Translator-On-Time-and-Being-1977.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Stambaugh was trying to make Heidegger English. Macquarrie and Robinson were struggling with Heidegger as a German. And at every point they were saying, okay, this translation is wrong, it doesn’t quite say it so in German. And that experience was extremely deep for me because I had gone to Heidegger to find the universal that I could anchor*Provincializing Europe*in; this is because Marx was not giving me that universal. The universal I was trying to find was that the human of phenomenology, the human you imagine after phenomenological reduction is a human that exists everywhere. Dasein is not modeled on a European human being. Dasein is modeled on human being in general. So I thought that the human being in general is the anchor of*Provincializing Europe*. Dasein was nonhistorical. Dasein was just given. Dasein has a sense of direction. Dasein’s basic moods contain boredom, the capacity of boredom. Later I read a book by a neurophysiologist on the history of the human brain. I learned that because the brain’s development is modular, the part of the brain where you feel boredom can be roughly dated. I realized then that what Heidegger treats as having no history, which is Dasein, actually has a deeper history because it’s only at a certain point in its history that the human brain becomes capable of experiencing boredom. That can be dated and therefore historicized. Even Dasein can be historicized. If you do evolutionary history, if you do geobiological history, your history becomes much longer. Even if Heidegger is resistant to historicizing, you can do a historicizing operation. **MartinMulsow**: I am currently working on a deep history of truth, that is, beginning the history of truth in deep time—not in the deep time of the planet, but in the deep time of the human species. Do you think that such a deepening of philosophical concepts from the age of human*worlds*and the*global*could help us to grasp the complex entanglements of the global and the planetary today? Would that be a perspective for a new history of ideas? **Dipesh**: Two things. One is that, in animal studies, there’s this question, Do or can animals lie? If you agree that they lie, then you already see them as capable of making a distinction, however rudimentary, between truth and falsehood. In some experiments with chimps, they think they can be protoliars. If you think of a capability functionally, then one will often find that the function continues from one form of life to another. In humans, of course, the capacity to develop elaborate symbolic systems makes many things seem different and special to humans. The other notion of truth I was struggling with in spelling out the conceptual distinction between the planet and the globe was t[he debate that Quentin Meillassoux started](https://altexploit.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/quentin-meillassoux-ray-brassier-alain-badiou-after-finitude-%5F-an-essay-on-the-necessity-of-contingency-bloomsbury-academic%5Fcontinuum-2009.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)between his understanding of truth and the Kantian understanding of truth. He was saying, if, as in Kant, you have the phenomenal and the noumenal together, and time and space are part of the apparatus with which you organize the thing that you’re looking at, you are being too subjective. This position was repeating the proposition that when we look outside of ourselves, we only see ourselves. And Meillassoux was trying to get out of it by going to geology. He considered the earliest rocks that were found in Western Australia, which were, I think, 4.2 billion years old, and from which they extrapolated that the planet must be about 4.5 billion years old. So his point was that even if there were no humans to make the statement that the planet was 4.2 billion years old, or 4.5, the planet would have still been 4.5 billion years old, in a sense. In other words, the proposition about, let’s say, there being gravitation, or even other some dark force, the stance in physics would be that this statement would be true, even if there were no humans to make the statement, that the apple would have fallen downwards even if there were no human theory of gravitation. Meillassoux was trying to make the point that certain things would have been true, even if there was nobody of my kind to say them in a human language. He called his own view “ancestrality”. Unlike in physics, in history, for instance, you would have a Viconian argument saying: We created the institutions, capitalism for instance, and we therefore know how they work. Thus, our statements are always encased in our assumptions about our institutions, our behavior, all of those things. So you could make a perfect Kantian proposition, even with Marxism. Meillassoux was trying to go beyond the subjectivism, which he called “correlationism”. I was channeling some of that in saying that while the globe was a category born of human-built technologies and institutions, the planet, i.e. the earth system of earth system science was something ancestral. Its truths were not dependent on human presence. If I see myself projected in the universe, there’s a kind of mutuality between me and the universe. I face the object and the object faces me. Whereas, Meillassouxs argument was really saying, there is no mutuality between me and the ancestral. The*earth system*is something of which we’re a product. We’re trying to find out its nature and this is an attempt to find a truth that is not centrally about ourselves. A truth that is not a human truth, even though you’re expressing it in human language. I found this tension extremely interesting and relevant as I was trying to express a measure of the nonmutuality between the earth system and us. The one-way street nature of the relationship, that it produced the oxygen for all forms of life, not just for us. And even without humans, this atmosphere would have been the same. In fact, it would have been less polluted but basically the same in a purer way if we hadn’t come along. The point of evolution is not us; we are not the culmination of the process; the earth was not looking for an animal with language to vouchsafe the question of being to that animal. Even Dasein has a specialness of the human built into its structure. By drawing a distinction between the globe and the planet, I was trying to get out of this constant supposition about us being special. Meillassoux’s debate interested me for that reason, because it was actually about the nature of truth, whether the truth is ultimately about ourselves, or whether truth is something that in spite of our effort to grasp it with our categories, escapes them. **Melanie**: This idea that there are different kinds of truths in different disciplines brings me back to what you said about blindness being necessary for disciplines to see something in the first place. I’m wondering what that means for educational practices, because, in the current system, we’re putting students on a path towards specialization and professionalization from day one where they are taught to only consider and apprehend one kind of truth. **Dipesh**: I think there’s always a lag between a problem becoming perceptible to everybody and people wanting to continue with what has profited them in the past. The bigger the ship is, the more difficult it is to turn it around. This goes back to appreciating how much we actually owe to fossil fuel, to our current energy systems, in being able to create things that make life enjoyable at least for the privileged. I think the deep problem is that we are facing multiple uncertainties, risks that are uncertain, because of their nonlinear nature. They’re not incrementally increasing at a steady rate that you can plan for. Technology, climate change, biodiversity loss are all nonlinear developments. If you have several nonlinear processes interacting with one another, it becomes a system that’s very hard to predict. If I speak to pension financial advisors about pension money and investments, they will hold many things constant in order to give me an advice that’s based on past experience. And most of their advice virtually ignores climate change. This system has been comfortable for us for so long, for the last 150 years. The education system is part of this. When you think of your child’s career, what will they be? You have to hold the world constant. **Melanie**: He wants to be a fireman. **Dipesh**: \[Laughs\] He’s very farsighted for a child of his age. There will be a lot of fires for him to deal with. I think our pedagogical systems are just catching up with the crisis. For instance, we have a climate and sustainability institute at the University of Chicago that is dominated by scientists and economists and policy people. Geoengineers are carrying out experiments on making the seas more alkaline because the seas are becoming acidic, by changing the composition of the seas. They also plan dimming the sunlight if needed as an emergency measure. But they do not yet study biodiversity in that institute even if the “engineering” they propose to carry out – admittedly as emergency measures – has significant impact on biodiversity. It is as though the way the institute has been structured is to forget the question of biodiversity or to treat it as a subject of less urgency. I feel that education, right from school, should actually make people realize why biodiversity is important to sustaining life and sustaining our kinds of life and what kind of dangers we face if we destroy biodiversity. Once you take biodiversity into account, you don’t have to give up on technology, but you must ask: What kind of technology do I have to create? I think that is something that should inform everybody’s education. But for that to percolate and come into syllabi, it will take time. And so we lag behind. There will be a lag because the system we now have, the specialization system, has brought us a lot of benefits. There is something else I wanted to raise with you in this conversation. The real division in human history, it now seems to me, is between post- and pre-antibiotic periods.*Being and Time*, for instance, was a pre-antibiotic book. Heideggerian ruminations about “Being towards death” come out of a historical period where people were far more aware of death, their awareness enabling certain views of heroism, battle, risk taking, all of those things that become almost impossible after we have antibiotics and longevity and infant deaths and maternal deaths go down. These are two different worlds. We have made ourselves more and more comfortable by medical technology, biotechnology, other kinds of technologies in order to live long. With fossil fuels, our emotions have been retrained. That’s why I think we are facing a deep predicament. This is not something to be solved, for instance, by changing the political system. From a right-winger Bill Gates to a left-wing degrowth person, nobody wants to have shorter lives, nobody wants infants to die. That fundamentally shapes our sense of life. People migrate to societies that consume more energy per capita because their sense is that these societies – basically, the “developed” nations – will give them longer and more comfortable and more enjoyable lives than India might, where pollution reduces lifespan, even for middle class people. We have to acknowledge our investment in all this, independent of our beliefs in socialism or capitalism, to realize that this is what eventually makes it very, very hard to deal with the climate problem. Our lifestyles – I am speaking of the growing middle classes of the globe, of course – lock us into structures that we cognitively know are not good for us collectively. **Martin**: We talk about longer lives and future generations and at the same time have to fear that maybe in fifty or sixty years or who knows when, a total collapse of our civilization could take place. This is such a contradiction. What consequences does the possibility of a complete collapse of our civilization have for our present lives, for the meaningfulness of our long-term projects? For when we engage with fundamental questions, we presuppose readers even in the more distant future (so to speak, a temporally extended community of discourse); yet this future is precisely what is at stake. How do you deal with this loss of futurity in your own work? **Dipesh**: This is such an important question. It makes me sad thinking about it, for often I don’t know the answer. I’m writing – but for whom? But it’s partly existential. Writing is a way of thinking about and coping with the situation and disseminating the thought. But I have to accept the fact that there may indeed be a collapse of the civilization because globally the birthrate is falling; we do not know what may be the future of work (and therefore inequality), and there is, of course, climate change, biodiversity loss, and so on. My hope is that between now and when the crisis becomes so deep that we cannot ignore it, somewhere humans will learn, probably at some great cost, to change our thinking. We have a capacity to learn. But we learn something easily, cognitively; to live it out takes much more time. Here I’m dabbling again. But from everything I understand from evolutionary biology, short-termism is an evolved human trait. Just being focused on getting through today. And Short-termism is not a moral failure. It’s a deep desire to get through today and to deal with tomorrow when it comes. But at the same time, you’re making the tomorrow much worse by what you’re doing today. Climate change is not a morality tale. It’s a deep, deep predicament for us, members of the world’s growing consuming classes. See, if there were no climate change, we would have happily gone along with stories of industrialization, technologization, global mobility. We would have debated immigration and debated the right to move from one place to another. I think what’s dead is a gift that Europe gave to other societies, and it was a very inspiring gift, the idea of a common future for humanity, whether it’s capitalism or democracy or socialism. Marx’s vision – from each according to their ability to each according to their needs – was a vision of such a harmonious society of plenitude where every inequality was voluntary and didn’t hurt you. That promise is gone. **Melanie:**There is something optimistic, hopeful, at least not desperate or dark in your writing. How to retain hope, or at least sanity, while fully acknowledging the extent of the threat of climate change to so many life-forms, including our own? **Dipesh**: Until now in my work, I’ve emphasized the oneness of the planet, the oneness of the earth system. And now I realize that what I also need to emphasize is the fact that to the degree the earth system is one; we cannot fix its problems. Humans are too much of a not-one-entity to address that problem. I think our recent history points in that direction. The earth system, because it’s the combination of geology and biology, doesn’t present itself everywhere in the same way. So for every problem you face, it has a planetary aspect, but we have to work out how the planetary presents itself in a particular context – in your locality, in your home, in your street, in the country. That freedom that arises from the planet also being not-one – while it is one at a certain level of abstraction – is not taken away. But this freedom will be exercised within a world that is climate stressed. The more we fail democratically to address the question of the one planet, the more the IPCC processes and the Conference of the Parties (COP) discussions fail, the more you will have geoengineering and other techno fixes. Which is why it’s very important to actually create opportunities for our engineers to learn more about biodiversity so that they produce more directed and caring technologies. I think that’s part of the struggle. And that struggle will also have to do with acknowledging that the earth system is also diverse so that what you do with the Amazon forest will be different from what you do with the Himalayas. Sometimes, when I have had the opportunity, I have said to Indian politicians: Do your geopolitics as you have to, but be informed by geology. **Melanie**: And what do they say? **Dipesh**:They understand intellectually what I’m saying, but they don’t see it as practical. Because the short-term question is: I always have to anticipate what my neighbors might do to me and be ready to face them. Politics is still geopolitical. Politics is not informed by geology, even at the global level. IPCC was trying to do that. And that’s failing because more powerful nations think that there’s something for them to win by letting the world drift into more crises. It’s going to be a more conflictual world within which we’ll learn to address both peace and the locality. But peace will require new kinds of training, thus the need to bring together, for example, technological training and biodiversity thinking, thinking about the conditions for the flourishing of not just our life but all other forms of life. **Melanie**: What does that mean for emancipatory or liberational politics? If we acknowledge that the freedom we know and have strived for has been built with fossil fuels, as you point out, what does that mean for liberational politics in a climate stressed world? **Dipesh**: You come back to the old question of how to marry our emancipatory dreams to principles of sustainability (that should include principles protecting the habitability of the planet). You have to reimagine development; you have to reimagine infrastructure and not pursue wasteful consumption. Today’s world is stressed in part by the existence of a class of super-rich people who want to dominate the world and human futures by linking up with populist, authoritarian politicians. There was a time when, realizing the problems that ailed Soviet type socialism, people used to think of different kinds of social democracy as a helpful middle ground between untamed and wild capitalism and the so-called socialist repressive societies. But since the days of Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan, the world has developed a wild unhinged capitalism that has left us with human futures defined by three major uncertainties: climate change with its attendant problems of biodiversity loss, resource depletion, and human suffering and displacement; AI and other technological developments that make the future of stable employment uncertain; the globally falling birthrate for humans that, combined with most humans shifting to cities, make us an urban and aging species. We clearly need to move away from current models of capitalism, but it is very difficult to do while our polities become less democratic. The problem here is practical and political. I often feel that those who speak of degrowth, local supply chains for food, and so on are right in principle, but we don’t know how to ramp off to those alternative futures. No nation would want to risk such futures on its own. We come back to a collective action problem. I don’t feel optimistic in this situation, but I have hope. Optimism is a matter of rational calculation. To hope is human. Humans are facing a predicament and we don’t know how we’re going to solve it. But I also think it’s a developing, evolving situation. In fifteen years, people will think differently to the way that I’m thinking today. The urgency will be different, and maybe what doesn’t work now will work then, in a more climate-stressed world. Maybe becoming an aging species in the coming decades will create some new opportunities and new ways of thinking for us. This is really an evolving problem. Many elements in the conversation we have today will date in some ten or fifteen years. As this crisis looms larger, I think humans will think and try harder. My sense of hope comes out of that thought. Humans learn, albeit slowly sometimes. **Martin**: If we look at this climate stressed world, and if we’re really going towards a climate Leviathan – fortresses of civilized people defending themselves against migrants and all that – and if this sense of multiple modernities changes, then we see different civilizations handling this much more stressed world differently. **Dipesh**: I think that we have the sense that the futures we worked for are not there. As Karl Löwith says in[*Meaning in History*](https://cdn.preterhuman.net/texts/conspiracy/Revisionism/Meaning%20in%20History.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)(1949), there was once a European and a secular-Christian project of imagining paradise on earth. If such a paradise is not providentially guaranteed, then questions of human unity and humanism will have to be a much more matters of political will, creativity, and judgment. And one of the conditions for that is that humans, as Kant puts it, are given enough time. **Martin**: Which we don’t have. **Dipesh**: The assumption in the middle of the twentieth century was: we do. But we don’t have that kind of time. So depending on how that pressure of urgency will work through human politics, it can both divide human beings, but it can similarly give rise, however falteringly, to new ideas about human futures and some kind of global governance – not a Climate Leviathan that you just mentioned. But I agree that the current US government seems to be moving towards a more conflicted and unequal world. Going back to your question about emancipatory politics: it seems to me what we need to give up are the inherited paradise-like images of the future. These futures are only to struggle for. Will we ever abolish wars and massacres? I have no reason to think that we will. But, surely, we can build systems and processes that make them less likely. We need a world in which humans feel more secure and less stressed. **Melanie**: How can we reframe our very idea of freedom? Detach it from fossil fuels? **Dipesh**: By imagining it on different scales. At the moment, for retirees of my generation in India, a huge freedom is freedom of movement, which means flying: flying to see their grandchildren, flying to see new countries. They have a lot of disposable income in retirement, and they spend some of it by traveling. A huge part of the airlines market now, of the consumers, is my generation. But flying is not good for the planet. I am not blaming these people. The global middle class is literally global. We live on larger scales. What we have not thought about in history is what scale does to things. Take the question of prejudice. All societies have prejudice. All societies have members who don’t like people who seem different. But what the Europeans did by taking slaves from one part of the world to another by the millions was to transform everyday prejudice into a hardened structure of race and racism. We all live with prejudice in everyday life. But what Europeans did was to expand the scale of the world to a kind of planetary scale, and that magnified the impact of many instincts that humans have. I think scale has a lot to do with our possibilities and predicaments. **Melanie**: There’s a sense in current discourse that it’s basically the entire Western cosmology that somehow proved itself to be wrong once it crashed into the planetary.As a framework, as an ontology or spiritual framework even, Western ways have come to their limits. **Dipesh**: That’s true. But the West was also once Indigenous (let’s say, hunters and gatherers) and then, as in many other places, evolved into peasant societies. Indigenous peoples and peasants think of things being interrelated in this world. And they are. But (Western) science also relates things to one another. What is gravitation but a relation between objects? How would James Lovelock come to the idea of Gaia and talk about things being interrelated in the same way that Indigenous people sometimes talk about things being interrelated? The idea of Gaia resulted from a moment of creative/poetic insight, but that’s the kind of insight scientists and engineers often have as part of the thinking that leads to great discoveries. It is part of the scientific imagination. Sometimes we criticize science overlooking the fact that scientific practices require a lot of imagination (sometimes expressed in numbers or formulae). Even technology, Western technology, can function as a critique of its own functioning. It sometimes helps us to catch up with the damage that the same technology does. So, think of the irony of actually boring into polar ice caps to find ancient air bubbles and therefore being able to say that this warming is unusual for the last 800,000 years. But you wouldn’t have been able to bore without the gas industry already having produced the technology necessary for it. The real problem, I think, happens when technology or what I’ll call an “engineering approach to the world” makes us temporarily forget that we live, in the final judgment, at the mercy of the planet and of its interactive processes. We cannot be what Clive Hamilton once called – with a touch of irony – “[earthmasters](https://clivehamilton.com/books/earthmasters-playing-god-with-the-climate/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org).” For a long time, humans used to look at the sky to pray for rain and sun and air and wind and for the trade winds to come at the right time. Somewhere along the way, with the coming of railways, metalled roads, irrigation, and irrigation pumps, we turned away from the sky and became more focused on land and what we could do here. And the sky became a matter of aesthetics as it were (like saying, it’s a nice day, beautiful day, and so forth). There was a marginalization of sky, seasons, weather, all of those things. But we woke up in the 1980s very rudely to the fact of there having been a hole in the ozone layer. We had forgotten about the importance of the skies, and we had fallen in love with technology that was called all-weather. So basically, our cultures of technology produced a collective hubris and marginalized seasons, weather, which are the usual intimations of planetarity in human life. I often think of it as a movement in human history whereby humans moved their once-upturned faces praying to the sky for rain and sunshine downwards to be more focused on managing the earth, forgetting the life-and-death importance of the skies, the clouds, and all that connects the up there with what’s down below. The fourfold that Heidegger talks about, that we live in – one of the four is the sky. The crisis reminds us that a lot of stuff happens in the skies. But what woke us up was a hole in the ozone layer and the fact of there being too many carbon dioxide molecules in there. And we realized again that the sky is related to the earth. The water on and in the earth goes up and comes down, creates the hydrological cycles. And we’re part of that; we have to be embedded in that system. We had come to think that we had somehow made us free of that system, and the system has reminded us rudely that we’re not. **Melanie**: You have used the expression infrastructures of forgetting. I think that is a really beautiful expression because it points to the fact that forgetting is not just something that happens, but there’s constant work to do in order to forget. Iwona Janicka, for example,[claims that we need to reclaim grand narratives](https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s11245-025-10315-z?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)because Western frameworks that have globalized and universalized themselves very successfully have to confront what they purposefully forgot, what you call planetarity. So we need different frameworks and new narratives in order to supplant these modes of thinking. **Dipesh**: Another thing we realize through the crisis is that we are a minority form of life,that’s now impacting other forms of life badly. In political thought, there’s a lot said about thinking from the position of being minor. Particularly in the Jewish tradition. Hannah Arendt’s essays on the Jewish question clearly were being written from a minority position. How do we actually think about being a minority form of life where the majority forms of life are microbial? That’s a philosophical point. But how do we translate it into our existence? It does mean, for one thing, not having global agriculture. The problem right at the moment is that if you don’t use artificial fertilizers to produce the food we need,[according to Vaclav Smil](https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/666342/how-the-world-really-works-by-vaclav-smil/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), 40 percent of humanity will go without food. We are so dependent on what I called the infrastructure of forgetting. So there has to be a transition to a moment when we actually live like a minor form of life, but we can’t do that without changing our food habits or reduce the huge amount of plane travel. Lives became global, my kind of middle-class lives, in the last thirty years of the twentieth century. I literally live in the fear of another pandemic separating me from my family, which means that all this connectivity, all this migration and globalization happened by ignoring the data on frequency of pandemics rising or potential pandemics happening. Or think about migrant laborers – caught between and inside nations – during the pandemic. How do we get back to formations where we are a little more fragmented, a little more separated, but maybe connected through some essential services. But that would need a kind of global governance agreement. That would be a peaceful project of transition. But capitalism has extended itself at every point by making things addictive. Tobacco, salt, sugar, opium, all of these things that we know about from history. And now technology itself has become addictive. Social media, completely addictive. It produces echo chambers. And there’s a small section of hugely powerful people behind it. But if you suddenly banned social media, the young people would revolt in the name of freedom, of information, and related things. Even knowing that social media spreads lies, they would rather have that than lying authoritarian governments. So it’s a very difficult question. But philosophically, I think we need to go over to a different social system, which can even be capitalist but of not such an exhausting and exhaustive type. **Melanie**: Do you see a role for the humanities to play in this larger discussion? **Dipesh**: Yes, because we’re talking about changing values. But it’s only by engaging other disciplines. For instance, if you want to feed everybody bananas, then you find that there are only two varieties of bananas you can globalize. The other varieties don’t globalize, which means you make the genetic pool shrink, so bananas become more vulnerable to diseases. There’s an evolutionary biologist, Henry Gee, who wrote[*The Decline and Fall of the Human Empire*](https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250388391/thedeclineandfallofthehumanempire/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)(2025). One of the points he makes, which is interesting, is that all humans, because of certain accidents in our history, there having been some bottlenecks in our genetic history and with the gene pool shrinking, are genetically very similar or uniform. So skin color is a very superficial difference between human beings. Now, as a humanities person, I would welcome this discovery and say, yeah, we’re all the same, great! But as a biological thinker, Gee points out that this puts us at a disadvantage because if we were to face a crisis of existence, natural selection would not have a diversity of a genes to play around with. So something that looks like a wonderful discovery from a humanities point of view may seem quite dangerous if you think of it as an evolutionary biologist. The reason why I’m smiling as I say this is that there’s certain joy in discovering these disciplinary differences. The question of truth sometimes has a parallax built into it: things look from different points of view. For this reason, history is not a morality tale. It’s not like a bunch of really bad human beings brought us to this point and getting rid of them now would fix the problem. Rising numbers of humans have enjoyed the forgetting of the planet that our technological advances enabled. We have enjoyed our flourishing. If you told retirees from India, just traveling places because they have money to burn, that flying had no benefits for the air, they would simply ignore it because, they would say to themselves, “I’ll be gone in ten years; the world can deal with itself.” There’s this peculiarly human sense of time at work here, the temporal structure of Dasein that Heidegger wrote about. That hasn’t gone away. It is very hard to feel the urgency today that people who’ll be in their fifties in thirty years’ time might feel. I don’t know about Germany, but here in the US young people already have the feeling that they may not have it so good as their parents did. I think they’re developing a different mindset, and maybe they’ll discuss different things and learn from some. Going back to Martin’s question about who we write for, I still believe that there will be a readership for at least another fifty years. But I don’t know if you’ll have an Aristotle produced today that you’ll read thousands of years hence. The other thing I want to raise is the question of weighing justice versus survival. If you look at the history of life in general, survival is a more key category for life, for any form of life, than justice. And our own life form is not based on any cosmic justice. In our terms, it’s based on cosmic injustice in that when the air had the share of oxygen that was good for us, a lot of nitrogen- fixing forms of life either died or got pushed underground. And without that kind of murderous development, we would not exist. But at the same time, we are creatures for whom justice is very important, even if we’re not very good at giving it, but we’re very keen on demanding it. I raise that question in the context of many friends saying that climate justice is the only issue. Climate survival may become as important an issue, and how to combine justice with survival will be critical. But unfortunately, in the humanities, we think more about justice. We think of John Rawls. We need a Rawls for survival. We need a philosopher of survival who can then make survival speak to questions of justice and the relationship between the two. **Martin**: But not a Thomas Hobbes of survival, a Rawls. **Dipesh**: Yes! There are far more books on justice in the humanities. Whereas survival is something that evolutionary biologists think about. But the separation seems wrong. **Melanie**: It’s one of the bifurcations that have marked our disciplines. **Dipesh**: That’s why we need to place ourselves not only in the history of social life but also in the history of life to understand that we’re a minor form of life and that we came about because a murderous event happened in the history of life. As the Israeli writer Yuval Noah Harari says, we are the greatest predators on earth. Changing the food industry means we have to stop industrializing the lives of animals, birds, fish, all of those things, which really means a relatively less connected world. But on the other hand, we need to have connections on the question of mutual advantage and disadvantage. For instance, without connections, how would we bring medicine from one part of the world to another? You need to keep some of this destructive technology. Refrigeration is not good for the planet, but without refrigerated container ships, we won’t be able to sell, store, or transport medicine. The problem is the*we*. To produce the*we*is the real problem because evolution makes us a*not-we*. **Melanie**: The question of belonging is also in there, right? It’s the question of being connected to certain, specific places – and to reconnect the land that we live on and the land that we live off as Bruno Latour and Pierre Charbonnier put it. **Dipesh**:[Vaclav Smil says](https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/666342/how-the-world-really-works-by-vaclav-smil/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)that four items have become absolutely essential for us: plastics, cement, ammonia, and steel. The use of fossil fuel is almost compulsory as of now in the production of all of them all. I don’t think we can do without fossil fuel. We’ll need some of the technology, sequestering carbon dioxide, all of those things. But what I envision as a rational system is something not globalized but connected minimally. But for that to function, you need a global governance. And the real problem there is the*we*question: How do you trust the people who are running the global government? What makes you think they’re actually speaking for you? How do we arrive at a global government? While working on that problem, I think we need to work on local problems and local solutions and ask that question: How does the planet, the earth system, present itself on a scale with which I’m capable of engaging? And make that a constant question we have to learn to live with. // This conversation was originally published in [Critical Inquiry](https://critinq.wordpress.com/2026/03/06/a-minor-form-of-life-an-interview-with-dipesh-chakrabarty-by-melanie-sehgal-and-martin-mulsow/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Dipesh Chakrabarty** is the Lawrence A. Kimpton Distinguished Service Professor of History and South Asian Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago. His “Questions Concerning Longevity” is forthcoming in *Critical Inquiry*. --- ### Cover Image Photo by Alan Thomas *Melanie Sehgal is a Professor of Philosophy and Director of Research at the Institute for Basic Research into the History of Philosophy at the University of Wuppertal.* *Martin Mulsow is Professor of Intellectual History at the University of Erfurt and Director of the Gotha Research Center.* ### How to Host an Institution URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/isabel-lewis-and-rio-rutzinger-inside-the-tanzquartier-wien/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:19.000Z *What Isabel Lewis calls an “occasion” is not quite a performance. It is a way of shaping an atmosphere in which gestures of attention and hospitality make intimacy possible. For more than a decade, Lewis—an artist, choreographer, and lecturer of Dominican origin—has gathered people in this way, subtly rearranging the roles of host and guest, artist and audience.* *This idea of hosting offers a fitting entry point into the vision Lewis now develops together with Rio Rutzinger, an Austrian curator for the performing arts known for his long-standing artistic leadership within ImPulsTanz, the International Dance Festival of Vienna. Together they lead Tanzquartier Wien, one of the international key institutions dedicated to contemporary dance and performance. Located in Vienna’s MuseumsQuartier, the house is at once a theatre, a studio complex, a workshop hub, and a discursive platform—a place where dance circulates between rehearsal, research, and public life.* *Their collaboration, as they describe here, began as a kind of occasion in itself. What followed was less the invention of a new story than the continuation of an existing one, learning how to host a house that already carries many histories—and many possible futures.* **MI: How far back shall we go?** IL: Let’s go back to our first collaboration for the Impulstanz festival. Rio developed the research and workshops area there for 30 years. In 2011 he invited me for the first time and he immediately understood that my way of working with workshops was performative and artistic. He supported that approach by finding spaces that were neither typical art studios nor dance studios but architecturally interesting places. That’s how our working relationship began, and from there a friendship grew. RR: It actually started as a midnight idea. After a full day of workshops and two performances, on a summer night in Vienna, we were saying goodbye and I jokingly said: “Let’s apply for Tanzquartier.” The next day we actually sat down together, looked at the call, and asked ourselves whether we had something meaningful to say in response to it. Through that process we realized that one of the things we share most strongly is the pleasure of hosting. In Isabel’s case it appears more artistically, and in my case perhaps more socially, but both of us are driven by a strong hunger for contact—with artists, with society, with exchange. We are less interested in producing polished bubbles of thought than in bursting them. Isabel’s format already contains this mixture: artistry, contact with artists, and also a certain capacity to pierce through conventions. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/11_Aughterlony_Collapse_01_c_Simon-Courchel.jpg) Simone Aughterlony, *Collapse in Five Acts*. Photo by Simon Courchel. Courtesy of TQW **MI: If that midnight idea culminated in hosting, how did you define that role together?** IL: Through my experience collaborating with institutions, it has always been clear to me that the host is also hosted by the institution itself. Producing what I call “occasions” always begins with relationships: meeting the different people who make the institution function—not only the curators, but also the technicians, caretakers, and those responsible for maintaining the building. Over time I developed a practice of relating to institutions in this way. It gave me a sense of empowerment, because the institution stops being an abstract “they”. It becomes a collection of individuals, each with their own responsibilities and perspectives. When you meet them and understand how they see their work, collaboration becomes possible. That was also how I encountered Rio—as the host of the workshop area at Impulstanz. Over decades he built that program in a way that expanded the canon of contemporary dance. There is a lot of gatekeeping in this field around what is considered “high art” on the concert stage. But through the workshops, year after year, Rio brought new people into the conversation and slowly created a more complex network. Working with him, I also noticed something about his communication style: it was always personal, never institutional. It was never “Rio Rutzinger is speaking from the institution of Impulstanz.” Instead it was a one-to-one exchange where I felt taken seriously as a thinker and artist. For me that is an essential quality of hosting: responding, enabling, and making artistic visions possible. When we came together for Tanzquartier, we wanted to combine these layers—the artistic vision with the very pragmatic understanding of what it actually takes to produce a program and bring it to the public. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/17_Rakete-Billy-Morgan_-Hotelle_by-Gergely-Ofner.jpg) Billy Morgan, Hotelle. Photo by Gergely Ofner. Courtesy of TQW **MI: What changes when this way of working moves from a temporary artistic context into a new institutional chapter?** IL: It might be a new chapter, but it is not a new book. The house already has a history and momentum. It has been shaped by previous directors—Sigrid Gareis, Walter Heun, Bettina Kogler— and their teams, and that accumulated history, become material you work with every day. Leading an institution feels less like starting something new and more like steering a massive ship that is already moving in a particular direction. You can introduce change, but it takes time. Institutions have a certain inertia—not only physical but also psychological and social. Rio and I decided from the beginning that we wanted to work with the existing team. Some people left, but many stayed. That continuity was important. RR: We were also new as a collaborative pair ourselves. We knew each other well, but we had never worked together in such an intense and long-term context. Keeping the experienced staff felt important. Some people here have worked in the house for more than 20 years. That can sometimes be seen as a problem, but we chose to treat it as an advantage. Another interesting aspect is that institutional critique has existed for much longer in the visual arts than in dance. Every year, through the DanceWeb program—which I founded nearly 30 years ago—a new generation of young artists arrives ready to challenge the institution. At first they might see the festival as a “big tanker” they must oppose. But over time I realized that this critique is something valuable. It shows us our limits and gives us the chance to learn. Ultimately an institution is both a structure of power and the sum of the people who run it. For us it was important to emphasize the role of hosting: welcoming artists, supporting them, and being there for them—even if that means helping them at two in the morning! **MI: If a new chapter usually implies claiming a narrative, what lessons have shaped your direction since the pitch?** IL: There have been many lessons, and the process is still ongoing. Even though I had spent many years coming to Vienna as a guest, entering its institutional fabric is very different. I underestimated that shift. As an artist working internationally for a long time, I am used to moving between contexts, but directing an institution involves another level of embeddedness. In my previous projects I usually collaborated with artists, scientists, or people from other disciplines who shared a strong motivation to create something together. Here I work with highly professional colleagues whose expertise lies in very different areas. That required me to rethink how resonance happens. In the past resonance often emerged through shared artistic or intellectual interests. Now it sometimes emerges through very ordinary interactions. Trust develops slowly, through doing things together. At the same time, one still tries to guide the institution with an artistic vision, which can be challenging. RR: Here is a narrative now emerging over the next five years. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/18_Rakete-Chloe-Chignell-Sun-Cut-by-Stine-Sampers.jpeg) Chloe Chignell, Sun Cut. Photo by Stine Sampers. Courtesy of TQW **MI: Can you describe that narrative concretely?** RR: Isabel structured the seasons around a series of “lenses” through which we look at programming. The first season is “Theater”, the coming one is “Village”, followed by “School”, then “Carnival”, and finally “Compost”. These lenses are not literal themes but perspectives that shape how we think about the work. For example, when we speak about School, we don’t necessarily mean a building or a curriculum. It could also refer to an artist who has developed a particular method or community of practice. Nora Chipaumire, for instance, has shaped a way of working that can be understood as a kind of school. This framework helps us when we talk to artists about programming. Sometimes we can say: “Your work would really blossom within this particular lens.” It also allows us to postpone things: not this year, but perhaps next year. Externally, many visitors say they feel a strong sense of change in the house and respond very positively to it. Internally, the reactions are more mixed, which is normal. Some colleagues are very enthusiastic—some even say they have never been more excited to come to work after decades here—while others need more time. But overall we have found a great deal of competence and commitment in the team. **MI: It’s another kind of human vibration. I want to come back to the anecdote I mentioned earlier. When I arrived at the Tanzquartier Studios last November for a symposium on infrastructural critique at Die Angewandte, honoring the legacy of the late Marina Vishmidt, I thought I would take a break and maybe watch a performance. But there was no performance—only workshops. So I joined one.** **I was late, I tried to pay in a rush, and the kind person at the counter simply said, “Just go in, we’ll sort it out later.” There was already a kind of coziness—more than in any yoga studio. Inside, a trainer who normally works with professional dancers was leading a group of random participants. We were all moving through the space together, trying to understand what we were doing. Is this dance? Why are dancers doing something like this?** **For me it felt like the perfect introduction to what you’re doing here. I had just left the Museumsquartier and suddenly this was a completely different experience of what an institution can hold. On the Tanzquartier website the first thing you encounter is not the calendar but a layer that introduces workshops, practices, gatherings, and research. It already feels like a shift—almost a gesture of humility toward the process. What is the larger change that you feel, physically and virtually?** IL: It’s wonderful to hear that this resonates, because we are so immersed in day-to-day operations that it’s hard to step back and see it from the outside. When Rio and I wrote our vision for the house, we recognized that Tanzquartier already has a particular mission as a public institution of the city of Vienna: it supports theory, discourse, training, and performances. We want to emphasize the house as a research center for contemporary dance and performance practices. For us, *Vermittlung* \[mediation\] is not a secondary activity but the core of the institution. *Vermittlung* can mean many things: accessibility, opening dance and performance to audiences beyond specialists, inviting people without training or academic knowledge to engage with the field as a form of discourse and a way of being in the world. From my own artistic practice I know that inviting people into the process can be transformative. For many years I experimented with formats that troubled the conventions of theatre and were open to varying degrees of participation. I’ve witnessed first hand how much desire there was for this kind of direct address. When I first came to this house in 2007 I was living in New York, and there was nothing comparable there. Even in Europe it’s rare. Here we have a library, an archive, media technology, training studios, co-productions, and a theatre—an extraordinary resource located in the middle of the city, next to major museums. For me Tanzquartier carries enormous symbolic weight for dance and performance. It is not only a venue that opens for shows every weekend—it is a public research center, a place people can enter and use. It belongs to the city of Vienna. Ideally it should function almost like a living room. RR: One of the biggest changes we made was actually in communication. The resources were already here—they simply weren’t emphasized or fully appreciated. IL: Many people don’t even know they—as non-professional dancers—can come here. In my opinion it’s much more fun than going to the gym. We have beautiful studios, dressing rooms, showers—it’s a gem in the center of Vienna still to be discovered by many people. RR: And even if someone simply wants a non-consumer space to sit on a couch, use the Wi-Fi, and relax—that’s fine too. It’s a centrally located public space. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/02_TQW_DEANMOSS_0052_c_HANNAFASCHING.jpg) Dean Moss, Figures on the Field, 2025\. Photo by Hannah Fasching. Courtesy of TQW **MI: Performance today has also been absorbed by an affect-driven market—apps that teach you how to optimize or relax your body within an economic system. At the same time many dance institutions still prioritize touring and premieres. Could Tanzquartier function as a bridge? And how are you collaborating with other dance institutions?** IL: I think this process is only beginning. My own work developed in a very different production structure. Most of my pieces were self-produced or commissioned through visual art and music contexts rather than through the typical choreography system of co-producers and public funding structures. Learning about that system more deeply now, I see how it pushes artists into a particular mode of production. For some artists that works very well. For me it didn’t—I had to invent the conditions that suited my work. Ideally, artists should have more freedom to choose the mode of production that best supports their practice, rather than adapting their work to the structure. At the same time it is crucial that we remain a reliable co-production partner. In Vienna many artists receive public funding for their projects, and institutions like ours provide the additional support needed to realize the work. One issue we notice is that Viennese artists rarely tour beyond the city. That is a structural problem. Work develops through encounters with different audiences and through time. Especially in live performance, time enriches the work. For that reason Rio and I attend international platforms and networking events. At first it felt awkward for me, but I now understand how these encounters can create possibilities for productions to travel. These conversations are still beginning, but I see growing interest among colleagues—particularly dramaturgs—in rethinking how institutions support dance and performance and what kinds of practices they should offer to the public. RR: One concrete step we’ve taken is reintroducing public rehearsals, where audiences can witness processes rather than only finished works. **MI: Can you give an example?** RR: One example was the revival of Dean Moss’ piece *Figures on the Field*, originally created in dialogue with the paintings of Laylah Ali. We recreated it with local performers—all people of color—because the work addresses both inter-POC violence and the experience of POC bodies in contemporary society. Many participants didn’t know Moss before. Some were only in their mid-twenties, meaning they were children when the work was first created. During the four-week rehearsal period we held two open rehearsals. What was interesting was that the audience consisted mostly of people who were not artists or regular colleagues from the field. They came from other disciplines or were completely new to Tanzquartier. That confirmed something Isabel often says: following a process can be exciting. Moss used the audience for feedback, asking careful follow-up questions. At first people opened up a little, and then suddenly they shared very rich reflections. For artists it’s incredibly valuable to hear responses from strangers rather than only from colleagues who already share the same references. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/08_Rita-Mazza_The-Voice_Mayra-Wallraff-low-resolution-45.jpg) Rita Mazza, *The Voice*. Photo by Mayra Wallraff, Courtesy of TQW **MI: Can you give more examples of artistic practices that might be currently missing in dance institutions?** RR: Process-sharing itself isn’t something we invented—we simply want to emphasize it more. We feel that artists, and even different art forms, speak with each other too little. In Vienna especially, people often stay inside their own bubbles. Even within the visual arts the field is fragmented, and the same is true in dance. For instance, ballet and contemporary dance communities rarely intersect here. That’s absurd. In New York I grew up seeing dancers from the American Ballet Theatre training in the same classes as burlesque dancers. They shared a technical foundation and learned from the same teachers. In European dance something changed in the early 2000s. Influential choreographers who were highly trained dancers began to reject virtuosity on stage. Their decision produced exciting work, but it also led an entire generation to reject ballet and technical training altogether. I always thought that reaction was too extreme. That’s why I appreciated teachers like Janet Panetta in New York. She always said: technique is simply a base—you can use it however you want. Learn it, and then apply it in whatever wild or experimental way you choose. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/06_Flavourama_Qualifier7_c_Raphael-Mittendorfer.jpg) Flavourama, Qualifier. Photo by Raphael Mittendorfer **MI: This is a wonderful example of long-term transdisciplinary—or even beyond-disciplinary—relationships. At the same time, Isabel, you hesitated earlier around the word *virtuosity*. How should we deal with that?** IL: That’s exactly where I wanted to intervene. We’ve mentioned ballet and contemporary dance, but there are so many other dance languages that exist today. It raises the question of what gets called a *technique* and what gets called a *style*. Rio has introduced techniques like house dance and hip-hop into the program—forms that had been largely absent from a house dedicated to contemporary dance. Recently we hosted our first hip-hop and house battle, organized by the initiative Flavourama, which two women founded twelve years ago in Salzburg. It’s an international battle format, and we hosted their European qualifier here. It was the first event of this kind in the house in 25 years—and it was incredible. Sometimes I look at what people are wearing around the table: hip-hop culture is everywhere, almost like the internet. So how could it not appear in a contemporary dance institution? The response from audiences was huge. And that already changes the outdated conversation about virtuosity. For me, when watching a hip-hop battle, style often trumps power moves. You feel it in the room when someone is completely at home in their form—when the crowd reacts and you witness that powerful intersection between artistic mastery and personal expression. At the same time we must stay attentive in dance in terms of physical intensity and the development of new techniques, another important aspect of our program is to present artists who approach the body from very different perspectives. For me, dance institutions should reject essentializing discourses of the able and healthy body. For instance, we presented the artist Rita Mazza, a deaf performer and native speaker of Italian Sign Language. Her work integrates multiple layers of access as artistic tools within the performance itself. RR: And recently Saïd Gharbi, a blind Moroccan dancer, taught a class called *Jump with Me into Darkness*. IL: These are concrete examples of artists that had not been visible in this house before. Other institutions in Europe are also exploring these directions and what it means to acknowledge practices that have too often been overlooked or dismissed as being outside the discourse. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/10_Said-Gharbi-4-photo-Celine-Chalet.jpg) Said Gharbi, 2026\. photo by Celine Chalet **MI: You currently have a running event as we speak. Could we talk about Simone Aughterlony’s symposium? Is this also paradigmatic of how you’re working at the intersection of art and academia?** IL: Yes, very much so. When I first encountered Tanzquartier through its founding director, Sigrid Gareis, what impressed me most was its strong discursive and theoretical dimension. As a student I had been fortunate to study in a program where theory and embodied practice were deeply integrated, but outside of that environment it was rare to see institutions doing this. Later, when I moved to Berlin, I followed Tanzquartier’s discursive program closely. At the time people like Martina Hochmuth and Krassimira Kruschkova were shaping that work. Because I am passionate about this, I decided to take responsibility for the theory and discourse program myself and working together with my colleagues, I acknowledge the earlier tradition that influenced me so strongly. For me, discourse and research are essential components of the institution. Our research events are free, while other programs require tickets. It’s part of an integrated Vermittlung strategy: some people enter the house through workshops, others through discursive events, and yet others through performances. And my hope is that they will eventually explore the house from other angles too. Having spent time within academic contexts, I’m aware of both the strengths and the limitations of theory. But I remain fascinated by what dance and performance can do to discourse. For example, Simone Aughterlony’s new work, [*Collapse in Five Acts*](https://tqw.at/en/events/collapse-in-5-acts-there-is-porn-of-it?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), is accompanied by a symposium. It’s important to make visible that artists spend enormous amounts of time researching—reading, writing, thinking, debating. There’s a common misconception that dance simply happens in the studio. In recent years in Vienna’s dance culture, theory and performance programs sometimes developed separately, intersecting only occasionally. For me that is a missed opportunity. The division between theory and practice is artificial, yet institutions often reproduce it. I encountered the same issue while teaching in Leipzig—students were surprised when I brought theoretical texts into class because they assumed theory belonged somewhere else. These divisions are largely institutional constructions. **MI: There’s already so much here, but I’d like to end with the current season. If you think about the final moments of this program cycle—within your “lens” framework—what stands out?** IL: One upcoming project is the Future Histories Lab, curated with Jan Groos. It will take place online and it brings together artistic and academic voices for a week of research around the idea of “future histories”. Jan is particularly interested in whether we can generate narratives that do not inevitably end in collapse—how we might imagine other possible futures. Another project I’m very excited about is the work of Matt McCreary and Charles Auguste. Both come from a background in parkour, which again raises the question: what counts as a contemporary technique? I saw a video of Matt interacting with urban architecture in an incredibly soft, fluid way—almost like skateboarding, but using only the surfaces of the body against concrete. It completely changed my understanding of parkour. It’s not about acrobatic spectacle but about a subtle dialogue between body and city. They’ll be creating a work here on site. RR: Another highlight is [*Rakete*](https://www.tqw.at/festivals/rakete-2025?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), a festival for new choreographies that we decided to continue. It’s curated by Lewon Heublein, who is also an editor of [PW](https://www.pw-magazine.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[ Magazine](https://www.pw-magazine.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and works across performance, visual art, and music. Those influences are reflected in the festival’s program, which brings together both international and local artists. The festival runs for three weeks in May—right during the Eurovision Song Contest. We even scheduled programming on those days. How dare we. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/22_Rakete-Yoh-Morishita-Dogstar-by-Marcella-Ruiz-Cruz-243.jpg) Yoh Morishita, *Dogstar*, Foto by Marcella Ruiz Cruz. Rakete Festival Wien 2026 *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### The Method and the Man URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-method-the-man/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:18.000Z There is something genuinely relieving, even hopeful, about time-travelling into the near past and reconnecting with European avant-gardism—a moment when artists were not only making art but living it, communally, as a deliberate force capable of responding to and reshaping social constructs. That sensibility is precisely what is restored by the retrospective “TOUTITÉ – The Study of Form”, curated by Eva Brioschi and Julia Marchand at the Fondazione Antonio Dalle Nogare in Bolzano. This artistic commitment defines the life and work of a figure who remains, somewhat quietly, on the margins of the discourse: Ilia Zdanevich, known by the *nom de scène* as Iliazd. Born in Tbilisi in 1894 and dying in Paris in 1975, Iliazd was a writer, typographer, designer, scholar, publisher, and admirer of Byzantine and Georgian sacred architecture. Iliazd's wager was that the artist's true vocation was to challenge the boundaries of a medium, to inhabit every form available, and to charge each one in relation. Despite his nomadic life, Iliazd did not dissipate his energies; he conceptualized the word *toutisme*, rendered in French and Italian as *toutité*, as "an artistic attitude that refuses to set spatial or temporal boundaries" and contributed to the creation of new expressive forms. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/002_TOUTITE_ILIAZD_TheStudyOfForm_Commission_FotostudioJurgenEheim.jpg) Installation view. Ph: Fotostudio Jürgen Eheim The opening section of the show at the Fondazione is dedicated to Iliazd's lifelong engagement with Byzantine and Georgian sacred architecture. Among the works are detailed church-building plans, drawn up after conducting thorough studies of these structures. This study began after an expedition during World War One, when the Russian Army had entered Turkey to study ruined Georgian churches, some of which had long ago been turned into mosques. Iliazd was the draftsman and photographer during the expedition. His engagement with these churches was not only an aesthetic choice, but a re-enactment, a way of learning from the past by physically tracing its logic, reconstructing its decisions, rehearsing its proportions as if to absorb them into one's own body of knowledge. His sketches of Istanbul’s Hagia Sophia and other Byzantine churches suggest a mind that understood history not as something to be observed from a distance but as a living method to be practiced and tested. A form of dialogue across time, of the kind that precisely creates the transtemporal, transdisciplinary conversation that *toutité* demands. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/027_TOUTITE_ILIAZD_TheStudyOfForm_Commission.jpg) Installation view. Ph: Tiberio Sorvillo This commitment to redrawing as a political and ethical act extended beyond architecture, fascinatingly, to cartography. The exhibition includes Iliazd’s interventions on old maps, on which he corrected borders, not as a geographical exercise but as a denunciation of the violence that political borders enact upon peoples and territories. As a Georgian born into an empire and then exiled into another kind of displacement, Iliazd understood borders as impositions, not descriptions. His corrections were a demand for self-determination, rooted in the cause of Georgian independence, an outgrowth of the fraught history of his homeland: first absorbed by the Russian Empire in the nineteenth century, briefly independent from 1918 to 1921, then forcibly incorporated into the Soviet Union. The corrected maps are a cartographic protest, a refusal to accept that lines drawn by imperial powers constitute reality. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/008_TOUTITE_ILIAZD_TheStudyOfForm_Vault.jpg) Installation view. Ph: Fotostudio Jürgen Eheim This political dimension underlays the exhibition. The early twentieth century was a period of accelerating border-drawing in Europe: nationalist movements hardening into regimes, borders becoming more militarized, the internationalism of the avant-garde increasingly embattled. For Iliazd, who moved from Tbilisi to Petrograd to Paris, severed from the landscapes and communities that had formed him, the portability of his art became an increasing concern and*toutité* an artistic sensibility to prototyping a universal language of art. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/021_TOUTITE_ILIAZD_TheStudyOfForm_Commission.jpg) Installation view. Ph: Fotostudio Jürgen Eheim The centerpiece of the show, the *Cabinet Institute*, an homage to Duchamp's *Boîte-en-valise*, resolves this question in a portable museum. The work was conceived as a compact exhibition to carry with oneself, becoming both a statement on creation and a reproduction: as a response to displacement and a refusal to be severed from one’s own work. The relationship between Iliazd and Duchamp, illuminated in the exhibition through previously unseen materials and epistolary exchange, confirms the form of mutualism and mentorship that prevailed among artists of that time. These two minds orbited one another, each finding in the other a confirmation that the most rigorous thinking about art was also the most liberated. The drawers of the *Cabinet,* made accessible to be opened by the audience, archive fabric samples designed for Chanel, a poetry typographic proof with its intricate arrangements of movable type, pages from *LidantYU fAram* (1923), *Un Soupçon* (1965), and *Le Frère Mendiant* (1959), illustrated by Picasso, demonstrate a typographic intelligence that is genuinely startling. Remarkably, he used the very machines at Chanel that were employed for decorating fabrics to draw up plans from sketches made on his extensive travels. The same mechanical instruments that produced geometric textile patterns for haute couture were repurposed to reconstruct the floor plans of medieval sacred spaces. The artworks archived in the *Cabine* are not only the iterations of a curious engineer's mind, who perpetually studies the geometries that govern harmony and beauty, but the expression of a network of friendship with Paul Eluard, Picasso, and Chanel that nurtured Iliazd’s life deeply. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/06_ILIAZD_PoesieDeMotsInconnus_1949_Publisher41_Paris.jpg) Ilia Zdanevich – Iliazd Poésie de mots inconnus 1949 Publisher 41° Paris Unbound book with text printed in movable type in black and red, illustrated by various artists using different techniques. Courtesy Private Collection ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/016_TOUTITE_ILIAZD_TheStudyOfForm_Vault.jpg) Installation view. Ph: Fotostudio Jürgen Eheim The bookmaking section showcased in the Vault of the Fondazione is where the transdisciplinarity of *toutité* becomes most expansive. Iliazd conceived of the book not as a vehicle for text but as an art object in its own right, an intellectual and spatial architecture in which text and image exist in dynamic, mutual dependency. The precision and graphic quality of Iliazd’s architectural studies are of direct inspiration for the meticulous design of his book pages. Architecture was more than an interest for Iliazd, but the conceptual and operational matrix that shaped his bookmaking, elevating the illustrated book into a multisensory and multidimensional experience, comparable to entering and moving through a building. The entire *Poésie de mots inconnus* (1949), with contributions from Giacometti, Matisse, and Picasso among others, is presented in the show as the collective masterwork it is: an attempt at something like a poetic Esperanto, a language that might connect across borders precisely because it operates below or beyond the national. If the corrected maps were Iliazd’s political statement, this book was his positive proposal that art could be a unifying common language. The international avant-garde in which Iliazd was inscribed and nurtured was collectively attempting to construct a transnational grammar capable of resisting the enclosures of artistic disciplines and nationalism. The exhibition makes clear that *toutité* is not simply a historical moment, but an enduring idea. Placed in dialogue with the collection of the Fondazione Antonio Dalle Nogare, a space whose windows open onto the Alps, it demonstrates that this idea, like Iliazd himself, operates beyond boundaries between media and borders between nations. // *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Care Questionnaire URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/care-questionnaire/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:16.000Z *Care has no single aesthetic.* *It’s practiced by everyone, just with radically different values.* *Tech CEOs care about optimisation.* *AI labs care about alignment.* *Crypto funds care about volatility.* *Border agencies care about supposed safety.* *Climate activists care about time.* *Content moderators care about damage control.* *Influencers care about engagement.* *Landlords care about yield.* *Grandmothers care about who shows up.* So I wonder: what do you really care about? Tell yourself, tell others, tell me: ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSCF42332.png) Who do you think you are? What time do you act like you live in? Who do you believe you care about? And who benefits from that belief? Whose comfort depends on your silence? Whose tyrant are you without noticing? Do you think the help you offer actually helps; or does it mostly stabilise you? Who does your help really help? Where does your care turn into control? Are you honest with yourself, or strategically transparent? How do you perform solidarity when no one is watching? What does solidarity cost you? What kinds of collective power do you trust? Are you paid for the care you give? Do you believe we are interdependent, or only when it’s convenient? Is care soft, sharp, logistical, exhausting? What does care taste like today? Cheek on pillow - is that care? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/004-todxs-paliacates.png) Indigo Paliacate with the Feathered Serpent Island, MCD, 2026\. Courtesy of the artist Unread message - is that neglect? Whose care do you pay for - and whose do you extract for free? Can there be care inside domination? Can domination hide inside care? What does care look like when it has power? Where does solidarity in art actually happen, on stage, backstage, or in contracts? How difficult is it for you to listen without fixing? Who carries responsibility when no one volunteers? How should resources circulate - and who decides? Do you trust your agency - or outsource it? What policies would make care unavoidable, not optional? Can we build communities that don’t burn out their most caring members? How do you ask for help without branding yourself? When do you practice compassion, and when do you withhold it? When are you most attentive to others? When are you most protective of yourself? Are you willing to answer honestly when asked: How are you? Are you imposing care as a moral demand? Where have institutions harmed you while claiming to support you? When do you feel genuinely cared for, not managed? What’s your emergency - really? What tools do you keep close when things fall apart? What is a safe space to you, and who is excluded from it? Do you still believe in “self-care” - or only in survival? What do you desire that doesn’t optimise you? Who do you love without leverage? Who shows up for you when you are inconvenient? When do you retreat into lifestyle fixes instead of structural change? Does scrolling calm you - or numb you? What do you consume daily - food, media, outrage, reassurance? How often do you look up - not at a screen? Do you recognise power in algorithms? What do you judge others by when you’re tired? Does exploiting yourself feel like freedom? When do you exploit others - and how do you justify it? What would universal care require you to give up? What are you missing most right now? Time? Security? Housing? Courage? Fuck it? Or what? // *Alina Kolar is fed up and starved by the system at the same time. Years later, still.* ### Culture Workers Organising Against the Authoritarian Turn URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/culture-workers-organising-against-the-authoritarian-turn/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:15.000Z **The art and culture sector in Germany has been among the first fields targeted in the post-October 7 authoritarian turn: censorship, cancellations, funding withdrawal, and a range of intimidation techniques enacted through institutional procedures. Art Worker Solidarity emerged from this moment. What are the cardinal values that hold the group together?** After October 7, 2023, many art workers in Berlin felt isolated. Many of us faced police repression at protests, while the majority of German cultural institutions appeared to be unwilling or unable to share political values that, for many of those active in Berlin’s international art scene, remain central: solidarity with Gaza and Palestine in the face of Israel’s ongoing genocide. Art Worker Solidarity (AWS) formed organically through a need to resist that sense of isolation, and to act in solidarity against censorship, silencing, and repression. Many of us are freelancers. Many of us are migrants. Many of us work both inside and outside Germany. Many of us hold side jobs as technicians, cleaners, translators, teachers… Facing deliberate precarization, the erosion of cultural infrastructure through budget cuts, the abuse of public funding procedures, an onslaught of silencing and censorship, and the normalization of right-wing extremism in Berlin and beyond, we know these are not isolated phenomena. They affect not only our labor rights, but also the rights of many of us to remain here in Germany. For cultural workers, censorship and cancellation can mean a long-term loss of income and, for some, the loss of their visa. Our coming together is about far more than asserting a liberal notion of freedom of artistic expression. It is about claiming the material conditions for that freedom to be possible. **What does ideological and material solidarity look like in practice?** Solidarity becomes real when it operates at the symbolic and material levels at the same time, when it goes beyond public statements to actually change the conditions of those facing retaliation. Symbolically, it means refusal: declining to exhibit in or to lend legitimacy to complicit institutions publicly and explicitly. Materially, it means protecting cultural workers through financial support, legal knowledge, and the coordinated amplification of their cases. It means sharing resources, platforms, and access to reduce individual dependence on institutional endorsement. It means coordinating action so that boycotts and refusals exert collective pressure rather than remaining scattered gestures that institutions can simply absorb. Above all, it means building mutual aid structures that reduce the precarity that makes workers vulnerable to institutional pressure in the first place. Right now, our group is focusing on strengthening solidarity networks across sectors and internationally through our upcoming symposium. **Can you tell us more about that?** The symposium aims to create space for dialogue between different kinds of cultural workers and with precarized workers in other sectors, and to learn from unionized and self-organized cultural workers beyond Germany. Throughout two days of participatory working sessions, in-depth discussions, and collective analysis, we will exchange organizing tactics, map the political, legal, economic, and psychological conditions shaping our work, and examine how precarity is weaponized to discipline dissent. Together, we will explore ways to counter complicity, particularly in relation to supply chains and funding structures, while building solidarity across different places and types of precarized work. Part of what we hope to do is contextualize our work here in Germany. Collaborating with artists’ unions and organizations abroad is a way to show that it should be completely normal, uncontroversial even, for an artists’ organization to speak out against genocide and war. Highlighting how these struggles intersect helps us mobilize more broadly and build alliances across the groups pushing back against the authoritarian turn from a position of solidarity with Palestine. This involves both grassroots activism and people organizing within cultural and academic institutions. The symposium is independent and volunteer-organized. We have some (minimal) funding for travel costs and food from Movement Hub, an organization that supports progressive grassroots movements and civil society groups. Most of the money for these costs, however, was raised through a fundraiser event and through sales of our zine, *How do we self-organize?*, which documents the first large-scale event we hosted at the nGbK last year. Copies of the zine can be found at Zabriskie in Berlin. **How does the symposium propose to lay the groundwork for an enduring international coalition, rather than remaining another moment of convergence that disperses without creating an enduring structure?** The symposium’s second day is planned around exactly this question. Enduring relationships grow through conversation and through genuinely understanding the needs of everyone involved. We want to create space to hear about the different contexts and motivations that drove each group to organize, and to build a structure that is shaped by all present, practicing a solidarity and allyship that leaves nobody behind. We hope this gathering can serve as a starting point for wider cooperation. We also plan to document the event by producing a second zine in the coming months, so stay tuned. **There has long been a hope that art can confront reality and exist independently of the institutions that produce, fund, and legitimize it. The last few years have made this assumption increasingly untenable. How does Art Worker Solidarity position itself in relation to institutions?** We are a large group with different positions among members, and this is a topic of productive dissent among us. Institutions are too all-encompassing to ignore. But as you point out, they can also operate as machines for propagating German Staatsräson. In a context of rising authoritarianism, we have to constantly ask ourselves: should we continue to engage constructively with the ostensible liberal institution, holding it accountable and pushing it to, at the bare minimum, do its job of holding space for dissensus and solidarity? Or is the institution the wolf in sheep's clothing, absorbing, or even appropriating, our political energy? Complete withdrawal is often a privilege available only to those with independent resources or established reputations, and it removes organized pressure from the very spaces where workers and publics actually encounter institutions. So our position in relation to institutions has to remain ambivalent. It is harder to hold this position than either full integration or principled separation, but perhaps this is more honest about the terrain on which cultural labor politics must actually operate. That said, as the state divests monetarily from culture while amping up ideological controls, and as institutions turn to private funding sources, we will need to find ways to materially support culture workers when they say “no” to institutions that are complicit in militarized supply chains. **What might a different art governance system actually look like?** In our work, we have been drawn to the union as a productive counter-figure to the artists’ association. For example, [Gewerkschafter für Gaza](https://www.gewerkschafter4gaza.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) has demonstrated the historical and ongoing connections between the German union system and state Zionism. As cultural workers and freelancers, we ask ourselves how collective organizing around our labor rights (which include the right to artistic freedom of expression) might lead toward a cultural system that actually cares for the material wellbeing of all its workers, from creators to technicians to institutional staff to cleaners. This would be a first step toward wresting control of cultural infrastructure, transforming a system that is highly vulnerable to state and corporate interests into something decentralized, democratically organized, and responsive to different needs. It would need to be structured around the needs of both culture workers and their publics. At the same time, we have to ask what a truly subversive union might look like, one that looks beyond the legal and often parochial parameters of industry protection to form solidarities with precarized workers in other fields and other places, or to mobilise around political urgencies like the ongoing genocide in Gaza. This idea sits far outside existing models of corporate bargaining, even if those models were to become fully accessible to freelancers. But it is also a complete no-brainer. Many of us work day jobs in other sectors, so drawing hard lines between different types of labor struggle makes little sense. Solidarity is both a matter of survival and of political urgency. **Beyond individual acts of censorship, how do you understand the deeper ways in which parts of the cultural system have been shaped by, or made structurally dependent on, funding sources, supply chains, and political relationships that are implicated in the very crises culture workers are trying to address?** Arms manufacturers, fossil fuel corporations, authoritarian governments, and financial institutions fund cultural institutions partly to launder their reputations, using cultural legitimacy to offset the political costs of their core operations. The effect on programming is typically indirect: curators learn through accumulated institutional signals what work will generate friction with donors, and adjust accordingly. Often, no explicit directive is needed; anticipatory compliance becomes widespread inside funding-dependent organizations. The dependency is asymmetrical: funders can withdraw at any time, while institutions cannot easily replace large donors and, therefore, cannot afford to antagonize them. Cultural legitimacy gets continuously lent to the economic and political power that funds it, reinforcing both. **How does Art Worker Solidarity think about untangling those dependencies?** Slowly and collectively, across several fronts at once. Divestment campaigns demand that institutions formally sever ties with harmful industries, making complicity an active institutional choice rather than a background condition. Running alongside all of this, currently, AWS works on building parallel infrastructure: supporting or making independent spaces, events, publications, and networks. This can demonstrate that alternatives are viable and provide ground for work that captured institutions cannot accommodate. **How have you formalized, or chosen not to formalize, your structure?** We hold regular monthly meetings. Anyone can join and propose a theme to work on, for which a subgroup is usually formed that self-organizes as it sees fit. As much as possible, we make decisions by consensus and rotate tasks. We also host larger events like the symposium, and smaller-scale events we call “Union Halls” to create formal and informal contexts for cultural workers to come together, exchange, eat and drink, share experiences, and develop shared analyses. This may sound basic, but in a moment when many cultural institutions and associations in this city still appear to be in acute denial of the political urgencies shared by so many cultural workers, when it is often unclear who you can trust, it is so important to create alternative spaces where we can collectivize our concerns and strengthen one another. **What political horizon does the coalition move toward?** Now more than ever, it is clear that capitalism and fascism move hand in hand in pursuing a neo-colonial agenda within and outside the borders of the nation-state. This gives rise to some frightening developments at a local level. The question of who has visibility in the cultural field, and who sets its agenda, is deeply connected to the question of who can access basic rights: housing, social welfare, environmental protection, freedom from police violence and state repression, and freedom of movement. These issues are as relevant to us as questions around funding, wages, working conditions, and freedom of artistic expression. If one of us is affected, all of us are affected. We see our work as part of an anti-racist struggle, which includes the fight against the weaponization of anti-Semitism. As cultural workers, we push back against the foreclosure of political imagination. Art has the potential to build social spaces for encounter and to foster lived, intersectional solidarity through relationships and community. As a relatively small, self-organized structure, we hope to avoid political purity tests and instead create space for developing relational skills, discussion, dissent, political learning, and mutual support. We hope that ours is one of many bottom-up approaches from which radical, collectively run structures can grow. Modes of self-organization can restructure not just culture but infrastructure more broadly, holding it accountable to people’s needs rather than to the demands of militarized state structures and private, profit-driven interests. In this sense, too, our work is currently oriented toward reaching out to other sectors and working translocally against the authoritarian turn. **How do you navigate conflicts and misalignments within the group, and how do you build something that can outlast the urgency of the current moment?** Self-organized groups are not communities of perfect agreement. They are temporary, sometimes unstable, always negotiated arrangements between people who share enough—a common struggle, an overlapping demand, a convergent interest—to act together without requiring unanimity on everything else. There is a recurring temptation in political life to mistake rigor for rigidity, to treat ideological consistency as the primary measure of solidarity. Purity politics, whatever its ideological clothing, tends toward the same destination: a smaller and smaller circle of the trustworthy, and a longer and longer list of disqualifying positions, and, ultimately, a politics more invested in its own integrity than in the world it claims to want to change. Political clarity is something different. It means knowing what you are fighting for and why, having a coherent analysis of power, harm, and structural causes, without requiring that everyone who stands beside you arrived at that analysis by the same route or holds every adjacent position in the same way. Clarity allows you to build. Purity tends to dissolve what has been built. **What are the tools of dissent that culture and art workers can deploy within their own sector?** The available tools range widely. Open letters and public statements are relatively low-risk entry points, capable of naming problems and building momentum, though they are limited when used alone. Collective refusals and boycotts raise the cost of complicity for institutions. Whistleblowing and leaking internal censorship decisions can expose structural problems that are invisible from outside, but they carry serious professional and legal consequences for anyone acting alone. Strike actions are among the most materially powerful tools available, making visible the labor that institutions prefer to treat as unconditionally available. Counter-programming and autonomous publishing create platforms for work that complicit institutions will not host. Legal challenges to wrongful dismissal or censorship serve both protective and political functions. Solidarity networks address the core vulnerability that keeps most dissent from developing beyond individual courage: the isolation of the person willing to act. Across all of these, the same tension recurs: individual exposure against collective protection. Dissent becomes sustainable when costs and risks are distributed across a network, not concentrated on isolated individuals whose precarity institutions can exploit. That is why we advocate organizing as a remedy to the atomization so often produced by austerity and political volatility. **Thank you all for this!** // The **Art Worker Solidarity** group was formed in response to known cases of censorship and silencing of visual artists in Berlin due to positions of solidarity with Palestine, as well as the ongoing, intentional precarization of artists through defunding and attempted deportation, all of which are exacerbated by the rise and normalization of right-wing extremism. Rather than seeing these as isolated phenomena, Art Worker Solidarity seeks to collectively push back against repression by establishing and strengthening intersectional networks of solidarity. \---------- **Symposium: Culture Workers Organizing Against the Authoritarian Turn** **April 11–12, 2026** Organized by Art Worker Solidarity Hosted by anorak Gottlieb-Dunkel-Str. 43/44 12099 Berlin-Tempelhof [https://anorakanorak.com/ ](https://anorakanorak.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) Participating groups: Artists & Culture Workers London, Artists' Union England, Buradan Nereye? (Türkiye), European Alternatives, Hassala, Scottish Artists Union, UKS (Young Artists' Society, Norway), Arts & Culture Alliance Berlin, FLINTA\* Workers Mutual Support Network, Global South United, KriSol (Alliance for Critical Scholarship in Solidarity), Oyoun, Radio Against Repression, Red Kunstcol, Syndikat Kunst und Kultur, United Against Subcontracting, Zeitgenössischer Tanz Berlin, and many more... Open to all grassroots groups and individuals seeking to build and connect local and international organizing efforts. Join us! Program **Saturday, April 11** Mapping the Terrain: Authoritarianism and Cultural Work 11:00–11:30: OPENING Coffee and welcome Brief framing of the two-day gathering and its aims 11:30–13:00: INTRODUCTIONS Invited groups introduce themselves 13:00–14:00: LUNCH 14:00–15:30: PARALLEL WORK SESSIONS (A): On material labor conditions, precarity, repression (B): Building and sustaining organizing structures (C): Fighting complicity, trans-sectoral action 15:30–16:00: COFFEE BREAK 16:00–17:30: PLENARY REPORT-BACK Summaries from the work sessions, discussion, preparation for Day 2 17:30–20:30: EVENING DRINKS Sounds from Radio Against Repression **Sunday, April 12** From Shared Analysis to Collective Action 12:00–13:00: REFLECTIONS OVER BRUNCH Summary of Day 1, updates, intentions for the day 13:00–13:30: COALITION PROPOSAL How can we support each other in the future? Proposing an anti-authoritarian, international coalition 13:30–15:00: PARALLEL WORK SESSIONS (A): Building a coalition: what are our shared struggles and how do we connect them? (B): Organizational forms: how might a coalition be structured? 15:00–15:30: COFFEE BREAK 15:30–16:00: PLENARY REPORT-BACK Summaries from the work sessions Decision-making on how to stay in touch 16:00–17:00: CALL TO ACTION! Call to action, action points, commitments 17:00–17:30: Closing thoughts, feedback round // *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### From Charlois to Melly URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/rotterdam-art-week/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:13.000Z So here we are, in Charlois, a historic village that the city has long since absorbed, its streets are hemmed in by port infrastructure and shipping containers. We are staying in a small, preserved house, maintained by an association of people born in the area, many of whom still live in the neighborhood and work to conserve its heritage. Three older working-class men sit with us quietly, observing, as we wait for Philipp Schwalb. Upon arrival, he immediately talks us through the paintings he has installed among the objects of the house: Delft blue, fragments of domestic history, and small artifacts that carry the weight of centuries. Schwalb’s work is deeply referential and structured, drawing on his ongoing engagement with Aby Warburg’s lifework, the *Mnemosyne Bilderatlas*. In Charlois, he produces thirteen allegorical paintings, rendered in Delft blue, each corresponding to one of the thirteen books written by Octavia Butler, tracing their speculative, dystopian, and prophetic narratives. Red and turquoise ripple through the compositions, which beautifully lose themselves in the encompassing blue, announcing different frequencies and resonances across the series. On the backs of each canvas, Schwalb inscribes footnotes, references, and mirrored meta-texts; a quiet archive and companion to the visual worlds depicted on the front, signalling both process and reflection. These inscriptions act as a secondary plane, commentary looming behind the images, subliming each painting into a site of layered knowledge, a node in a network connecting science fiction, historical trade routes, and visual poetics. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-04-04-at-15.00.00.jpeg) ##### *Philipp Schwalb, installation view at Historisch Charlois.* Where does “Delft blue” come from? It is a derivative of cobalt. Where does cobalt come from? The Black Forest, just like Schwalb. Much of the timber that built the Netherlands, once a major maritime imperial power, also came from the Black Forest. In this compact interior, the local and the global collapse into one another. Rotterdam appears not only as a city but as a bottleneck of trade, an intermediary of flows, its history of destruction and reconstruction suspended just beneath the surface. Rotterdam was pummeled by bombs in 1940, and again in 1944\. After the war, the city was rebuilt in modernist style, guided by master-plan thinking, yet always remained attentive to local specificity and practical solutions. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-04-04-at-15.00.01.jpeg) ##### *Philipp Schwalb, installation view at Historisch Charlois.* The allegorical density of Schwalb’s paintings resonates with the broader, distributed landscape of Charlois where Het Zuid Manifest: Carola Loves Carlos! unfolds. Over seventeen locations—from shops and cafés to a theme park and other historic sites—this free contemporary art festival, now in its second iteration, situates artworks within the everyday architecture of the neighborhood, creating encounters between art and local life. Curated by Maziar Afrassiabi, the festival extends across local and international collaborations, embedding both process and site-specificity into the dramaturgy of Rotterdam Art Week. Schwalb’s references to Butler and Warburg mirror the festival’s layered approach. An attentive visitor would need more than three days for a visit to do justice to the histories, texts, and social infrastructures that are part of the event, transforming Charlois itself into a networked exhibition, a space where material, memory, and relationality converge. A Tale of a Tub, in Delfshaven lies at another edge of the city. The Justus van Effencomplex, where the institution sits, is a superb example of modernist architecture: rational and grid-like, yet socially attentive, encompassing elevated streets, expressionist brickwork, and a former bathhouse and washhouse, it is now home for contemporary art. Designed by Michiel Brinkman (1873–1925) under the influence of Theosophical principles, the estate was conceived to support communal circulation and social cohesion. Katrina Palmer’s artistic intervention engages the erstwhile laundromat at the heart of the complex. A postcard in the exhibition shows three women at work in the laundry room. In the exhibition, three chairs echo their positions in the same corner, linking past and present. Palmer wrote the press release herself, noting in its text “I want to spend the duration of the show removing their front wall.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-04-04-at-15.00.55.jpeg) ##### *Katrina Palmer, installation view at A Tale of a Tub. Photo by MILP.* Palmer’s demolition proposal—absurd, expensive (and therefore impossible)—is less a practical plan than a gesture, one that draws attention to the wall’s existence and its social, symbolic, and architectural functions. The show integrates a script titled *Notes Towards a Paranoid Construction* which sits waiting to be read on the tables in the building’s mezzanine. In these interventions, ethical attention operates at a small scale, negotiating the tensions of occupying a space, and suggesting abstraction without aggression. Palmer, through the distributed work, foregrounds the porous but socially significant relations between art, architecture, and real world residents of the area. Kunstinstituut Melly aspires to the same level of engagement, but uses totally different means. Arriving at the space, one notes that it does not look like a museum. The building is adaptive, semi-permiable, attentive to process. Many works resist clear notions of authoriality; they are collaborative, relational, sometimes anonymous. The work recalls ruangrupa’s projects in Kassel (i.e., collective forms foregrounding participation) but Melly’s focus is narrower, both socially and institutionally specific. A narrative thread can be found in the show with Ni(e)k van der Meulen’s comic, *Man Down,* which exemplifies the quiet rigor of process. In the work, trans man reflects on the limits and privileges of “passing” as male. The narrative is simple, almost understated, yet its implications linger. The work is a small, precise gesture that functions as a form of literary care. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-04-04-at-15.01.43.jpeg) ##### *Installation view, Kunstinstituut Melly. Photo by MILP.* Our visit took place on the last day of Donna Kukama’s “I Breathe, You Breathe”, spanning twenty years of interdisciplinary work: performance, video, sound, painting, drawing, sculpture. Breathing, for Kukama, is central as a grammar for storytelling, memory, and historical consciousness. Kukama displaces language, however, in favor of gestural knowledge, invoking ancestral practices. Sculptures in clay, copper, and steel become miniature monuments. The exhibition resists the imposition of linearity: rumors, poetry, gestures, and traces converge, echoing the contradictions and pluralities of history. Abstract wall drawings, initially indecipherable, gradually reveal residues of lived experience. Performance documentation situates the status of the body within modernist housing estates, asserting presence against industrial scale, embodiment as testimony. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-04-04-at-15.01.43-2.jpeg) ##### *Installation view, Kunstinstituut Melly. Photo by MILP.* The cherry on the top of this visual treat, on the last floor, is the unconventional retrospective of Marilyn Nance’s archival practice. It is on view until May 13th. Nance’s retrospective exemplifies historical insistence in the absence of overt thematizing. Across decades, she has documented street life, church gatherings, demonstrations, domestic scenes, and dances. Curated to include Ali Santana’s sonic interventions, Nance’s digital treasure trove—soulsista.com, active since 1995—prefigures contemporary online archival practices. The works stress the necessity of documenting one’s own history on one’s own terms. The softness of Nance’s gaze collides with the hard edges of the skyscrapers of Rotterdam through Melly’s windows, forming an intense yet tender dialogue. Nearby, Slash Gallery hosts one of Rotterdam Art Week’s central curatorial axes: Interface, a group exhibition exploring technology, mediation, and human relations as well as Pleun Gremmen’s lexicon of extremist ideology. The show’s deliberately incomplete setup—three screens showing different, partially inactive content—encourages viewers to navigate the riptides of reading, watching, and listening simultaneously. Among the works, V.I.B.E. Culture’s voting booths reveal algorithmic influence on ideology and behavior; Yi Fei Chen’s inflatable stool, *Excuse Me* materializes social and emotional forms of mediation; Nino Basilashvili’s projections explore utopian potentials of digital connection. Together, these works trace a spectrum from dystopia to possibility, anatomizing the ways in which technology shapes both connection and disconnection. Rotterdam Art Week originated as an extension of the established Art Rotterdam fair, conceived as a way to connect a fragmented local art scene across the city’s neighborhoods, galleries, and open studios. Its structure prioritizes inclusivity and visibility, allowing both small and established institutions to participate, while the independent curatorial program weaves thematic threads across the dispersed network it encompasses. The parcours logic of the Week reflects a city defined by scale and specificity: each venue, from peripheral sites to central galleries, contributes a node in a network attentive to process, context, and encounter. The Week’s design emphasizes movement, exploration, and the productive tensions between local particularities and metropolitan cohesion. The Rotterdam Photo Festival sits elsewhere in the city, forming a contrast. In a rain-soaked container lot, exhibitions purport to present photojournalism, yet often they seem naïve, performative, or self-consciously empathetic. The containers themselves carry heavy semiotic weight: sites of migration, temporary housing, smuggling, and of course the relentless logic of capital exchange. The festival’s self-conscious attempt at openness sometimes reads as exploitation. One is reminded how context shapes perception: the same photographs might resonate differently in a white cube, a social center, or a port container. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-04-04-at-15.16.26.jpeg) ##### *Katja Pilipenko, Do You Believe in Vanga? (2026), Galerie Melike Bilir at Art Rotterdam. Photo by MILP.* This point brings me back to the meticulous attention to trace and presence in Donna Kukama’s works. Early impressions—confusion, abstraction intersecting with performative activism—yield to comprehension: memory, gesture, and presence interlace. Microphones and speakers, repurposed as talismans of memory, become fossils, remnants rather than instruments of precision. At Art Rotterdam, the Hamburg gallery Melike Bilir presents Katja Pilipenko’s *Do You Believe in Vanga?* (2026), a formally rigorous, historically concerned intervention. Drawing on the figure of Baba Vanga, the Soviet-era clairvoyant, Pilipenko investigates the circulation of knowledge and the ethical, social, and historical stakes of truth-telling. Through surrealistic forms, partisan and anti-war poetry, sculpture, drawing, and print, she materializes invisibility, conscientious refusal, and desertion. Born in 1989 at the threshold of the Soviet collapse and the ragged transition to klepto-capitalism, Pilipenko embodies a liminal perspective, rendering historical and conceptual tensions materially present. Rather like the complexities generated at Rotterdam Photo Festival, the context of Art Rotterdam informs the reading of this work. While the fair relies on the labor, fees, and participation of international galleries, the economic and critical recognition for local artists and institutions remains uneven. Pilipenko’s work—ethically precise, historically anchored, and materially dense—stands in deliberate contrast to the market-driven logic of the fair, revealing the gaps between local artistic production and the globalized circulation of capital and attention. Against this background, the work does more than register historical memory: it enacts a quiet form of resistance, asserting the value of specificity, conscientious practice, and critical reflection in spaces shaped by uneven modes of exchange. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-04-04-at-15.18.32.jpeg) ##### *Pleun Gremmen, works from the portfolio.* Outside on the streets, Rotterdam’s weather shifts quickly: drizzle, sun, gusts of wind come off the Maas. These transitions are mirrored in the exhibitions: spaces are responsive, contingent, attentive to temporality. Rotterdam Art Week has proven surprisingly vast and logistically challenging. Over sixty locations, ranging from major institutions to pop-up galleries and artist-run spaces, its dimensions are vast—including a concert at a church turned into ateliers for young artists, an afterparty, guided tours. These para-events enhance the broader experience, but soon you realize that attending everything is kind of impossible. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2026-04-04-at-15.19.01.jpeg) ##### *Installation view, New Current.* New Current, curated by the initiators of the Rotterdam Art Week, Yvonne de Jong and Sophie de Vos, functions as a sort of central hub. Its thematic sweep—exploring “connections” between humans in a rapidly changing world—is broad, inclusive, and mediatory, if not always sharply critical. It establishes cohesion in a city whose art scene is otherwise fragmented and, by comparison with Berlin or Amsterdam, relatively conservative. The Week clearly asks a lot of those who attend, but its scale also offers the allure of hidden gems; individual visitors are rewarded according to their efforts; this is a blessing and a curse. To each according to their efforts may not always result in an experience of art according to one’s needs. // --- ### Image Cover Donna Kukama, *I Breathe, You Breathe*, installation view at Kunstinstituut Melly. Photo by MILP. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### What is returned can’t be sent back URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/what-is-returned-cant-be-sent-back-2/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:12.000Z On March 25, the United Nations voted on a resolution to define the transatlantic slave trade as the most atrocious crime against humanity and to call for reparations addressing the historical injustice that saw 12.5 million Africans abducted and sold into slavery between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries. The resolution received support only from countries in Africa, Latin America, and the Caribbean. All European countries abstained. Only a few hours later, I entered Ocean Space in Venice. And the news of this abstention reframed what I was about to see. I felt a sense of commotion when stepping into the sumptuous former Church of San Lorenzo in Venice, a sanctuary of spirituality and trade, now housing TBA21 Ocean Space. I encountered a landscape of reduced scale: an artificial dune populated by hundreds of figurines organized into constellations. I was a giant in comparison to them. I came closer to getting acquainted with this society and discovered that each character was made from shells and characterized by distinct ornamentation. The sounds of waves accompanied this miniature landscape and somehow animated it. A video projected on a large screen followed a group of women, amongst them two sisters, Noeleen Lalara and Annabell Amagula, in the activity of collecting shells from the seashore, cleaning and organizing them, painting them, and dressing them with textiles and beads. The video offered background to contextualize *My Mother's Country* (2026), by Repatriates Collective, taking position in the West Wing of Ocean Space. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/JS29928-Web-page-1920.jpg) Repatriates Collective, “From My Mother’s Country”, 2026\. Exhibition view of “Tide of Returns”, Ocean Space, Venice. Commissioned and produced by TBA21–Academy. Photo: Jacopo Salvi ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_25Mar454-Web-page-1920.jpg) Film stills from “Tide of Returns”, Groote Eylandt, 2025\. Ph: Britten Syd Andrews The installation is part of the exhibition "Tide of Returns", curated by Khadija von Zinnenburg Carroll, and inaugurates the new oceanic season of TBA21 in Venice. The show reflects on the notion of "return": of practices, artifacts, relations, and of cultural aliveness in the face of colonial erasure. It draws attention to the intergenerational and ritualistic aspects of cultural resistance, and to the relationships formed in the process of restitution of colonial artifacts from Western museums to their countries of origin. The ambition, often, is genuine, and restitution has been amongst the most debated decolonial actions for institutions to undertake, yet such gestures arrive in a political system that has not relinquished much of itself. Indeed, European members of the UN General Assembly had formally declined to try. The creation of *Dadikwakwa-kwa* (shell dolls) is endemic to the Anindilyakwa women of the Groote archipelago in Australia's Northern Territory. Under the caring and connective hands of the Repatriates Collective, the creators of the installation, the practice has been brought to Venice and placed in conversation with the Namibian ritual of doll-making known as *ounona*. Through shell dolls, young girls learn about the cycles of life, the significance of their bodies, and the importance of honoring the wisdom of their ancestors. Dadikwakwa-kwa are also used to teach children about relationships to their land, food, and family. In parts of Namibia, as I learned from the artist Laimi Kakololo, a doll is given to a girl, and the name of the doll becomes the name of her first child. In the making process, a double bond is formed: that amongst the group of dollmakers, and bonds with the dolls themselves. Each figurine in the installation has an individual name and represents its maker, whose presence is summoned by the doll itself. The work, therefore, becomes a prefiguration of a world of cultural conjunctions, where processions of women return to each other to relentlessly celebrate their generative and protective role in relation to the Earth. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4_25Mar088-Web-page-1920.jpg) Film stills from “Tide of Returns”, Groote Eylandt, 2025\. Ph: Britten Syd Andrews By observing the different scales of personhood, the human as well as the talismanic transfigurations represented in the multimedia installation, I found myself confronted by the limitations of Western expressions of motherhood, sisterhood, and even of camaraderie. These are often reductivist, oriented around the nuclear family. The installation invites us to think about how making, ritualizing, and practicing together are intrinsic to these enduring pre-colonial cultures and expand these definitions. These are ways of relating to personhood in its many forms and temporalities, essences and manifestations that Western social constructs do not recognize, or which they ipso facto exclude, reduce, or annihilate. A whole world of relational richness opened to me, which may have been why, entering the space, my pre-verbal awareness alone had moved me to tears. In the East Wing of Ocean Space, the installation *Weaving Connections* (2026) by Verena Melgarejo Weinandt carries the argument further and sharpens it. Where *My Mother's Country* speaks of return through the tenderness of collective making, *Weaving Connections* confronts the violence that makes return necessary in the first place. Large textiles in different gradients of blue and black hang sinuously in the space, resembling streams of water coming together. Two screens document women, half immersed in a stream of water, invested in the acts of braiding and ritualizing. The artist follows water's path of movement and transformation, creating a continuous cycle where waters are never truly separate but exist in a state of perpetual connection. One of the braids passes through a small hole in the wall. I bent to see where it led to and encountered the Venetian lagoon. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/JS29864-Web-page-1920.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/JS20379-Web-page-1920.jpg) Verena Melgarejo Weinandt, “Weaving Connections”, 2026\. Exhibition view of “Tide of Returns”, Ocean Space, Venice. Commissioned and produced by TBA21–Academy. Photo: Jacopo Salvi The installation is part of a longer performative inquiry into how the cultural imaginary in Germany has represented and framed Indigenous peoples in mainstream media and culture, constructing the infantilized and romanticized colonial "other." This racist mechanism functions as the counterpart of German national identity: the stereotyping and dehumanization of Indigenous people against which a sense of national belonging is defined and consolidated. Weinandt responds to this violence through the act of braiding. This quiet gesture contains the work's central argument: that connection is not metaphor but practice, and that separation, between cultures, between peoples, between the human and the more-than-human world, is not natural but produced. Institutions replicate the separations, dichotomies, and categorizations that fracture practices from their cultural and material legacy. The braiding undoes the fracture, stitch by stitch, strand by strand, in full view of the institutions that produced it. Together, these two works crystallize what the exhibition as a whole is navigating: the difference between restitution as a formal gesture and return as a living practice. Restitution operates within the logic of the institution: it is transactional, documented, and authorized. It moves objects across borders through legal frameworks, curatorial decisions, and diplomatic agreements. It presupposes that what was taken can be catalogued, located, and handed back, and that the handing back constitutes a form of repair. European memory and history are built on preservation, on transcribing and naming of facts until they lose any trace of mystery for the rational eye. Restituting, as a formal gesture, must also confront the fact that memory cultures are plural, not necessarily based on preservation, or objects, and definitely not to be found in carefully displayed rooms. Return, as these works propose, is something else. It is not the movement of an object but the reactivation of a relationship, a practice, a way of knowing. It does not require an institution to authorize it, because it has never stopped happening, even when institutions have tried to interrupt it. These traditions hold an intrinsic power that Western culture deliberately subsumed and restrained, and which Western culture now finds difficulty returning to. When these "returnings" are recognized and legitimized because they come to us in the legible formats of "artworks" and are interpretable to the Western institutional eye, we should ask what the price of that recognition is. The ecological and epistemological cost of this process, indeed, is not a footnote. Part of the sand used in *My Mother's Country*, for example, was transported from the Gulf of Carpentaria in Australia to Venice, itself a sinking city. The gesture is part of a larger concern: even the most self-aware acts of restitution carry an expenditure, a trace of extraction. They are symptomatic of a globalizing institutional logic that carries the world into a single room. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/JS20479-Web-page-1920.jpg) View of the Research room hosting the initiative “Nature Speaks. Listening for Rights of Nature in Venice and Europe” (2026), co-produced by TBA21–Academy and the NICHE Centre for Environmental Humanities, Ca’ Foscari University of Venice, in collaboration with IDRA and the Confluence of European Water Bodies In the research room of Ocean Space, this tension finds a somewhat paradoxical extension. "Nature Speaks. Listening for Rights of Nature in Venice and Europe", a documentary exhibition curated by Pietro Consolandi and Amalia Rossi and co-produced with the Centre for Environmental Humanities at Ca' Foscari University of Venice, pulls in the opposite direction: it is radically site-specific, rooted in the particular legal and ecological emergency of the Venetian Lagoon. Developed in direct collaboration with local activist networks, the project invites civic participation around the lagoon's environmental and legal future, aiming to grant it rights as if it were a juridical person. An act of care that risks becoming an anthropocentric subsumption: the lagoon is recognized, but on human legal terms. The gesture is nonetheless significant. It repositions the institution not only as a space of display, but as an actor with obligations, one that is asked to intervene in the conditions that surround it rather than merely reflect on them. In a city that is slowly being reclaimed by water, the difference between those two positions is not abstract. The tides of return, it turns out, do not move in a single direction. And the hands that give back never return empty. // --- ### Image cover: Repatriates Collective, “From My Mother’s Country”, 2026\. Exhibition view of “Tide of Returns”, Ocean Space, Venice. Commissioned and produced by TBA21–Academy. Photo: Jacopo Salvi *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Manos, cuerpo y creatividad URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/manos-cuerpo-y-creatividad/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:10.000Z *Conocí a Carlos Velasco durante la construcción de la obra Feathered Changes para el nuevo edificio del museo LACMA en Los Ángeles, California. Carlos trabaja para Trademark Concrete, una empresa especializada en tratamientos de superficies de concreto en exteriores. Durante los últimos dos años hemos colaborado estrechamente. Los tratamientos que propuse para el concreto no se habían hecho antes; junto con Carlos y su equipo, encontramos soluciones que le dieron vida a la superficie. Las manos, el cuerpo y la creatividad de todos están impresas en este concreto.* **MCD: Carlos, después de todo este tiempo trabajando juntos en Feathered Changes para el LACMA, al fin tenemos un momento para sentarnos y platicar con calma. Me gustaría empezar por su historia: ¿cómo llegó usted a California? ¿Cuántos años tenía cuando llegó?** CV: Llegué en el ’89\. Tenía casi 17 años. **¿Y cómo empezó a trabajar aquí?** Dejé Colima, uno de los Estados de México, situado en la costa del Pacífico y rodeado por Jalisco y Michoacán, para trabajar en Los Angeles. Empecé en distintos oficios. Primero trabajé en una tienda de donas, luego en una zapatería. Después, con mis primos, entré a la construcción. Así fue como empecé. **¿Con sus primos?** Sí. Me dejaban hacer las labores básicas. Poco a poco fui subiendo: primero como ayudante, luego como aprendiz de cementero, y después en posiciones mayores dentro de la constructora. **¿Qué es lo que más le gusta de la construcción?** Me gusta todo lo relacionado con la construcción, pero especialmente el trabajo decorativo y el detalle, porque ahí se nota la mano de quien lo hace. Empecé trabajando con un joven americano, muy buena gente, que me trató como parte de su familia. Con él aprendí mucho. Hacíamos modelos de casas en Newport Beach, California, y primero fui su aprendiz, luego su segunda mano, y después trabajé como cementero a su cargo. Con él empecé a entender realmente los detalles del concreto: cómo elegir el tipo adecuado según el trabajo, cómo preparar la mezcla, cómo aplicarlo y cómo conseguir distintos acabados. Aprendí a usar técnicas como el pulido, el texturizado, y los tratamientos químicos para resaltar la superficie. Antes se usaba mucho ácido para trabajar el cemento, lo que requería cuidado y precisión porque podía dañar la pieza si no se manejaba bien. Ahora se usa más el Topcast, que permite acabados más consistentes y duraderos, aunque el ácido todavía se aplica en ciertos trabajos para efectos específicos. Trabajar con concreto no es solo ponerlo; es conocer sus tiempos, cómo reacciona al clima, cómo se adhiere a moldes, cómo lograr texturas y detalles que sean estéticamente precisos y, al mismo tiempo, resistentes. Cada superficie tiene su propio carácter y hay que leerla, cuidarla, y darle vida con técnica y creatividad. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/R0010279.JPG) Images courtesy of the artist **Los detalles son clave.** Sí, totalmente. He tenido la oportunidad de trabajar en proyectos muy importantes donde cada detalle cuenta. Cada trabajo es distinto y siempre se aprende algo nuevo. Para mí, estas experiencias han sido de las más valiosas de mi vida. Pero creo que una de las experiencias más significativas ha sido trabajar en un proyecto tan grande como el suyo. Siento que va a ser histórico. **Va a perdurar mucho tiempo, eso seguro.** Sí. Uno vuelve a muchos lugares donde trabajó y ve que todo permanece: las casas, los detalles, el cemento… todo sigue ahí. Por eso este proyecto tiene tanto valor para mí. Feathered Changes va a estar ahí por muchos años. Haber participado, intentando entender su pensamiento y traducirlo en el concreto, ha sido muy significativo. Me siento afortunado por la coordinación que hemos tenido. **Yo también creo que hubo una buena coordinación. Aprendí mucho de usted, porque siempre encuentra soluciones creativas para los detalles.** Siempre tratamos de dar lo mejor de nosotros. Además, tenemos un equipo muy dedicado: cada persona aporta ideas y realmente disfruta su trabajo. Esa motivación hace que se forme un grupo sólido y eficiente, un equipo excelente que hace bien su labor y se preocupa por cada detalle. Sí, y creo que la compañía debería sentirse orgullosa de nosotros. Hemos hecho trabajos distintos, con mucha creatividad en los detalles. Por ejemplo, la soga impresa en cemento que estamos haciendo nunca se había hecho antes. Son soluciones que se inventan en el momento, resolviendo problemas sobre la marcha. Al final, lo que hacemos aquí también es arte, y eso nos da mucho orgullo. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/R0010293.JPG) Image courtesy of the artist **Yo también aprendí mucho. Nunca había trabajado en algo así, y junto con usted aprendí a encontrar soluciones sobre la marcha.** A mí me gusta mucho la comunicación que hemos tenido, el trato que hemos mantenido. Intentamos que la comunicación con todos sea clara y constante, porque así las soluciones llegan más rápido y el trabajo fluye mejor. **Sí. También quería preguntarle sobre otra cosa que siempre menciona: las plantas y los árboles. Sé que le gusta mucho la vegetación.** Sí, me encanta. Me gusta plantar, hacer injertos, cuidar la naturaleza. Incluso cuando estuve en casa por la recuperación del hombro, aproveché ese tiempo para dedicarme a eso. **¿Y cómo ha visto cambiar la ciudad desde que llegó hasta ahora? Me refiero al paisaje y a la vegetación.** Depende mucho del área. Por ejemplo, en Newport Beach, donde trabajábamos en Pelican Hills, antes había basureros, terrenos baldíos y matorrales secos. Hoy, esos mismos terrenos se han transformado en campos de golf, calles pavimentadas y casas grandes con jardines cuidados. Muchas zonas que antes eran solo vegetación natural —árboles bajos, arbustos, pequeños cañaverales— ahora son desarrollos: casas, apartamentos, condominios y calles asfaltadas. Incluso colinas y laderas que antes estaban cubiertas de vegetación ahora se han nivelado para construir viviendas o áreas recreativas. En Los Ángeles, la población ha crecido tanto que barrios enteros que antes eran vacíos o con vegetación silvestre ahora son urbanizaciones completas, con tráfico, tiendas y centros comerciales. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/R0010304.JPG) Image courtesy of the artist **Pero usted todavía mantiene su jardín, ¿no?** Sí. Tengo limones, guayabas, limas, plantas de chile, tomates. Me gusta dedicar tiempo a plantar y cuidar la vegetación. **Después de tantos años trabajando con concreto, ¿cómo ve su familia dentro de este oficio?** Tengo familia que trabaja en construcción. Por ejemplo, otro de mis hijos hace tilt-ups —paredes y estructuras— en otra compañía. No está en la unión, pero quizá en el futuro se una a nosotros como independiente. También tengo primos que se dedican a la construcción; de hecho, uno de ellos me introdujo en este oficio. Ahora él tiene su propia empresa junto con su hijo. Somos una familia bastante involucrada en este trabajo, y cada uno aporta esfuerzo, creatividad y responsabilidad. **Y siempre me habla mucho de sus hijas. Creo que también son muy importantes para usted.** Sí. Tengo dos hijos y tres hijas. Gracias a Dios, todos han crecido sanos y responsables. Mis hijas siempre me apoyan y me tratan con mucho cariño. Me considero muy afortunado de tener una familia así, unida y sólida. **Bueno, también usted y su esposa hicieron una bonita familia.** Sí, mi esposa nos ha apoyado mucho. Tenemos una familia sólida. Tengo una hija especial, la del medio, que tiene síndrome de Down. No está al cien por ciento, pero es independiente y se esfuerza por valerse por sí misma. Mis otras hijas siempre la apoyan, y yo trato de darle tiempo, cuidado y atención. Para mí ha sido una experiencia muy valiosa; me ha enseñado a valorar muchas cosas y a entender cómo criarla para que se sienta plena dentro de la familia. **Y ella es muy cariñosa.** Sí, es muy cariñosa conmigo. Tenerla me cambió la vida; me hizo replantearme muchas cosas y valorar cada momento. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/R0010303.JPG) Images courtesy of the artist **Usted siempre me habla de cómo intenta darles espacio a sus hijas y fomentar su independencia.** Sí. Mi mamá trabajaba como enfermera. Éramos solo dos hermanos, y muchas veces yo cuidaba de mi hermano mientras ella trabajaba. Eso me enseñó a cuidar a otros y a ser responsable. Ahora con mis hijos hago lo mismo. Cocino para ellos, también para amigos, comparto lo que sé y enseño a quienes están empezando en la construcción. Me gusta que comprendan que el trabajo tiene valor y que respetar los derechos laborales —seguridad, horarios, organización y la unión— también forma parte de trabajar con dignidad. Ojalá algún día ellos puedan superarnos, no solo en habilidad, sino también en integridad. Muchos jóvenes nacidos aquí tienen ventajas porque dominan los dos idiomas y conocen la ley; yo hablo un poco de inglés, pero me hago entender. Ellos tienen la oportunidad de crecer, llegar a ser supervisores o líderes, y yo los apoyo en ese camino. **Después de tantos años, el trabajo también se siente en el cuerpo, ¿no?** Sí, claro. Se siente cada día. Me han comentado que podría ocupar un puesto como superintendente, pero la verdad es que no es lo mío. A mí me gusta estar en la construcción, en las ideas, en el trabajo manual, no tanto frente a una computadora. **Construir, más que supervisar desde un escritorio.** Exacto. Disfruto lo que hago, aunque sea pesado. **¿Y cómo cuida su cuerpo? ¿La comida, el descanso?** Trato de comer bien, pero en construcción los horarios no siempre se respetan. A veces uno desayuna rápido antes de empezar. Cuando trabajamos con cemento no se puede tener el estómago vacío, así que organizamos descansos por grupos para que todos puedan comer y continuar trabajando sin retrasar el proyecto. **Y luego tiene que regresar a su casa. ¿Cuánto le toma?** Depende del tráfico. Son unas 60 millas, aproximadamente una hora, pero si hay mucho tráfico puede ser hasta dos o tres horas. Cuando vamos a Santa Bárbara nos pagan hotel y comida, pero aquí manejamos todos los días. **¿Escucha música o radio en el camino?** Sí. A veces hablamos, escuchamos música. Cuando el camino es largo, trato de aprovechar para comunicarme más con mi hijo y hacer el viaje más entretenido. Pero siempre con cuidado al manejar y aprovechando el tiempo de la mejor manera. **Le agradezco mucho, Carlos, por todo este tiempo trabajando juntos y por la oportunidad de conocernos.** Fue suerte y un honor conocerla. Le aprecio mucho y he aprendido bastante trabajando con usted. **Y ojalá también en los próximos proyectos que hagamos juntos.** Ojalá que sí. En lo que pueda, cuente conmigo. Yo también sé que puedo contar con usted. A veces le mando mensajes, pero siempre relacionados con el trabajo. **Sí, ese es el chiste.** Exactamente. Con buena comunicación todo es más fácil. Hemos tratado de hacer el trabajo lo mejor posible, aunque todavía no esté terminado. **Ahora estamos más tranquilos. Antes era demasiado.** Sí. También fue difícil después de la operación en el hombro acostumbrarme a estar en casa después de tanto tiempo activo en la obra. Cuando uno trabaja todos los días, el cuerpo se acostumbra a ese ritmo. Poco a poco he retomado el movimiento con terapia y ejercicios. El cuerpo ya no es el mismo. Voy a cumplir 55 en mayo y cada día se siente un poco más. Pero seguimos adelante. **Espero que cuando la obra esté terminada en unas semanas, podamos caminar juntos por esta plaza, en la que su trabajo y dedicación están impresos. Un ejemplo del valor de la comunidad mexicana en Los Ángeles, y de cómo su labor en las obras públicas nos permite circular por calles, banquetas y parques con orgullo.** **//** *Mariana Castillo Deball is an artist who takes a kaleidoscopic approach to her practice, mediating between science, archaeology, and the visual arts and exploring the way in which these disciplines describe the world.* ### Everything Comes From Within URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/everything-comes-from-within/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:09.000Z *Ian Waelder thinks in footnotes. Not just as marginalia, but as the place where the expected reading breaks down and something else opens up. His practice moves between sculpture, sound, photography, and publishing, but what holds it together is an attitude: a preference for the subtle over the immediate, for works that linger in the body after the exhibition has ended. On the occasion of Waelder’s most recent shows at Kestner Gesellschaft in Hanover and the Gesellschaft für Aktuelle Kunst in Bremen, Theresa Weise sits down with him to deepen conversation around his enduring themes.* **Theresa Weise: You often alter the architectural logic of exhibition spaces: in “even in a language that is not your own” at Es Baluard in Palma, you constructed a labyrinthine layout. In your show “thereafter” at Kestner Gesellschaft in Hanover, you relocated the entrance. At carlier | gebauer in Berlin, you added a floating ceiling, and in “Zungen” at the Gesellschaft für Aktuelle Kunst (GAK) in Bremen, you changed both the height of the space and its entrance. These interventions seem less about the works themselves than about how a body moves toward them. What is at stake for you in that approach—in designing arrival?** Ian Waelder: For me, exhibition-making is a sculptural practice. Once the works enter a space, they gain a second life. They become part of an environment. When I intervene in architecture, I’m always thinking about the encounter between the work and the visitor. I want to guide how someone arrives at a certain moment in the exhibition. Everything that happens before that moment—the path, the light, the scale—affects the experience. I often speak about “architecture” because there isn't a better word, but for me, it’s really about shaping space and arrival. It can slow time down, redirect light, or change how bodies move. I always imagine a single visitor rather than a crowd. The exhibition is conceived for an individual encounter. In many exhibitions today, the physical presence of the viewer is taken for granted. Works translate easily into documentation or flat digital images, and mine are no exception. But I think a lot about the person who makes the effort to come—the distances you walk, the sound, the temperature, the shifts in scale or disorientation. That person activates the work and gives meaning to the subtleties. At GAK, the room is scaled to the height of a child, which immediately changes how an adult experiences it. There can be discomfort in that which shifts the awareness of your own body in the space. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ian_Waelder_Zungen_GAK_Bremen_2026_25.jpg) Ian Waelder, Zungen, installation view at Gesellschaft für Aktuelle Kunst (GAK) Bremen, 2026\. Courtesy the artist, Gesellschaft für Aktuelle Kunst – GAK (Bremen), carlier | gebauer (Madrid/Berlin), diez (Amsterdam). Photo: John Forest **When discussing your work, the term “footnotes” often appears—both in writing about you and in the way you describe your own practice. It seems a precise way to think about the movement between what is immediately visible and what is hidden. Could you talk about why this idea resonates with you?** It is maybe an unconscious influence from Georges Perec that makes me think of making from the practice of writing, using space as a page. A sound can be a mark, a sculpture, a paragraph, or lines or spaces. I tend to think of some works as sculptural footnotes: that arrival into another loaded space, reached from a small indicator on the page. And from there, everything moves or interconnects. I’m thinking of “cadence” at carlier | gebauer—part of the installation was a water leak coming from the ceiling. The impact of the droplet on the floor was amplified by the hidden loudspeakers. If you spent some time at the exhibition, you would notice it. During the show, it was rainy in Berlin, so one wouldn’t fully know if it was on purpose or if it was an actual leak from the gallery. But that detail of the amplified droplet that merged with the piano notes every few minutes created a parallel life and asked the viewer to stay a little longer, while the floor kept deforming from the water over the length of the exhibition. I take influence not necessarily from specific works but from attitudes. I think of Andy Kaufman often—how he thought of the TV as an object with a specific relationship to its audience. People kept a certain distance from the screen, settled into the sofa, and he was interested in disturbing that contract with a glitch. In a way, the footnote isn’t just a secondary space; it’s where the disruption happens, where the expected reading breaks down, and something else opens up. **Which brings me to the sense of “lingering” one can feel in relation to your work. Why are you interested in suspension?** I’m interested in works that remain with you after you leave. Not something that hits you immediately like a punch, but something subtle that slowly builds. Ideally, the experience continues in the viewer’s mind. I once made a sound piece based on whistling. The work isn't just the sound in the gallery; it’s the moment when someone leaves the exhibition and later finds themselves whistling the melody at home. In that way, the work spreads into everyday life and becomes something else. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/07_IWA_Ian_Waelder_2025_carliergebauer_Berlin_4_.jpeg) Ian Waelder, cadence, installation view at carlier | gebauer, Berlin, 2025\. Courtesy the artist, carlier | gebauer (Berlin/Madrid). Photo: Andrea Rossetti **I remember the whistling in “even in a language that is not your own” at Es Baluard. You used the same melody at Kestner Gesellschaft, though it sounded different. Where does it come from, and how does the same melody interact in different exhibitions?** It’s a recording of my grandfather, Federico Waelder, playing the piano—so far the only existing trace of his music. I discovered it almost by accident during the first lockdown in 2020 at my parents’ house in Mallorca. Since then, it has repeatedly found its way into my practice in various forms: it’s been played on a radio in Frankfurt, whistled from memory, and recorded for the show in Palma. In one piece, I combined the recording with the sounds of all the shoes I had accumulated since my teenage years—I threw them down a staircase and recorded the sound. When I layered that with the piano piece, something unexpected happened: the rhythms aligned strangely. The piano melody moves up and down in a very tense structure, while the falling shoes created a random percussion that somehow complemented it. The coincidence was fascinating because both sounds suddenly seemed to belong together. For Kestner Gesellschaft, I invited my father to sit in front of a piano and to try to play the same melody from memory, while not knowing how to play the instrument. So in the exhibition, you'd hear excerpts of one to four seconds, followed by a minute of silence. **You often collaborate with your father, who is an artist himself. How did this collaboration come about, and what meaning does it carry for your work?** When I first moved to Germany, I became very aware that I was the first member of my family to return after my grandfather had fled during the Nazi period—he was the only family member who survived. I started speaking with my father more about that history, and eventually those conversations turned into making things together. Sometimes I propose an idea, and he responds with his own interpretation. The process can feel very similar to a father–son dialogue. For the Kestner Gesellschaft exhibition, I asked him to sculpt a large version of his own nose. We produced several copies and covered them with birdseed so that birds would gradually eat them away. The authorship becomes shared, although the structure of the project is usually initiated by me. **I want to think about the recurring themes of your work. What’s the role of memory and archive in your practice?** Memory for me is deeply existential and concerning. It’s also such a broad concept—everything is memories. I’m interested in how we archive in ways that refuse automation. Today, our phones record everything, and our brains remember less and less. I’ve always had anxiety around recording things. As a child, I used disposable cameras and a sound recorder. Later, when I skated, I filmed and photographed my friends and documented our progress. Without realizing it, I was already building an archive. That early relationship to documentation still shapes how I think about images and traces. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ian-Waelder_Is-It-Like-Today_ethall_2022_23.jpg) Ian Waelder, Is it like today? Installation view at ethall, Barcelona, 2022\. Courtesy the artist and ethall, Barcelona. Photos: Juande Jarillo **Objects carry memory in your work. The photographs in Bremen depict a monstera plant that has been in your family since you were born. The Opel Olympia, shown in your exhibition at “Is it like today?” at Ethall Gallery in Barcelona, is connected to your family history. What’s their meaning and how do you operate them to tell a story?** My mother received the monstera in the hospital room in Madrid the day I was born, and it has been with our family ever since—first in Madrid, later in Mallorca. I rediscovered it while looking through family photo albums. In one picture, I saw myself as a baby with my mother’s boots, and the plant appeared in the background. When I looked up from the album, the plant was still there in the room. That moment triggered something. Since then, I’ve been photographing it from many angles to a point of absurdity. In Bremen, I showed all the analog photographs I’ve taken so far, around 160—blurred or imperfect pictures included. Some are traditional chromogenic prints; others are inkjet prints made in my studio on newspaper. I'm interested in the temporality that comes with those materials. Photo paper suggests permanence, while newspaper is fragile and may fade over time. The images have their own organic lifespan. I like the idea that the installation doesn’t aestheticize the subject but presents the entire accumulation. The images are installed almost casually, like posters or notes quickly taped to a wall. The room itself becomes a sculpture. The car belonged to my grandfather and had to be sold before he fled Germany to exile in Chile. It allows me to approach that history without turning it into a purely documentary narrative. The idea of a family car is something almost everyone can relate to, so I started collecting film stills where it appears in the background, or photographs of other families posing with their Opel Olympias in the 1930s and 40s. I don’t know who those people are, but the images suggest parallel lives and histories. At the show in Barcelona, visitors were blinded by the car’s headlights, which were installed at my eye level. I'm not interested in illustrating history directly—I prefer to keep those references somewhat in the background. Visitors don’t necessarily need to know the full story, and sometimes it’s enough that they leave with a subtle sense of unease. What interests me is how these things affect us as human beings. **You grew up in Mallorca and later studied at the Städelschule in Frankfurt. How have those places influenced your practice, sense of space, and time?** Growing up in Mallorca was something quite special. It carries a long tradition of hosting artists and writers, especially before the Civil War and the dictatorship. Gertrude Stein once said something to Robert Graves like “Mallorca is paradise, if you can stand it.” John Cage wrote music for the first time while on the island. From the 70s on it was full of incredible artists and movements that continuously responded to the political climate. I was lucky enough to start as an artist in Palma around 2011, before the current brutal gentrification of the island. There were artist-run spaces, where I did my first exhibitions, which are now long gone. Most artists I know have no option but to leave the island, at least temporarily, just to return to a place where living and having a studio are almost impossible. Stein’s quote today is more like “Mallorca is paradise, if you can afford it.” I went to Barcelona in 2016 and later ended up in Frankfurt. I didn’t have an Abitur \[high school diploma\], so I could only attend a school that didn’t require a degree, and that was affordable. My good friend Diego Diez, who at the time was studying at the Rietveld in Amsterdam, recommended I apply to Frankfurt. I knew almost nothing about it, barely any of the professors except Peter Fischli. My years there were difficult at first, but it turned out to be the best decision I’ve made. I wasn’t particularly social—I’d already done enough of that as a teenager. I was happy to work, have a studio, go skateboarding after, and visit exhibitions that shaped those years: the programs at Portikus and MMK, the conversations with professors, peer artists, and curators. I've always learned from trying things and observing, so being part of such a rich context was as challenging as it was essential. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ian-Waelder_thereafter_Kestner-Gesellschaft_2025_98.jpg) Ian Waelder, *Mercy (Leak)*, 2025\. Black tea leaves, butter, croissant, and oats on newspaper (Die Zeit, January 30, 2025), Artglass AR 99 Water White, acid free board, tape on Dibond, stainless steel. 30 x 24 cm. Courtesy the artist, Kestner Gesellschaft (Hannover), carlier | gebauer (Madrid/Berlin), diez (Amsterdam). Photo: John Forest **Your interests extend to publishing as well, with Printer Fault Press, and you are a skater. How are these practices in dialogue with each other, and how do they enter into conversation with your work?** Both come from the same impulse—the idea that you can produce things yourself, with the means available to you. When I started skating in the early 2000s, the entire culture was made from within: skaters produced the magazines, the videos, the graphics, the clothing. That mentality stayed with me, and it’s probably what drew me to publishing. Through Printer Fault Press, I found a community that felt open and non-elitist in the same way skating once did: people collaborate, exchange, and support each other naturally. Much of the institutionalized art world runs on hierarchy, which I find suffocating. Both skating and publishing offered an alternative logic—you make things because you want them to exist. I barely find time to skate nowadays, but that attitude is still very much part of how I work. // Ian Waelder (Madrid, 1993) is an artist and publisher from Mallorca. He graduated from the Städelschule in Frankfurt am Main in 2023 and is currently a fellow of the Laurenz–Haus Stiftung in Basel (2025/26). Recent solo exhibitions include those at Gesellschaft für Aktuelle Kunst (Bremen, 2026), Kestner Gesellschaft (Hannover, 2025), carlier | gebauer (Berlin, 2025), and Es Baluard Museu d’Art Contemporani (Palma, 2023–24), among others. Group exhibitions have taken place at institutions and galleries including Kunsthalle Wien (Vienna, 2025), ifa Galerie (Berlin, 2025), nsdoku (Munich, 2025), Petrine (Paris, 2025), Fundació Antoni Tàpies (Barcelona, 2024), and La Casa Encendida (Madrid, 2014). He's been an artist-in-residence at WIELS Center for Contemporary Art (Brussels, 2024), and has received grants including the basis Hessisches Atelier Programm (2025–29) and the DZ BANK Kunststiftung Förderstipendium (2023–24). --- ### Cover Image: Ian Waelder, *Self-Portrait As My Father's Nose*, 2025\. Façade installation of eight papier-mâché casts taken from a clay sculpture by Juan Waelder, the artist’s father. Coated with a mixture of fat, seeds, and agar-agar, intended to be eaten by birds and insects. 34 x 17,5 x 12,5 cm per piece (8 in total). Courtesy the artist, Kestner Gesellschaft (Hannover), carlier | gebauer (Madrid/Berlin), diez (Amsterdam). Photo: John Forest *Theresa Weise is an art historian, author, and editor. She was editor and social media director at the art magazine PASSE-AVANT from 2017 to 2021, and she has held positions at SCHIRN KUNSTHALLE FRANKFURT, Kunstverein Hamburg, and the Städel Museum.* ### Formal Economy: The beggar URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/formal-economy-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:07.000Z *Llega una mujer vistiendo un trajecito gris y una bolsa de feria de arte. Zapatillas Nike. Saca el texto de la bolsa, se pone cómoda, deja la bolsa en el respaldo de la silla que está en el escenario.* Woman (*tratando de llenar la voz de deseo*): If I look closer, squinting my eyes, I can see a beggar in the corner of the room, wearing a football team t-shirt and a pair of black plastic bags instead of shoes. I understand that it is a statement for fashion, not for poverty, obviously. His soft and muscular body was made of clay. A beggar made of clay, black plastic bags, and eggs instead of muscles. (*moverse en el escenario de derecho à izquierda*) Eggs, the limit between food and sculpture, I would say, so soft that it looks like a muscle, so democratic that it creates life, and so mysterious that it rolls across the rivers of financial speculation. (Respirar). In the beginning of 1492, a beggar came with an egg to see the queen of Castilla. The egg was there to signify the shape of the Earth, which was round. That didn’t come across as clear to the queen of Castilla who looked at the man with a form of perplexity and mental disorder. To her, the earth was a flat, hard surface lying over the back of a group of elephants standing like cheerleaders in equilibrium over the carapace of a group of turtles. But the egg was there to signify an opportunity for infinite commerce. It contained a piece of information. The beggar wanted to arrive east by traveling west. Does this sound crazy? it was! To signify his intentions, he smashed the egg against the table. And how do I know this? because this beggar was Christopher Columbus, and because I saw this scene in a movie about his life. At the end the man never really arrived East, since standing in his way there was a whole new continent (*empezar a llorar*). But was that really a problem?! Was a little mistake going to be an impeachment for commerce? Never! So, swimming in denial they decided to call the place and the inhabitants of the place Indians. The egg became a symbol of the Americas, and, being the Indians victims of a very refined form of Stockholm syndrome, they worshiped the eggs and used them as a form of money before money. And since they were very fond on symbols, they found no problem in accepting imaginary regulations as regulations. Because what did they care about money! Their business was *Imagination*! (Mirar al horizonte) I can see the beggar has moved on now; he has abandoned me and my performance, his soft body made of soft dough. 500 years later, but in the same place, a small trader invented the Infinite Egg. This was a cylindrical, long, infinite egg to be used in wrapped food that has to be produced in industrial quantities. The infinite egg, (*Sacando la primera imagen plegada de la bolsa, desdoblando*) The infinite egg is to be cut in equal slices in order to integrate elaborate foods. (*Sacando la segunda imagen plegada de la bolsa y desplegándola*) As you can see in this picture, there is the same amount of egg in all the parts of this meat roulade. Is that normal? it is when you have a fair society, a society that has inherited a love for eggs and social justice and how do I call that? I call that communism! Yes! That’s the infinite Egg, a long, constant, cylindrical egg. An opportunity for commerce, one would say, a muscle of our economy in Latin America. The Infinite Egg had a name, it was called “Eggolino,” a semantic heaven for the word Ego and the word Egg to collapse. Un hombre grita: *CAERSE! Cayendo al piso, respirar. Desde el piso:* When I grew up in the liberal economy of the nineties, it was decided that one peso would become one dollar. In order to backup such some phenomena a country like mine had to hold as many dollars as PESOS are in the country. That was our desire and that was the case in 1992\. What took us to want to create such a phenomenon? many reasons, like the fact that we suffered from low self-esteem. So, in order to put up that was called convertibility, we asked for a loan in dollars (*poniéndose de rodillas*). We begged the Americans, and the International Monetary Fund, and someone finally accepted. The next morning we were flooded with dollars in concept. That doesn’t mean that our sad note bills with the faces of the Conquistadores had become the green papers. But in theory, the one was one. That meant that if a bottle of Coke cost one peso, I could pay it with a one-dollar bill. We wouldn’t but in the symbolic statement lied the beauty of the thing. And that form of abstraction marked my life; one would be the other one forever. So, when I see a beggar in the street and I want to give him or her ten pesos, I will know that I am giving the beggar ten dollars, that is not a mirage, it is a phenomenon called convertibility. (*Ponerse en la posición del Niño, extender la mano hacia la audiencia*) I outstretch my hand with an out-of-circulation bill note from the past. Because in *reality,* how could my poor dirty ten pesos equal ten shiny dollars? (*Ponerse de pie, respirar*). ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/mg_6953.jpg) Liv Schulman, *Formal Economy*. Performance, 23 Minutes, Alt\_Cph, Copenhagen. May 2018\. Photo: Rine Rodin, Christopher Sand Iversen **A Little Mistake** My name is Liv Ullman. This might sound confusing or as a joke, but it is not. I was named after a Swedish actress called Liv Schulman. I am interested in things that have to do with me, like being Swedish. I love Swedish people, I look for Swedish objects and I send letters to the Swedish embassy every month, telling them what I am becoming and the progress I make. So, I am Liv Ullman. I have never questioned this piece of knowledge because it came from my parents who were big admirers of her movies and wanted to use the fact that I was already going to be called Schulman to the fact that they admired Liv. So, I was called Liv Ullman and at home it was almost as having an already famous artist in the shape of a baby. So, I never questioned this piece of knowledge. The other reason I have never questioned this piece of knowledge is that it’s esoteric. And what is esoteric is the knowledge that comes from *within*. So, I wasn't going to base myself in Wikipedia if I already knew something that came from within my body. It was more than esoteric; it was my name! Who governed in my body? I tried to naturalize myself as Swedish, saying I had a vast filmography. I contributed to the Film market. I had been a pillar of the movie industry. And a turning point in the history of drama. But in my father’s surname on my birth certificate, there was a spelling mistake that made it impossible to prove that man was my father. So, my surname started looking like an invented joke. And this year I learned that Liv Schulman is in reality, a Norwegian actress. Things looked even slightly wrong. The Swedish embassy didn’t do anything to fix it, they wouldn’t even answer my letters. They remained silent. I was like a slightly wrong unofficial copy of someone else, coming from an undetermined country. How could one differentiate things if they look the same in grammar and in theory? One wasn’t one anymore? What was one? a number? a person, a being? I looked at my slightly wrong clothes that was all HERMES, PRADA, Louis Vuitton and Dolce & Gabbana. What had been formal was informal now. The Swedish embassy wouldn’t understand. If one was one, official or fake, why didn't they do something to fix it? What did they care if one thing was the other?! Life was energy, life was electricity! I came back to my imaginary dollars, I had accumulated during the nineties. I knew what we were as a society (*levanter la mano con tenor religioso*). It wasn’t Sweden. We had the dollars. (*Ir hacia la pared lateral, apoyar la cabeza contra la pared, darle la espalda al público*) This happened in the 90’s, but in many ways, we were ahead of our time. Because...was it money our problem? no, our problem was fantasy. We had too much of it. Our lives were based on executing a series of imaginary equivalences that started changing all the time, unable to face reality. Our business was desired! We were pure abstraction! Before the crisis, everyone did what they wanted: (*Hablar mas rapido, girar sobre su propio eje contra la pared, avanzar hacia la puerta en movimiento rotativo*). One day a peso was worth three dollars; we were rich! The next day, there had been a mistake; one dollar was now seventeen pesos, we were poor! and so the morning after one peso was 23 dollars, we were even poorer! In a sprint of a libertarian economy, we sold all our national industries, we looked around, everything in the country was imported or a home-made wrong copy of everything that existed in the world and was imported. Prices change all the time. Stickers with prices started piling up in shops. Every day, every hour, every second, they were different. The price stickers accumulated on the walls. The walls started to look padded. just like the padded cells in a turmoil. (*Dejarse llevar al piso*). At home, we had a form of nervous depression; the dollars were all gone by now, leaving in their place a bag of anti-psychotics. Because it is by slipping into objects that desire finds its way in the material world. I’m really hot right now. (*Ir hacia la plataforma, adoptar una postura vertical, quedarse vertical*) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/mg_6942.jpg) Liv Schulman, *Formal Economy*. Performance, 23 Minutes, Alt\_Cph, Copenhagen. May 2018\. Photo: Rine Rodin, Christopher Sand Iversen **Spinoza** Spinoza’s project was to enhance everyone’s self-esteem by making them believe that in the world’s saddlebags there was no place for mistakes. (*Desplegar imagen de Spinoza*) Pure positivity! he said and that scream of pure positivity sounded like a “do whatever you want! “Follow your desire”. What Spinoza meant for real, I have no idea, since I have never read Spinoza. But in his Wikipedia article, it is ensured that Spinoza understood god, and by god he meant “The Totality of the Things That Exist on Earth” as a concept that didn’t have place for negativity. as long as there was an offer, he said, there would be demand. Not the opposite. So, if there is offer for pain, there would be demand for pain, and if there is an offer for boredom, intensity, mistake and frustration, there would be a demand for boredom, intensity, mistake and frustration. All coming things would jump into the existing flow of offer that created its parallel and always thirsty flow of demand. so that was God, and that was my idea of international commerce. So, there is Spinoza, creating positivity, and all the things that existed doubled their existence for the fact that they existed in *reality* and they existed in *desire*. because now God was *pure desire*. Desire, a very important thing to get a job, and *love* going. Or love for a job if one considers love to be a job, which it is. And in this orgy of positivity. A nurse heard him and stuck a needle in a patient's eye. And the patient had to sue her and the hospital for outrageous practices and hired a group of lawyers who lingered around in the hospital corridors looking for a job. They lingered for a job opportunity, the lawyers, wearing shabby suits with their clothes in tatters. So there was work, there were offices, photocopiers, employees, secretaries. And so there was the job market there were recommendations, start ups, photocopiers, precarious contracts, parties at offices, where everyone did what they wanted and charged for that, a woman walked to her but and charged for that, the Americans took off their clothes in an act of psychosis and charged for that, a woman kissed another woman by mistake she discovered a new sexuality for her, and with that new sexuality came new needs and with those needs a whole market took over. (Take a thicker accent) Garage churches were created by mistake, tithes and blessings and transes and newborns were created by mistake, and the world kept spinning. The Americans sold used cars by mistake, they took off their clothes, they cut pennants, and they crossed the Andes several times to put mini-markets in all the posts by mistake. We all learned English by mistake. The minister of economics, the minister of education, the minister of health and the minister of national defence stood in the posts, becoming the new comedians, waiting for a commercial opportunity, a flow of informal commerce that would rule the new world as it had always ruled it, by mistake. And all this happened because, for Spinoza in the background, all error was an opportunity for commerce. Not so for capitalism, that was critical and lethargic, and regulated the quality of things: good and bad, official and unofficial, but Spinoza with his goodwill! disarmed the Puritan principles , and a drug dealer heard him and sold the residue of the cocaine he was cooking and what was a mistake at first became a commercial opportunity, a business plan, for all abilities. For the ruling classes the cocaine, and for the working classes, the crack. And sometimes it could be the other way around: crack for the ruling classes in search of new experiences. for the middle classes, the pharmaceutical industry. And for the working classes, plaster dust and hard bread. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ALT_CPH_B254.jpg) Liv Schulman, *Formal Economy*. Performance, 23 Minutes, Alt\_Cph, Copenhagen. May 2018\. Photo: Rine Rodin, Christopher Sand Iversen How to build a country. One year ago, I was walking with my mother in the little Israeli town that had absorbed her and my sister first as immigrants and now as citizens after the crisis with the changing prices put them out of the national turmoil. We were walking in the street, and we saw a man begging for money at the bank’s gate. He was very attractive. And knowing that the activity of begging is by nature the purest form of staging a successful business in the art of building a country, we understood that the town had grown and that now it wasn’t a town anymore, it was raising as a city: We had a system of elections, social security, death wish, war, war merchandising, and injustice. Because begging is the pure essence of accepting whatever comes as a resource. My mother looked at the man with pride and said, “Now we’ve finally gotten our own beggar”. // Liv Schulman is currently part of *Iliggocene – The Age of Dizziness* at Kindl, Berlin (through July 26), and *Sirco\_Ceguro* at La Salle de Bains, Lyon (through May 23). A solo show opens May 20 at the Centro Cultural Recoleta in Buenos Aires, followed by another at Times, New York in June, and a presentation at the Biennale de l'Image en Mouvement in Geneva in October. --- ### Cover Image Liv Schulman, *Formal Economy*. Performance, 23 Minutes, Alt\_Cph, Copenhagen. May 2018\. Photo: Rine Rodin, Christopher Sand Iversen *Liv Schulman is an artist/writer/filmmaker. Born in 1985, Liv Schulman grew up in Buenos Aires. Fascinated by television, the arrival of cable in 1990 and the financial crash of 2001 are among the most striking moments of her life. A graduate of the École nationale supérieure d’arts de Paris-Cergy, she’s been living in France and Buenos Aires intermittently since 2015\. Liv Schulman’s work takes the form of filmed fictions, TV series, readings-performances and novel writing. The narratives at the core of her work deal with the role of subjectivity in the political space and the difficulty of giving it credit. In this way, a real telenovela is shown on television as if in a museum. In her approach, to create means directly experiencing an environment, a system, a subject. She is represented by Piedras Galeria in Buenos Aires and anne barrault gallery in Paris.* ### People Watch Movies to Understand History URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/people-watch-movies-to-understand-history/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:06.000Z I enter the room and am already off-balance. A glove floats in liquid. Light trembles across a fragile sculpture made from found objects. A stage with yellow latex curtains stands tilted toward the entrance, as if in a scene from David Lynch’s apotheotic journey through the uncanny, *Twin Peaks*. Somewhere in the world, a body hesitates on a bridge, poised between exposure and concealment. Nothing waits to be explained; everything is here to be felt. Diane Severin Nguyen’s exhibition at FoMu Antwerp amplifies this atmosphere, creating an environment that is at once cinematic, material, and profoundly insistent on an encompassing understanding of the viewer’s bodily and perceptual engagement. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Diane-Severin-NguyenIF-REVOLUTION-IS-A-SICKNESS-installation-view-at-the-Contemporary-Arts-Museum-Houston-2023.jpg) Diane Severin Nguyen, *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS*, installation view at the Contemporary Arts Museum Houston, 2023\. Source: Glasstire, Texas Online Platform for Visual Arts. Red carpet swallows everything in the room. It infiltrates the film, stains the photographs, and settles into the architecture itself. Red is never a neutral color. It carries historical inscriptions: revolutionary flags, the iconography of socialist states, the symbolic residue of blood as sacrifice—and as continuity. For Nguyen, flags and stars operate as abstractions of belonging, compressing collective experience into signs that are legible yet inscribed with contradictions. They condense identity, solidarity, aspiration, and authority into reproducible symbols that bind individuals to imagined communities while also staging their ambivalence. Symbols, in Nguyen’s handling, meander along a semiotic river of interlegibility. *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS* opens with images of an orphaned Vietnamese girl washing ashore against an indeterminate European landscape. A male voice calls her name: *Weronika*. A sentimental melody underscores a sense of longing—a call for belonging to “the West”. Years later, in Warsaw, Weronika Nguyen—the name of a real person the artist found on Instagram by typing the combination of the commonest Polish first name and the commonest Vietnamese last name—moves through a world structured by exclusion and desire. Taken in by a group of teenage K-pop dancers, whose choreography oscillates between solidarity and cruelty, she navigates a landscape marked by Soviet-era monuments, abandoned fountains, illegal skate parks, and other reminders of state power. Clad in crimson sportswear, the group performs their high stakes dances with a precision that is simultaneously alluring and imperious, playful and threatening. This tension between the collective and the individual resolves into a simple yet unsettling question: *what does it mean to belong to a group*? Groups provide recognition, visibility, and power, yet they demand conformity. “You need the group,” Nguyen reflects in conversation with the curator Zeynep Kubat. “But sometimes in order to have political power you have to flatten differences. There’s always something you lose when you gain the power of circulation.” Assimilation feels ambivalent, both empowering and violent, all the while the desire to belong remains unavoidable: “You just want to move your body the way the group moves. There’s this fantasy that if you inhabit the right form, you can become part of history.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Diane-Severin-Nguyen.-Stills-from-IF-REVOLUTION-IS-A-SICKNESS-2021.-Courtesy-of-the-artist-1.jpg) Diane Severin Nguyen. Stills from *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS*, 2021\. Courtesy of the artist. Warsaw itself, with its layered post-socialist topography, is crucial to this exploration of identity and ideology. The Vietnamese community based there arrived as a historical artifact of Cold War alliances, in particular labor migration, imperialist warfare, and educational exchanges. Sustained political ties forged during the communist era have left enduring social and spatial patterns. Nguyen first encountered this geopolitical entanglement as personal memory: as a child, she often heard her mother singing a Vietnamese song about Poland, praising “the land of Chopin and Marie Curie” and celebrating friendship between the two nations. Only later did she realize that this song was a relic of socialist internationalism—a musical articulation of historical intermingling at once sentimental and politically charged. “When two big ideologies fight it out and neither really works,” Nguyen observes, “you end up with a deep distrust of ideology itself.” The stage hosts the film *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS*, which has been touring in exhibitions such as “Musafiri” at HKW Berlin as well as film festivals including the Berlinale and Open City Documentary since its debut at the Sculpture Center in New York in 2021\. Around the screen, a constellation of photographs are positioned as a component of the film’s atmosphere rather than being mere adornment for the moving image. Other works insist on occupying the tension between a consciously constructed appearance and the intense presence of historical and affective afterlives; for example, *Ambitious Descent* (2020), in which Chinese ritual currency burns in slow, luminous collapse; *Cruel Cute* (2023), wherein hair-like materials, feathers, and fruit peels assemble into compositionally ambiguous surfaces; in *Thirst for Love* (2024), a broken egg stands poised between delicate reality and staging; and *Workers Bouquet* (2025), combines organic and synthetic elements into compositions that are at once excessive and unresolved. These photographs create a thickly layered field in which every detail—surface, color, texture, and composition—carries associative histories. Fake snow makes frequent appearances in these images, as an emotionally charged, omnipresent material that suspends time for the artist. Ambivalences are also suspended throughout the film: a graffitied fountain where the word “tolerance” is partially erased; a fascist sun cross etched into concrete; balloons spelling “1989” sinking into water; a body suspended at the edge of a rooftop—poised between play and violence. These are not narrative elements in the conventional sense, but rather fragments charged with the historical weight of post-socialist disillusionment, nationalist recrudescence, and the persistence of ideological symbols that refuse to settle into the past. The choreography of the dance group echoes both contemporary social media performance and older forms of collective discipline, channeling Siegfried Kracauer’s notion of mass ornament. In Kracauer’s formulation, from the Weimar era, collective spectacle organizes and aestheticizes mass behavior. In Nguyen’s film, this principle is displaced into a networked contemporary condition, where gestures circulate digitally as well as physically. They are simultaneously visible and atomized. Again, Nguyen inhabits this tension, allowing it to accumulate across surfaces, bodies, and affective atmospheres. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/CMW_HeartoftheMatter_09.jpg) Carrie Mae Weems, Leave Now!, 2022\. Video installation; from “Carrie Mae Weems: The Heart of the Matter”. © Carrie Mae Weems and reproduced courtesy the artist and Gladstone Gallery, New York, Fraenkel Gallery, San Francisco, and Galerie Barbara Thumm, Berlin. On the same evening of the screening, Carrie Mae Weems’ *The Heart of Matter* opened as a compelling counterpoint. It, too, features a stage: red curtains, theatricality, and careful, spatial choreography to frame her narrative explorations. In *Leave Now!* (2022), a video installation resembling an old cinema, she and her sister recount the ordeal of their grandfather Frank, a sharecropper and member of the Southern Tenant Farmers’ Union in Arkansas. After being beaten and left for dead in 1936, he escapes north on foot, losing his land, and, temporarily, his family. Weems foregrounds the body in the work, and her staging choices underscore histories of racialized violence and collective memory. Weems returns consistently to the self as subject, insisting on the legibility of history through personification. While Weems engages the photographic image as a site of historical reckoning—foregrounding the archive, the staging of the body, and the politics of representation—Nguyen’s film treats history as something less stable, less narratable. The two exhibitions intersect and diverge conceptually: they probe how images carry the world, and how they also destabilize it. Photography, in Nguyen’s hands, becomes the site where transformations are most acute. Her works insist on an ambient sedimentation that resists immediate recognition, creating surfaces that are materially and visually dense, charged with history and affect. Objects—strawberries, costumes, stars, and flags—do not merely stand in for ideas; they operate as active nodes, sometimes as subjects in their own right, amidst a network of meanings, linking gestures, social frameworks, and histories of extraction and subordination that reach across time and space. Subjects perform for the camera in ways that exceed their immediate presence, carrying traces of labor, repetition, and symbolic circulation. Their images look unmistakably constructed, produced with an intensity that evokes what Walter Benjamin described as “aura”—not as an inherent property of the object, but as something that emerges in the encounter with the image. Nguyen relocates the notion of aura within a contemporary regime of image production, where reproducibility is no longer antithetical to uniqueness, but rather enmeshed with it. Her reflections on photogenicity become crucial here. Certain materials perform for the camera in ways that exceed their presence in the world. Such performance is not innocent, and, similarly, neither is K-pop. The form is historically entangled with the development of photographic, military, and social disciplinary technologies. The perfected K-pop image carries within it the conditions of its own possibility. To photograph something is already to participate in a network of visibility shaped by power, by circulation, by the desire to capture and to be captured. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Diane-Severin-Nguyen.-Stills-from-IF-REVOLUTION-IS-A-SICKNESS-2021.-Courtesy-of-the-artist-2.jpg) Cover Image: Diane Severin Nguyen. Stills from *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS*, 2021\. Courtesy of the artist. *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS* demands repeated viewing. This is not a matter of clarifying a hidden narrative, but instead a means to allow embedded correspondences to emerge. The protagonist’s position remains unstable—both central and marginal, necessary and expendable—reflecting broader cultural mechanisms in which identification with suffering becomes a mode of engagement, even of enjoyment, and resonating with a fraught, almost paradoxical, proximity between Georges Bataille and Simone Weil—two thinkers who negotiated the intellectual and political milieu of 1930s France. Though their worlds ultimately diverged, their stories briefly intersected through the revolutionary group and eponymous journal *Contre-Attaque*. Having worked in factories and briefly joined anarchist militias during the Spanish Civil War, Weil approached revolution as an ethical necessity, almost an ascetic endeavor grounded in attention to bodily suffering and self-effacement. She grew suspicious of collective movements, which often reproduced the violence they purported to resist. Bataille, by contrast and by privilege, was drawn precisely to that which exceeds ethical containment. Where Weil sought to purify revolution, Bataille was fascinated by its overflow, its violence, its ecstatic dissolution of order, and its capacity to undo the rational structures that govern everyday life. His notion of “sovereignty” was not about political control but about moments in which utility collapses. Revolution, in Bataille’s sense, was less a moral project than an eruption—something closer to contagion than to program. The brief convergence of these two in anti-fascist writing illustrates a shared intensity channeled in opposite directions. The conceptual core of Nguyen’s film mirrors this duality: belonging to a collective can be both seductive and violent; revolution can be equally generative as it is consuming. As a title, *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS*, captures this tension—feverish conformity and infectious excess coexist, circulating through gestures, symbols, and imagery. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Diane-Severin-Nguyen.-Stills-from-IF-REVOLUTION-IS-A-SICKNESS-2021.-Courtesy-of-the-artist-3.jpg) Cover Image: Diane Severin Nguyen. Stills from *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS*, 2021\. Courtesy of the artist. Nguyen’s upcoming project *Powerless*, to be presented at Haus der Kunst, extends her questions into a larger register. In the work, a helicopter chase staged in the Bavarian Alps introduces both scale and visibility as a means of engaging the aesthetics of war and spectacle. The helicopter, suspended between rescue and destruction, becomes a signifier through which questions of perception, empathy, and power are refracted. The project recalls the strange production history of Francis Ford Coppola’s *Apocalypse Now*: helicopters used in the film were intermittently recalled by the Philippine military to conduct operations against insurgents before being returned to the set. The cinematic representation of war and the deployment of real state violence circulate through the same devices, the same landscapes, and the same choreography of bodies and machines. Indeed, Vietnam itself became a stage where Cold War divisions were violently enacted, embedding geopolitical contingency into visual memory. People often turn to films as if the moving image could stabilize history, believing that the cinema might finally give form to what may be chaotic, distant, or unbearable. Nguyen unsettles such expectations. In her films and installations, history does not resolve into narrative; it circulates, like any other reel. It clings to gestures, props, songs, and landscapes, appearing in fragments—half-remembered, misdirected, or restaged under slightly altered conditions. The question, for her, is less whether an image is real or fabricated; that distinction quickly becomes secondary. What matters is how an image gathers force, how it carries traces of other images, other conflicts, other desires. *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS* runs at FoMu Antwerp until June 7, 2026. Diane Severin Nguyen’s exhibition at Haus der Kunst in Munich is scheduled to open October 20, 2026 and runs until May 16, 2027. // --- ### Cover Image Diane Severin Nguyen. Stills from *IF REVOLUTION IS A SICKNESS*, 2021\. Courtesy of the artist *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Orquídeas, riesgos y placer URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/orquideas-riesgos-y-placer/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:04.000Z *Al igual que las orquídeas, cuyo significado varía según el color y la especie, la práctica conocida como chemsex también adquiere distintos sentidos según la cultura y el día de hoy exploraremos las particularidades de esta tendencia de la mano de a quien llamaremos Pedro.* A pesar de que el concepto se acuña en Inglaterra a principios de los dosmiles inspirado en la tendencia de consumo de sustancias psicoactivas entre hombres que practican sexo con otros hombres o dicho de otra forma, en las prácticas sexuales entre hombres en las que persiste la presencia de drogas, la Organización Mundial de la Salud (OMS) no ha emitido una definición oficial del término. Algunas organizaciones de salud pública y asociaciones especializadas como la asociación española OMSIDA describe el chemsex como el consumo intencional de drogas para mantener relaciones sexuales durante un periodo prolongado, que puede variar desde varias horas hasta varios días. Una particularidad que tiene el concepto anglosajón de chemsex es que sólo reconoce la práctica si se usan específicamente metanfetaminas, GHB, ácido gamma-hidroxibutírico y su precursor gamma-butirolactona usados como desinhibidores y potenciadores sexuales, mefedrona, ketamina y poppers, pero al platicar con a quien llamaremos Pedro, para proteger su identidad, hombre mexicano en sus 40s, afirma que antes de que se popularizara este concepto o al menos, que él supiera que existía, el llevaba ya casi una década en la Ciudad de México llevando a cabo prácticas sexuales acompañadas de consumo de sustancias sin que eso que él hacía fuera “etiquetado” como chemsex, o ningún otro nombre anglosajón que refiriera, aunque fuese de manera simbólica, a hombres blancos del mundo desarrollado, siendo ellos los modernos, y quienes marcaban la tendencia de “coger y echarte una tacha”. Al preguntarle el por qué, o para qué, Pedro refirió; “Al principio, era sólo explorar, pero al haber sentido un placer inigualable e inimaginable al usar varios tipos de sustancias al “coger”, después ya no imaginé las relaciones sexuales sin drogas, y ya después, yo lo que buscaba era el riesgo, llegamos a un punto donde erotizamos el riesgo”. Al platicarme sobre estas razones, Pedro sonreía reviviendo el momento y viéndome fijamente a los ojos con una sonrisa pícara pero a la vez dulce y me dijo con certeza infalible; “honestamente yo no buscaba ni siquiera me imaginaba que podía sentir ese grado de placer”, me confesó que solo estaba explorando y no le vio nada de particular, o mucho menos conceptual a “darse un tacha” y luego querer coger… Mientras recuerda con tintes de añoranza los años, sus veintes, en los que iba al antro y salía de ahí con una o las personas que se fueran uniendo para tener sexo después de la fiesta, o mejor dicho, como parte de la fiesta, incluso bromeamos sobre ésta porra bizarra que cantamos los mexicanos en algunas fiestas e incluso bodas; “si nos organizamos cogemos todos”, nos reímos y concordamos que ya bien “pedos”, el deseo del placer y el riesgo se generaliza entre las masas. Hay dos ingredientes esenciales que sirven de combustible para esta práctica, uno es el placer fisiológico bien sabido que generan las sustancias en el cerebro humano y que Pedro encontró sin buscarlo específicamente, y el otro es el riesgo que, al practicar sexo acompañado de drogas, no sólo le provocó una libertad tan grande que diluye absolutamente todo, incluso los cuidados básicos que han puesto en riesgo su salud, su estabilidad económica, emocional y mental. Sin embargo en el caso de Pedro, y gran parte de la escena gay, y como él mismo la auto nombra; “entre los hombres gay, putos, maricas, jotos”, ejercer la sexualidad se aprende a través del riesgo; “Toda mi vida mi sexualidad ha tenido que ver con el riesgo, el riesgo a que me cacharan, el riesgo de adquirir VIH, todo era riesgo, todo era malo y sin embargo lo hice, el riesgo de varios tipos siempre ha formado parte de mis prácticas sexuales y a través del riesgo he procurado placer, o sea, si tu me dices, reduce el riesgo, para mi es reducir el placer y yo no estoy dispuesto a eso”. Por el momento, Pablo decidió que iba a dejar a un lado el consumo de sustancias, porque al haber llegado a un consumo problemático que lo llevó a estar dos veces en un centro de rehabilitación residencial, asegura con dolor en sus ojos que; “lastimé a las personas que más amo, especialmente a mi pareja, sin él, no podría estar hoy aquí, ni hacer todo lo que hago, lo hice, gracias a él y por él”. A pesar de lo anterior, Pablo no sataniza el consumo de drogas con o sin prácticas sexuales, tampoco asegura que su abstinencia total vaya a ser permanente y reconoce de manera absoluta y contundente que las prácticas sexuales con el uso de sustancias siempre serán abismalmente más placenteras, satisfactorias y liberadoras que sin ellas. Un factor muy importante que no menciona Pedro y que al investigar bibliografía para poder escribir este texto, es que la tecnología al menos en Inglaterra, el uso de aplicaciones como Grindr, se torna esencial en la práctica del chemsex. // --- ### Images Cover: María Portilla, *Bodegón del Vicio Londinense*, 2024, photo by Aldo Ayllón, Copyright María Portilla *María Luisa Romero especialista en cooperación internacional, gestión de proyectos y políticas públicas, ha coordinado programas en derechos humanos e inclusión social con la Embajada de Estados Unidos en México, Oxfam México y Gran Bretaña, Naciones Unidas y la Organización de los Estados Americanos. Ha trabajado estrechamente con ONGs en la frontera norte, liderando iniciativas de reducción de daños y salud pública, y actualmente se encuentra desarrollando la charity shop de las organizaciones Mi Valedor y La CANA, las cuales apoyan la reintegración social de poblaciones vulnerables.* ### Where are You from, Warrior? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/where-are-you-from-warrior/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:03.000Z My body is comfortably nested in a velvet seat in the main hall of the Muziekgebouw. On stage, Saint Abdullah—brothers Mohammad and Mehdi—accompanied by Eomac and Rebecca Salvadori, perform during the first evening of *Expanded Experience*, a series within Sonic Acts Biennial centered on audiovisual formats. Their performance, A *Forbidden Distance*, layers a video diary of Mohammad's family's migratory life in Canada against a backdrop of electronic bass, beats, and spoken fragments. The images are tender—a family rebuilding its nest in the west while maintaining its Iranian roots. These images and the lives they depict coexist with the lingering presence of genocide, Islamophobia, and the incipient collapse of humanity as mediated through screens and feeds. As we watch one family’s story of displacement and renewal play out, a voice comes through the speakers: "We don't seem to be scared enough by the violence that surrounds us." The words reach us in our plush seats in the privileged pavilions of a waning empire, contemplating an artwork about the material effects of geopolitics and violence. This is the kind of affective dissonance that defines this edition of the Sonic Acts Biennial, titled “Melted for Love” in homage to the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish: the looming presence of systemic violence coexisting with inextinguishable tenderness. Running for roughly two months, with an intensive festival weekend from 26 February to 1 March, the Biennial is programmed by Gideon Kiers, Mirna Belina, Maud Seuntjens, Angeliki Tzortzakaki, Hannah Pezzack, and Giulia Nicolai, working with Director Lucas van der Velden. Expressed primarily in time-based forms, e.g., sonic experimentation, moving image, performance, the program listens through the rumble of expanding warfare for the sound of home. Home is not always a physical space, nor is it always a safe one—it manifests as a set of relationships that must be actively reclaimed when it is forcibly threatened. As the festival unfolds, increasing numbers of people are becoming homeless on their own lands because of war, colonialization, precariousness, and climate catastrophe. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/55140366139_c3a21169d1_k.jpg) Saint Abdullah, Eomac (Ian McDonnell), and Rebecca Salvadori performing during ‘Expanded Experience’ at Muziekgebouw, 26 February 2026\. Photo by Angelina Nikolayeva. In this climate, calls for the formation of communities of understanding are particularly urgent, and not only metaphorically, but practically. The three-venue exhibition, spanning W139, Rozenstraat, and Arti et Amicitiae, builds on this imperative by forming alliances across Amsterdam's most long-standing independent spaces, each with its own distinct history of collective organizing. This is itself a political gesture: the city's art scene is built not only through vertical institutional hierarchies but also through grassroots solidarity — and the Biennial makes that visible. This logic is evident in the curation and in the daily guided tours offered to audiences, a gesture of care and a statement about how the Biennial positions itself as a community-building endeavor. The works on show find their way toward each other through historical resonances that endure erasure, loss, and grief. But despite the pain, they form bridges across the realms of the living and of the dead, with an insistence that is poetry itself. Poetry glides through the works as an affective force, offering multiple entry points, establishing dialogues to be felt rather than decoded. At W139, before I can orient myself, sound finds me first. Two wooden, totemic resonance structures fill the entrance with rustling—a quiet insistence that something is still alive inside the architecture of empire. Lower Levant Company (LLC) in collaboration with Olga Micińska, investigate Cyprus's geopolitical entanglements across the Levant, tracing how the historical Levant Company—an early capitalist trade network linking the British, Venetians, and Ottomans—continues to organize power and capital in the region today. The installation *Bad Luck to Every Magistrate, and Bad Luck to Every Gamekeeper* reclaims Cyprus's forced role as the “antenna island” of empires by turning to bat colonies as collaborators. Chiropteran sonar guides the inhabitants of a post-collapse future in which the RAF bases at Akrotiri and Dhekelia have been dismantled. Between the frequencies of the empire and the rustling of endemic populations of bats, I begin to feel how the Biennial's bridges are to be made—not through argument, but through connections that otherwise have been severed by infrastructural colonialism and war. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/55141949770_5e38609e08.jpg) Comprehensive Exhibition Tour, 27 February. Photo by Angelina Nikolayeva. At Arti et Amicitiae, I lock eyes with the protagonist of Noor Abed's video installation *A Night We Held Between*. I am held in her orbit. The video follows a warrior who moves through the landscape of Palestine—caves, underground passages, wild valleys—in a dance that is at once militant and tender and which reactivates a legacy of resistance profoundly entangled with the land. The film is built around a 1990 recording of an elderly woman singing in her home to welcome the Resistance. The audio is archived in the Popular Art Center in Ramallah. Where are you from, warrior? We adorn a braid beneath your hat, sings the woman, with a voice that does not merely document history, but inhabits it. Abed builds her film around this inhabitation: the warrior moves because the song has already moved. After all, resistance is not an event but a continuous bodily practice passed down generations through exactly this kind of ordinary transmission. I think about what it means to receive such a transmission here, in this room, at this time. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Noor-Abed-A-Night-We-Held-Between-film-still-2024..-Photo-by-Pieter-Kers.png) Noor Abed, *A Night We Held Between*, film still, 2024\. Photo by Pieter Kers Christian Nyampeta's and Kivu Ruhorahoza’s *Whispers* at Rozenstraat opens at a different time. Drawing on Birago Diop's poem “Spirits” and the time the artist spent in Dakar following the postponement of the Dak'Art Biennial in 2024, the work invites its audience to listen carefully: to pay attention to things as a way of honoring the aliveness of life itself. The work asks at what point an ancestor escapes their specific descendants to become the ancestor of all. This question is less about loss than about the past's embeddedness in the present. Installed in a dedicated room at Rozenstraat, the moving images play out as an ode to the ordinary person through whom, unevenly but consistently, something like divinity manifests. A faith in spirituality that the West has largely discarded, replacing it with the ostensible rational organization of belief and knowledge. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/55130247583_7e951fa575.jpg) Flavia Dzodan’s lecture during the Symposium at the Stedelijk Museum, February 28\. Photo by Angelina Nikolayeva. All of the works described above refuse the idea that colonialism's amputations are final, that occupation's silences endure. They propose a listening practice so attentive that it becomes a form of resilience. The severed connections, the material violence, the ancestral time, must be met with love. Not love as sentiment, but love as a political practice, something built and maintained against the current. This is the point of awareness at which Flavia Dzodan's contribution during the Biennial’s discursive program at the Stedelijk Museum proves essential and incisive. In her ongoing project *Affective Logistics*, she diagnoses how computational infrastructure—routed through military command systems, Taylorist efficiency models, and optimized UX design—captures, standardizes, and monetizes feeling, positing algorithmic intimacy as the affective compass we use to negotiate society rather than embracing the friction of genuine relationships. Love has not been hidden from us—it has been neutralized, repurposed as a mechanism of control that severs our relationships with each other and with the world. To love politically, then, is not a given—it is an act of recovery that must be consciously maintained precisely because the infrastructure of contemporary life is designed to dim its force before it can become transformational. During the festival weekend, news of US and Israeli strikes on Iran leaked into the room, with Iranian retaliation strikes rippling across the states of the Persian Gulf. The unfolding imperialist catastrophe entered the program and was absorbed. People filed in and out of talks. The institution held its shape; it didn’t melt under violence, maybe because of the affective entanglements orchestrated by the exhibition. But the news magnified a question I carry: does art, in a historical moment like ours, become a way of sorting feeling—sharpening it, turning it toward action—or does it function as a filter, mediating the unbearable into the bearable, making us more capable of living alongside violence rather than more compelled to end it? The question bites harder when you consider where it comes from. At the core of Europe, we are cushioned, permitted to feel our feelings, to process grief through aesthetics, to leave at the end of the show, and to go home. Such privilege is not extended to those for whom mourning is itself a surveilled political act, whose funerals are bombarded, nor is it for those for whom violence is not something visited via spectacle but something lived inside, with no exit. I was, of course, among those who could leave. After departing the venues, grateful for the abundance of practices and generosity of dissemination, I found myself wanting to bend low and put my ear to the ground, to listen to the earth crying, to feel what that attention means: encompassing revolutionary love, when one is sheltered from the very violence that makes it necessary. *We admitted we were human beings, and melted for love in this desert*. Whether this admission transforms us into warriors—outside the institution, in the world that absorbs catastrophe so cleanly—is still, and always, the question we must listen to and hardest to hear. // --- ### Image Cover: Kivu Ruhorahoza and Christian Nyampeta, *Whispers*, 2025, video still. Courtesy of Seoul Mediacity Biennale. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Lo que esconde la ciudad en un abrazo. URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/lo-que-esconde-la-ciudad-en-un-abrazo/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:01.000Z Sobre una carta astral se extiende una figura sin género ni rasgos familiares, dos orejas enormes, y una larga forma que le entra por una de ellas. La figura sonríe, mientras otra se multiplica, sobre un papel, sobre el vidrio de un kiosco que guarda una pintura que parece estallar en multiversos. Estas obras de Justin Caguiat, presentadas por la Fundación Sandretto Re Rebaudengo, y comisariadas por Hans Ulrich Obrist, se instalaron en el Mercado de Moratalaz al norte de Madrid y en la Iglesia de Santa Ana y la Esperanza, diseñada por Miguel Fisac (1993–2026). La exposición, titulada *Zodiac Machine*, despliega una visión unificada e inspirada en la filosofía de Justo Gallego Martínez (1960–2021). Su libertad creativa fue motor de una catedral a base de materiales reciclados, que más que un ideal, se siente como una grieta que Caguiat abre hacia lo opuesto. *Zodiac Machine* toma la devoción de Justo como punto de partida, produciendo formas generativas e insostenibles. La nave cavernosa de la iglesia brutalista devora las pinturas, mientras éstas flotan en el mercado y en la dinámica democrática que se pierde en la religión. Caguiat reúne gestos anarquistas inspirados en iconográficas constelaciones; es en este caos donde el título cobra sentido, a pesar de su *Spleen*. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Justin-Caguiat-installation-view-Zodiac-Machine-Santa-Ana-y-la-Esperanza-Church-Madrid.-Courtesy-the-artist-Fundacion-Sandretto-Re-Rebaudengo-Madrid-Greene-Naftali-New-York-and-Modern-Art-London..jpg) Justin Caguiat, installation view, *Zodiac Machine*, Santa Ana y la Esperanza Church, Madrid. Courtesy the artist; Fundación Sandretto Re Rebaudengo, Madrid; Greene Naftali, New York; and Modern Art, London La experiencia de quienes visitan esta parroquia —nada turística hasta este momento— transcurre entre lo lúdico y lo incómodo. Las obras de Caguiat —con sus extremidades desmesuradas y sus pinturas que se pliegan sobre su propio anacronismo— parecen aludir a la vigilancia y la escucha, como si el espacio mismo estuviera atento a esa fricción. Las obras son testigos de una expansión de los límites museográficos, donde lo público, lo privado, lo monumental y lo marginal se rozan sin llegar a reconciliarse. La apertura de la fundación trae a visitantes burgueses, adinerados, que crean un contraste inquietante en un mercado de habitantes mucho más discretos y humildes. Este contraste funciona casi como un microcosmos de la semana de arte en Madrid. Es, a su manera, un anticipo de la circulación internacional que ARCOmadrid pone en marcha, donde la feria no solo moviliza obras, sino también cuerpos, afectos y expectativas. La ciudad se convierte entonces en un espacio híbrido; la iglesia y el mercado como extensión material del gigante de IFEMA, donde la escala colosal de la feria encuentra su contrapunto en los detalles y las fricciones del barrio, y donde la precariedad del espacio público se muestra como fertilidad para la imaginación. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Vista-de-la-exposicion-LOVE-THAT-BIRD.-Galeria-Juan-Silio-Madrid-2026.-Fotografia-Roberto-Ruiz..jpg) Vista de la exposición *LOVE THAT BIRD*. Galería Juan Silió, Madrid, 2026\. Fotografía: Roberto Ruiz. La feria despierta a la ciudad en su polos opuestos, desde Barajas hasta Móstoles. La noche de galerías en Lavapiés, barrio icónico de Madrid, nos trasladó a la obra de Carlos Irijalba en la Galería Juan Silió con su exposición *LOVE THAT BIRD*. El corazón de la muestra está en el sótano con una película que sintetiza la relación entre aerodinámica, mecánica y política. Aves orientándose por magnetismo terrestre, humanos acercándose al sueño de volar mediante réplicas de aeronaves pesadas, pilotadas aquí por jubilados de prominente barriga, mientras halcones cosificados observan desde el reverso. Irijalba articula la relación entre naturaleza y humanidad como un impulso rítmico y universal, recordando que la migración y la orientación preceden al concepto humano de frontera. El espacio expositivo y la instalación cinematográfica activan la percepción del presente como un flujo continuo, donde el tiempo y la materia se entrelazan con lo político y lo poético. El arte deviene laboratorio de resistencia y observación, una forma de leer la historia industrial y la geografía de los cuerpos a través del gesto y la memoria. La obra no se puede comprar, ya que está realizada a partir de un sin número de videos en Youtube. ARCOmadrid 2026 se impone como marco internacional, tan masivo como rizomático. La feria reunió del 4 al 8 de marzo en IFEMA Madrid a 95.000 visitantes, 1.300 artistas y 200 galerías. Así que ARCO es enorme, pero una feria de arte contemporáneo no se mide por su escala, sino por los detalles que la componen. Maribel López, directora de la feria, fue galerista en Berlín antes de tomar las riendas de este gigante. Y como ex galerista sabe lo que las galerías necesitan: reconocimiento. La feria no se limita a ser un escaparate; funciona también como un laboratorio de relaciones simbólicas y económicas, donde la circulación del capital se entrelaza entre precariedad y visibilidad, anonimato y reconocimiento, en una coreografía que pone a prueba la capacidad de las obras de sostener sentido frente al público general. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Victor-Jaenada.-Arbol-joya-de-una-genealogia-de-lo-flamenco-2025.-Site-specific-sculpture.-Disco-ball-motor-diverse-materials-charcoal-and-ceramic.-4-x-4-x-4-M..jpg) Victor Jaenada. *Árbol-joya de una genealogía de lo flamenco*, 2025\. Site specific sculpture. Courtesy of Spiritvessel. Entre las secciones que reflejan esta reflexión, destaca la sección Openings. Nuevas galerías bajo la curaduría de Anissa Touati y Rafael Barber Cortell. Consta de 18 galerías jóvenes, desde Atenas a Tbilisi, pasando por Buenos Aires, Bombay, Lisboa, Londres, San Sebastián y otras ciudades. Más que un panorama unificado, la selección traza un mapa fragmentado de prácticas que comparten un “estado de presente”, es decir inestabilidad, aceleración y dificultad para proyectar futuros estables. Las obras se articulan entre precariedad estructural, visibilidad acelerada y exposición constante. El arte se vuelve un ensayo colectivo, un laboratorio de relaciones, afectos y geografías temporales, donde centro y periferia se disuelven y las comunidades son móviles y efímeras. En la galería Spiritvessel (Espinavessa, Empordà), Víctor Jaenada presenta su más reciente obra, *Árbol-joya de una genealogía de lo flamenco* (35.000 €). Se trata una escultura de cuatro metros de altura que ocupa el espacio con su presencia giratoria y frágil al mismo tiempo. Activado por un pequeño motor similar al que se usa en las bolas de discoteca, el conjunto funciona como un gran móvil suspendido. Su tronco retorcido, trabajado en una filigrana compleja de carbón y cerámica, se abre en ramas que sostienen decenas de pequeños objetos colgantes. A medida que el mecanismo gira lentamente, estos fragmentos describen un movimiento circular continuo. Entre las “hojas del árbol” aparecen materiales y formas heterogéneas, son trozos de madera, tubos metálicos, espejos, pequeñas piezas de cerámica, etiquetas, palabras, restos orgánicos, llaveros, fragmentos de vidrio. Como señala Sira Pizà, la galerista y reconocida productora de proyectos de artistas de la talla de Sol Calero, el árbol genealógico es el diagrama clásico de la ciencia de la ascendencia, un intento de ordenar lo que en realidad crece de forma imprevisible. Jaenada invierte esa lógica, así en lugar de fijar un origen o una pureza, el árbol se convierte en suspensión. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MikolajSobczak.jpg) Mikołaj Sobczak, *Annunciation*, 2023\. Courtesy of Capitain Petzel Además de las galerías jóvenes, las galerías establecidas traen obras que abordan directamente la vida cotidiana y el capitalismo cognitivo, como la monumental Annunciation (2023) de Mikołaj Sobczak (entre 20.000 y 30.000 €) representado por Capitain Petzel; o el diálogo entre un tríptico de fabulosos dibujos de Miriam Cahn y los bronces sobre momentos de desvestimiento de June Crespo (20.000 - 25.000 €) en un stand íntimo compartido por las galerías Ehrhardt Flórez y Meyer Riegger. Por un lado, Sobczak retoma uno de los motivos más codificados de la historia del arte occidental —la anunciación bíblica— para desarmarlo y reconstruirlo como una escena colectiva, teatral y política en un centro médico donde parecen distribuirse inyecciones y miradas oscuras, sigilosas y oníricas. Por otro, Cahn y Crespo arrebatan momentos de vulnerabilidad inoportunos, inesperados e invisibles. Pienso en ellas, y en Sobczak, cuando me acerco a *Escena. Personajes a la salida de un concierto de rock* (1979) de Guillermo Pérez Villalta en la cuarta planta del Museo Reina Sofía. El cuadro pertenece a una generación de artistas, críticos y galeristas asociada al fenómeno conocido como *Nueva Figuración Madrileña*, que impulsó un cambio en el panorama artístico español, reivindicando el valor de la pintura concebida desde una visión libre y subjetiva, frente a las prácticas artísticas conceptuales dominantes en la década de los setenta del siglo pasado. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2026-03-14-at-09.04.35.png) Guillermo Pérez Villalta, *Escena. Personajes a la salida de un concierto de rock*, 1979. El Museo Reina Sofía cuenta esta historia del arte y de la contracultura a partir de una selección de obras de la colección nunca presentada antes. Esta nueva reordenación abarca desde el cómic y la ilustración hasta la performance callejera, dando visibilidad a múltiples subjetividades que habían permanecido ocultas bajo el franquismo, y que hoy se pueden reconocer no solo en vestigios materiales de estas comunidades, sino también en la radicalidad transicional de sus prácticas performativas, precursoras de muchas actitudes que el arte contemporáneo adoptaría después. Visitantes profesionales expresaron su admiración por la apertura y sensualidad que otorgan los espacios que muestra el museo, sin releer el pasado buscando un espejo para los retos actuales, sino más bien dando a conocer cómo navegar la incertidumbre que nos visita, una y otra vez, en la constelación geopolítica mundial de turno. En este contexto de trabajos colectivos, experimentales y llenos de detalles, se entregaron los premios de ARCO. Este año, el Emerige–CPGA Prize 2026 dotado con 10.000 € fue otorgado a Sofía Salazar Rosales y a su galería ChertLüdde, y fue compartido entre artista y galería. El jurado, compuesto por Béatrice Charon, Hiuwai Chu, Laurent Dumas, Alejandro Lázaro, Imma Prieto Carrillo y Markus Reymann, destacó la fuerza y madurez de su práctica, así como la relación de acompañamiento genuino entre artista y galería. El reconocimiento refleja tanto la calidad de la obra como la capacidad de construir una práctica artística sostenida y libre. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Sofia-Salazar-Rosales-Travesias-de-una-lagrima-2026.-Cortesia-de-la-artista.-Vistas-de-la-exposicion-C3A-Cordoba.-Fotografia-Pablo-Ballesteros.jpg) Sofía Salazar Rosales, *Travesías de una lágrima*, 2026\. Cortesía de la artista. Vistas de la exposición, C3A, Córdoba. Fotografía de Pablo Ballesteros Tomé un tren a Córdoba para ver *Travesías de una Lágrima*, en el Centro de Creación Contemporánea de Andalucía o C3A, para profundizar sobre la obra de Sofía Salazar Rosales, ganadora del premio. Ella despliega en su exposición un entramado de migración, arquitectura y símbolos. Rejas documentadas en Cuba se reproducen en cartón, resina, vidrio y parafina, evocando precaución, miedo y protección espiritual. Los colores se asignan a distintos orishas, trasladando los rituales al espacio urbano. La artista nos recuerda que los objetos cotidianos —tronquitos de bananas, vigas IPN, placas metálicas— son portadores de historias y memorias. Cada gesto y cada material devienen medida de resistencia, formas de habitar el presente y narrar experiencias colectivas. La relación entre industrial y artesanal, global y local, memoria y migración se vuelve inseparable de la experiencia de tránsito. Por eso, la ciudad, el tren, la feria, la galería y la exposición se interrelacionan como redes afectivas que nos enseñan a mirar el mundo desde la precariedad como acto fértil. Las rejas, las lágrimas de cartón, los colores y las esculturas antropomorfas funcionan como habitantes de la exposición. Y nosotros, visitantes, nos convertimos en pasajeros obligados a tomar decisiones sobre cómo ver y transitar el espacio. En un gesto barroco y cuidadoso, Salazar Rosales produce un laboratorio donde el tiempo se acumula, se documenta y se transforma en presencia política. Cada pieza contiene múltiples capas de historia: colonialismo, comercio, migración, ritual, economía doméstica, modernidad industrial. La obra es, simultáneamente, arqueología y prospectiva, registro de lo que fue y mapa de lo que puede llegar a ser. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Sofia-Salazar-Rosales-What-does-the-city-hide-in-a-hug_-2023-Installation-view-of-the-Artists-Degree-Show-Beaux-Art-Paris-2023-Plaster-wire-mesh-cardboard-polyester-resin-fiberglass-and-iron-filings-173-130-125-cm.jpg) Sofía Salazar Rosales, *What does the city hide in a hug?*, 2023; Installation view of the Artist’s Degree Show, Beaux Art, Paris, 2023. El arco de Madrid a Córdoba se cierra con una obra de Salazar Rosales que da título a esta reflexión, *Lo que esconde una ciudad en un abrazo* (2023). Con sus materiales mixtos —yeso, malla de alambre, cartón, resina de poliéster, fibra de vidrio y limaduras de hierro— la pieza condensa el gesto de transitar, observar y sostener memoria. Lo que emerge es la constelación de prácticas, ilusiones, archivos y objetos que, en conjunto, revelan que el arte contemporáneo no se mide por su escala, sino por su capacidad de traducir la complejidad de lo vivido. La semana de arte se convierte en un abrazo de ciudad a ciudad, donde la precariedad, la memoria y la creación se entrelazan, y donde los vínculos transgeneracionales y translocales generan modos de resistencia y pertenencia. // JUSTIN CAGUIAT Zodiac Machine Hasta el 1 de abril de 2026 LOVE THAT BIRD Carlos Irijalba en la galería Juan Silió Hasta el 14 de marzo de 2026 [COLECCIÓN. ARTE CONTEMPORÁNEO: 1975 - PRESENTE ](https://www.museoreinasofia.es/colecciones/coleccion-arte-contemporaneo-1975-presente?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía. Edificio Sabatini, Planta 4 Desde el 18 de Febrero, 2026 TRAVESÍA DE UNA LÁGRIMA Sofía Salazar Rosales en el C32 Andalucía Hasta el 17 de mayo de 2026 ARCO MADRID Took place from 4 to 8 March at IFEMA MADRID. International contemporary art fair with 95.000 visitors, 1.300 artists and 200 galleries. See you in March 2027 --- ### Cover Image: Justin Caguiat, *Zodiac Machine*, 2026, film still. Courtesy of the artist and Fundación Sandretto Re Reubadengo Madrid; photograph: Brendan Jaks *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### The Vibe of a Nation URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-vibe-of-a-nation/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:17:00.000Z Sometimes listening is better than explaining. While preparing for the Whitney Biennial, curators Marcela Guerrero and Drew Sawyer didn’t impose a thesis. Instead, they listened to more than 300 artists, letting them shape the exhibition. Through these conversations, Guerrero and Sawyer identified “relationality” as a recurring concern among the artists, and adopted it as one of the exhibition’s guiding terms. The biennial, as always, aims to “take the temperature” of American art—offering a provisional snapshot of what artists working or living here are thinking, making, and confronting at this moment. Yet any institution that sets out to measure a nation’s art faces a familiar problem: the act of taking stock inevitably implies a definition of what that nation is. The Whitney Biennial has long been criticized for deciding, implicitly or explicitly, what counts as “America.” Earlier editions were faulted for presenting a narrow vision—white, masculine, and market-driven. Attempts to repair that history in the 1990s and in recent years were accused of simplifying differences into the language of identity politics.\[1\] In both cases, the suspicion is the same: an “elite” institution ultimately wants to declare, “This is America.” Guerrero and Sawyer are seemingly aware of this trap. Their solution is not to redefine the nation but to sidestep definition altogether. The artists gathered here do not present a unified image of the United States, nor do they offer a coherent alternative. Instead, the exhibition conceptualizes the unstable, historical, economic, ecological, and emotional relationships that bind people, territories, and infrastructures together. In practice, the curators rely on *the vibe*—the sensory pulse of these entanglements—as the closest the show comes to representing contemporary power as experienced from here. “Relationality,” then, becomes less a theme than a method: a way of thinking about subjectivity as something formed through entanglement rather than identity, as a space to consider extant, forgotten, and potential ways of existing together. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/BaselAbbasRuanne-AbouRahme_WhitneyBiennial.jpg) Basel Abbas and Ruanne Abou‑Rahme’s three-channel video and sound installation *Until we became fire and fire us* (2023–ongoing). Installation view of Whitney Biennial 2026 (Whitney Museum of American Art, March 8–August 2026). Photograph by Jason Lowrie/BFA.com. © BFA 2026 The result is an intentionally eclectic exhibition. The works shout against neoliberal policy, (neo)colonialism, militarization, racial capitalism, technology, intergenerationality, ecology, and other spheres that bear on our relationships to each other and the living, material world. With many artists engaging sensorial energies through sound, texture, color, and smell, there is a deep investment in the revelatory potential of the aesthetic experience. Yet, while refusing finality, the biennial’s vibe insists in reformation through multiplicity, feeling, and community. It acknowledges that “America” cannot be confined to its territory; its economic and military brutality has shaped lives far beyond it. Among the most noteworthy contributions is Basel Abbas and Ruanne Abou‑Rahme’s three-channel video and sound installation *Until we became fire and fire us* (2023–ongoing). Rusted steel panels intercalate with a multi-channeled projection, fracturing the image and preventing any illusion of visual coherence. Drawings made in Jerusalem during the 1970s and ’80s by Abou-Rahme’s father accompany the installation, grounding it in lived memory. The artists describe Palestine as a space defined by systems of colonialism and racial capitalism—a zone rendered disposable. Yet their work refuses this definition: fragments of sound, color, and poetry circulate through the installation, creating an atmosphere that exceeds the language of occupation and control. Resistance here is not articulated as a clear political program; instead, it appears as a field of affective possibility, an insistence on presence within the very structures meant to erase it. “We found that many of the artists we encountered were, like us, drawn to the idea of infrastructure,” Sawyer claims in a catalogue essay. Drawing on Lauren Berlant’s theory of “living mediation,” Sawyer frames infrastructure not only as roads, pipelines, or buildings but as relationalities alongside and through affect. If critically “inhabited,” these systems have the potential to expose the forces that covertly coerce, as we observe that infrastructure is neither natural nor inevitable. Infrastructure is that which both sustains and confines us—the agricultural or the carceral—yet these are not distinct or neutral forms. In her piece *System’s Void* (2026), Sung Tieu recasts the infrastructure that powers an unsustainable economy as a violent monolith. A massive, austere, metal pipe that resembles those for extracting and transporting gas from fracking wells runs along the Whitney’s central staircase while sound, amplified through the pipe, converts illegible data from fracking sites that Tieu has appropriated. Through this haunting atmospheric gesture, she reveals how life-sustaining infrastructures remain concealed while conveying the perilous consequences of that invisibility. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ash_Arder_WhitneyBiennial.jpg) Ash Arder, *Consumables*, 2023 (detail). Display refrigerator, solar-powered battery storage system, shea butter, butter, chocolate, plastic, and light, 19 1/2 × 17 3/8 × 20 in. (49.5 × 44.1 × 50.8 cm). Collection of the artist. Image courtesy the artist. Photography by Clare Gatto While Sung Tieu renders infrastructure audible, Ignacio Gatica makes it spatially and historically legible, exposing how financial architecture travels across continents as both model and imposition. In his single-channel video *Sanhattan* (2025) installed in front of a large window overlooking Manhattan, Gatica intercuts images of the financial districts of Santiago de Chile and New York City, revealing architectural and symbolic similarities between them. While listening to Chilean academics and poet Ileana Elordi reflect on how neoliberal economic structures imposed during Pinochet’s regime reshaped Chilean urban life, the viewer stands between the filmed city and the real one, momentarily inhabiting the very system the work describes. The skyline outside becomes part of the film’s argument, and the work collapses the distinction between representation and reality. Understanding how we live with oppressive systems is a key part of refusing them. Artist Ash Arder reflects on their upbringing in Detroit, where manufacturing jobs supported families while also reinforcing racial inequality and environmental damage to a historically discriminated Black community. Arder’s sculpture *Consumables* (2023) places a butter, shea butter, and chocolate Cadillac hood ornaments inside a refrigerator powered by solar panels on the museum’s roof. The fragile materials belong to Detroit’s industrial history while pointing toward more precarious forms of sustenance. If removed from refrigeration, the sculptures would melt. Stability, the work suggests, depends on delicate systems that are themselves unsustainable. Arder connects this reflection to the growth of urban farming in Detroit after the collapse of industrial manufacturing. As infrastructure failed, communities turned to land, sunlight, and cooperation. The sculpture hints at a different economy, one grounded less in industry than in ecological cycles and shared labor. Arder describes the piece as our “spiritual positioning between the earth and the sun.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/FraserMobarakDeMonteflores_WhitneyBiennial.jpg) Andrea Fraser’s *Untitled (Objects)* (2024). Installation view of Whitney Biennial 2026 (Whitney Museum of American Art, March 8–August 2026). Photograph by Jason Lowrie/BFA.com. © BFA 2026 Attention to relationality shifts to the body in one gallery, with an emphasis on motherhood. At first, it may seem far removed from the infrastructural concerns elsewhere in the biennial, yet the logic is continuous: just as pipelines and financial systems shape collective life, so too do biological and intimate networks of care and dependency. Andrea Fraser’s *Untitled (Objects)* (2024) displays disturbingly realistic wax sculptures of two-year-old children lying down, enclosed in Plexiglas vitrines. Their fragile material requires careful preservation—without protection, they would melt—and the display evokes multiple environments at once: museum case, hospital nursery, laboratory, even morgue. In this gallery dedicated to motherhood, Fraser’s sculptures are imbued with another contextual layer in that they share the room with work by Fraser’s mother, Carmen De Monteflores. Her colorful monochrome silhouette paintings—depicting intertwined bodies in scenes of vivid intimacy—echo themes present in Fraser’s earlier collaboration with a collector, in which she sold and documented a sexual encounter as an artwork. Vis-à-Vis, Nour Mobarak presents casts of her body from the Recto Verso series alongside *Broad Cast (Montage)* (2024–26), a sound installation composed from recordings captured by a microphone placed inside her body during pregnancy. Together, these works shift the conversation from social infrastructures to corporeal ones—the biological processes through which life is sustained. Yet the tone remains ambivalent. The gallery produces a strange mixture of tenderness and unease: preservation, protection, and vulnerability blur together, suggesting that even the most intimate forms of relationality are shaped by regimes of care and control. A more celebratory vision of collective embodiment is perhaps most strikingly envisioned by Young Joon Kwak’s sculpture *Divine Dance of Soft Revolt* (2024). Kwak casts body parts from members of their queer community in Los Angeles, and uses these molds to assemble a floating helix of shimmering fragments. Outlines of harnesses and heels retain an impression of bodies, but they are formed into something almost extraterrestrial, harmonizing into an indefinite structure that resists gravity. As visitors move around it, their own reflections appear in the mirrored fragments of the disco-ball surface. Community is not a stable identity here but a shifting constellation of bodies and reflections. Kwak channels the sense of fragmentation often tied to bodily subjection, organizing excerpts from their community into an image of connection and solidarity that extends beyond individual selfhood. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Young-Joon-Kwak-Biennial.jpg) Young Joon Kwak, *Divine Dance of Soft Revolt* (2024). Installation view of Whitney Biennial 2026 (Whitney Museum of American Art, March 8–August 2026). Photograph by Darian DiCanno/BFA.com. © BFA 2026 This emphasis on sensation and shared atmosphere echoes Fred Moten and Stefano Harney’s idea of “hapticality,” which describes a mode of relation emerging within yet against formalized structures of institutional recognition that is based on touch, feeling, and mutual presence. Many works in the biennial operate in precisely this register. Rather than articulating concrete political arguments, they attempt to create spaces where viewers can experience the emotional and sensory conditions of a life defined by infrastructures of US-American power. Through this experience, the exhibition advances a form of refusal by affectively destabilizing the systems it operates within. This strategy is the exhibition’s strength and its limitation. On one hand, the refusal to define “America” produces an unusually open biennial. By avoiding a singular thesis, the curators enable artists to explore relationships that extend far beyond national identity: colonial histories, global infrastructures, ecological networks, and intimate forms of care. The exhibition’s ambiguity creates space for complexity, contradiction, and vulnerability. On the other hand, that same ambiguity might dull the exhibition’s political force. When critique appears primarily through atmosphere, sensation, and relational feeling, it risks replacing argument with mood. Throughout the exhibit, we feel the structural violence, the collapse of support systems, and the collective confusion recognizable for many who live in relation to the US. We sense the presence of alternative relationalities in the earth and the community, yet these recourses do not crystallize into explicit directives for political action. In this sense, the 2026 Whitney Biennial reflects a broader shift in contemporary exhibition-making. Undeniably, large-scale shows move away from articulated political positions and toward affective environments designed to evoke relationality. Instead of declaring what America is—or even, what it might become—the exhibition asks us to feel the systems that shape it. Some have criticized the absence of a call to action, but it seems the biennial, like the artists, may be finding new forms of refusal. The attention to affect signals a resistance to the fatigued practice of precise, overt politicization, and may imply a new source of political significance for art, in a way that it can make invisible structures feel real. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\]danielle jackson, “The ‘Dissonant Chorus’ of the 2024 Whitney Biennial Lost Me,” Artnet, 2024. Cover: Ignacio Gatica, still from *Sanhattan*, 2025\. Digital video, color, and sound, 18:57 min. Courtesy the artist *Max MacLaren is a writer and artist based in New York City and Los Angeles. His work focuses on systems of power, value, and representation in politics, literature, and art. In addition to writing, he works in sculpture and documentary film.* ### When the Ground Speaks Volumes URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/when-the-ground-speaks-volumes/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:58.000Z *Built above a former riverbed near the La Brea Tar Pits, on land shaped by extraction, displacement, fossilization, migration, and labor, the building poses questions that exceed architecture as form. It asks what it means to build on living ground, to exhibit displaced objects, and to rely on invisible, often precarious labor to produce public culture.* *This conversation between the artist Mariana Castillo Deball and the architect Peter Zumthor unfolds from within that tension. Rather than offering a promotional account of their collaboration shaping the new galleries, it traces a shared inquiry into ground, material memory, and the ethics of making. Both approach architecture and art as practices that register emotion, history, and power at the level of matter itself.* *Zumthor’s architecture for* LACMA *has often been described through its formal qualities: horizontality, meandering circulation, and an archipelagic plan. Yet the building’s most radical dimension may lie in its insistence on remaining in contact with the site, refusing to seal itself off from the soil, and resisting the smoothness typically demanded by institutional construction in the United States. Castillo Deball’s intervention on the museum’s grounds extends this logic. Her floor work, developed with and through the hands of Mexican and migrant workers, embeds traces of ancient animals, cartographies, and bodily labor into the museum’s largest public surface.* *As the conversation reveals, this collaboration unfolded against a backdrop of heightened structural violence toward migrant communities in the United States and particularly in Los Angeles. Many of the workers who physically built the museum live under conditions of fear, legal precarity, and systematic erasure. The polished surfaces of museums, like those of cities, are often produced by hands that are rendered invisible once construction is complete.* **Mariana Castillo Deball (MCD)**: Your book has accompanied me. \[It’s\] a conversation between you and Mari Lending. I was surprised, and honestly very moved, by how many images there are of the Acropolis, especially of the pavement, of the ground itself. I was also happy to read how much attention you give to the history of the ground, not as an abstract idea, but as something material, something lived. What struck me most, though, was the way you describe your own formation. You write about your early education in architecture, which was very modernist, very rigorous, almost doctrinal. And then there is this turning point, where your thinking begins to shift—toward materials, toward history, toward the memory embedded in spaces. And, eventually, toward something that is much harder to name: emotions. When I first started working with you, I didn’t immediately understand what your position was. But over time, I realized that emotions are really at the center of your work—emotions that live in colors, in materials, in the weight of a building, in how it meets the ground. **Peter Zumthor (PZ)**: I don’t have an abstract or theoretical approach in the academic sense. Architecture, at least for me, is not about theory first. Or maybe it is more honest to say: I try to work through emotions. I’m not even sure I always succeed. **MCD**: I come from Mexico, where the ground itself is very emotional. There are earthquakes all the time. The earth moves. And because of colonial history, because of conquest and destruction, so many things were built, destroyed, and rebuilt again. For us, it is normal to think that the ground is alive. When I moved to Germany, I was really surprised. It felt as though there was almost no emotional connection to the ground at all. Or rather, the only connection seemed to be tied to death and guilt. When you spoke about your work on the Topography of Terror, you described how difficult it was to establish an emotional relationship to the site—and how there was resistance to that. Why do you think that is? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_9479.png) Mariana Castillo Deball, *Feathered Changes*, 2026\. Documentation of on-site work at LACMA. Courtesy of the artist. **PZ**: Historians are trained to move from paper to paper to paper. They quote books, then other books that quote those books, and everything becomes abstract. Even when they refer to physical evidence, it is mediated. For them, the physical presence of the \[Topography of Terror\] was almost irrelevant. And when I proposed to keep certain remnants open—for example, the only remaining torture cellar that survived by chance. They said no. They told me: to emotionalize history is not allowed. It sounds absurd, but that is exactly what they said. They insisted on facts, on distance. Emotion was seen as manipulation, as something dangerous. I remember one historian saying very clearly: this is not allowed. We do not want this. Wim Wenders will address this question in the film he is working on about my practice. He spoke with Karl Schlögel, a historian who works with places rather than just texts. Schlögel understands that space itself is historical evidence. He once said that this refusal of spatial engagement was a kind of curse for Berlin. And I think he is right. **MCD**: Yes, completely. A curse. I often feel disappointed by architectural projects that deal with history but fail, because they rely on a combination of sources without truly listening to the space without listening to what is already there. **PZ**: For me, contact with the place is essential. Especially in Germany, there are certain sites where this contact is not optional—it is necessary. At the Topography of Terror, I designed the building so that you are always in relation to the site itself. As you move through the building, from front to back, the place is always present. There was a long Trümmerhügel (a rubble hill) left over because no one had decided what to do with it. It was full of debris from destroyed buildings. I incorporated this rubble hill into the building’s configuration. When you were inside the building, you could see the shadow of the rubble through the façade, because there was no glass. The historians hated this. They asked, “What is this?” When I returned to the site one day, the rubble was gone. They had removed it without telling me. I said, this is part of the design. They replied, “Oh yes, we can put it back later.” It was absurd. In the end, we never found common ground. **MCD**: Yesterday I was teaching, and one of my students, Henry Schlosser, made a work that really resonated with this conversation. He works with architecture and memory. He recreated the childhood memory of a büro (office) he made out of fabric and wire—a gesture children do instinctively to respond to their place in the domestic environment. He talks about how architecture is remembered, how it is reconstructed later through memory.He also collects very small objects from the street—everything must be smaller than his fingernail. Each object carries a story. I see a connection here with your work: the attention to fragments—floors, pavements, details—alongside the experience of large volumes. How do you think about this relationship between the very small and the architectural whole? **PZ**: It is an important question. As architects, we create the surroundings for life—for people, but also for objects. My task is to tune the atmosphere, to make it right for the use of the place. But it is true: spaces are not inhabited only by people. They are also inhabited by things. **MCD**: They speak. **PZ**: Yes. Objects speak. This small object here was made by an artist friend. For the last two weeks, it has contained the ashes of my wife. I haven’t opened it. She wanted us to bring the ashes to her house in the Alps, in spring, and scatter them around when the flowers come. For now, she is here. She is not there—and not here—but somewhere in between. **MCD**: In both places. Objects allow that. When you speak about objects, and about how they carry histories, I keep thinking about museums—and especially about LACMA. The objects here come from many places, many cultures, many temporalities. They are displaced. I sometimes think of them as homeless objects. Or maybe uncomfortable objects—because they don’t quite belong. **PZ**: Yes. They are alienated. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSCF4383.png) Mariana Castillo Deball, *Feathered Changes*, 2026\. Installation view, detail, and documentation of on-site work at LACMA. Courtesy of the artist. **MCD**: Exactly. And at the same time, that alienation forces us to look differently. We are reminded that these objects do not belong naturally to this place. There is a tension between belonging and not belonging that feels very important to architecture itself. A house is a place of belonging—but people and things are always arriving that do not fully belong. **PZ**: In a private house like this one, my house, the objects speak of my life. They belong to me, and I belong to them. They carry the history of friendships, of work, of time. This is something precious. It does not have to be monumental. In a museum, it is completely different. These objects are taken from places we often know very little about. And I have the feeling that many curators and exhibition designers do not feel compassion for them. They classify them according to what they learned at university: *earlier, later, influence, school*. But this does not touch the essence of things. What we tried to do here—at least a little—was to give the objects a chance to speak without too much didactic framing. Not too many schoolteachers pinning everything down. Whether this will work in the long term, I don’t know. Michael \[Govan\] warned me: you may be disappointed. These things take time. **MCD**: I saw some of the rooms already installed. I thought they were beautiful. **PZ**: That makes me glad. The furniture we designed was very important to me. Simple principles. All objects on wood—no plastic, no steel surfaces. The vitrine is one architecture: glass, steel, wood. And inside the vitrine, no little podiums of different heights. That would be like building a bad miniature city inside the case. **MCD**: Yes, like a caricature of architecture inside the vitrine. **PZ**: Michael managed to let us interfere with the exhibition designers, which is not easy. He is very skilled diplomatically. He knows when to push and when not to offend. **MCD**: It’s a delicate balance between respecting the work of others and insisting that something must change. Museums should not simply reproduce habits. They need to question how we move, how we look, how we inhabit space. **PZ**: Many people say now that this is a new kind of museum. I always insisted: these are not corridors. This is an exhibition space. But it is difficult to explain this verbally. You have to experience it. The meandering, the openness, the firmness—it only makes sense when you are inside. **MCD**: It feels like an archipelago. **PZ**: Yes. **MCD**: That’s why I also made islands on the ground. It was a way of picking up what the building itself is already doing. **PZ**: From the beginning, five, six, seven years ago—I always said we should have Mexican workers doing the ground. I imagined mosaics, something done by hand. Indigenous knowledge, people who have been there for a long time. That is why I was so happy when you became involved. **MCD**: I already had a connection. I did a series of wood pavement works in which early-colonial-era maps are enlarged and engraved onto the floor. Vista de Ojos (2014), is a wooden pavement engraved with the drawing of the Santa Cruz map (1550). The original drawing was created by an indigenous cartographer or Tlacuilo, and is considered to be the oldest representation of Mexico City, some thirty years after the conquest. The wooden pavement also serves as a printing matrix. The complete surface of the map was printed on paper and bound as an atlas, each of the 500 pages corresponding to a fragment of the image. LACMA acquired Vista de Ojos in 2014\. Michael remembered that and thought, maybe this artist has an idea for the ground. Diana \[Magaloni\] called me, and that’s how it started. **PZ**: For me, it was intuition. I kept saying: This cannot be just concrete. Michael never said no—but it took time. There was pressure. This is the largest public space being built in Los Angeles, I said. It must be simple, robust, and American. But now, when you stand above and look down, it becomes something else. A carpet. A field. A story. You see animals, ancient animals, traces—maybe we made doors for animals, or animals made doors for us. Who knows. **MCD**: It was also a coincidence. For the last five years, I have been working on an artwork for a metro station nearby, at La Cienega. I learned about the tar pits, about fossils, and about the indigenous land. When I was invited to work with the black mud here, I already felt connected to the site. **PZ**: You were not a foreigner anymore. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSCF2341.png) Mariana Castillo Deball, *Feathered Changes,* 2026\. Installation view, detail, and documentation of on-site work at LACMA. Courtesy of the artist. **MCD**: But during the last months, especially since the new Trump administration, everything changed. Many of the workers are Mexican. Some have papers, some don’t. Many were afraid. Some stopped coming to work. At some point, I realized: they made this work. I gave instructions, yes, but they taught me techniques, gestures, and knowledge. Their hands are on the surface. It became an homage to labor, to people who build our streets, our houses, and who live in danger. **PZ**: This is not right. **MCD**: No. **PZ**: It reminds me again of how labor is hidden. Precision \[work\] is transferred to factories. On-site work is reduced. Liability dictates everything. Craftsmanship becomes a luxury. I remember when Marius came—a painter carrying centuries of knowledge. The American painters didn’t know how to clean a brush. So he gave them a lesson. From then on, they learned respect for tools, for work. **MCD**: Cracks are also traces of work. I learned so much about crack control here—about how materials behave, about forcing them to do what they don’t want to do. Modernism hates cracks. But cracks are emotional. **PZ**: I love cracks. Natural cracks are beautiful. Once, concrete leaked and made a terrible surface. The workers wanted to fix it. I said: This is a sculpture. You cannot repair a sculpture. Leave it. In twenty years, you can come back with your grandson and say: I worked here. **MCD**: Cracks reveal labor, which is why they are hidden. **PZ**: Yes. **MCD**: I wanted to ask you about trees. Carlos Velasco, one of the people I worked with for the pavement piece, knows everything about what grows under concrete. How do trees enter your architecture? **PZ**: I always plant gardens. Trees mark my life. I need living things around buildings. Growth. Time. **MCD**: In Mexico, trees break pavements. They make cracks. People cut the trees instead of accepting the cracks. Concrete wants flatness. It blocks emotion. **PZ**: The building must know the ground. Here in Haldenstein, I could see the gravel of the Rhine on the terrain foundations. I could place the building directly into history. **MCD**: It reminds me of a story. Angel, a man who worked for my family once, dreamed there was a treasure in the garden. He dug and found a colonial wall. They covered it again—but the gesture of discovery stayed. **PZ**: I had a similar dream—about color. I knew the painted walls were wrong. Then another Peter came to me and said: *you must do what you feel*. That’s how I found the stain technique. **MCD**: It gives the walls life. Like clay on black or white ground. **PZ**: Exactly. **MCD**: I brought you two gifts. A *paliacate*. I made 100 of them and gave one to every worker, as a bandana, or to wrap on their construction belt if they like to. And a piece of ceramic that I made for my upcoming exhibition on the LA project “Feathered Changes”. **PZ**: Did you ever make mosaics with the colors of stones and things? **MCD**: One day, I want to make mosaics. **PZ**: Maybe we will find a nice occasion. // **Peter Zumthor** is a Swiss [architect](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Architect?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) whose work is frequently described as uncompromising and minimalist. He is the winner of the 2009 Pritzker Prize and 2013 RIBA Royal Gold Medal. --- ### Image: Mariana Castillo Deball and Peter Zumthor, 2026\. Courtesy of the artist *Mariana Castillo Deball is an artist who takes a kaleidoscopic approach to her practice, mediating between science, archaeology, and the visual arts and exploring the way in which these disciplines describe the world.* ### Date with a Plant URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/date-with-a-plant/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:57.000Z To step into the former studio of Josef Sudek is to feel time lose its order. The space is hidden in a backyard in the center of Prague, yet it feels remote, almost detached from the city’s forward motion. The studio is small, domestic, and quietly persistent. It was once a place of work and of living; Sudek shared it with his sister. Today, it functions as a house for artists and their temporary projects. The continuity of this use does not erase the past, but sediments it. The walls hold the residue of years of looking. The windows admit light in a particular way. One is aware, standing there, that photography has always been bound to such ordinary conditions: a room, a window, the angle of morning sun. Sudek’s flower photographs linger in the background of the space not as images to be quoted, but as ways of working: slow, attentive, bound to the repetition of returning to the same motif. In *Date with a Plant*, the artist Radek Brousil returns to the window and to the flower, as a continuation of this quiet persistence. The black surfinia, grown on the artist’s balcony, is photographed over twenty-five hours on a mirror placed on a kitchen table, near the window. Yes, twenty-five. The method is modest, domestic, almost provisional, and still, it challenges the notions through which we account the movements of the universe. What unfolds across the sequence is the slow modulation of light. Morning, afternoon, evening, night: the plant remains; light passes over it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/thumb_5640_exhibition_big.jpeg) Roland Barthes once wrote that every photograph contains a kind of temporal wound, a gentle violence of time, of a *this-has-been*. The surfinia images are saturated with this quiet temporality. Each frame is a small confirmation that a moment has already slipped away. The additional, fictional hour—the twenty-fifth—feels like a hesitation. It is as if the day were asked to linger for a moment longer, not to become something else, but simply to not close when it is expected to close. The difference is minimal, almost tender. The choice of camera registers as a further temporal transgression. The Yashica Samurai Z, produced in 1989, carries with it the sediment of a historical threshold. The year echoes in the work without being explicit: the end of one order, the beginning of another, the sense of standing inside a change whose meaning would only become legible later. In the studio, this historical echo is quiet. It sits alongside Sudek’s own biography—his bodily endurance, his persistence in using a large-format camera, his attention to small, recurring motifs. The exhibition does not stage a confrontation between past and present. It allows them to coexist in the same light. In the back room, once Sudek’s darkroom, two photographs of a rotating Czechoslovak one-crown coin from 1968 introduce another temporal layer. The coin turns, arrested by strobe light, into fragments of movement. The year is present as material, not as narrative. The girl planting a linden sapling on the coin’s reverse returns the viewer, faintly, to the plant in the other room. Barthes speaks of the photograph as a certificate of presence; here, the coin becomes a small, circulating presence of another moment: one that did not complete itself; one that remains suspended between intention and aftermath. The rotation does not resolve in one direction. It circles. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/9B3A9194_60x80_low.jpg) Radek Brousil, *Date with a Plant,* 2026 Throughout the exhibition, the material qualities of photography remain visible. Images printed directly on glass refuse the softness of paper. They reflect the room back at the viewer. One sees the work and one’s own position in front of it at the same time. Looking becomes doubled. The viewer looks at the plant, at the coin, at the light, and then at themselves looking. This reflective surface feels appropriate in a studio that has become a site of return, a place where different photographic temporalities overlap. Sudek’s long attention, Brousil’s twenty-five-hour day, the viewer’s brief visit: each is a different scale of looking, briefly sharing the same space. There is no spectacle here, no insistence on urgency. The exhibition unfolds like a quiet conversation between photography and time, between a living plant and the afterlife of a studio, between the city outside and the slow interiority of the room. If there is a gesture being made, it is small: to stay with what is already here, to let light move, to notice the moment when the day could have ended but did not—if only for the duration of a photograph. The show is on view until March 22, 2026. // --- ### Cover: Radek Brousil, *Date with a Plant,* 2026 *Lilo Ruminawi is a poet, playwright, and film director. She has written and directed the experimental short films La Mancha Viva (2014), Perreo Seco (2017), and the documentary essay El Año sin Árboles (2020). She is currently working on the post-production of her first feature-length fiction film, Tzantza, a retro-futuristic western set in the Salar de Uyuni.* ### The Fog of Full-Scale Conflicts URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-fog-of-full-scale-conflicts/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:55.000Z In *The Art of Describing: Dutch Art in the Seventeenth Century* (1983), Svetlana Alpers proposed a way of thinking about images that felt almost unheard of at the time. While drawing a contrast between Italian Renaissance art and Flemish painting, she argued that Flemish painting tended toward a suspension of a scene instead of privileging grand, mythological narratives. The Flemish image, in her view, does not seek to tell a story so much as to hold a scene in place, to describe rather than to resolve meaning. In this sense, its politics lies in its refusal to narrate or instruct too clearly. Drawing on this art-historical perspective, Chus Martínez has curated Roman Khimei and Yarema Malashchuk’s exhibition *Pedagogies of War*, which opened on March 3 at the Thyssen-Bornemisza National Museum, and organised in collaboration with TBA21\. Khimei and Malashchuk situate their filmic practice within a broader philosophical reflection on war, images, and the ways we learn to see conflict. Martínez connects them and Alpers’ ideas to the thinking of Immanuel Kant and Carl von Clausewitz, who understood war as a practice that is exercised, organized, and sustained by states and institutions. Clausewitz’s distinction between large-scale, spectacular conflict and the long stretches of uncertainty he famously described as the “fog of war” becomes a key lens to understand the exhibition. Although public images tend to privilege the moments of impact and spectacle, much of what defines war happens in this fog—in waiting, anticipation, calculation, and invisible preparation. With this in mind, *Pedagogies of War* asks how images train us to perceive full-scale conflicts, and what kinds of visual practices might resist such training. War is thus framed in the exhibition not only as a geopolitical event but as a perceptual condition. AWC sat down with the curator and the artists to talk about ways of reconstructing memory, sustaining critical thought, and imagining forms of collective life that do not submit to the apparent inevitability of war. **María Inés Plaza Lazo: The exhibition frames war not as an event, but as an operative system that trains us for a certain situation. What curatorial decisions helped you address that systemic violence without turning it into a spectacle?** **Chus Martinez:** By not working with the spectacle of war. For me, it’s an emotional decision because of the work I previously did with Harun Farocki. We did an exhibition together in 2003—I was involved as a friend, not as a curator. He was constantly telling us that we should not replicate images of the world and how important it is not to make us consumers of the suffering of other people. He said that we should understand that images show, but you don’t really see. Seeing is not understanding. You see any number of things, and then you see bombing and you feel that you are at the end of the event, but you’re not. When we were talking together and experimenting—I’ve been working with Roman and Yarema since 2024 for the 36th Ljubljana Biennale—they would only focus on how everyday life has changed through, as well as on gender and class. The exhibition is about this change. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/03-Yarema-Malashchuk-Roman-Khimei-You-Shouldnt-Have-to-See-This-2024--Mathias-Volzke-Web-page-1920.jpg) Roman Khimei, Yarema Malashchuk, *You Shouldn't Have to See This*, 2024\. Video still, 2024\. © Mathias Völzke. Installation view "Animals", Kunstverein Hannover 2025 **MIPL: Roman and Yarema consciously exclude imagery of war without refusing the narrative of it.** **CM:** Yes, they are like Bertolt Brecht. They are in the middle of the war, so avoiding it is not an option—but replicating it isn’t either. In that sense, they are very important for me, because we need a younger generation of people talking about these wars in Palestine, Ukraine— **MIPL:** —the occupation of Venezuela, the massacres in Iran, Rojava… **CM:** …and try to go through art and culture in order to stop its replication. **MIPL:** Roman and Yarema, you seem to film lethargy—until it becomes charged. This atmosphere is palpable in every single work of the exhibition. How do you protect this state of contemplation from an attention economy optimized for shock? **Yarema Malashchuk:** We try to understand what it means to live in a country at war, which is such an extreme environment. For centuries, we have faced many different types of representations of war that have circulated. With this overwhelming surplus of images and the multiplication of representations of war, we decided to shift the representation to the image of representation. We realized that it’s not enough to just document atrocities or what the news has already been focusing on extensively for years. That’s why we used the tool that is closest to reality—the moving image. At the advent of photography, it was meant to be nature representing itself. Then later, Godard considered the moving image to be more truthful than photography. **Roman Khimei:** We decided to turn our camera in different directions, to cultivate—or rather to pay attention to—this state of in between. I call it the in-between: in between the explosions, in between climax events. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/02-Yarema-Malashchuk-and-Roman-Khimei-Open-World-2025-Web-page-1920.jpg) *Open World* explores how children maintain an emotional bond with the homeland they were forced to leave, and how technology reshapes their sense of belonging and resilience. The story follows a boy who fled after the Russian invasion and returns to Ukraine through a robotic dog. / Roman Khimei, Yarema Malashchuk, *Open World*, 2025\. Video still. Courtesy of the artists. **MIPL: Were you able to avoid that by leaving the country?** **YM:** We never left the country. We live in Kyiv. Sometimes we are able to travel though. The government gives us permission to go for a certain amount of time, and we have to come back right after it finishes. It’s a very regulated and complicated process, with dozens of documents to prepare for just a week in Madrid. Since we are not participating in the war directly, we thought to focus on this state between action and non-action, and to focus on the boredom that is being lost—or that feels surreal—when you wake up and go for a coffee in Kyiv after a night of bombardment. **RK:** Then there are thoughts from American cinema theory, film history, and screenwriting discourse. Following Gilles Deleuze, Syd Field suggested that film storytelling shifted toward the non-narrative in the last 30 or 40 years after World War II. Let’s say it was a denial of narrative—a period of denying narrative in cinema. **YM:** Today, this Deleuze–Syd Field period is somewhat forgotten in art and media, which has returned to narrative. **RK:** We often laugh about it. Before the full-scale invasion, Ukrainian art was full of different research topics. And then it was suddenly like we went back 75 years to the horrors of World War II and all this trauma. Ukrainian society, and probably society in general, is overrun with narrative again. **MIPL: Do you think that narration as “productive trauma” is being instrumentalized by everyone and not just Ukrainians?** **RK:** Everyone is using trauma in order to overcome reality. Since the invasion began four years ago, perception has changed, year after year. At the beginning, it was mostly personal reflection. Then it became a more collective reflection on war. Now, I believe many artists are trying to find a personal relation to this state of emergency without direct links to war. I think we now have a better understanding about how art is not politics—it doesn’t simply produce political statements and help the “good cause.” It’s a different practice. It can be implemented on different levels, but it’s not just a tool. I think Ukrainian art is on a good trajectory these days. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/08-We-Didnt-Start-this-War-2026.-Roman-Khimei-Yarema-Malashchuk.-Still-courtesy-of-the-artists.-Web-page-1920.jpg) *We Didn't Start This War* explores the daily realities of life under a state of war and the complex entanglements it creates. The title echoes a mantra invoked by Ukrainians in the wake of the Russian invasion, asserting their refusal of the conflict. The work dwells precisely in this tension, existing on the fine, almost imperceptible line between war and its absence. / Roman Khimei & Yarema Malashchuk, *We Didn't Start This War*, 2026\. Still courtesy of the artists. **MIPL: How do you handle the thin line between peaceful absence and the real physical presence of war?** **RK:** I’ll try to answer with our *Open World* (2025)project. Absence here is about how situations we create deny or support storytelling or the telling of history. *Open World* is, at first, a documentary film with direct storytelling that references Homer’s *Odyssey* and when the protagonist returns home. But from another perspective, it’s just a livestream without a beginning and without an end. When we constructed the situation with the avatar, we turned traditional nostalgia into something absurd. We didn’t invent something unique. It’s a result of global video connection. We all have a global obsession with images, a global livestream condition. The technical reproducibility of images denies traditional storytelling. In this sense, absence is no longer absence. In the context of a livestream, your absence, my absence, Yarik’s absence at home don’t exist anymore. So, the word “absence” has to change. Its connotation has to change—not only in Ukraine, but globally. **MIPL: The same with distance, I guess?** **RK:** Yes. Fundamental terms like absence, resilience, nostalgia—they’ve changed their traditional meanings since the world has changed. It’s a new condition. **YM:** To follow up on your question about not aestheticizing the danger of war: the last work speculates on this danger. The title is *We Didn’t Start This War* (2026). You see three screens of everyday life in Kyiv. Then there is a climax when “danger” arrives, but it’s just an accident on the street. Someone eats a bee or a wasp, something small and banal. The outcome is normal. We play with this perception that Ukraine equals war, Ukraine equals explosions. When you see an artwork from Ukraine, you expect something dramatic to happen. This expectation is didactic. We want to question how to not aestheticize this danger, how to not aestheticize the state of emergency we are living in, and how to free ourselves from that. **MIPL: You confront viewers with that. I wonder how you see the difference between witnessing and consuming images of war today.** **RK:** This is close to Susan Sontag’s thoughts in *Regarding the Pain of Others* (2003). Documentary images are no longer sufficient. At the beginning of photography, the image was enough—you had testimony. But this changed after World War II. Photography now needs context, text. In our installation, the images alone are not sufficient. They look like Google images of sleeping children—not war images, not journalistic or stock images. We create this terrible zone where photography returns to context. **YM:** Photography can’t exist without context anymore, I think. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/01-Yarema-Malashchuk-and-Roman-Khimei-Open-World-2025-Web-page-1920.jpg) Roman Khimei, Yarema Malashchuk, *Open World*, 2025\. Video still. Courtesy of the artists. **MIPL: What does it mean to care for an image today?** **RK:** There is compassion, but also voyeurism. The viewer moves between screens of sleeping children. You feel tenderness, but also discomfort at your own position as a consumer of images. We wanted to create tension between witnessing and relief with an awareness of your role in consuming images. To care for an image means to pass through that discomfort. **MIPL: You ask for care by creating proximity between tenderness and violence.** **RK:** Yes. We don’t have a clear answer. Even Sontag didn’t give one. We can’t limit the circulation of images. We can’t control exposure. Images will continue to be produced. But we have to care about them, and about ourselves, so we don’t turn them into trauma machines. **MIPL: In works like *You Shouldn’t Have to See This* (2024) and *The Wanderer* (2022), imitation and bodily proximity seem to produce knowledge that archives cannot. When you reenacted the postures of fallen soldiers, what did your bodies learn that research couldn’t teach?** RK: This work is often interpreted in very broad ways. Sometimes that turns into tokenization. But the image of the dead body is always complex. The dead soldier doesn’t belong to a country anymore. He’s dead. He becomes a body in nature and is no longer ideology. This idea is already present in Goya and post-World War II reflections. War is not only about winners and losers, but about suffering. **MIPL: Goya’s *Black Paintings* are just across the street. There is a vis-à-vis between *The Wanderer* and the collection at the Prado.** **YM:** Yes, I went from the *Black Paintings* directly to the exhibition. We wanted to confront the Western romantic view of war. Early on, we felt that the West framed the war as a conflict between two equal sides that should “just stop fighting.” Ukrainians experienced this as deeply problematic. There was even a theatrical piece in Germany with Ukrainian and Russian flags holding hands. This kind of gesture suggests moral superiority: forgiving the aggressor. We turned this into an absurd idea—posing ourselves as dead Russian soldiers on Ukrainian soil. It’s a parody of Western intellectual reflection on aggressors and victims. **RK:** We turn the camera back on ourselves. We don’t invent something new. This is connected to Russian necropolitics—the romanticization of the soldier as something disposable. We reenact it ourselves instead of outsourcing this reflection from others. **YM:** There’s a superstition: you shouldn’t pretend to be dead. Only actors can play dead. **CM:** I think this is very similar to Sharon Lockhart’s suspension of action. When you suspend action, then you start doing portraiture. Of course, the Prado is full of political artists like Velázquez and Goya. Velázquez was obsessed with sending you to places to see that are very difficult to interpret—hiding the queen and the king so that you actually don’t know what you are looking at. In that sense, *Open World*, which TBA21 commissioned, and these “meninas of love” in *You Shouldn’t Have to See This* are in the same philosophical line. We talked a lot about that, and I was telling them that, for me as a Spaniard, it would be really amazing to close that circle—and that it could happen in the travel between both places. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/04-Yarema-Malashchuk-Roman-Khimei-You-Shouldnt-Have-to-See-This-2024--Mathias-Volzke-Web-page-1920.jpg) *You Shouldn't Have to See This* portrays Ukrainian children who were abducted into Russian territory but later returned. Their sleeping figures evoke tenderness and discomfort simultaneously—the act of watching implicates the viewer. It is estimated that between 20,000 and over a million children have been abducted since 2014\. This video makes a war crime that demands witnesses be visible. / Roman Khimei, Yarema Malashchuk, *You Shouldn't Have to See This*, 2024\. Video still, 2024\. © Mathias Völzke. Installation view "Animals", Kunstverein Hannover 2025 **MIPL: You don’t only close it, you also expand it by going from suspension to mediation to pedagogy. By naming the exhibition *Pedagogies of War*, where does mediation end and where does pedagogy begin?** **CM:** The sentence is inspired by Brecht, who was very clear that you don’t learn facts from war. What you learn is the radical transformation of conditions. Brecht said there is a difference between things you experience firsthand and things you experience through art. He says: Things experienced firsthand should be avoided. You shouldn’t be a soldier. But art can sublimate that experience and give it to you as a reason to avoid it. Everyone thinks that war and defense are the only options right now. Historically, it seems that everyone thinks war is unavoidable—but this is very bad thinking. War is something we can avoid. It is a practice, as Kant said. And if it is a practice, it means you can avoid it. There are ways of never going there. But there are people who want to go there—it’s their intention. With this in mind, the pedagogy has to do with creating a non-violent society. The possibility of learning from the moment when everything is suspended and from when the radicality of violence reaches its peak level—you should understand that going there is not an option. **MIPL: My question also relates specifically to** [**the mediation guide**](https://tba21.org/Pedagogiesofwarexhibitionguide?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **the museum offers. How did you reach the decision to have that set of questions, which also look like a pedagogical exercise?** **CM:** We started this at the Biennial in Ljubljana, where we gave questions to the audience. We increasingly want to activate this. Many people come to our exhibitions for many different reasons and some people go home and talk about the exhibition. In case that doesn’t happen, we provide a series of materials that may guide a conversation with your children, your partners, or your friends. **MIPL: Why?** **CM:** Because we need to come back to artworks—not only to visit and consume and “get it.” You know the popular expression: “Oh, I’m going to go to an exhibition, I hope I get it.” Well, it’s not about getting anything. We are not providers. We are in an osmotic relationship. You may come ten times, and every time you realize something different about yourself, your life, the world, or the museum… **MIPL: You mentioned Farocki and Svetlana Alpers as two candles for your curatorial thinking about this exhibition. What viewing behavior do you hope to cultivate throughout the exhibition rooms?** **CM:** I would like to remind people that we are in a tradition, and this tradition is our community. When we talk about community-making, it’s not only people, but also those situations and events that are very important in marking who we are as a society. I think it’s politically important to remember who we are, the type of productions that come out of our institutions, and then situate ourselves there. We should stop finding enemies and antagonisms in culture, and try to be very generous to everyone, no matter the ideology. It is fundamental now. I insist that this is a moment to be together. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/07-Roman-Khimei-Yarema-Malashchuk-The-Wanderer-2022.-Installation-view-Ecologies-of-Peace-II-C3A.-Photo_-Imagen-Subliminal-Web-page-1920.jpg) Roman Khimei, Yarema Malashchuk, *The Wanderer*, 2022\. Installation view, Ecologies of Peace II, C3A. Photo: Imagen Subliminal **MIPL: Memory and solidarity entail a bit more generosity than we see these days within the cultural sphere, but also with Fernand Braudel’s notion of the longue durée.** **CM:** Yeah, it’s so important. Look twenty years back, and twenty years ahead. We are losing that sense, and we shouldn’t be. **MIPL: How do you decide when an image has lasted long enough to shift from passive looking into embodied witnessing?** **CM:** I don’t know. I think I do curatorial meditation. I sit many, many times in a room and ask myself: what do I remember? When did I see it? What did it mean to me? And then I try to connect it. This is something I ask of everyone. I want us to remember and to connect. For example, when I was reading Svetlana Alpers, I was thinking about the videos of Manon de Boer, who is Belgian. She was suspending the image. Then I thought about Sharon Lockhart, *Pine Flat,* portraying children. Then I thought about Rineke Dijkstra and Jérôme Bel portraying children. Then I thought about Velázquez portraying children. I try to trace roots of the same type of observation that artists have done on our behalf. What are we observing when we observe a child? Are we observing something almost mythological, representing a time in the past in biology—what it could become or not become, a promise that may or may not be realized? All these questions matter. I think we should really reclaim these conversations and this complexity. Otherwise, we go into moral schemes where we just blame others, and we want images to be good images or bad images, in the hands of good people or bad people, to portray good things or bad things. I don’t think like that. I think we should move out of that moral quest and into something complex that starts to produce a net—a safety net—that really helps us to contest what’s going on. We don’t want what’s happening now. We don’t want that type of society or war. We are not oriented toward destruction. **MIPL: What does this curatorial mediation reveal to you that the intensity of the world currently hides?** **CM:** Right now, I am speechless because I have no idea whether we are at the beginning of a total disaster, and what that would mean, or just another disastrous episode of an “anecdotal” war with major destruction. But people are still not waking up. I think we really need to reinstate conversations about what we want. Culture is great for that. You’re not going to do that in the office. **MIPL: Would you say that this exhibition, or making exhibitions like this, is a resistance to war propaganda—or does this also take the risk of normalizing the intolerable?** **CM:** I think art is resistance, per se. It doesn’t need to take only one particular form to be resistance. **MIPL: If this peaceful resistance is framed as a collective condition, how can it move beyond a symbolic gesture?** **RK:** We are not refusing to depict war. We are refusing to depict war as it is. We don’t contradict documentary practices like Mstyslav Chernov’s *20 Days in Mariupol* or Robert Capa’s proximity ethics. It’s just a different image practice. We not only want to leave homogeneous documentation behind, but also documented complexity. **YM:** We don’t claim this is the right way to represent war. It’s just our way, in a war that is already over-documented. We step aside—not as a moral stance, but as another perspective. // --- ### Cover Image: *The Wanderer* was created weeks after Russia's invasion of Ukraine. Malashchuk and Khimei reframe fallen Russian occupiers through the lens of Caspar David Friedrich's romantic painting, critiquing the sublimation of death and colonial gazing. Referencing Fast Reaction Group's 1994 series, Malashchuk and Khimei challenge Western perspectives on the war while naming Russia's presence as a colonial occupation. / Roman Khimei, Yarema Malashchuk, *The Wanderer*, 2022\. Video still. Courtesy of the artists. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Transitional Justice with Artists URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/transitional-justice-with-artists/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:54.000Z **Arts of the Working Class**, together with **Framer Framed** and **AFIELD**, launches the *Transitional Justice with Artists* (TJA) Grant, distributing six grants of €10,000 and awarding a six-month fellowship to practicing artists, cultural practitioners or key members of initiatives addressing legacies of injustice and violence. **OPEN CALL | CLOSING 2 MAY 2026** **To the open call, visit** [**afield.org** ](https://afield.org/tja-2026-open-call/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *The Transitional Justice with Artists* programme supports Europe-based practitioners and the communities they serve who have endured severe human rights violations. It honours the lived experience of victims and survivors, recognising the complexity of their roles and upholding their dignity, while pursuing acknowledgement and redress for the harms suffered, whether through historical legacies or ongoing violations. Transitional justice is traditionally viewed through the lens of legal and institutional frameworks designed to address human rights violations in the wake of conflict or repression. However, early advocates like South African constitutional judge Albie Sachs recognised the limits of this approach. As a key figure in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, established following apartheid to investigate human rights violations and promote national healing, Sachs realised that legal tools alone cannot bridge the gap between formal proceedings and the lived needs of survivors seeking accountability and a nation in need of healing. He argued that culture, including poetry, cinema, theater, and music, is essential for imagining a new society. By confronting traumatic histories and preserving memory, artistic practices foster a form of restoration and repair that the law cannot achieve. **To address these failures, the three international cultural platforms AFIELD, Arts of the Working Class and Framer Framed launch the *Transitional Justice with Artists* (TJA) Grant.** **The programme is distributing six grants of €10,000 and awarding a six-month fellowship – which includes a residency in Amsterdam, publishing activities, and regular, thematic meetings online – to practicing artists, cultural practitioners or key members of initiatives addressing legacies of injustice and violence.** While TJA draws on the foundational framework of legal scholar Ruti Teitel, who defines transitional justice as the "full range of diverse processes and mechanisms used by a society to address massive past abuses," the programme recognises that the global discourse is evolving. Practices are expanding as communities take on the role of active witnesses, collating documentation and evidence of harms as they are being enacted, and there has been an expansion of the "justice imagination", a term that refers to our collective capacity to envision more ambitious forms of repair and accountability. Within a European context, whose global entanglements are currently marked by multiple and overlapping crises, ranging from rising nationalism and democratic backsliding to climate-induced displacement and systemic discrimination, the limitations of purely judicial efforts are clear. This disparity is felt deeply by victims of war, but also within societies grappling with the enduring legacies of colonialism, environmental injustice, and other forms of systemic abuse. \* **AFIELD**is an international network of cultural changemakers anchored in the fundamental belief that artists are essential to the fabric of society, as thinkers, visionaries, and changemakers. By providing the resources and support, AFIELD believes in their ability to lead meaningful change in their communities and society as a whole. **Framer Framed**is an Amsterdam-based platform for contemporary art, visual culture, and critical theory and practice. With the belief that critical and contextualised programming is best explored with an open door and low threshold, Framer Framed’s exhibitions and public programmes are always free of charge and resources are made readily available to emerging and established local and transnational communities, artists and curators to turn their own ideas into tangible realities. // Transitional Justice with Artists is co-funded by the European Union ![](https://storage.mlcdn.com/account_image/17408/hvYStfES9Zdd9xiXZbw096Lm9zaSCRKhX7JkseMb.png) Graphic by Sarp Sozdinler ### Are You Cold? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/are-you-cold/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:52.000Z Why does mass violence barely disrupt everyday life in Europe? As atrocities unfold in Gaza, and Europe’s border regime continues to produce mass death in the Mediterranean, Henrike Kohpeiß’s *Bourgeois Coldness* arrives to assist in answering this question. Published in 2025 by Divided Publishing, in an English translation by Grace Nissan, the book diagnoses how European societies have developed a “bourgeois coldness.” This affective regime is understood not as the absence of feeling, but as an emotional technology that allows mass death to be processed without fundamentally disturbing the social order, or the self-image of those within it. Think of it as “air conditioning,” Kohpeiß explains. “A complex system that keeps the inside cool and comfortable, while outside, it is burning.” The book draws on two intellectual traditions that share a common interest in how historical catastrophes shape human consciousness: the Frankfurt School of critical theory, which grew out of reflections on the Holocaust and fascism, and Black studies, which centers the experience of slavery and its afterlives. By bringing these into direct dialogue, including ideas of thinkers such as Saidiya Hartman, Fred Moten, and Denise Ferreira da Silva, Kohpeiß attempts to address one of the Frankfurt School’s major grey areas, its neglect of colonialism and chattel slavery as constitutive of European modernity, and to develop a more encompassing ontology. She borrows the term “bourgeois coldness” from Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer, who used it to describe the emotional indifference produced under capitalism, emphasizing self-interest above all else. Kohpeiß takes the concept much further: for her, “bourgeois” does not refer simply to a class position but to an attachment to Enlightenment rationality, morality, and legal institutions. This allows her to show how coldness operates as a broad affective habit across European societies, binding together those who have internalized this affect, while othering those who do not. Dense in references and built up through conceptual and poetical relations rather than linear connections, *Bourgeois Coldness* is organized into three sections named after bodies of water: the Aegean, the Mediterranean, and the Atlantic, each serving as a geographical site as well as a symbolic anchor to trace how European identity has been shaped through colonial history. The main image is that of disposability rhymes across myth and history: racialized bodies surrendered to the sea. These are crew members sacrificed so that Odysseus might gain knowledge, enslaved Africans lost to the Middle Passage, and migrants drowned by the externalization of Europe's borders into the Mediterranean. The book argues that bourgeois coldness creates a series of reflecting surfaces, like the sea, on which the image and interiority of the European subject can mirror itself without going uncomfortably deep. Operating as a genealogy of the bourgeois subject, the Aegean section opens with Kohpeiß’s reading of the famous episode in Homer’s Odyssey, where Odysseus ties himself to the mast to hear the Sirens’ perilous song. Gifted with cunning intelligence, Odysseus hears the music but is not endangered by it. He protects himself by controlling his own exposure to experience. He feels the music but remains safe from it, while his crew, with ears plugged, feels nothing at all. Odysseus is then seen as the prototype for subjects who gain self-knowledge by maintaining distance from what threatens them, all at the cost of the experience of those around him. Beginning with this reading of the myth, Kohpeiß identifies three interlocking mechanisms that produce and maintain bourgeois subjectivity: self-criticism, bureaucracy, and self-possession. These conspire to neutralize ethical responsibility. Self-criticism turns moral energy inward, toward personal refinement rather than structural change; bureaucracy dissolves accountability by converting human suffering into procedure. The Enlightenment notion of the self as property—which historically enabled the dispossession of enslaved Africans—constitutes the European subject through exclusion, not merely coeval with it. Together, these mechanisms form a closed loop: a subject that constantly reassures itself of its own moral standing, that absorbs ethical challenges by directing them inward, and that reproduces the conditions of colonial violence precisely through the habits it mistakes for conscience. Coldness is the emotional temperature this loop requires and produces, not numbness, but a consciously regulated distance that keeps the self aloof while others drown. Moving to events closer to the present, the Mediterranean section delivers one of the book’s sharpest insights: empathy, compassion, and humanitarianism are not the opposite of coldness but one of its forms. The empathy felt toward refugees drowning at sea arrives as a warming device: it soothes the moral position of those who feel it without touching the structures that produce the drowning. Kohpeiß reads the case of Carola Rackete, the sea captain who defied Italian authorities to bring rescued migrants to shore, with characteristic precision. She does not dismiss Rackete’s courage, but asks what her intervention leaves intact: a moral framework in which Europeans can affirm their own goodness through humanitarian feeling while the policies and institutions that fill the sea with bodies go unquestioned. The accumulation of goodwill surrounding the Mediterranean generates a dynamic of constant mutual moral confirmation and results in a collective affect of self-affirming warmth. It keeps the emotional temperature comfortable on the inside. The Atlantic section—the book’s most philosophically ambitious—turns to Black thinkers to sketch a different conception of subjectivity and sociality. The contrast to the bourgeois project becomes explicit. Bourgeois selfhood is self-sealing: it defines, preserves, and improves itself at the expense of the collective while striving toward completion. Blackness, in Moten’s framework, operates on entirely different terms. “Blackness” appears as a word that constantly extends its meaning, holds and moves through “irreducible difference,” and pushes for another, unknown material reality. Rather than a project of self-completion, it is what Édouard Glissant calls “consent not to be a single being”—a refusal to be bounded, definable, and self-possessing. This is not a lack or a wound but a mode of being that colonial reason cannot capture—precisely because it refuses to present itself for capture. Open-ended and relational, it refuses in ways the bourgeois subject cannot access or understand. It is not cold, but as Moten describes, “cool like jazz.” The book examines the clash between the Frankfurt School and Black intellectual traditions by highlighting the case of Hannah Arendt to illustrate what happens when this bourgeois blindness meets a concrete historical moment. When nine Black children integrated into a high school in Little Rock, Arkansas, amid violent white resistance in 1957, Arendt published an essay that stunned many readers. Rather than reckoning with the lived experience of racism, she analyzed whether desegregation was strategically sound, denying the children their experience and their agency. Kohpeiß argues this is not a personal failing but a structural one: Arendt’s commitment to her own intelligence fails to acknowledge its own limitations and makes it impossible to recognize forms of knowledge that fall outside of the European Enlightenment notion of rational categories. This becomes especially clear in her reading of a photograph of Elizabeth Eckford, one of the nine students walking toward the school surrounded by police and a jeering white crowd. Arendt sees only a scared child sent to martyrdom by inconsiderate Black parents. But Eckford’s composed, distant appearance is not reflective of passivity. It is, in Moten’s terms, a “nonperformance, which bears the story, the ongoing history, of an already existing alternative.” She refuses to be legible on bourgeois terms. And it is precisely that refusal which Arendt’s analysis cannot see, exposing the blindness and intrinsic anti-blackness at the heart of bourgeois clarity. **How do you feel now?** It’s chilling to read *Bourgeois Coldness* during a time of genocides. In the book’s introduction, Kohpeiß places Gaza within the same historical lineage as the catastrophes that shaped modernity: possible, then as now, because of coldness. Coldness explains why violence against racialized bodies does not alarm those who don't experience it directly, and why those within the bourgeois order assume it will never reach them. The ongoing destruction of Gaza has been filmed, streamed, posted, and documented in real time, yet European governments have predominantly continued their diplomatic, economic, and military relationships of support with Israel largely unchanged. The “good ones” appealed to international law to hold their governments accountable—falling into exactly the trap Kohpeiß identifies: confusing legality with legitimacy. Less edifyingly, others demanded that Palestinians perform an idealized form of victimhood before extending them basic human recognition, refusing to acknowledge their right to resist an almost century-long occupation. Far-right parties have entered or approached power across the European continent, fed largely by racism and border militarization. The EU's border regime has tightened further in response. The machinery of coldness is not malfunctioning. It is working exactly as designed. By showing that coldness is not a natural state but a technology produced and reproduced by habits, institutions, and cultural norms, Kohpeiß opens new avenues for understanding why legal reform and moral education often fail to dislodge complicity with racial and colonial violence. The book’s most pressing practical questions—such as which relationships should be developed within and towards bourgeois institutions, law, and self-criticism to move beyond coldness—are deliberately left open. Kohpeiß’s reluctance to prescribe is philosophically defensible, and her essayistic style, moving between theoretical analysis, political commentary, and something closer to philosophical poetry, rewards patient reading. *Bourgeois Coldness* does not always make its path clear, and one might say that it is better at diagnosing the cold than at pointing toward its relief. But maybe that’s what Kohpeiß is asking of the reader: to shut off the thermostat and start to feel like burning. // --- ### Image Book cover, Henrike Kohpeiß (trans. Grace Nissan), Bourgeois Coldness, Divided Publishing 2025 *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Feather changes URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/feathered-changes/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:51.000Z For the first time, AWC devotes an issue to the visual and editorial logic of a single artist, inaugurating a new cycle with an issue called “Synthetics”, in collaboration with Mi Valedor, the street newspaper of Mexico City. Mariana Castillo Deball’s work embodies forms of synthesis in her weaving of myth, history, material, and ecology, creating forms that inhabit the world while allowing it to shift and find resonance. Her works trace relations between human and nonhuman life forms, incorporating ancestral knowledge and contemporary experience, as they move across pages, streets, and cities. Castillo Deball’s works evoke the story of The Tower of Babel, which in Hebrew mythology is symbolic of confusion and in Arabic evokes disorder and multiplicity. The Tower of Babel represents at once architecture and language, a project of impossible knowledge whose ruin leaves traces across a polyphony of tongues and forms. Mariana echoes this unsettled complexity, composing fragments that gather, unfold, and multiply, inviting us to navigate geographies of emergence, uncertainty, and fecundity. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSCF2927.png) Mariana Castillo Deball, Feathered Changes, 2026\. Installation view, detail, and documentation of on-site work at LACMA Five years ago, I learned of how Mariana had translated the French economist Thomas Piketty’s statistics on wealth inequality and extreme poverty from his book *Capital in the Twenty-First Century* into a marbled plaster wall for the lobby of an insurance company. An incandescent red pattern crossed the surface, turning abstracted economic data into a sensuous, almost living presence. Later, I invited her to enter a quiet conversation for the issue of AWC we made for the German Pavilion at the Venice Biennale for Architecture, known as “The New Serenity”, which imagined architecture as prophecy. Mariana’s piece effortlessly invoked the agency of material itself, its ability to record, conceal, and transform information. The forms of Mesoamerican deities also feature in Mariana’s work, as she connects the outlines of ancestral myth to contemporary life. The figure of the Aztec goddess Coatlicue, for example, resonates beyond the page, shaping a sensibility in which death and survival, absence and presence, become inseparable. She produces paper to then destroy it and reshape it again, always to depict Coatlicue’s spirit. This transformation suggests that value accrues through perception, memory, and collective imagination much as it is fragmented and rebuilt in the form of the goddess, emulating the transgression from information to manifestation. In our pages, that plaster is turned into a space where social, historical, and aesthetic concerns intersect. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSCF2848.png) Mariana Castillo Deball, Feathered Changes, 2026\. Installation view, detail, and documentation of on-site work at LACMA This sensibility finds another expression in the everyday objects that populate the bustling streets and social layers of London. Ceramics, combs, and amulets discarded long ago carry traces of a mode of life that persists beneath the city’s surface, fossilized yet animated. In *Roman Rubbish*, a commission for Bloomberg Space, Mariana excavated these objects from the Thames, reassembling them into columns, wax panels, and installations that make visible the harmonies of daily existence and the persistence of memory. Each column tells a different story: one addresses the accumulated fragments of archaeological practice, another of vessels that marked domestic life, yet another centers the charms and personal objects that once sat close to the body. Mariana turns these remnants into a language of memory and presence, inviting viewers to encounter the traces of lives long passed while reflecting on what survives and what is lost. The sensibility that guides Mariana’s interest in deities and ancestors extends to the nonhuman beings that share our cities. For the Triennial of Bruges in 2024, she collaborated with local beekeepers and the collective Bisou to create a ceramic landscape in which humans, bees, and plants coexist. Drawing from anthropic forms of hive-making, the structures allow the bees space to move and thrive while guiding humans along paths that reveal a delicate choreography of care and attention. This project resonates with her observations in Los Angeles, where her attention turned to native animal traces, left as they navigate the city’s ecology in the midst of human activity. In both cases, Mariana shapes environments that honor coexistence, making visible patterns of life and interdependence that are often obscure. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSCF2826.png) Mariana Castillo Deball, Feathered Changes, 2026\. Installation view, detail, and documentation of on-site work at LACMA Walking through the town, *I followed a pattern on the pavement that became the magnified silhouette of a woman's profile* (2021) traces the profiles of a woman whose remains were discovered locally. Archaeological replicas are embedded along the walk, appearing partially visible and partially hidden, inviting discovery and reflection. The project exemplifies Mariana’s approach to public space, in which each city becomes a living archive. She gathers the traces of history, landscape, and daily life, allowing them to engage forms and questions that are specific to each location. The work is attentive to the rhythms of the place and its inhabitants, creating interventions that are neither imposed nor generic. Across the paths she constructs, the city itself becomes a participant, its histories, stories, and textures shaping an intimate yet expansive experience. These animating threads converge in *Feathered Changes*, which wraps the exterior of LACMA in undulating patterns that bear the presence of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent and cosmic matron of the arts of Aztec myth, as well as the depth of a zen garden. Animal traces of a bear, a wolf, a racoon, a bison, a beaver, a road runner, and a snake from California move across the 220,000 square feet, marking space and time and drawing attention to the entanglement of human and nonhuman life, as well as to the historical and ongoing transformations of the territory presently known as the United States. This work responds to Peter Zumthor’s architecture, which turns concrete into a reflective landscape where myth, memory, and the rhythms of the world are seen to be inseparable. Quetzalcoatl’s fragments appear as guide and witness, connecting ancestral knowledge to the present and to the forces of displacement, labor, care, and survival that shape our lives. // --- ### Cover image: Mariana Castillo Deball, Feathered Changes, 2026\. Installation view, detail, and documentation of on-site work at LACMA *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### An Antiracist Struggle Day URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/hannau-antiracist-struggle-day/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:49.000Z In February 2020, an armed man attacked two bars in Hanau, killing nine people: Gökhan Gültekin, Sedat Gürbüz, Said Nesar Hashemi, Mercedes Kierpacz, Hamza Kurtović, Vili Viorel Păun, Fatih Saraçoğlu, Ferhat Unvar, and Kaloyan Velkov. Seven more people were injured. The massacre was not a random act of violence but a targeted racist attack on brown people, motivated by xenophobic hate. The murderer was moved by far-right extremism, fueled by misogyny, eugenicist beliefs, and the AfD’s anti-immigrant views. Six years later, anti-Muslim and Islamophobic harassment proliferates in German society; police budgets expand while cultural integration funds are cut, surveillance intensifies through racial profiling, and "security" rhetorics justify state violence against marginalized communities. It is clear that Germany's self-proclaimed “remembrance culture” is not willing to acknowledge its selective and exclusive policies: it offers commemoration only to those who fit the state narrative, suppressing forms of remembrance that create discomfort or dissent. This year, Migrantifa has initiated an Alliance Against Racism Action Day, modeled on March 8 and May 1, to mark Hanau's sixth anniversary. Through a series of events extending the demonstration's demands for state accountability and justice, they transform commemoration into an ongoing struggle. **What inspired you to create a recurring Action Day around Hanau's anniversary?** The racist attack in Hanau in 2020 was the founding moment of Migrantifa Berlin. Many of us became politicized through the grief and helplessness we felt during that time. This year’s motto of the Action Day, “As long as we breathe, we fight”, pretty much sums up why we take to the streets every year on this day. There is no alternative for us. If we want to live, we have to fight. And we are fighting to prevent another Hanau. As long as any of us still breathe, we will fight for our lives, for the legacy of those we’ve lost, for those of us still to come. **Who participates in this alliance?** This is the third year of organizing said day. As Migrantifa Berlin, we are leading the organization of the Antiracist Struggle Day in Berlin, our city. In an alliance with other Migrantifa groups from Basel, Cologne, Nuremberg, Gottingen, and the Rhein-Main area, we are calling for an international Antiracist Struggle Day (Antirassistischer Kampftag). Showing unity beyond the cities we live in is important to us, which is why we hang the same posters across our streets, announce the same call for the demonstration and deliver the same speech in every city that participates. Organizing such big demonstrations each year is a lot of work. We welcome groups in other cities to join and organize demonstrations for the cause in their regions. We collaborate with other local groups to support us with technical and safety concerns during the demonstration, and of course, to spread the word on social media and in the city. We invite groups to speak at the demonstrations and to share their struggle and anger. But we also organize events leading up to February 19th. For example, we organized a screening of the documentary Das deutsche Volk together with the Communist Youth League (Kommunistischer Jugendbund). **What happens during this day?** At [6 PM at Leopoldplatz in Berlin Wedding](https://www.instagram.com/p/DT3QRShCGs7/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), we begin with a rally to remember the murdered people of Hanau, and all the names that are added annually to the list of victims of far-right aggression and police violence. There will be speeches, live music, and a place to lay down flowers. For us, commemorating and mourning as a community is a political act in itself, but it is equally important to transform this mourning into anger and to bring this anger to the streets. This is why the last, and maybe most powerful, part of the day is the demonstration, where we take to the streets loudly and show resistance. This February 19th is during Ramadan, which is why we invite everyone to share iftar with us at 5.30 pm on Leopoldplatz. We will serve çay and dates. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/image00006.jpeg) Fig.1 **How should action challenge anti-immigration politics and the state's role in creating the conditions that led to Hanau?** The reason why Hanau marks such an important day for us is because it shows the complicity of the state in this racist attack: how the murderer was a known Nazi, how the emergency door of the shisha bar was locked because of the recurring raids, the emergency calls that were not answered, and how some of the police forces were later revealed to be in fascist chat groups. These are only a few of the many examples of the overarching “failure” by the police that night. But we actually don’t like to call it a failure, because Hanau was not a coincidence; it is the product of a racist system working just like it should. With our action, we keep calling out this system and refuse to stay silent, and we also keep building a community that shows solidarity, where we can rely on each other, instead of calling the police when problems occur. **How has the awareness around Hanau changed over the past six years?** We see a lot of politicians and other liberal forces trying to hijack the story by leaving out the role of the police or framing it as an isolated killing of a psychopath. In recent years, some of the families of the victims spoke up in anger, calling out that even now, there is still no real justice. For example, [Emiş Gürbüz, the mother of Sedat, spoke during an official remembrance event last year](https://www.theguardian.com/world/commentisfree/2025/mar/05/be-grateful-youre-still-here-germanys-rebuke-of-a-grieving-mother-exposes-its-deepening-anti-immigrant-mood?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) in front of Federal President Frank-Walter Steinmeier and the mayor of Hanau, Claus Kaminsky. She called out the complicity of the city of Hanau and rejected the plans for the memorial. The survivors and families of the victims wanted the memorial to be located at the marketplace, but the city denied this and placed it somewhere else. After the speech, she was called out in an official press statement by Hanau’s government, accused of being disrespectful to the other families of the victims. It is quite revealing but comes as no surprise to us that politicians neglect the demands of the families of the victims, and when accountability is asked from them, they deflect and defame. Unfortunately, this hasn’t been a topic of discussion among the public. Our goal is to change that. **What needs to be done to reject the state's portrayal of Hanau as an isolated incident? Do you connect the murders of Hanau to wider patterns of institutional racism, police ties to the far-right, and state negligence?** By embedding Hanau into a broader analysis of state oppression, far-right violence, and racism, we are connecting different struggles rather than isolating them. For us, Hanau is inseparable from the [police killing of Lorenz A. in Oldenburg ](https://www.cbsnews.com/news/germany-police-shooting-black-man-protests-lorenz-a-oldenburg/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)last year, the militarization, the rise of authoritarian forces in Germany, and the repression of protest and freedom of speech. We are fighting against racism in Germany as migrants, but are equally supporting the struggles of the diaspora of the people in Palestine, Sudan, Iran, Kurdistan, and many other places. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/image00005.jpeg) Fig.2 **Do you link the Hanau massacre to today's criminalization of Palestine solidarity, the silencing of dissident voices, and Germany's supplying of weapons for the genocide in Gaza?** It is crucial to us to make these links visible. For example, this year, the demonstration is happening in Wedding for the first time. It is a known workers' neighborhood and home to many migrants. Recently, a weapons factory belonging to [Rheinmetall](https://www.dw.com/en/germany-rheinmetall-opens-new-artillery-ammunition-factory/a-73785438?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) has been reactivated there, supplying ammunition for the wars killing our people all over the world. We don’t criticize the workers who provide their labor in the factories. We want to make visible how armament and special budgets for the military here affect the ongoing genocide and killing, while the military budget is taken from our taxes, health, and education system. Those who protest against Rheinmetall and military budgets are confronted with police violence or are being shut down, while the shareholders are counting their profits. **Can Hanau become a sustained organizing focus rather than just one day of remembrance? Can protests build enough political power to force real change in how Germany confronts racism?** To mourn the dead means to stand for the ones who are alive. With the demonstration, we want to breach the oppressive status quo and demand a better life for all. We depart from the streets, where our voices can be heard by many. We are joining our anger and strength by showing up for each other and in solidarity with all oppressed people worldwide. We honor the legacy of struggle that came before us, and which resonates across history, for example, International Women’s Day on March 8th or Labor Day on May 1st. We believe that commemoration and mobilization in joint resistance can cause real change. That is why we established the Antiracist Struggle Day. **Lastly, what advice would you give to those starting to organize against violence, racism, and militarization?** We can only fight for the revolution as a collective. Especially nowadays, with rising authoritarian forces, it might feel scary to get active and show resistance. This debilitating feeling causes separation and is part of the oppression of the state. We can only overcome this together. So join a movement and get organized! Every person affected by racism is welcome to join our monthly Wilkommenscafé at Rote Lilly in Neukölln every last Wednesday of each month at 7 PM. We invite you to learn more about our work and to join Migrantifa Berlin. No prior knowledge is required! // *After the racist attack in Hanau on February 19th 2020,* [Migrantifa Berlin ](https://www.instagram.com/migrantifa%5Fberlin?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*was established as an antiracist and anticapitalistic structure. Since then, the group has offered its radical left perspective to discourses around migration and class struggle in Germany through organizing demonstrations or events such as discussions or fundraisers at Rote Lilly, the group’s space in Neukölln. Recent subjects of their political actions have been social cuts, the racist framing of Neukölln in German media and politics, the repression of protest in solidarity with Palestine, and resistance to militarization. This year, for the third time, Migrantifa Berlin is calling for an Antiracist Struggle Day on February 19th.* --- ### Images Cover, Fig.1/2: Hanau is überall demo 2025, Photos by Joschi Wolf *DMT is a street poet and sworded knight.* ### Synthetics URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/arts-of-the-working-class-40/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:06:32.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-40](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-40?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- Our new editorial cycle, Transformers, begins from the reckoning that transformation in the arts has never been linear. For us at AWC, it flourishes in repetition, meandering, and the subtle work of what often goes unnoticed. Rather than asking what is new, Transformers—not the 2007 blockbuster, but the era it anticipated, a spectacle of war, digitalization, and profit—attends to what has been quietly shifting as new configurations of power, labor, and life crystallize. The unfolding chronicle of atrocities revealed in the Jeffrey Epstein files exposes how greed underwrites tribalism, and how the dismantling of an already iniquitous globalism has been further engineered to concentrate wealth in the hands of the fewest of the few. *Synthetics*, die erste Ausgabe des Jahres 2026, entfaltet sich in einer aktuellen und schonungslosen Realität. Sie ist darauf ausgelegt, das zu imitieren, zu verbessern oder zu ersetzen, was kostspielig, knapp oder politisch unbequem ist. Die hier versammelten Kapitel sind ein Placebo für eine halluzinatorische Realität, die sich als einzig Mögliche aufdrängt. Composites eröffnet mit materiellen und epistemischen Verschiebungen: einem Glossar, das sich der Normativität verweigert, und einem Prolog zu Feathered Changes von Mariana Castillo Deball, in dem Wissen in geschichteten, fragmentierten und neu zusammengesetzten Formen existiert. Feedback Loops zeichnet Zirkulationen und Reibungen nach – Poesie von der Straße, Gespräche über Drogensucht, Briefe aus dem Gefängnis, Kämpfen gegen Landnahme und das Beharren auf ein selbstbestimmtes Leben. Interfaces inszenieren Kontaktzonen zwischen Körpern, Systemen und Logistiken, von Manifesten und Betteln als Form bis hin zu infrastrukturellen Bildern und der Stimme des Bodens selbst. Assemblies versammelt geheime Akte der Fürsorge, koloniales Gedächtnis, Spaziergänge für Gerechtigkeit, Verherrlichung und Risiko: Atem, Mut, Orchideen, Lust. Afterimages verweilt bei Fürsorge als Fragebogen, bei Geschmack und Radio als Gegenmittel zu KI-Slop und bei einem Epilog, der das Laster als Stillleben arrangiert, statt es aufzulösen. A través de contribuciones de nuestra comunidad del periódico callejero y el de la Ciudad de México, Mi Valedor, los materiales cambian de estado, los significados migran entre contextos y las voces pasan de un cuerpo a otro. La transformación emerge entre personas, objetos e historias. Sin embargo, en el sistema del arte la transformación rara vez es generosa: lo que se presenta como progreso suele ser impuesto, desigual y violentamente extraído de quienes no tienen poder para resistir. Afrontar la magnitud de esta desilusión implica nombrar a los arquitectos del control, a los cuerpos que cargan con la pérdida y a los mundos reconfigurados a su paso. Este número es un regalo: una redistribución del riesgo, el trabajo y la vulnerabilidad. Te invitamos a tomarlo, a transformarte y a transformar el mundo que te rodea. With artworks by Mariana Castillo Deball and contributions by Shane Anderson, Erin Lee Holland, Alina Kolar, Dalia Maini, Maga Miranda, María Inés Plaza Lazo, Cristina Pérez, Anahita Razmi, Fabiola Rayas, María Luisa Romero, Lilo Ruminawi, Liv Schulman, Peter Zumthor, Rico Zyrano, Transformella, LA Poverty Department, Habersaathstrasse Residents. **IMPRINT** **Founder / Publisher / Editor at Large** María Inés Plaza Lazo (Verantwortliche i.S.d. §18 Abs. 2 MStV) **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Associate Editor** Maria Portilla Acevedo / Mi Valedor **Copyediting** William Kherbek Staeff Guenther **Management Lead** Lubi Barre **Distribution Lead / Management Assistance** Hannah Lu Verse **Layout / Design** Studio Manuel Raeder (Cecilia Murgia, Andrew J. Beltran, Manuel Raeder) **FONTS used in AOWC ISSUE 40** Seliosby Mariana Castillo DeballKaleidoscopic Eyeby Mariana Castillo DeballPaolozziby Mariana Castillo DeballPlaetzeby Raoul GottschlingPirelliby Jung-Lee Type FoundryHAL Timezoneby HAL Type Foundry **Volunteers** Cora Pagano, Nicole Yildirim, Lisa Schmidt-Herzog, Lily May Hardie **Print** Die Rheinpfalz Verlag und Druckerei GmbH & Co. KG Oggersheim Printing Center Distribution of printed products Flomersheimer Str. 2 - 4 67071 Ludwigshafen-Oggersheim Alle Anfragen an die Verlagsadresse Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Schillerpromenade 10, 12049 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org Donate via Paypal: p@artsoftheworkingclass.org --- ## In this issue - [Feather changes](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/feathered-changes/) - [When the Ground Speaks Volumes](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/when-the-ground-speaks-volumes/) - [Orquídeas, riesgos y placer](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/orquideas-riesgos-y-placer/) - [Formal Economy: The beggar](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/formal-economy-1/) - [Care Questionnaire](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/care-questionnaire/) ### Fried poetry URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/fried-poetry/ Last updated: 2026-09-10T17:56:06.000Z DIRECTED BY RON ALLEN FRIED POETRY director Ron Allen says: "An addiction is anything that keeps you from expanding and experiencing your deeper self." Not limited to drug and alcohol addiction, FRIED POETRY, explores individual and societal addictions wherever we might find them, including those well-known killer addictions to fossil fuels, shopping, and military might. FRIED POETRY is a skilletful of individual and group spoken word pieces and music. **HISTORY NOTES** History Notes from the past. Talking about misplaced knowledge. Knowledge all of you should know. Portugal went to Africa as enemies. Then as friends. Then as manipulators. Then with the greed of her land Touching the greed of our chiefton. Our leaders. Our fathers. Our protectors. From a greed within, they sold us into a life of bondage. The bondage of chains ships and whips. The bondage of the mind. Taking us to the Islands and breaking our spirits. Making us meek, humble and afraid. Breaking up thought of ancient African Kingdoms. They broke our spirits and we toil the soil. We toil under the field of madness, the harvest of sadness. States United for inhumanity. History notes from the past. Talking about misplaced knowledge. Knowledge all of you should know. History notes about the Emancipation Proclamation. 1863. The Buffalo solider fought so you could be free. April 8, 1965 Lee surrender to Grant. Five days later they assassinated Lincoln. Reconstruction came and went. The south made a deal with the north and we had codes. We had Black Codes and a new type of bondage. History notes from the past. Talking about misplaced knowledge. Knowledge all of you should know. Listen to the sound of the drumbeats. \[Drum solo\] The drums are sounding. They're sounding through the jungle. Sounding for you. Sounding for me. Sounding for unity. Sounding for you to put the pieces together. Listen to the voices of W.E.B. Du Bois, George Jackson and David Walker. The voices of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King. The voices of peace. The voices of freedom are sounding. You better listen. *\-Melvin Ishmael Johnson* **Pay Me, or Pay Me No Attention** Bewilders wild chile With a whole lotta style You talk b My hair was always free Dyed layer to the side Pain, that's what I was running from The substance, the whatever, the addiction Became a runner, always on a mission Hey, I got used to a certain condition Addicted to more than just alcohol, smoke, or the dope I was even addicted to a false sense of hope Constantly changing clothes so you can't see the pain I'm in trouble deep down inside Trapped, just can't cope with bondage inside I was living a real big fat lie Not willing to work at trying to live No, that's too much work And you say there's nowhere for me I can run to Living a real big lie too afraid to live Too afraid, too coward, just gave up, don't want to try On the wall, police drive outside on the wall There I go, acting like it's legal Oh, I know, I'll get high Too afraid to die "Hey girl, don't you have children? Go call them!" No, I don't want to try, I'll just abandon them for this drug I think I am giving to myself this image I have portrayed I'm not willing to die *\-Sashae Siatui* **Drinkin'** Hypnotic, robotic, walk in a trance Hennessey you see is me Indeed Corona, 211, eight ball in my head Jim? Joey? Cisco, let's go! Dreamin' about it Got to have it Go down smooth Night Train callin' Silk Satin crawlin' under my skin I love you I suck on you all the daylong Remy Martin, Alice-Cobra Magnum strong Start to stumblin' keeps me fumblin' for some more change Liquor store tryin' to close Reachin' for the Vodka Margarita, my tequila I can't live withoutcha *\-Pam Walls* **SUBWAY SURFING** WALT WHITMAN SAID IT, "I DIDN'T KNOW HOW MUCH BEAUTY I HAD INSIDE ME." \--TIL I CRIED CRIED FROM JOY. NOW, I'VE GOT SO MUCH TO DO I DON'T FEEL A THING. I GOT TO BREATHE DOWN INTO MY BELLY. WHEN MY HEAD WAS BIG AS A BASKETBALL FULL OF TOXICITY, I KNEW HOW TO DO IT. BREATHE IT DOWN MY SPINE ---> LET IT FILL MY WHOLE BODY. FEEL THAT PAIN LIKE A FLOWER! LIKE THE FLOWER IT IS. I AM BEAUTIFUL WHEN I BREATTHE INTO THAT PAIN AND IT ROLLS ROARS LIKE A WAVE: BREAKS, TURNS ITSELF INSIDE OUT: WHITE FOAM. THE LAST WILL BE FIRST THE FIRST WILL BE LAST. IF YOU DON'T SIT UP RIGHT YOU CAN'T BREATHE TO YOUR BELLY THE ENERGY GETS STOPPED. WHEN YOU'RE IN HARMONY ALL THE EMOTIONS ARE RIGHT TOGETHER PACKED TIGHT LIKE SARDINES IN AN ELEVATOR ON THE SUBWAY. SUBWAY SURFING READY TO MOVE ANY DIRECTION. SADNESS TOUCHING FEAR FEAR RUBBING UP AGAINST EXSTASY WEEP FOR JOY. OK NOW; HERE'S HOW YOU DO IT. SUBWAY SURFING. LET'S GO. GET ON THE TRAIN, BROOKLYN BOUND D OR B. GET ON AT HOUSTON -BROADWAY SECOND AVENUE OR DELANCY. "NEXT STOP EAST BROADWAY CHINATOWN". THEN THE MANHATTAN BRIDGE TO "HIGH STREET BROOKLYN" THE F TRAIN AND THE A GO UNDERGROUND THROUGH THE TUNNEL TO BROOKLYN. BUT THE B AND THE D TAKE THE BRIDGE. IT'S MALIBU, THE BIG ISLAND I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT MANHATTAN BEACH. BEST PLACE IN THE WORLD FOR SUBWAY SURFING. THE TRAIN PULL OUT DELANCY GET FRONT OF THE FRONT CAR. RIGHT BEHIND THE POLE. HANG ON LIKE EVERYONE NORMAL WITH ANY SENSE. THEN LET GO. LOOK MOM NO HANDS. TRAIN EMERGING FROM UNDERGROUND VIBRATION, GYRATION ME UPRIGHT RIDIN THAT WAVE. WHOLE TRAIN FLOOR MY BOOGIE BOARD ARMS OUT FOR BALANCE HAWAIIAN SHIRT FLAPPIN LEAN IN LIST-IN RESPONDING WHOLE BODY LISTENING, RIDIN THAT WAVE. SUN RISING OVER BROOKLYN. HOME OF WALT WHITMAN CARPENTER JOURNALIST PUBLISHER POET SURFING ENDLESS WAVE TO HIGH STREET I ARRIVE BROOKLN RIDIN THE CURL, SPRAY IN MY HAIR "I DIDN'T KNOW HOW MUCH BEAUTY I AM." NEXT STOP: BODY ELECTRIC *\-John Malpede* **Spirit of Recovery** Spirit of Recovery, Spirit of Recovery, Spirit of Recovery What are you doing on the ground, human Ain't nothing on the ground, man its going to kill you Hay rock what are you doing to the American People Making us unhappy, in the name of Jesus go You cause me sickness and pain Heartache The way you think, no good, you're not welcome Satan you want my mind, well you not going To get it There's something about our life We will move Forward as Respectable people In prayer we as people will prevail PRAYER PRAYER PRAYER People The Rock has no home with us You mean that Little tiny No good For Nothing Guest What You are not going to have Nothing Quit playing with your life in God created All things, not Satan Satan, But God *\-Howard L. Young, Jr.* **"YOU, THE FLOWER AND THE GARDEN"** I am here because you brought me here. I am the flower that you planted in your garden, in your man made garden. Look around you men. See? your sister, daughter, girlfriend and mom. See? the birth, beauty, nurture and warmth. See? the sweat, the iron, the soap, the recipe. See? the second hand citizen, salaries and status lower than yours. See? the shoving around, her weakness, violence upon her, the drugs placed between her mouth and her children, the punishment. She doesn't want to be like you, all she wants is for you to remember the flower in the garden, the flower that lives inside of you; to nourish it, to make sure it grows and blossoms and inspire beauty: the beauty of taking care of each other, you, the flower and the garden. *\-Ibrahim Saba* **Excess** This world needs to recover from TV's, toys, jeans, trousers TV junky, new couch junky, I-pod junky, junk food, car junk Junk, junk, junk, junk Things! all the colors, tastes and smells too many choices: cereals, food, medicine Stop producing, start living! too much sugar, coffee, tea and oil West can't live without goods from East Now West is feasting No feast for East, no goodness Enough IS enough Stop this NOISE! Beyond the horizon is up to us Stop extracting, start giving! Stop producing, start living! Clean up Water, air, earth, Governments! Listen up here are the experts we have taken too much cause we got too little! We are outside And fight the fight We know what it takes Recovery, Change! *\-Henriette Brouwers* **Addiction** Why why why Addiction has been with me a long time I keep doing the same things, going nowhere I seem to do the same game to myself, why These street drugs will bring you down I know there is No Future in ANY ADDICTION Why Do I repeat the same street Picture it bringing sickness, pain A person who holds a pipe, or a needle Is going to self-destruct What up with that Going to jail, behind a street drug, slowly dying sad It ain't no fun sleeping on the ground Ain't no fun being dirt, not taking a shower Ain't it a shame Ain't it a shame man, ain't it a shame. *\-Howard L. Young, Jr.* **Freedom from Self** The truth is mankind is obsessed with self. Self centered, self-obsessed, selfish, selfish and selfish. All we think about most of the time is: Me, me, me, me, me, good old me, no, no, no, me, me, me. Obsessed how we look. Obsessed how we sound. Obsessed how we smell. Obsessed how successful we are. Obsessed with what we have accomplished. Consumed by thoughts of yesterday, today and tomorrow. All we think about is good old me, good old me. Freedom occurs when one divorces oneself from self. When one sacrifices self and thinks about others. Mankind you are not created to be served but to serve. The more you serve the freer you will be from self. As they say, you must die in order to live. Freedom does not occur free, So be humble thy self, and serve others, and you will surely be free. *\-Aklilu Kahsai* **I Skinned My Thumb** I pick the skin around my thumbs I do I do it I do it frequently actually I cannot seem to stop this picking It's turned to obsession Resolutions expire year after year How much time would I free with control of this fixation? I am sitting there calmly, not reading, just sitting When suddenly I notice it reaching My index finger starts to rub as if thinking It goes deeper, this finger, as it starts to focus The spot it has claimed has ridges, loose edges, something untidy And I've got to clear this unseemly completely This picking creates a rhythm, which slowly takes over Rip, pick, small tear, 5, 10, 15 minutes, an hour I do not care who sees me I am alive with this burning need to make clean I wish I could pick at strings on a banjo And simple melodies strum Quiet evenings on a park bench marking the twilight With chords E flat C major and D Floating with a firefly's yellow engine Into nearly evening But I circle and I circle and these circles grow wider I travel up and down my ever-lastin' thumb Tender, pink skin bleeds as I worry it round For a moment I am remorseful as I stand sucking What, oh what, have I gone and done? I miss the world around me, the palm trees and the Sundays I promise myself that once I've reclaimed virgin territory I can rest easy, relaxed, and hang up my picks and pulls And clip my nails serenely The scenery hovers, coming gently into focus Tall oaks and baby-blue sky Drift magnolia smells towards me This awakens the spirit of my world warrior Who fights battles in the world outside her My problems become much less magnified I will sit and I might ponder or I might let time pass idly by Magenta toes just painted reflect purple sunsets Crickets chitter and nightingales call I can feel the light descending As I mark the days close with a burst of language And pluck the stars appearing one by one *\-Melina Bielefelt* **I feel** I am very pleased with my life as I speak But when I speak! I know there are places I sometimes wonder I am a tree that feels the wind As a tree I would help people stay warm If they don't cut me down I will help save the ozone I am the water that runs down the Mountaintop, in which I move through cracks Making my way through Life I, we are, so blessed to be alive I am the land, you can see so far away The wonderful creation of God I often say to my self, there is a voice That is inside of me, saying Believe in me, I feel so good that I am able to stand Clear of all Earthly matter. \-Howard L. Young, Jr. **IN** I HEAR WORDS I COVER WITH FAT I HEAR HATE I COVER WITH FAT I COVER WITH FAT, MORE FAT I GRAB, THEN GRAB, SLAG, THEN GRAB THOUGHT AGAIN, THEN GRAB, WAIT AGAIN, THEN GRAB FULL A LITTLE, EMPTY, THEN GRAB GRAB TO GRIN GRAB TO GRIND GRABBED TO LEARN HOW TO GIVE GRABBED TO EAT THE LIES GRABBED TO FEEL ATE GRABBED TO FEEL INATE PLAIN FACED I BREAK UP AND SIT DRAGGED AND DRAGGED IT IS DEBATE AND I EAT AGAIN *\-Patricia Smith* **Audience Comment:** If our society's policy isn't based on how do you deal with someone you care about who's taking drugs, then our drug policy is a how to deal with people you don't care about, and probably about how to deal with people you hate, you demonize, you're willing to put in jail, you're willing to shoot and everything else. And that's why we have the drug policy that looks like the one we do, right? And that's a serious problem. **LAPD** 's mission is to create performance work that connects lived experience to the social forces that shape the lives and communities of people living in poverty. LAPD has for years worked with drug recovery programs in Los Angeles and other cities in the US (including Miami, Detroit and Cleveland). In 2001 LAPD initiated its "Agents & Assets" project, which specifically looks at drug policy and the effects of drug policy on individuals and communities in the US and throughout the world. **FRIED POETRY** is a skilletful of individual and group spoken word pieces and music. Los Angeles Poverty Department’s **FRIED POETRY** project (2006) is made possible with the support of SRO Housing Inc., the National Endowment for the Arts, the City of Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs and the Los Angeles County Arts Commission. http://lapovertydept.org --- ### Image Fried Poetry crew: Aklilu Kahsai, Charles Jackson, Alexander the Poet, Henriëtte Brouwers, Ron Allen, Sashae Siatui Zackery, KevinMichael Key, Howard Young, Tony Parker, Kareem Muhammad, Rickey Mantley, Melvin Johnson, Ibrahim Saba. ### Kunst als Klassenfrage URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/kunst-als-klassenfrage/ Last updated: 2026-09-10T17:57:08.000Z Was heißt revolutionäre Kunst unter gegenwärtigen Bedingungen? Diese Frage stand im Zentrum eines Treffens von rund dreißig Kunstschaffenden am Vorabend der [Rosa-Luxemburg-Konferenz in Berlin](https://www.jungewelt.de/rlk/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Diskutiert wurde nicht abstrakt über Stil oder Geschmack, sondern über Funktion und Positionierung: Ist revolutionäre Kunst Kunst aus der Klasse, Kunst für die Klasse – oder beides? Welche Funktion hat Kunst im bürgerlichen Staat? Wie lässt sich Parteilichkeit entwickeln, ohne in Dogmatismus oder nostalgische Rückgriffe zu verfallen? Die Dringlichkeit dieser Fragen ergibt sich aus den gesellschaftlichen Verhältnissen selbst. Während wir die größten Angriffe auf die arbeitende Klasse seit Jahrzehnten erleben müssen, Deutschland sich kriegstüchtig rüstet, demokratische Rechte eingeschränkt und staatsräsonale Argumentationen verschärft werden, wird auch der kulturelle Raum neu geordnet. Kunst bleibt davon nicht unberührt. Dieser Auftakt zur Selbstorganisation fiel nicht vom Himmel. In den letzten Jahren entstanden Initiativen wie das Rote Atelier (zeitgenössische Gestaltung für und aus der Bewegung), Nous – konfrontative Literatur (Literatur mit Klassenstandpunkt), KunstKlasse (sozialistisches Kulturkollektiv aus Gießen), das Palestine Film Institute (Förderung und Bewahrung palästinensischen Kinos) und die Roten Kulturtage in Zürich (Festival für Arbeiter\*innenkultur). Parallel dazu werden vereinzelte Stimmen revolutionär bewusster Kunstschaffender lauter, wie beispielsweise im Artikel Für eine neue revolutionäre Kunst zu lesen ist. (nd, 06.01.2026) und eine junge Generation von Künstler\*innen beginnt sich wieder gewerkschaftlich zu organisieren. Vor diesem Hintergrund war die Zeit reif für eine engere Zusammenarbeit und eine gemeinsame inhaltliche Ausrichtung. Aus dem Treffen wurde ein Vorbereitungskomitee gebildet. Seine Aufgabe ist die Organisation eines Kongresses, der die hier angeschnittenen Fragen vertieft, die verschiedenen Stränge einer neuen Kulturbewegung zusammenführt und zur Gründung eines neuen Bundes revolutionärer Kunstschaffender führen soll. Damit knüpfen die Beteiligten an eine lange Tradition linker Kunstpraxis an – eine Tradition, deren organisierte Strukturen über Jahrzehnte bekämpft, zerschlagen und entpolitisiert wurden. **Revolutionäre (Kunst-)Geschichte** Viele Debatten, die wir heute führen und führen müssen, wurden bereits in den historischen Organisationen revolutionärer Künstler\*innen geführt. Eine neue revolutionäre Kunst muss sich also ihrer Tradition bewusst werden – nicht aus Nostalgie, sondern um Erkenntnisse der Arbeiter\*innenkulturbewegung in die Gegenwart zu übersetzen und anzuwenden. Historische Beispiele aus dem deutschsprachigen Raum reichen von der Assoziation revolutionärer bildender Künstlerinnen (ARBKD/Asso), der Prometheus Film GmbH und dem Bund proletarisch-revolutionärer Schriftstellerinnen (BPRS/Bund) in der Weimarer Republik über die organisierten Agitprop-Truppen der Arbeiterinnenbewegung, die DDR-Kulturpolitik und den Bitterfelder Weg ab 1959 bis hin zur Vereinigung sozialistischer Kulturschaffender (VSK) in den 1970ern und gewerkschaftlicher Kulturarbeit von den 1980ern bis 2000ern. Der BPRS verstand Literatur nie als reines Sprachspiel, sondern als Waffe im Klassenkampf. Debatten in der Zeitschrift Linkskurve kreisten um konkrete Vermittlung und die Anwendung des historischen Materialismus auf die Literatur. Seine Mitglieder\*innen stellten einen Schulterschluss zwischen den schreibenden Arbeiter\*innen und den revolutionären Schriftsteller\*innen dar. Ohne die bereits im Vorhinein existierende Arbeiterkorrespondenzbewegung, in der bereits über 1000 schreibende Arbeiter\*innen involviert waren, wäre die Gründung des BPRS wohl kaum möglich gewesen. Gemeinsam kämpften sie für eine Literatur, die nicht \*über\* die Klasse, sondern aus ihrer Lage und \*für\* ein revolutionäres, kommunistisches Bewusstsein sprach. Die Praxis reicht weiter von Lesungen und Massenkritiken über Bücher-Festivals bis zur ästhetischen und handwerklichen Schulung von Arbeiter\*innen-Schriftsteller\*innen. Die Geschichte des BPRS zeigt: Revolutionäre Kunst entsteht nicht im luftleeren Raum, sondern organisch in Verbindung mit politischen Kräften. Heute, ohne eine vergleichbare Massenpartei, muss ein neuer Bund den Raum für eine proletarische Gegenkultur schaffen und zugleich an der Debatte über den Wiederaufbau revolutionärer politischer Strukturen und Partei mitwirken. **Wer ist dieses Proletariat?** Die heutige Arbeiter\*innenklasse umfasst alle, die ihre Arbeitskraft verkaufen müssen: körperlich, intellektuell, kreativ, emotional oder digital. Diese Klassenlage vereint prekäre Gig-Arbeiter\*innen, befristete Wissenschaftler\*innen, Clickworker und solo-selbstständige Künstler\*innen. Die Klasse ist divers, global und fragmentiert, umfasst unterschiedliche Milieus, Geschlechter, ethnische Herkünfte, sexuelle Orientierungen, Altersgruppen und soziale Hintergründe. **Kunst im Dienst der bürgerlicher Moral** Kunstproduktion – wie in jedem Lebensbereich – gibt es in dieser Gesellschaft nur unter der Verwertungslogik, sowohl im freien Markt als auch in der staatlichen Förderlandschaft. Künstler\*innen unterliegen dabei dem inneren Zwang zur Selbstvermarktung und zur Identitätsbildung als “Marke”. Nur wenige können sich darin einrichten – jene, die ihr Schaffen gewinnbringend zu Markte tragen können. Die große Mehrheit der Künstler\*innen ist jedoch proletarisiert, auf einen Neben- oder Hauptjob angewiesen, oder prekarisiert und schlägt sich als Freiberufler\*innen mit künstlerischen und nicht-künstlerischen Tätigkeiten durch. Beiden Gruppen fehlt die materielle Grundlage für eine nachhaltige künstlerische Praxis. Sie entgehen dem Verwertungszwang genauso wenig wie die Subkultur und Off-Szene, sondern fungieren als Reservearmee der kulturellen Innovation – in der Hoffnung, irgendwann an der Verwertung beteiligt zu sein. Entweder dient Kunst direkt der Staatsräson oder sie erscheint kritisch gegenüber dem Kulturbetrieb. Ihre Funktion in dieser Gesellschaft ist häufig nicht die offene Propaganda, sondern ein subtiles System zur Reproduktion der herrschenden Ideologie und zur Verwaltung von Widerspruch. Auf der gleichen Bühne können kommunistische, linksliberale und konservative Künstler\*innen stehen – scheinbar pluralistisch, tatsächlich integrativ. Wird sie ernsthaft wirksam – etwa durch Infragestellung von Eigentumsverhältnissen – erfolgt Repression: Mittelkürzungen, Ausschluss aus Distributionswegen, kuratorische Blockaden oder Polizeimaßnahmen. Graffiti illustriert dies eindrücklich: Wo es als Kunst anerkannt wird, wird es integriert; andernfalls kriminalisiert. Die grundlegende materialistische Bedingung heutiger Kunstproduktion lautet daher: im und gegen den Repressionsapparat zugleich arbeiten zu müssen. Eine marxistische Kritik muss über die reine Feststellung dieser beiden zentralen Widersprüche hinausgehen und aus ihnen Strategie, Taktik, künstlerische Praxis und Ästhetik ableiten. Wie es der wichtige Brecht Text »Fünf Schwierigkeiten beim Schreiben der Wahrheit« (1934) für die spezifische Situation in Hitlerdeutschland vorgemacht hat. **Drei Grundsätze für einen neuen Bund** **1\. Organisieren statt vereinzeln** Das Vorbereitungskollektiv sucht und verbindet vereinzelte Künstler\*innen mit revolutionärem Bewusstsein, bestehende Kollektive und Orte der Arbeiter\*innenkultur. Wo gemeinsame Praxis fehlt, wird sie aufgebaut: durch gegenseitige Einladungen zu Ausstellungen, Lesungen und Veranstaltungen an Orten institutioneller Durchlässigkeit und dort, wo unsere Klasse lebt, arbeitet und kämpft. Nur kollektives Tun und gegenseitige Kritik steigern Qualität, entwickeln Fragestellungen und legen den Grundstein für eine Gegenkultur. **2\. Partei ergreifen** Revolutionäre Kunst darf sich nicht in der Darstellung erschöpfen. Sie muss sich aktiv in Kämpfe einbringen und sich gegen die herrschende Staatsräson und ihre kulturpolitischen Hegemonie stellen – gegen Aufrüstung, Sozialabbau, Völkermord, imperialistische Aggression und für den Sozialismus an der Seite streikender Arbeiter\*innen. Wo Institutionen und Gewerkschaftspitzen schweigen, muss Kunst für Unterdrückte Partei ergreifen. Diese Kämpfe sind Schauplätze, an denen sich entscheidet, ob Kunst Teil widerständiger Gegenkultur ist oder im Chor der Herrschenden mitsingt. **3\. Ästhetik entwickeln** Ein neuer Bund muss die spezifischen Bedingungen der Kunstproduktion heute und die Gesetze der verschiedenen Kunstformen und Medien analysieren, um Kriterien für revolutionäre Kunst zu erarbeiten. Dafür braucht es eine zeitgemäße Ästhetik, die Kunst nicht als reine Ideen- oder Formproduktion versteht, sondern als Teil gesellschaftlicher Stoffwechselprozesse. Ein Diskurs, der fünfzig Jahre vernachlässigt wurde, lässt sich nicht an einem Abend führen. Das Vorbereitungskomitee wird die begonnenen Diskussion weiterführen, publizieren und einen Kongress vorbereiten, der die hier angeschnittenen Themen vertieft. Eine neue Kulturbewegung entsteht aber nicht im Kopf einiger weniger. Sie wächst aus der gemeinsamen Praxis. Daher richten wir einen ausdrücklichen Aufruf: Singt gemeinsam. Schreibt Gedichte. Organisiert Ausstellungen. Bildet Kulturstammtische mit Genoss\*innen. Tauscht euch aus, diskutiert, vernetzt euch – erprobt Wege zu einem neuen Bund. **Für aktuelle Informationen und neues zum Kongress, schreibt uns an:** revolutionaerekunst@systemli.org Nach wie vor Gilt was im Manifest der Asso Geschrieben steht: *\[Künstler\*innen\], euer Elend wurzelt in denselben Ursachen wie die des Proletariats. Die Künstler haben, gleich der Arbeiterschaft, nichts zu verlieren als ihre Ketten, aber eine ganze Welt zu gewinnen!* --- ### Image Group exhibition "Wir sehen Rot". Credits: Pascal Kuba Koston ### Bitte die Geister abschalten URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bitte-die-geister-abschalten/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:48.000Z NTS Radio ist ein globales Projekt mit sechs Millionen Hörer\*innen pro Monat und 600 Sendungen aus sechzig Städten weltweit. Auf eine Weise ist NTS ein zeitgenössisches Phänomen, weil es Funktionen anderer Streaming-Plattformen und sozialer Medien integriert. Und doch erinnert NTS an eine Zeit vor der Verflachung der Kultur, als wir uns Leuten anvertrauten, die ihrer Leidenschaft folgten. Hier eine Argumentation, warum *NTS* und Geschmack in Zeiten von KI-Slop so wichtig sind. **Nicht heute, Satan** *Wie es ist, NTS zu nutzen* Es war der Morgen der Rapture und ich fuhr gerade auf der Autobahn, während die *Early Bird Show* auf NTS lief. Bitter Babe war als Gast-DJane eingeladen und spielte Hildur Guðnadóttirs Elevation; ein langes, unheilvolles Cellostück, dessen dröhnendes Glissando fast wie die Ankündigung des Weltuntergangs klang. Und doch fühlte sich die gleißende Sonne auf der Autobahn keineswegs wie das Ende der Welt an, ebenso wenig wie die rot leuchtenden Bäume an diesem klaren Herbstmorgen. Als der Track zu Ende war, meldete sich Bitter Babes verschlafene Stimme: „Für diese Sendung habe ich mich von Carl Jungs Buch *Der Mensch und seine Symbole* inspirieren lassen.“ Sie lud die Hörer\*innen ein, ihre Träume im Chat zu teilen. Und als ich die Ausfahrt nahm, musste ich plötzlich an das AM-Talkradio denken, wo Anrufer\*innen von Jesus und der Erlösung schwärmen. Ich parkte am Schwimmbad hinter der Müllverbrennungsanlage der Stadt Wuppertal. Während ich meine Bahnen zog, wanderten meine Gedanken zurück zur Einladung. Wovon träumt man\*, wenn alles bald vorbei ist? Als ich wieder im Auto saß, schaltete ich das Radio ein und Bitter Babe spielte Asa-Chang & Junrays Hana, einen atemberaubenden, zersplitterten Track, den ich in der NTS-App gespeichert hatte. Dann öffnete ich den NTS Discord, wo sich Bobby D, eleen, jambéi, Moanerette, Neko und Teaspoons Galore locker über Nikola Tesla, Albträume und Buchempfehlungen zum Thema luzides Träumen unterhielten. Bitter Babe schrieb: „Das Einzige, was ich über meinen Traum letzte Nacht sagen kann, ist, dass ich nicht empfehlen kann, nach dem Anhören eines Podcasts über Kannibalismus einzuschlafen.“ Ich musste lachen. Auch weil die *RaptureTok* offensichtlich ein Scherz war. Das war nicht die Apokalypse. Es war nur ein weiterer Tag der Offenbarungen auf NTS. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/NTS_Booth_Tirzah-Mica-Levi-Et-Al.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/NTS_Booth_Laurel-Halo-1.jpg) Fig.1/2 **Nuts To Soup** *Eine Fallstudie zur Geschmacksbildung (von A bis Z)* Auf der Heimfahrt kam mir plötzlich der Gedanke, dass es vor zwanzig Jahren undenkbar gewesen wäre, seine Zeit fast ausschließlich einer „Plattform“ zu widmen, die nur zwei Live-Sender und ein Archiv vergangener Sendungen bietet. Im Zeitalter von Napster und LimeWire klang die Vorstellung, die Musik der Welt an einem einzigen digitalen Ort zu versammeln, wie ein mythisches El Dorado, ein gelobtes Land unendlicher Entdeckungen. Dieser Traum des Internets der Nullerjahre ist längst Realität geworden, Streaming-Plattformen bieten wirklich fast alles, was man sich vorstellen kann. Doch genau das macht die Auswahl zur Qual: unübersichtlich, schwer zu navigieren, unmöglich zu überblicken. NTS anzuhören fühlt sich dagegen menschlich und lebendig an. Spotify kommt mir manchmal vor wie der Einkauf in einem riesigen Supermarkt in einem fremden Land: Ich stehe vor zwölf Ketchup- und zwanzig Senfsorten und muss mich bei jedem Produkt auf meiner Liste zwingen, eine Entscheidung zu treffen. Das Versprechen grenzenloser Auswahl endet oft in Lähmung. Schon das Wort „Streaming“ klingt, als würde man ziel- und willenlos einen Fluss hinab treiben. Wenn ich an meinen Morgen mit Bitter Babe auf NTS zurückdenke, bin ich beeindruckt von den musikalischen Herausforderungen, vor die sie mich stellte und von meiner Freude, sie auf dieser Reise zu begleiten. Es fühlte sich an, als würde ich in eine Welt eingeführt, die ich von selbst vielleicht nie betreten hätte. Nichts bestimmte die Richtung. Ich war stattdessen eingeladen, Teil dieser Welt zu sein. Und irgendwie bin ich nach diesem Gefühl süchtig geworden. Ich bin total fasziniert von Sendungen wie „Dimension Door“, die Dungeon Synth spielen – ein Subgenre und Mix aus Black Metal und elektronischer Musik, das mir bis dahin völlig unbekannt war. Der Moderator William Dickson erklärte, dass die Sendung als Begleitung für Dungeons & Dragons-Sessions gedacht ist und auch wenn ich kein Dungeon-Master bin, würfle ich während des Zuhörens gedanklich mit einem D20. Wahrscheinlich bin ich mit dieser Begeisterung nicht alleine, auch wenn andere Hörer\*innen vielleicht andere Sender lieben. Heute ist NTS ein globales Projekt mit sechs Millionen monatlichen Hörer\*innen. Rund um die Uhr werden 600 Sendungen aus Studios in London, Manchester und Los Angeles sowie aus sechzig Städten weltweit ausgestrahlt. Hier findet man\* Mikro-Genres des Ambient, Techno, Dub, Metal, Rock – und alles, was man\* sich sonst so vorstellen kann. Alle Sendungen werden von DJs ausgewählt oder vom NTS-Team kuratiert. „NTS Guide To“ und „In Focus“ widmen sich Cowpunk und Breakcore oder spüren früheren Veröffentlichungen von Death Grips, SOPHIE und Burial nach. Solche Sendungen sind kein Zufallsprodukt. Wie Katherine Rye Jewell in *Live from the Underground: A History of College Radio* (2023) zeigt, entstanden in den USA College-Radiosender, die diverse Gemeinschaften vernetzten und den kulturellen Pluralismus des Landes widerspiegelten. In Großbritannien gingen Piratensender wie *Radio Caroline* und die *Dread Broadcasting Corporation* illegal auf Sendung. Sie wollten Subkulturen eine Stimme geben, die der Mainstream ignorierte. *Radio Caroline* spielte aus internationalen Gewässern die Beatles und die Rolling Stones und prägte so die Popkultur nachhaltig. Die DBC wiederum brachte Reggae, Soul und Funk ins Programm. Wie der Journalist Lloyd Bradley es ausdrückt: „Ohne DBC gäbe es keine Dancehall-basierten schwarze Piratensender; ohne Dancehall basierte schwarze Piratensender keine Entwicklung und Verbreitung von Jungle, Grime und Dubstep; ohne Jungle, Grime und Dubstep kein Radio 1Xtra; und ohne Radio 1Xtra wäre selbstdefinierte Black Music heute kein selbstverständlicher Teil der britischen Mainstream-Kultur.“ ### Es ist einfacher Werbung zu vermarkten und zu schalten, wenn die Sendung ein klares Profil hat. Aber das bedeutet, dass man keinen Verrückten ins Studio lassen und einfach sagen kann: ‚Mach, was du willst.‘ **– Femi Adeyemi** Für mich fühlt sich NTS an wie das uneheliche Kind von College-Radio und den Piratensendern. Es ist frei in der Form und informativ, wie die amerikanische Version, schafft aber gleichzeitig einen kulturellen Raum außerhalb der Mainstream-Kultur, wie die britische Version. Und doch wird NTS stärker kuratiert, während es gleichzeitig frei in der Form bleibt. Der Gründer von NTS, Femi Adeyemi, erzählte mir, dass bei NTS zu Beginn im Jahr 2011 „alles gespielt wurde. Alles. Manches war ziemlich schwer zugänglich, aber das machte die einzigartige Ästhetik aus. Es gab nichts Vergleichbares.“ NTS findet Anklang bei den Menschen, weil die Moderator\*innen, anders als in klassischen Radioprogrammen, nicht nur Musik spielen, sondern ihre persönliche Begeisterung und ihren individuellen Geschmack teilen. „Es gibt einen Grund, warum die meisten Sender generische Playlists haben oder die gleiche Art von Musik spielen“, sagt Adeyemi. „Es ist einfacher, Werbung zu vermarkten und zu schalten, wenn die Sendung ein klares Profil hat. Aber das bedeutet, dass man\* keinen Verrückten ins Studio lassen und einfach sagen kann: ‚Mach, was du willst.‘ Man\* verliert Werbekunden, verstößt gegen Vorschriften, oder wird von einer Aufsichtsbehörde mit einer Geldstrafe belegt.“ Aber genau dieses Risiko ist der springende Punkt. NTS schreibt den DJs nicht vor, was sie spielen sollen. Die Moderator\*innen können alles streamen, von Dungeon Synth bis hin zu türkischer Musik aus den 70er Jahren. Sie können ihre Communities oder ihre eigenen Tracks vorstellen oder sogar von einem Boot vor der Insel Santa Catalina streamen und frei über Wind und Wetter sprechen. Sie können zeigen, wer sie sind und was ihnen wichtig ist. „Das ist viel mehr als nur Radio“, betont Adeyemi. „Unsere Mission ist es, gut für die Musik zu sein. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-12-17-at-17.52.03.png) Fig.3 **Nie wieder dasselbe** *Ein Plädoyer für Menschen* Einige Wochen vor der Offenbarung saß ich in einem Langstreckenflugzeug fest und wollte mir die Zeit mit Musik vertreiben. Ohne Internet blieb mir NTS verwehrt und ich musste feststellen, dass ich meinen Spotify-Download-Ordner seit einer Ewigkeit nicht mehr aufgeräumt habe. Was ich dort fand, waren laute oder schrille Alben von Animal Collective, Boris, Gang Gang Dance und Liars – alles zu heftig, um dabei einzuschlafen. Immerhin war Radioheads „Kid A Mnesia“ dabei, ein Klassiker, wenn auch experimenteller. Ich klickte auf das Album und während die vertrauten Klänge aus meinen Kopfhörern drangen, scrollte ich nach unten und landete versehentlich im Bereich „Das könnte Ihnen auch gefallen“. Schon die bloße Ansicht der Vorschläge fühlte sich wie eine Beleidigung an. Nein, ich höre weder Fleetwood Mac noch Mazzy Star und nach *Idioteque* kommt bei mir ganz sicher weder Coldplay noch Jimmy Eat World. Als ich in meinem Hotelzimmer in Osaka ankam, hielt mich der Jetlag auf europäischer Zeit. Aus Langeweile klickte ich mich mitten in der Nacht durch die Playlists, die „für Shane Anderson gemacht” waren. Einige waren nicht ganz so schlimm, aber die meisten waren voll mit den immergleichen, seelenlosen Hits von Bands, die ich schon bei ihrer Veröffentlichung nicht ausstehen konnte. Ich war etwas überrascht. Spotifys Algorithmus soll deine Hörgewohnheiten analysieren – was du überspringst, speicherst, wiederholst – und diese Muster mit denen anderer Nutzer\*innen vergleichen, die einen ähnlichen Geschmack haben. Um die Empfehlungen zu verfeinern, übernahm Spotify 2017 das KI-Startup Niland und setzt seitdem auf *Large Language Models* (*LLMs*), um „kontextbezogene Empfehlungen durch personalisierte Erzählungen“ zu generieren, wie es 2024 im hauseigenen Forschungsblog hieß. Das schwedische Technologieunternehmen verkauft uns das als Fortschritt. Doch in der Praxis führt diese KI-gesteuerte Personalisierung dazu, dass du in einem konventionellen Hörraum gefangen bist. Der Algorithmus schreibt vor, was einem gefallen soll. Wenn Playlists von Engagement-Metriken und Vorhersage-Modellen zusammengestellt werden, lohnt sich das Experimentieren kaum noch. Ein einziges dissonantes Stück könnte schließlich die Hörsession, oder gar die Hörgewohnheit, abrupt beenden. Meiner Erfahrung nach ist Spotifys KI-DJ, der 2023 eingeführt wurde, noch schlimmer. Er verspricht einen Mix aus bekannten Lieblingstiteln und neuen Entdeckungen zu liefern, maßgeschneidert für dein Hörprofil. Ich weiß nicht, wie es bei anderen ist, aber meiner serviert mir meistens Schrott von Künstler\*innen, von denen ich noch nie gehört habe. An diesem Abend in Osaka fiel mir zum Beispiel auf, dass fast alle Künstler\*innen in der Warteschlange weniger als 20.000 monatliche Hörer\*innen hatten. Darunter die nicht googlebare Band Abondance (mein erster Treffer war immer die Bibel auf Französisch). Spotify listet Abondances’ auffällig-unauffälliges Trip-Hop-Album *Merci Dieu* (2023). Aber egal wie oft ich meine Suchanfragen änderte, stieß ich nur auf eine andere Band desselben Namens, deren Instagram-Bio behauptet, sie stehe bei Boom Records unter Vertrag, einem „datengesteuerten Vertriebslabel, das Künstler\*innen durch bewährte Strategien und Technologien unterstützt.“ Vielleicht gibt es Abondance wirklich. Oder vielleicht handelt es sich um *stock music* mit einem generierten Cover. So oder so, das Gefühl war unheimlich. Es fühlte sich an wie die Begegnung mit einem Geist. Die Tatsache, dass ich nichts über die Gruppe finden konnte, passt zu dem was Liz Pelly, Autorin von „Mood Machine: The Rise of Spotify and the Costs of the Perfect Playlist“ (2025), in einem Harper's-Artikel über Spotify beschreibt. Ihrer Analyse zufolge füllt die Plattform „ihre beliebtesten Playlists mit *stock music* (...), die unter Pseudonymen veröffentlicht wird – von sogenannten Ghost- oder Fake-Künstler\*innen – offenbar mit dem Ziel, Lizenzgebühren zu sparen.” Pelly zitiert David Turner, der anhand einer Datenanalyse zeigte, dass in Spotifys Playlist „Ambient Chill“ kaum noch bekannte Künstler wie Brian Eno, Bibio und Jon Hopkins enthalten sind. Ihre Musik wurde durch Titel von *Epidemic Sound* ersetzt, einem schwedischen Unternehmen, das eine Abonnement-basierte Bibliothek mit Produktionsmusik anbietet. *Abondance* im Überfluss. Dass Spotify stillschweigend einige der berühmtesten Künstler\*innen der Welt austauscht, um Lizenzgebühren zu sparen, wäre komisch, wenn es nicht so traurig wäre. Musiker\*innen verdienen durchschnittlich zwischen 0,0003 und 0,0005 US-Dollar pro Stream, was bedeutet, dass man bei einer Million Streams seines Songs um 3.000 bis 5.000 US-Dollar reicher ist. Dennoch berichtete NPR im August 2025, wie Songs der KI-Band The Velvet Sundown „in den Discover Weekly-Feeds der Spotify-Nutzer\*innen, sowie in Playlisten von Drittanbieter\*innen mit Hunderttausenden von Followern landeten. Innerhalb weniger Wochen erzielte die Band Millionen von Streams.“ ### „Im Zeitalter von KI sind Fragen nach Urheberschaft, Identität und der Zukunft der Musik keine Spielerei; es geht darum, wie viel Raum für menschliche Intentionen, Vergütung und Fürsorge bleibt.“ Offenbar beanspruchen echte Menschen Urheberschaft an der Musik von The Velvet Sundown, und geben gleichzeitig zu, dass sie mit Hilfe von KI erstellt wurde. In einem inzwischen gelöschten Instagram-Post erklärte die Band, das Projekt sei „kein Trick, sondern ein Spiegel: eine fortlaufende künstlerische Provokation, die die Grenzen von Urheberschaft, Identität und der Zukunft der Musik im Zeitalter der KI ausloten will.“Diese Provokation scheint etwas übertrieben (und klingt zudem nach der beliebten „Es ist kein X, sondern ein Y“-Formel, die LLMs so lieben), wenn man bedenkt, dass es sich bei der Musik um nostalgiegetränkte Americana im Stil von The Band handelt. Und doch traf mich die Aussage von The Velvet Sundown ins Mark. Im Zeitalter von KI sind Fragen der Urheberschaft, Identität und Zukunft der Musik keine Spielerei; es geht darum, wie viel Raum für menschliche Intentionen, Vergütung und Fürsorge noch bleibt. Wie wir uns zueinander verhalten – zur Kunst, zur Arbeit, untereinander – scheint eine der drängendsten philosophischen, politischen und kulturellen Fragen unserer Zeit zu sein. Aus Neugierde beschloss ich, mich an Suno AI und Udio zu versuchen, zwei großen Technologieunternehmen, mit denen man\* Musik generieren kann. Ich wollte sehen, ob ich etwas Bedeutungsvolles, Ungewöhnliches oder zumindest Komisches schaffen könnte – kurz: etwas, das aufgrund seiner Absurdität oder Schrägheit garantiert nicht auf einer Spotify-KI-DJ-Playlist landen würde. Aus einer Laune heraus gab ich Suno folgende Vorgabe: „Erstelle einen seltsamen Song über das Traktorfahren im Stil einer lauten Industrial-Band der 80ern. Er soll fragmentarisch sein und unerwartete Elemente sowie einen Hund enthalten, der in Polyrhythmen bellt.“ Das Ergebnis? „Tractor Death Cult“. *\[Verse\]: Grease teeth grind / Iron lung cough / World ends now / Underneath the plow. \[Prechorus\]: Hydraulic scream / A metal dream. \[Chorus\]: Tractor Death Cult / Tractor Death Cult / Engines burn / No return \[…\]* Musikalisch klangen die verschiedenen Versionen, die das Programm erstellt hatte, als hätten sich Korn, NIN und Megadeth in einem Altersheim getroffen und beschlossen, Teile ihrer alten Hits aneinanderzureihen. Mit einer Trent Reznor-haften Stimme über Rap-Rock-Drums und Metal-Riffs – ich würde nicht sagen, dass es unhörbar war, schließlich habe ich es mir angehört, aber es machte mich sehr, sehr traurig. Die KI hatte alles verflacht und das Noise-Potenzial in einen glatten Power-Rock-Jam verwandelt. Udio schnitt nicht besser ab. Dort bekam ich „The Tractor's Song“ angeboten, der klang, als würde Ian Curtis unter Antidepressiva über eine abgelehnte B-Seite von The Magnetic Fields singen – und weitere Songs, die zu belanglos sind, um darüber zu schreiben. Keine weiteren prompts konnten die beiden KI-Plattformen dazu bringen auch nur annähernd so zu klingen wie Negativlands „Escape From Noise“ (1987), das mit einem Track beginnt, der Datenanalyse für das Radio parodiert. Immerhin generierte Udio zwei Songs, die beinahe wie ein Dubstep-Track von Aphex Twin klangen. Aber die Ergebnisse („Symphony of Strife” und „Whirling Chaos”) klangen unheimlich ähnlich. Als ich sie direkt hintereinander hörte, fiel mir vor allem auf, wie identisch ihr Timing war und wie makellos alles klang, obwohl die Texte aus Nonsenszeilen wie „farblose grüne Ideen schlafen wütend“ bestanden. ### „KI scheint unfähig zu sein, Wabi-Sabi zu begreifen: jene Haltung, die sterile Perfektion bewusst zurückweist.“ Es gab keine Reibung, keinen Schmutz und schon gar keine Hunde, die in Polyrhythmen bellten. Zumindest derzeit scheint KI unfähig zu sein Wabi-Sabi zu begreifen – jene Haltung, die sterile Perfektion bewusst zurückweist. Das erinnert mich an Sen no Rikyū, einen Teemeister aus dem 16\. Jahrhundert: Nachdem ein Schüler einen Garten makellos gefegt hatte, schüttelte er einen Baum, damit der Raum nicht zu makellos wirkte. Das Leben ist schmutzig, und selbst wenn Sauberkeit gleich nach Gottesfurcht kommt, wer Gott ganz nahe ist, liegt eben meist schon unter der Erde. Aber was soll man tun? Aus Protest die Plattform massenhaft verlassen? Ich glaube nicht, dass das nötig ist und ich werde es ganz sicher nicht tun. Ich höre immer noch gerne ganze Alben, wie sie es auf Plattformen wie NTS nicht gibt. Dennoch sollten wir uns darüber im Klaren sein, was Spotify ist und was es will. Die Mitbegründer Daniel Ek und Martin Lorentzon sind keine Musiker oder DJs. Sie haben eine Plattform geschaffen, die Aufmerksamkeit über Abonnements und Werbung monetarisiert, fast wie Technofeudalherren. Spotify inszeniert sich als Utopie grenzenloser Wahlfreiheit, agiert jedoch wie jedes andere Tech-Unternehmen: Kundenbindung optimieren, Kosten senken, expandieren. Nach der Auszahlung von Spotify an die Musikindustrie im Jahr 2024, meldete das Unternehmen einen Gewinn von 1,37 Milliarden Dollar, Tendenz steigend. Als Ek kürzlich bekannt gab, dass er als CEO zurücktreten und Executive Chairman werden würde – um, wie er es ausdrückte, „vom Spieler zum Trainer“ zu werden –, wurde berichtet, dass er ein Vermögen von 7,95 Milliarden US-Dollar angehäuft hatte. Mit diesem Geld hat er massiv in das in Berlin ansässige KI-Militärunternehmen Helsing investiert. Zum Vergleich, hier die weniger als zehn Musiker\*innen, die jemals Milliardär\*innen geworden sind: Selena Gomez, Bruce Springsteen, Paul McCartney, Taylor Swift, Rihanna, Jay-Z, Beyoncé und Jimmy Buffett. Udio ist übrigens wirklich gut darin, Musik zu machen, die wie Jimmy Buffett klingt. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/cosecha-international.jpeg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bitter-Babe-credit-Bitter-Babe.jpeg) Fig.4/5 **Nicht schlecht** *Warum Geschmack wichtig ist* „Geschmack ist in erster Linie Abneigung, Ekel und instinktive Intoleranz gegenüber dem Geschmack anderer.“ Diese Zeilen schrieb der Soziologe Pierre Bourdieu in seiner Abhandlung *Die feinen Unterschiede. Kritik der gesellschaftlichen Urteilskraft* (1979) auf der Grundlage seiner ethnografischen Forschungen in Paris in den 1960er und 1970er Jahren. In dem Buch argumentiert Bourdieu, dass Geschmack nicht persönlich, sondern vielmehr ein Spiegelbild der sozialen Klasse ist. Kulturelle Eliten entscheiden, was zählt, und die ungebildeten Massen sind gezwungen zu folgen. Mit anderen Worten: Die Elite reproduziert ihre Dominanz, indem sie definiert, was als „guter“ Geschmack gilt. Für Bourdieu haften Geschmack also Blutspuren des Klassenkampfs an. Geschmack ist im Grunde genommen Gewalt. Bourdieu schrieb diese Worte vor fast fünfzig Jahren und ich frage mich, ob sie uns heute noch als Kompass dienen können. Die Argumentation scheint an so etwas wie eine Kultur im Singular zu glauben, was in unserer zunehmend fragmentierten Welt nicht mehr ganz zutrifft. Verschiedene Kunstdisziplinen wirken heute weniger miteinander verbunden als noch vor fünfzig Jahren (man denke nur an die zahlreichen Kooperationen im New York der 70er Jahre). Entwicklungen in einer Disziplin haben nicht zwangsweise eine Auswirkung auf eine andere. Kurz nach der Bekanntgabe des Literaturnobelpreises telefonierte ich mit einem\*r befreundeten Tänzer\*in und erwähnte, dass László Krasznahorkai gewonnen hatte. Die Antwort: „Wer?“ - Wir sind alle so sehr in unsere eigenen Isolationskammern eingeschlossen, dass wir zunehmend von Kulturen im Plural sprechen müssen. Hochkultur wirkt in vielerlei Hinsicht wie ein Nischengenre, geschätzt vor allem von Menschen, die BPA-freie Wasserflaschen in Jutebeuteln mit sich herumtragen. Statt sich an historisch bedeutende Kulturinstitutionen zu wenden, um Inspiration oder Unterhaltung zu finden, hat sich ein Großteil der Welt den Videospielen zugewandt. Mehr als 3,32 Milliarden Menschen spielen heute Videospiele, und der Markt hat derzeit einen Wert von 522,46 Milliarden US-Dollar, was ihn zur größten Unterhaltungsindustrie macht. Hat die Hochkultur an Bedeutung verloren, weil sie so stark kodifiziert wurde? Dieser Gedanke kam mir kürzlich auf einer Pressereise nach Helsinki, bei der wir die gehobene Gastronomie der Stadt kennenlernen sollten. Dort probierten wir einen Teller nach dem anderen, von winzigen weißen Fischen auf Kräutercreme und Butter bis hin zu Zwiebelschaum. Alles entsprach den Regeln der Haute Cuisine, und doch schmeckte erstaunlich vieles gleich. Die überbordende Reichhaltigkeit und die wiederholte Verwendung essbarer Blumen verursachten mir Bauchschmerzen. Das einzige unvergessliche Gericht, das ich dort hatte, war im Aoi, das mir der Food-Journalist Kenneth Nars empfohlen hatte. Als das Pfannkuchendessert serviert wurde, sah Nars mich an und sagte: „Wenn sie sich trauen, nur zwei Farben zu verwenden, weiß man, dass es gut sein wird.“ Was er sagen wollte: Der Koch hatte echten Geschmack. Das soll nicht heißen, dass der große Bourdieu völlig falsch liegt. Geschmack ist nach wie vor ein kultureller Signifikant und hat immer noch die Kraft, eine Person als zu einer Gruppe zugehörig zu kennzeichnen, auch wenn letztere sich mehr denn je überschneiden und widersprechen. Und Geschmack ist wichtig. Vielleicht sogar wichtiger als zuvor, wenn man bedenkt, dass man mit dem gleichen Aufwand, den man für einen Shitpost benötigt, einen banalen Track über Traktoren erstellen kann. Tatsächlich meinte Krithika Shankarraman, ehemalige Vizepräsidentin für Marketing bei OpenAI und jetzt bei Thrive Capital: „Geschmack wird im Zeitalter der KI zu einem Unterscheidungsmerkmal werden, weil es so viel Unsinn geben wird, der von der KI generiert wird.“ Abgesehen von ihrer mutmaßlichen Absicht, Unternehmen zu aggressiven Taktiken zu raten, bleibt festzuhalten, dass Geschmack nicht algorithmisch ist und sich noch nicht durch Datenverarbeitung simulieren lässt. Geschmack entsteht durch die Auseinandersetzung mit der Welt und entwickelt sich mit jedem Film, den man selbst langweilig findet, obwohl alle anderen ihn feiern, und mit jedem ohrenbetäubenden J-Core-Set, das dir ein idiotisches Strahlen auf das Gesicht zaubert. ### „Im Zeitalter der KI hat Geschmack viel mehr mit Intimität zu tun.“ Bourdieu hatte Recht: Geschmack bedeutet, Unterschiede zu machen. Es geht um aktive Kuration auf der Grundlage von Urteilsvermögen. Mit anderen Worten: Geschmack hat mit Persönlichkeit zu tun. Es hängt davon ab, wer man ist, wo man aufgewachsen ist und welchen Einflüssen man ausgesetzt war. Es geht darum, einen Standpunkt zu entwickeln und unsere Widersprüche mit unserem kritischen Verstand, unserer emotionalen Intelligenz und unseren Lebenserfahrungen in der Welt um uns herum zu konfrontieren. Wie das Motto von NTS lautet: „Don't Assume“ (Verlass Dich nicht auf Annahmen). Entdecke und pflege Interessen, finde eine Gemeinschaft. Und jetzt, da die Kultur so stark ausdifferenziert ist, scheint mir das Teilen von Geschmack einer der letzten vereinigenden Aspekte des Lebens zu sein, etwas, das uns davor bewahrt, zu Robotern zu werden. Für mich ist NTS ein gutes Beispiel dafür. Es bringt Menschen aus aller Welt zusammen, um nicht-kommerzielle Musik und eine Vielzahl von Kulturen zu entdecken. Kulturen aus verschiedenen Ländern, Kulturen innerhalb der Welt, in der ich lebe und Kulturen, die gerade erst entstehen. Darüber hinaus schafft NTS einen gemeinsamen Raum, eine Gemeinschaft mit geteilten Vorlieben, die sich etwa auf Discord fortsetzt. Dort tauschen sich Hörer\*innen aus Seoul, São Paulo oder Manchester aus, teilen ein Klangerlebnis und chatten in einem modernen Äquivalent von Plattenläden. Geschmack ist also, anders als Bourdieu annahm, nicht nur eine Frage von Hierarchie. Im Zeitalter der KI hat Geschmack viel mehr mit Intimität zu tun. Geschmack muss nicht nur Unterschiede schaffen, sondern kann uns auch zusammenbringen. Angesichts der rasanten Entwicklung von KI (man denke nur an Will Smith, der Spaghetti isst), ist es durchaus vorstellbar, dass LLMs eines Tages so etwas wie einen eigenen „Geschmack“ entwickeln und sogar unsere Geschmacksbildung beeinflussen. Das macht mir aber keine großen Sorgen. Wir haben gelernt, mit technologischen Veränderungen umzugehen, die ebenfalls als apokalyptisch inszeniert wurden. Vielleicht besteht der einzige Weg, menschlich zu bleiben, darin, dem menschlich Kuratierten den Vorzug vor algorithmischer Bequemlichkeit zu geben – weiterhin nach den Bitter Babes oder den Dimension Door Dungeon Mastern zu suchen. Nach jenen also, die noch immer auf Menschen basierende Welten erschaffen. Sie erinnern uns daran, dass Träumen Arbeit ist und dass es sinnvoller ist, Zeit in Leidenschaft zu investieren, als sich über einen mögliche Hype den Kopf zu zerbrechen. Er kommt, wenn er kommt. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/mark-leckey-credit-Alessandro-Raimondo.jpeg) Fig.6 **Never boring Totally fun Sexy forever** **BONUS-TRACK: Was NTS-Residents erzählen** Shane Anderson: Warum NTS? Oder erzähl mir etwas über den Namen deiner Show und was du spielst. **DJ: Chief Commander Dr. Dare Balogun** Show: Dare Balogun (u.a. Highlife, Soukous, Afrobeat) Ich bin seit Juli 2025 Resident-DJ, obwohl ich schon seit 2023 einige Male als Gast bei dem Sender aufgelegt habe. Ich mache das, weil ich die Platten, die ich spiele, sehr liebe und sie mit anderen teilen möchte. Mein Schwerpunkt liegt auf traditioneller afrikanischer Musik und den kulturellen Kontexten, die sie umgeben. Für mich geht es nicht nur darum, Titel zu spielen, sondern auch zu erklären, warum sie wichtig sind. Es geht mir darum, meine eigene Kultur zu bewahren und die Zuhörer\*innen daran teilhaben zu lassen. Im Kern geht es in der Sendung um gemeinsames Hören, denn dafür war diese Musik schon immer gedacht. Aber es geht auch darum ein Gefühl zu teilen. Wenn ich Highlife, Tuareg-Rock, Makossa, Soukous oder eines der unzähligen anderen Genres spiele, die Afrika hervorgebracht hat, empfinde ich Freude, Hochstimmung und die Gewissheit, dass das Leben lebenswert ist – und dass es einen Gott geben muss, wenn es solche Musik gibt. Diese Wärme empfinde nicht nur ich als Nigerianer – es ist beeindruckend zu sehen, dass auch Zuhörer\*innen auf der ganzen Welt sie spüren. **DJ: Strahinja Arbutina** Sendung: Low Income $quad (u.a. Trance, Club, Hardstyle, Happy Hardcore, Euro House.) Es ist die einzige Plattform, die es allen Arten von „Sonderlingen“ (mich eingeschlossen) ermöglicht, ihre eigene Vision von Musik zu präsentieren und gleichzeitig über eine ausreichend große Reichweite verfügt, um die Wahrnehmung von Musik weltweit nachhaltig zu verändern. Die Sendung, die ich moderiere, würde in einem weniger toleranten Umfeld kaum einen Platz finden. Das Thema meiner Sendung ist in der Regel immer dasselbe: Ich behandle verschiedene Aspekte der neuesten Welle von Produktionen– also Musik von lateinamerikanischen Produzent\*innen, Musik aus der Queer-Community und generell Musik, die sich abseits der ausgetretenen Pfade bewegt und oft ungeschliffen und musikalisch brüchig ist. Ich habe das Gefühl, dass diese Tracks bei NTS ins Rampenlicht gerückt werden und einen Einblick in eine andere Szene geben, die man nur findet, wenn man danach aktiv sucht. Ich liebe Momente, in denen ich merke, dass meine Sendung beispielsweise parallel zu einem Live-Stream einer Meeresorgel in Kroatien läuft. Das kann nur NTS. **DJ: Ashley Wales** Sendung: Westward Ho! (Klassik) Ich habe das Radio als Medium schon immer geliebt und es hat mir immer Spaß gemacht Radiosendungen zu machen und daran teilzunehmen. „Westward ho!“ war eine großartige Gelegenheit, CDs aus meiner Sammlung klassischer Musik zu spielen, insbesondere Repertoire aus dem 20\. und 21\. Jahrhundert. Meiner Meinung nach ist klassische Musik für alle da und nicht nur für die Elite. Man muss sich ihr nur mit einem offenen Mindset und offenen Ohren nähern. DJ: Bitter Babe Sendung: Obsidian Dreams (Electronica, Ambient, Ambient Techno, Cloud Rap, Trap usw.) Ich habe diesen Namen wegen des Steins (Obsidian) und seiner Bedeutung gewählt. Es ist ein Stein mit schützenden Kräften, insbesondere vor negativer Energie. Obsidian absorbiert sie und genau das wollte ich mit meiner Sendung erreichen. Der Teil mit dem Traum kommt wohl daher, dass ich die ätherische, verträumte Seite der Musik mag und das findet sich auch häufig in meinen Zusammenstellungen wieder. **DJ: La Cosecha Internacional** Sendung: La Cosecha Internacional (Corrido, Rancheras, Norteño, Rhythm and Blues, Nueva Cancion usw.) Eduardo Arenas von Chicano Batman hat den Namen La Cosecha aus einer Liste mexikanischer Corridos ausgewählt, die ich zusammengestellt hatte. Später habe ich „Internacional” hinzugefügt, weil ich mich daran erinnere, dass Don San Francisco von Sabado Gigante diesen Ausdruck mindestens zehn Mal pro Folge verwendete. Alles muss wahrhaftig sein und darf keine Angst machen. Die Menschen, die zuhören, haben ihr Leben und das ist nicht immer perfekt. Warum sollte also meine Songauswahl perfekt sein? Nicht immer schön, aber immer menschlich. **DJ: Rory Bowens** Sendung: The Slip (Soul, Trip Hop, Leftfield Pop, Straight Jazz, Lovers Rock usw.) Der Name meiner Show war die Idee meiner ehemaligen Co-Moderatorin Emma, als wir die Sendung noch bei einem Universitätsradiosender in Galway, Irland, gemacht haben. Sie ist ein großer Fan von Nine Inch Nails und hat die Show nach einem ihrer Alben benannt. Meine Show hat normalerweise kein bestimmtes Thema, aber alles passt zu einem bestimmten Gefühl, das ich über die Jahre dafür entwickelt habe. Die meisten meiner Songs finde ich auf meinem Handy, während ich mit dem Bus zu meinem Tagesjob in Dublin fahre. Was ich an NTS liebe ist, dass man zufällig einschaltet und ein\*e Moderator\*in einem Song spielt, der einen für den Tag umhaut. Das ist mir kürzlich passiert, als ich Music 4 Lovers Dedicate All My Love von Raw Soul Express in The Early Bird Show gehört habe. **DJ: Mark Leckey** Sendung: Abundance Dump (Noise Rock, Experimental, Rap, Punk, Hyperpop, Breakbeat Hardcore usw.) Ich habe eine Zeit lang Mark Leckeys „Abundance Dump” ausprobiert. Die letzte Sendung, die ich gemacht habe, hieß „Stochastic Oscillator”. Aber selbst ich finde das lächerlich. Ich mache die Sendung aus purer Liebe. Es ist eine Berufung für mich. Die Möglichkeit, einen regelmäßigen Slot bei NTS zu bekommen, hat meine Liebe zur Musik wiederbelebt. Vorher war ich auf dem Weg zu dem unvermeidlichen Punkt, an dem man denkt, dass neue Musik einfach nicht mehr das ist, was sie einmal war, usw. NTS hat mich vor dieser Hölle bewahrt. **DJ: Como La Flor** Sendung: Como La Flor (Bossa Nova, Bolero, Latin Soul, Cumbia, etc.) NTS ist für mich eine weltweite Gemeinschaft von musikbegeisterten Menschen. Ein Ort, an dem man Musik entdecken und hören kann, in dem Wissen, dass sie von Menschen mit Hingabe, Liebe und nuancierten Emotionen und nicht von Algorithmen ausgewählt und präsentiert wird. // Dieser Text erschien ursprünglich auf Englisch in 032c. --- ### Images Cover: *Adeyemi ran a blog called Nuts to Soup from 2008 to 2010\. The name comes from a*Simpsons*episode, where Homer confuses the saying “soup to nuts,” meaning beginning to end.* Fig.1/2 *NTS Radio Hut Pics: Lauren Halo; Tirzah, Mica* Fig.3 Meme Fig. 4/5 *Chief Commander Dr. Dare Balogun, La Cosecha Internacional* Fig.6 Mark Leckey, credit Alessandro Raimondo *Shane Anderson ist Autor von After the Oracle, Or: How The Golden State Warriors’ Four Core Values Can Change Your Life Like They Changed Mine (Deep Vellum), Études (Broken Dimanche Press) sowie mehrerer Chapbooks. Er veröffentlichte u. a. in 032c, LARB, The Nation, bei Ugly Duckling Press und anderswo. Er ist der Übersetzer von Thomas Pletzingers The Great Nowitzki (Norton) sowie von Werken von Elke Erb (Wallenstein Verlag), Ulf Stolterfoht (Triple Canopy) und vielen weiteren wichtigen Stimmen deutschsprachiger Lyrik. Er wird von Priscilla Posada bei Regal | Hoffmann & Associates vertreten und lebt mit seiner Familie in Wuppertal.* ### The World as a Series of Processions URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-world-as-processions/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:46.000Z *The third edition of the Diriyah Contemporary Art Biennale, titled “في الحِلّ والترحا*ل” / “In Interludes and Transitions,*” takes place in the cultural capital of Saudi Arabia. Originally established as a project that brings together local and global art by engaging with artists and audiences from across the country and the world, the Biennale reflects on how traditional forms of knowledge dialogue with the nation’s ambition of transformation. Its most recent iteration was inspired by regional history, taking as its point of departure Bedouin and nomadic communities and how they relate to the world through movement. In particular, the Biennale’s artistic directors Nora Razian and Sabih Ahmed examined how processions, such as migration, oral tradition, and natural cycles, culminate in transmission and exchange, thereby shaping culture. Together with the curatorial team, consisting of Maan Abu Taleb, May Makki, Kabelo Malatsie, and Lantian Xie, as well as the architecture and exhibition designer Sammy Zarka, the artistic directors propose an understanding of the world not as a fixed entity but as in flux. The interview that follows illuminates the curatorial concept, artistic context, and creative processes behind the Biennale.* **Your exhibition brings together musicians, writers, architects, and artists. What new dimensions do you want to open up by inviting these disciplines to contribute?** **Nora:** When we started conceptualizing the show, we wanted to think about the forms of cultural transmission that are rooted and appreciated here. Orality, history, poetry, literature, and music are all vibrant forms of cultural production in Saudi Arabia. Poetry and literature are widely read, and many forms of Arabic poetry actually emerged here. So, there is a rich history and heritage of oral tradition. This context informed our theme and the artists we wanted to work with. **Sabih:** I would even argue that every contemporary practice is interdisciplinary, as strict divisions based on genre, medium or subject are no longer possible. The intersection we foreground in this Biennale is not some radical gesture to present artists from different disciplines. The world itself is already multidisciplinary, and we are tapping into the very specific forms that make sense here. We also included multisensory works that draw on sound, visuals, and materials. In the Biennale, you experience sound and light spillovers, which are deliberate and choreographed. We refrained from isolating regions or artworks, as we were interested in how things seep into each other and echo across each other's fields of cultural significance. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/39-Diriyah-Contemporary-Art-Biennale-2026-Photo-copyright-Alessandro-Brasile-courtesy-of-the-Diriyah-Biennale-Foundation.JPG) Fig.1 **Saudi Arabia has seen rapid social change over the past decade, with cinemas opening and public performances increasing. How does “In Interludes and Transitions” address this transformation?** **Nora:** The Biennale is a product of the transformation in a way. It is part of the growing infrastructure for the arts and the establishment of a public sphere for them. It is also one of the only places where you can see contemporary art at such a scale, and it serves as its biggest platform within Saudi Arabia. In line with the foundation’s objective, the Biennale engages a very broad public. In this way, it epitomizes the changes that have happened and the development of a local arts ecology. **Sabih:** The exhibition is hosted in Diriyah, which has a longer historical route in the place. Located right next to the Biennale is the Wadi Hanifa, a valley that goes back a long way in time. This historical site opened up a dialogue across time that has shaped our curatorial thinking. **This Biennale is relatively young and builds upon the previous editions led by Philip Tinari and Ute Meta Bauer in creating a discourse and aesthetic framework, while establishing its place in the country. With this in mind, were there any curatorial risks that were important for you to take with this project? Did challenges arise?** **Nora:** Not necessarily risks, but we really wanted to think about how people experience the Biennale. By focusing on how you move through it, we tried to create choreographies between the works as well as spaces for rest and gathering. The focus on design, scenography and outdoor commissions was very important for us. **Sabih:** To the point of responding to risk, every artwork is a leap into what might be possible. So we have been very lucky to work with artists who have been generous in leaping with us, because that leap can take flight, fall, or land. Some immediately become legible while others take time. The risk, then, is only in terms of what will land and what will not. But this unpredictable outcome is the beauty of every curation. It is taking that leap together with many people and the public. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/09-Diriyah-Contemporary-Art-Biennale-2026-Photo-copyright-Alessandro-Brasile-courtesy-of-the-Diriyah-Biennale-Foundation.jpg) Fig. 2 **Dispersed across the Biennale are various “arenas,” a series of mostly newly commissioned and site-specific works. Where does the name originate?** **Sabih:** Conventional arenas are sites of gathering. It was relevant for us to present some artworks as “arenas” because they serve as spaces where your senses get activated. Rohini Devasher’s work, for example, rethinks our understanding of the concept of observation not as an individual exercise but a collective one. Or Théo Mercier, whose large sand sculptures, made from local soil, interrupt the flow of the exhibition. Over time, salt sediments started appearing on their facade, representing the awakening of the residual or latent. A lot of research went into these commissions, and we introduced these arenas for people to collectively gather and experience such emergences. **The idea of movement or procession underpins the theme of the exhibition. Movement can be generative, through cultural exchange or trade, yet it can also be harmful, as in cases of forced displacement or exile. How did you navigate that tension in the exhibition?** **Nora:** I think that comes through the use of the word itself. Processions can be joyful or celebratory, yet they can also be mournful or hard. It is the act of moving together to remember and tell stories, which can also include commemorating difficult histories. In processions of trade, people would start reciting poetry and singing songs, thereby making things shift and invoking change. It is that coming together where the change happens that we want to evoke, which is not always positive. **Sabih:** Certainly, this binary understanding is present in the exhibition. We see the world as a multitude of processions. Our approach was to look at the processes that have been shaping the world, with the Biennale becoming a junction of these multiple paths. **You worked as a group of curators with distinct trajectories, but within a highly structured, institutional, and state-funded framework. How did funding structures, timelines, and governance models shape what collective authorship could realistically mean for the show?** **Nora:** From the very beginning, this has been a collaboration between Sabih and me. We are colleagues and friends, although we had never directly collaborated on a project before. As for the curatorial team, we knew everybody before and had worked with some of them. Shared affinities were already in place, and everybody brought their own intellectual interests, references, and deep knowledge of the art practices we wanted to include. It has been a really great learning experience for all of us. **Sabih:** The curatorial team includes colleagues from our own generation, and we are a generation that has seen the art world flourish through collaborative processes. We have had the good fortune of working with most of the curators before, so this Biennale became a continuation of that art practice. For us, it is not about authorship but about collective thinking and distributing that authorship. It is also the experience of seeing systems in transformation, and us, as curators, insisting on working collaboratively as part of the systemic changes conducted by our generation. It is not simply a gesture; it is an ethos. **Nora:** This way of working also acknowledges that the intellectual labor of many people goes into producing something like this, whereas past models occasionally silenced the contributions of large teams in the conception of an exhibition. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/44-Diriyah-Contemporary-Art-Biennale-2026-Photo-copyright-Alessandro-Brasile-courtesy-of-the-Diriyah-Biennale-Foundation.jpg) Fig.3 **Can you share more about your collaboration with Mohammed Alhamdan: a star of Saudi internet culture, a prominent figure in the country’s young cultural landscape, and also the voice of a generation that has been at the forefront of social change in the kingdom.** **Nora:** Alhamdan is really interesting. He is an important cultural figure in Saudi Arabia, and we wanted to involve him in this edition of the Biennale. He worked closely with Maan Abu Taleb, and he produced a live performance, collaborating with other musicians, singers, and performers. He proposed the idea of a procession, reimagining settlements, departures, and the Bedouin heritage, directly symbolizing the theme of the exhibition. **Sabih:** Correct, but in its most contemporary form. His work, *Folding the Tents*, draws on the history of camels and how their footsteps informed this musical meter called the *rajaz*. The procession includes the *Chasse*, a pickup truck model that has replaced camels as the contemporary mode of transportation. The work visualizes how forms and vehicles of movement have transformed over time. For the performance, the participants move along the Wadi Hanifa, as if reactivating a flow across the valley that, at the moment, is silent. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/32-Diriyah-Contemporary-Art-Biennale-2026-Photo-copyright-Alessandro-Brasile-courtesy-of-the-Diriyah-Biennale-Foundation.JPG) Fig. 4 **The Biennale includes several multigenerational dialogues, most notably with a conversation between the visual artists Thảo Nguyên Phan and Điềm Phùng Thị. How do these conversations help develop the themes of continuity and transition that the Biennale puts forward?** **Nora:** One of the earliest works we were discussing was Thảo Nguyên Phan's *Reincarnation of Shadows*. The video installation has its genesis in her encounter with the modernist works of the Lebanese artist Saloua Raouda Choucair. Choucair’s modular sculptural systems reminded the artist of Điềm Phùng Thị's sculptures because of their similarity in form and method, even though the two practices developed independently of one another. Thảo Nguyên Phan's work pays tribute to the life and oeuvre of the late Điềm Phùng Thị. This sequence of interactions signifies a dialogue between characters from the past and present and enables us to rethink art history by revealing how things reach us, when they reach us, and why. **Sabih:** This intergenerational dialogue layers time, because we are not subdividing these artists into art-historical categories, viewing them from a modernist or contemporary point of view. Rather, we understand the past as unsettled as it strides into the present. Theaster Gates explained how even erased histories leave behind a rhythm. These cadences continue to carry and might magnify in ways we cannot predict. Although Gates’ work is not included in the show, we were interested in those upheavals and unexpected amplifications. In this case, the work of Thảo Nguyên Phan has amplified the legacy of Điềm Phùng Thị in a way that no museum could have anticipated. It is in a contemporary artwork artist's invocation where she awakens the dormant, in this case, the importance of the modernist artist Điềm Phùng Thị. We know forms of life from 40,000 years ago have reemerged because of melting ice caps. They have coexisted with us through time, and now that they have resurfaced, we do not know what diseases they might cause. They are not all good and can also be dangerous, but how do we embrace that world? *The third edition of the Diriyah Contemporary Art Biennale is on view to the public from January 30, 2026, and will run through May 2, 2026.* --- ### Images Cover: Folding the Tents, 2026, by Mohammed Alhamdan (7amdan). Procession; Approx. 50 min. Photo © Alessandro Brasile, courtesy of the Diriyah Biennale Foundation. Fig.1 In Interludes and Transitions, Diriyah Contemporary Art Biennale 2026, poster wall in JAX District. Photo by Alessandro Brasile, courtesy of the Diriyah Biennale Foundation. Fig.2 House of Eternity, 2026, by Théo Mercier. Sand, bentonite clay, metal; dimensions variable. Photo © Alessandro Brasile, courtesy of the Diriyah Biennale Foundation. Fig.3 In Interludes and Transitions, Diriyah Contemporary Art Biennale 2026, Mohammed Alhamdan (7amdan), Folding the Tents (2026), Photo by Alessandro Brasile, courtesy of the Diriyah Biennale Foundation. Fig.4 Works by Thảo Nguyên Phan and Điềm Phùng Thị included in installation view. (1) No Jute Cloth for the Bones, 2019–ongoing, by Thảo Nguyên Phan. Raw jute stalk; 400 × 1000 cm. (2) Drawings for Reincarnations of Shadows, 2025, by Thảo Nguyên Phan. 15 watercolor drawings on paper; 28.5 × 38.5 cm each. (3) Fifteen sculptural objects, five fabric collages, and lithographs, 1960s–1997, by Điềm Phùng Thị. (4) Display table based on original designs by Điềm Phùng Thị, 2026; 90 × 600 × 500 cm. Photo © Alessandro Brasile, courtesy of the Diriyah Biennale Foundation. *Gena Haensel is a researcher and writer based in Berlin. Born in the Netherlands, she has spent the past decade living between East Asia and Germany. Her research is rooted in postcolonial studies, focusing on contemporary art across the Asia-Pacific. Particularly interested in how political systems inform knowledge production, she centers her research on examining how art can challenge inherited ways of understanding. Gena currently supports artists with research, alongside other independent research and writing projects.* ### The German Federal Government Is Supporting the Destruction of Rojava URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-german-federal-government-is-supporting-the-destruction-of-rojava/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:44.000Z *Since January 6, 2025, the Syrian interim government's army, together with Turkish-backed Islamist militias, has launched attacks first on Kurdish neighborhoods in Aleppo and then across Rojava, the largely Kurdish autonomous region in northeast Syria.* *Rojava's system of self-administration coalesced in 2012 during the Syrian Civil War, when Kurdish forces and their allies established autonomous cantons based on democratic confederalism, a system emphasizing direct democracy and gender equality, and seeking multi-ethnic cooperation. Formally consolidated in 2014, it evolved into the Autonomous Administration of North and East Syria (AANES), expanding to include Arab, Assyrian, Turkmen, and other communities. Central to Rojava's defense are the Women's Protection Units (YPJ), all-female militias fighting alongside the People's Protection Units (YPG) under the banner of the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF). Internationally recognized during the battle against ISIS in Kobane in 2014-2015, the YPJ embodies Rojava's commitment to gender equality on the frontlines, fundamentally challenging patriarchal structures and seeing women commanding military operations.* *This alternative political vision makes Rojava a target for multiple actors. The January assaults followed Syria's power shift after Bashar al-Assad's fall in December 2024, when Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), led by Ahmed al-Sharaa, also known as Mohammad al-Jolani, seized Damascus. Since the formalization of a security agreement between the Syrian interim government, Israel, and the US, reached in Paris on January 8, HTS militias have swept through Rojava, targeting infrastructure, humanitarian supplies, and entire cities. While Western states, particularly the US, view al-Sharaa as a malleable actor amenable to their own regional interests, HTS has systematically targeted minorities: Alawites in Latakia, Druze in Sweida, and Kurds in Rojava. On January 30, 2026, the SDF announced a ceasefire and agreed to discussions on integrating structures with Syrian authorities. What follows remains uncertain. Yet thousands of Kurds have mobilized across borders to defend Rojava against this potentially existential threat.* *"There are many governments that have no interest in peace between the peoples of Syria," says the Kurdish-German writer and activist Şeyda Kurt. In this interview with Carlos Hanke Barajas, originally published in German on* Der Freitag*, she discusses her perspectives on the autonomous administration, the roles of Turkey and Western powers, and the double standards of "feminist foreign policy". It is a conversation about a hard-fought autonomy hanging tenuously in an evolving balance.* **Carlos Hanke Barajas: Ms. Kurt, you maintain close contacts in Syria and have been deeply engaged with the region for years. How have you personally experienced the last few days?** **Şeyda Kurt:** Events have escalated rapidly. It took me some time to shake off a state of shock. Even the protests in Cologne, where I currently live, were initially quite uncoordinated. Individuals registered demonstrations—it was a patchwork of actions. What also weighs heavily on me is what the attack triggers within my personal environment: Arab Syrian friends, for example, sharing Instagram stories defending the actions of the Syrian transitional government. Or part of my Turkish family is circulating same state propaganda online. I’ve had to endure some very difficult conversations. **You were yourself in the border region not long ago. What comes to mind now?** Only in September did I visit Kurdish cities along the Turkish-Iraqi border. I think about the atmosphere back then—the sense of hope and confidence with which people viewed the peace process between Turkey and the Kurds, which has now, of course, stalled again. And naturally, I think of friends in Rojava, even though they are often the first to say: “We expected this. We have been at war for years, and we will continue to fight.” **After Assad’s fall in December 2024, there was widespread relief—including in media coverage. Do you still have hope for peace with the Syrian transitional government?** Of course I felt joy as well. I wrote to a Syrian friend through tears, saying: Mabrouk, habibi, congratulations! But almost immediately afterward, I felt sheer panic. I nearly threw up from fear. **Why?** Like many others, I saw what was coming: with the new power holders in Syria, peace would not come for minorities. On the contrary, violence would increase. On the one hand, it was already known that the transitional president, Ahmed al-Sharaa or Abu Mohammad al-Jolani, is a former member of the al-Nusra Front, officially linked to al-Qaeda and with ties to ISIS. These are precisely the forces responsible for the genocide of the Yazidis, for enslavement and massacres in Syria. He staffed his transitional government with individuals demonstrably involved in war crimes—some of whom had even been sanctioned by the EU. These fears were confirmed very quickly. Just three months after Assad’s fall, there were massacres of Alawites, involving units associated with the transitional government. ### “Al-Sharaa is a former member of the al-Nusra Front, officially linked to al-Qaeda and with ties to ISIS \[…\] The forces responsible for the genocide of the Yazidis \[in Syria\].” **What would peace for the Kurds in Syria even look like?** There will be no peace as long as the Syrian transitional government continues—as it has in recent days—to demand the complete capitulation of the autonomous self-administration in North and East Syria. Negotiations have failed because such a capitulation will never happen. People will never give up what they have built over more than a decade, at enormous cost. ### “There will be no peace as long as the Syrian transitional government demands the complete capitulation of the autonomous self-administration in North and East Syria.” **What is it that people there find so worth defending?** Grassroots democratic structures, women’s liberation as a political principle, local self-governance, relative security for religious and ethnic minorities—and the attempt to build a solidaristic, non-capitalist society in the midst of war. So far, the transitional government has offered the Kurds little more than symbolic gestures. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/007.jpg) Fig.1 **For example?** For instance, the recognition of Kurdish as an official language, to be taught in schools. This was meant to signal goodwill. But cultural recognition is no guarantee of security or political equality. The same applies to citizenship, which was stripped from many Kurds under the Assad regime and is now supposed to be restored. For many Kurdish women, this feels provisional. They know all too well that rights can be withdrawn again the moment it becomes politically expedient. **A ceasefire agreement between Damascus and the Kurdish self-administration had technically been in place since March 2025\. Why are attacks happening now?** For those living there—or those who have observed the region for years—this comes as no surprise. In 2018, Turkey launched a military offensive against Afrin, a Kurdish canton that has remained under the control of Turkey-backed militias ever since. Since then, Turkey has repeatedly carried out drone attacks on other territories of the self-administration. Since at least 2018, large-scale offensives were anticipated. Why now? There are currently two power centers influencing Syria’s transitional government: Turkey and Israel. The first dreams of a Greater Turkey; the other of a Greater Israel—and neither imperial power has any interest in the survival of Rojava as a project of “democratic confederalism.” That is, an alternative to ethno-nationalism and the nation-state, in which locally organized councils and communes make decisions from the bottom up. Moreover, Rojava has become a global point of reference and a gathering place for leftist, anti-colonial, and anti-imperialist movements worldwide. ### “One dreams of a Greater Turkey; the other of a Greater Israel—and neither has any interest in Rojava surviving as an alternative to ethno-nationalism and the nation-state.” **What role does EU Commission President Ursula von der Leyen’s visit to Damascus in early January play?** As we know, von der Leyen arrived with €620 million in reconstruction aid. She did not utter a single word about the attacks on Kurdish neighborhoods in Aleppo, which were already underway. This sends a clear signal: the Syrian central government can act as it pleases without facing public criticism from its European allies. At the same time, Syria is now expected to deliver economic results—by Europe and the United States alike. Yet economic recovery depends heavily on oil and gas reserves, as well as wheat and cotton fields, most of which are located in the northeast under Kurdish administration. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/006.jpg) Fig.2 **In cities like Raqqa or Tabqa, Kurds are a minority and the Arab Sunni population forms the majority. Reports indicate killings and detentions of dissidents by the SDF (Syrian Democratic Forces, a name used by the armed forces within the Kurdish autonomous area). Has the self-administration failed to sufficiently integrate the Arab Sunni population?** Yes and no. The self-administration deliberately pursued the integration of all ethnic and religious groups through local councils—not only Arabs, but also Assyrians, Armenians, and Turkmen. During the research for my second book, I spoke with Arab women who confidently defended the (Rojava) revolution and its values. That said, there have been conflicts over scarce water resources and electricity—some deliberately exacerbated by Turkey’s occupation of the Tishrin dam. And of course, the self-administration is not free of mistakes, like any political project in development. There are serious allegations from Arab perspectives against the SDF: forced recruitment of children, abductions, even arbitrary killings. And secondly, the perception that Kurdish dominance has emerged in Arab-majority areas, making Arab populations feel occupied. **Are these failures discussed within the Kurdish movement?** From what I can tell, yes. Criticism and self-criticism are central pillars of Kurdish liberation ideology. But it is important to stress: we do not defend Rojava because it is morally flawless. I reject that kind of moralism. In a brutal, decades-long cycle of violence like that affecting the Middle East, all warring parties bear guilt. Defending Rojava does not mean demanding Kurdish ethnic or cultural dominance. It means defending their right to live without repression, displacement, and genocidal violence. It means defending the most progressive political project in the Middle East. That is a political responsibility for all leftists. **Der Spiegel recently published criticism of the Kurdish self-administration from a distinctly Arab perspective. A new turn in the media discourse on Rojava?** There are currently Kurdish calls to boycott outlets such as Al Jazeera, which explicitly adopt the perspective of the Syrian transitional government. Many people who showed solidarity with Palestine and followed coverage of the genocide in Gaza relied on Al Jazeera in recent years—and unfortunately received a one-sided, distorted portrayal of Kurds. When we speak about the Middle East, we must also speak about Arab nationalism, which has always been homogenizing and exclusionary—like all hegemonic nationalisms. I also believe that Arab Sunni nationalism has gained momentum through the suffering and genocide in Palestine. This accumulated rage, hatred, and radicalization is now increasingly being directed against Kurds and minorities. “Many who followed Al Jazeera to learn about the genocide in Gaza have received a deeply distorted picture of Kurds.” **US troops stationed in Syria are currently doing nothing to halt the advance of al-Sharaa’s forces. Did the Kurdish movement rely too heavily on long-term Western support?** One narrative infuriates me: that Kurds deserve protection because they did the West’s dirty work in fighting ISIS. Peoples of North and East Syria have a right to existence and self-determination regardless of their usefulness to Western security or prosperity. Ultimately, the US is a NATO ally of Turkey and also an ally of Israel. Cooperation between the US and the SDF was tactical—to prevent further massacres and genocides of minorities such as Yazidis and Christians. And, of course, it was also about seizing a moment to create space for self-organization. Three years ago, German politicians chanted “Jin, Jiyan, Azadî” during the protests in Iran. Today, little remains of this so-called feminist foreign policy. Does the absence of these gestures bother you? Those slogans were symbolic rhetoric—a farce. Most politicians who shouted “Jin, Jiyan, Azadî” had little understanding of its origins: a radically anti-colonial, systemic struggle against patriarchy and authoritarian violence, one that fundamentally questions capitalist modernity. German foreign policy has never supported this—quite the opposite. Take the former foreign minister Annalena Baerbock: she appropriated the slogan while belonging to a government that exported weapons to Saudi Arabia and Turkey. Turkey is the state militarily attacking the Kurdish women’s movement that created “Jin, Jiyan, Azadî.” So this is not a rupture, but continuity. The difference is that the moral veil has fallen. And frankly, I welcome that—because at least we know where things stand. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/004.jpg) Fig.3 **What role does the agreement planned between Chancellor Merz and al-Sharaa, enabling deportations to Syria, play?** We must understand that we live in the belly of the beast. We have a federal government that supports the massacres and the destruction of Rojava and North-East Syria out of self-interest; for instance, deporting refugees back to Syria. The same logic drove the 2016 refugee deal with Turkey, alongside military rearmament. For years, the self-administration has appealed to the EU and Germany to repatriate ISIS prisoners with German citizenship. Now, we are witnessing breakouts and releases from these camps by forces of the transitional government. ### “We have a federal government that supports the massacres and the destruction of Rojava out of self-interest; for instance deportations.” **What can be done in Germany to support people on the ground?** The Kurdish diaspora and their internationalist supporters are extremely well organized. Support can take many forms: donations to the Kurdish Red Crescent, Heyva Sor; participation in daily demonstrations across German cities; or direct solidarity actions. This Friday, the People’s Caravan to Rojava will depart, joined by activists from many countries. They aim to reach Rojava by land to draw \[public\] attention—similar to the flotillas attempting to reach Gaza by sea. For leftists and progressives, it is crucial not to fall into the false binaries imposed by dominant powers in the Middle East—binaries that claim the liberation of one people can occur without the liberation of others. Especially in times of rightward shifts in Germany, we must defend bastions such as Rojava: as a lived example of self-governance and emancipatory politics, and as proof that resistance can be practice, not just theory. **Videos are circulating of ISIS fighters escaping prisons, sympathizers toppling statues of YPJ (People’s Protection Unit) Kurdish fighters, and former SDF fighters being beheaded. How do you deal with this flood of images?** I log off. That distance is necessary to avoid being overwhelmed. These images also bring grief: the possibility that a project like Rojava, a beacon of hope for so many, could be destroyed before our eyes, live-streamed… What I have found deeply moving, however, is the unity among progressive forces, Kurds, and other peoples across borders. I have seen videos of Armenian groups publicly declaring their intention to join the defense of North and East Syria. Kurds on the Turkish side of the border tearing down fences to join the defense units. The same on the Iraqi side. Kurds in Iran are convinced that the Islamic regime is nearing collapse. For many, this is a historic moment—and it shows. This rapid, collective mobilization, amplified through social media, gives me hope. It reminds me that despite everything, shared responsibility and shared resistance still exist. // **Şeyda Kurt** (born 1992 in Cologne) studied Philosophy, Romantic Studies, and Cultural Journalism in Cologne, Bordeaux, and Berlin. She writes as a freelance journalist and columnist for various print and online media, including ZEIT ONLINE. Her book Radikale Zärtlichkeit. Warum Liebe politisch ist examines love within the force fields of patriarchy, capitalism, and racism. In 2023, her second bestseller Hass. Von der Macht eines widerständigen Gefühls was published, which also engages with the autonomous self-administration of North and East Syria. --- ### Images: Cover Fig.1-3: *New World Summit–Rojava Year: 2015-18* Artist: Democratic Self-Administration of Rojava and Studio Jonas Staal. Photo: Ruben HamelinkDêrik, Canton Cizîrê, Rojav *Carlos Hanke Barajas was born in Bogotá, Colombia, and studied Political Science and Public Law in Mannheim, Bilbao, and Leipzig. He has worked as editor-in-chief of uni\[ma\]gazin, contributed to election monitoring for the 2021 federal elections with Neue deutsche Medienmacher\*innen, written portraits for Table.Media, and worked on the ZDF program Aurel Original. Since February 2024, he has been Social Media Editor at Der Freitag.* ### ChapStick URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/chapstick/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:43.000Z I found that I had some addictions when I moved to Germany in an exceptionally cold January. The lake in Hamburg, frozen, an inflexible introduction to the country. I had to “adapt”, my mother said over the phone casually, had to find a local alternative. She was in San Diego, no doubt on her sofa with her iPad and tea, not willing to aid my addiction in her quietly regimented life. There would be no room in her schedule to stand at a post office every few months to mail me my fix across the Atlantic. But I did not question this seemingly logical idea of adapting to my new country. So I tried different brands, lost in the endless choices, trying to replicate what my lips cried out for. Nothing worked. The numerous German brands only made my lips more chapped. My stubborn lips, only accustomed to the chapstick I used in the states: the brand itself called *ChapStick*. My friend Nico is currently in Florida visiting her lover. I ask her for photos as I stare out of my picture windows in the living room. “We are having a real snowstorm,” my children exclaim. I remember them as toddlers having woken up from their second naps, standing in front of these very windows, their short limbs and new hands pressed against the glass, marveling at the freshly mounted snow on the balcony, in awe of how quickly the world can change after just one afternoon sleep. In the pictures Nico sends, the water is a picturesque melding of blue and green, the sand plentiful, the sun she shields from her face with her hand, so far removed from my frigid reality. It’s hot and she swims, wears shorts, drinks tequila, and speaks in Spanish, one of her four languages. She doesn’t have much room in her return luggage, but she agrees to restock my depleting inventory of *ChapSticks*. I’ve had this current inventory for at least seven years. It came with me when I left my husband six years ago and moved back to our original rental apartment. They now sit tucked in a plastic grocery bag in the disorganized top drawer of my inadequately small closet. When I left our co-owned flat, I only took my clothes, my library of books, some kitchenware, and my ChapSticks. A divorced mother’s toolkit. A Wikipedia search tells me that a *ChapStick* weighs four grams and that *ChapStick* is valued at 430 million dollars. I wonder how much I have contributed to that for the last twenty-five years. Charles Brown Fleet founded *ChapStick* in the late 1880s. But it was the second owner’s wife, Mrs. Morton, first name unknown, who refined it and made it into the famous shape it is today. Incredibly, this little lip balm was sold seven times since the early 1900s with the most recent sale being in 2024\. Like expensive real estate, corporations bought and resold it, and bought and resold it, and bought and resold it. *ChapStick* is so popular that it is the name Americans use when we refer to all lip balms. You don’t ask your friend if you can use their lip balm, you say “Can I use your chapstick?”. I am sure my ancestors never used chapstick. They were nomads in the horn of Africa, moving and gathering, passing down memorized oral poetry to keep patriarchy and culture intact, against the background of pastoralism. All of them free of the balm that I apply to my lips daily. Chapstick is a western solution for a western problem, and here I am, a Somali girl who has been captured in its capitalistic snare. As a teenager, my father once asked me, incredulous, why I kept using chapstick. The endless sun in our southern Californian home beating down on his tan, sweaty face. I said only what I could think of: “I am addicted.” “*Addicted*?” he laughed as he raised his familiar deep voice. Addiction was not a familiar word to him. Not culturally, not religiously, not in his reality. Not in the active sense that it was something to partake in, but instead definitely something to avoid. Forbidden topics stayed sealed in our culture so you could never discuss what it is that you were actually supposed to avoid. But he also lived with me in the West, all of us having immigrated here after our Civil War. I didn’t ask what his addictions were or if he even had any. I know he had vices but are those the same? Maybe that is why I hold on to my *ChapStick*. Maybe it’s not a physical addiction, as society, friends, and family tell me with their curious looks and inquiring words. ChapStick was something I started doing for myself. It gave me agency. I chose my flavors—the only ones they had back then—cherry, original, strawberry, classic. It was a trusted routine. It’s still with me as an adult, after two divorces, children birthed in a foreign country, living far from where I was raised but closer to where I was born. I am comforted in knowing that this addiction is my security. A childhood remnant, a particular self-soothing of a young Somali teenager stuck in the suburbs, often lonely, always reading, and dreaming of the day she would leave those manicured subdivisions full of people that did not look like her or have her future. My son reminds me of the story I used to tell him and his brother. When they were toddlers they asked me what it is that I put on my lips all the time. I said “*It’s ChapStick*,” turning the small tube over so they could see the logo. At their insistence I applied it lightly to their tiny lips and they giggled. “Where did you get it Mommy?” “In America” I said. “But how? We are here?” I told them that when everyone was asleep in their toddler beds, I would fly in the dark night, over the ocean, to America and gather my ChapSticks. Then I would fly back and tuck myself into sleep. They both look up at me with their brown eyes as they grip the ChapStick, like a stick of dynamite, bigger than their little hands and say softly, “like a witch?”. // *Lubi Barre born in Paris, France, is a writer of poetry and short stories. She published in the anthology "My Old Man" at Cannongate Books, the German language collection "Here and There" at Punktum Verlag, as well as in the anthology Kontinentaldrift- Das Schwarze Europa by Wunderhorn Verlag. She is the founder of the independent reading series Sprachlos and FRAMED, and a member of the residency Writers Room. From 2017-2020, she was co-organizer and co-moderator of the reading series Hafenlesung, as well as the 2020 and 2021 literary curator of the Fluctoplasma festival in Hamburg. She co-curated the first Black Writers Book Festival of Hamburg in 2024\. She has received numerous grants for writing and curation, and in addition, teaches creative writing seminars at various universities. She is the founder of Davenport Books- Hamburg’s first English-language cultural hub and bookshop.* ### Dear Strangers URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/dear-strangers/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:41.000Z *Die Briefe dieses Buches entstehen aus konkreten Situationen. Sie beginnen dort, wo Sprache versagt und Verwaltung, Markt und Polizei dem Alltag näher sind als Solidarität. Temelkuran schreibt nicht aus der Distanz der Beobachtung, sondern aus geteilter Prekarität: mit brüchigem Deutsch, unsicherem Aufenthaltsstatus und einem Körper, der selbst Teil jener urbanen Choreografien des Überlebens ist, die sie beschreibt. Berlin ist hier kein Hintergrund, sondern der Ort, an dem Fremdheit täglich produziert, reguliert und verwaltet wird – an unscheinbaren Orten, in scheinbar beiläufigen Begegnungen.* Nation of Strangers *ist kein Buch über Fremdheit als Gefühl, sondern über Fremdheit als Bedingung. Temelkuran beschreibt eine Welt, in der Menschen ihren Platz nicht verlieren, sondern ihn sich jeden Tag neu erarbeiten müssen – auf der Straße, vor Supermärkten, in Warteschlangen, in Blicken, die entscheiden, wer bleiben darf und wer verschwindet. Fremdsein ist hier keine Identitätsfrage, sondern das Resultat politischer Entscheidungen, ökonomischer Gewalt und einer Ordnung, die Zugehörigkeit nach Nützlichkeit verteilt.* *Der folgende Brief beginnt beiläufig, führt aber unmittelbar in eine Begegnung vor einem Supermarkt: Maria, eine rumänische Frau, verkauft dort unsere Straßenzeitung.* *Er zeigt, wie Anerkennung funktioniert, wenn sie an Bedingungen geknüpft ist: wie Zugehörigkeit gewährt wird, solange man keinen Platz beansprucht, keinen Einkaufswagen nimmt, keinen Anspruch formuliert – und wie schnell sie entzogen wird, sobald diese unsichtbare Grenze überschritten wird. Was folgt, ist keine moralische Lektion, sondern eine präzise Beschreibung davon, wie Ordnung hergestellt wird – und wie Menschen darin verschwinden.* Berlin, Juli 2024 Liebe Fremde, lieber Fremder, ich habe es Ihnen noch nicht erzählt, aber ich nehme seit einigen Monaten Deutschunterricht. Petra, meine hervorragende Lehrerin, gibt trotz meiner rebellischen Versuche, ganz neue Methoden des Deutschlernens zu erfinden, netterweise nicht auf. Denn als sie mir eines Tages die berüchtigten Akkusative zeigte, die ich auswendig lernen sollte, brach es aus mir heraus, und ich erzählte ihr von den letzten acht Jahren und erklärte, dass meine Fähigkeit, von vorn zu beginnen – meine Sisyphos-Hartnäckigkeit –, an ihre Grenzen gekommen sei. Seitdem richtet sie sich nach mir, bereitet mich auf Alltagssituationen vor und bringt mir nützliche Sätze bei, die meinem Alter entsprechen und nicht wie aus dem Mund einer Sechsjährigen klingen. Allerdings finden die ausgeklügelten Szenarien, für die ich mich rüste, letztlich nie statt. Immer kommt es schlimmer als im Unterricht vorhergesehen, und genau deshalb haben Maria und ich uns vor einigen Wochen vor dem Supermarkt angeschrien. Maria ist Rumänin und steht vor dem Supermarkt bei mir in der Nähe. Sie tauchte dort Ende vergangenen Sommers kurz nach meinem Umzug ins Viertel auf. Sie hat in ihrem dicken Herrenmantel, mit ihrem Dauerlächeln und der immer gleichen alten Ausgabe von *Arts of the Working Class* in einem Nylonbeutel, den sie an einem Band um den Hals trägt, zwei Berliner Winter überlebt. *Arts of the Working Class* ist eine kostenlose mehrsprachige Zeitung, die sich mit Politik und Kunst beschäftigt. Menschen in Not können sie verkaufen und das eingenommene Geld behalten. Maria befestigt immer einen Kugelschreiber daran, weil sie offenbar glaubt, dadurch ihr Ansehen vergrößern und als Erfüllerin eines Auftrags gelten zu können. Sie trägt die Zeitung wie ein selbst beschriebenes Namensschild bei einem geschäftlichen Cocktailempfang, zu dem sie gar nicht eingeladen ist. Ohnehin basiert ihr bescheidenes Unternehmen auf der Gleichgültigkeit vieler und der Freundlichkeit einiger weniger. Ich weiß nicht mehr, wie das Grüßen und Zurückgrüßen genau begann, aber es muss wohl wegen Marias unübertrefflicher Fähigkeit eingesetzt haben, die Blicke der Leute mit ihrem mädchenhaften Lächeln und ihren klaren, runden, dunklen Augen, die in seltsamem Missverhältnis zu ihren Lebensbedingungen strahlten, sanft auf sich zu ziehen. Ihr deutscher Wortschatz war zwar begrenzt, aber im Umgang mit dem formalen «Sie» war sie besser als ich – Ergebnis einer der Not geschuldeten handwerklichen Sorgfalt. Sie musste nie mit Worten um etwas bitten, weil die perfekte Balance zwischen Gerissenheit und Höflichkeit in ihrem Blick förmlich zum Geben zwang. Zuerst war es Geld, doch nach einer Weile fragten ich und einige andere: «Kann ich Ihnen etwas von drinnen mitbringen?» Ihre erste Antwort, die sie sichtlich vorbereitet hatte, lautete: «Nüsse!» Dann ging es weiter mit «zwei Orangen», «zwei Äpfel». Immer zwei. Sie kannte sich mit dem empfindlichen Gleichgewicht menschlicher Großzügigkeit sehr gut aus. Nichts, worum sie bat, kostete mehr als zwei Euro. Nach und nach wechselte sie zu Kochzutaten, «zwei Zwiebeln» oder «eine Stange Lauch». Sie hat wohl eine Unterkunft gefunden, in der sie kochen kann, dachte ich – ein erster Schritt zu einem eigenen Platz in der Welt. Maria hat zwei Kinder und einen Mann, und alle vier wohnen in einem Zimmer. So viel habe ich immerhin erfahren. Als ich sie aber fragte, was für ein Zimmer und wo es ist, winkte sie ab, als wollte sie sagen: «Über solche Belanglosigkeiten spreche ich nicht.» Sie konnte weder darauf vertrauen, dass meine Neugier aufrichtig war, noch, dass meine Geduld für die banalen Details ausreichen würde. Das weiß ich, weil ich die Geste wiedererkannte: Wenn man mich nach meiner Aufenthaltsgenehmigung fragt, bewege ich die Hand ganz genauso und sage: «Ach, viel zu langweilig.» Auch ich habe mit der Zeit gelernt, dass es immer noch besser ist, wenn niemand nach der eigenen Geschichte fragt, als zu erleben, dass mitten in der Geschichte das Interesse daran erlischt. Vor einem Monat begann sich Maria bei der Supermarkt-Community zu revanchieren und freute sich unbändig, dass man sie etwas tun ließ. Sie sammelte stehen gelassene Einkaufswägen ein, trug alten Leuten die Taschen und griff Müttern dabei unter die Arme, den Wagen, die Einkäufe und ihre Kinder zu jonglieren. So verschaffte sie sich nach und nach Anerkennung und wurde nicht mehr nur durch das Fleckchen Boden definiert, auf dem sie stand. Maria hatte jetzt einen Grund, auf der Straße zu sein, sie hatte jetzt eine Funktion. Ihr Überleben hing nicht mehr davon ab, dass sie trotz aller Herabsetzung, die sie erfuhr, an diesem Fleckchen blieb, sondern basierte von nun an darauf, dass sie Namen auswendig lernte und sich die Wünsche der Stammkundschaft des Supermarkts merkte. Irgendwann akzeptierte man sie als eine Nachbarin, die zufällig keine Wohnung hatte. Doch dann beging sie einen schweren Fehler: Sie nahm einen Einkaufswagen mit. Sie hatte die Kochzutaten nicht mehr in ihrem Mantel untergebracht, so geräumig er war. Und mit dieser Tat überschritt sie die dünne Linie der Akzeptanz und Toleranz und verletzte den Geheimcode der Existenz aller Fremden. Fremde müssen sich so klein wie möglich machen, sie aber wagte es, Anspruch auf einen Platz zu erheben. Der Supermarkt stellte daraufhin eine Frau als Pseudo-Security vor den Eingang, die ironischerweise ebenfalls aus Rumänien kam – einer von den Millionen dreckigen Witzen des Kapitalismus. Zwar half auch die Security-Frau den Leuten, mit denen bis dahin Maria Geschäftsbeziehungen unterhalten hatte, doch vor allem sollte sie Maria in die Schranken weisen, weil die es gewagt hatte, ihren sozialen Rang zu verbessern, indem sie sich von einem Fleckchen, einem Pünktchen auf der Straße, in eine Person verwandelte, die mit ihrem Einkaufswagen einen dauerhaften Platz einnahm. Als Fremde hatte Maria gewusst, wie gefährlich dieser Schritt war und dass sie auf Abwehr und Intoleranz stieße, wenn sie Anspruch auf ihren Platz erheben würde. Deshalb besorgte sie sich eine neuere Ausgabe der Zeitung, die ihr am Band vor der Brust hing, und hielt den Kugelschreiber wie ein kleines Plastikschwert in der Hand, um sich zu schützen. In dieser Zeit, als ihre Stellung im Viertel am seidenen Faden hing, kam es zu unserer lautstarken Kommunikationspanne. Sie sagte etwas, aber ich verstand es nicht. Ihr Englisch ist schlecht, allerdings auch nicht schlechter als mein Deutsch. Das bisschen Italienisch, das wir beide können, genügt nicht, wenn es um Lebensmittel geht. Schließlich gab sie es auf, sich mir verständlich zu machen, und löste eine innere Spannung, die sich seit einer Woche aufgebaut hatte, indem sie mir zurief: «Okay, gut, dann kauf mir zwei Snickers.» Ihre Wut war berechtigt. Armut und die damit verbundene Verzweiflung sind eine heikle Angelegenheit, die rasch, gelassen und im Flüsterton behandelt zu werden hat, weil der Anblick von Hunger denen, die essen können, den Appetit verdirbt. Doch mein schlechtes Deutsch und meine ungeschickten Gesten lenkten die Aufmerksamkeit auf Maria, und die Pseudo-Security-Frau kam herbei. Die Gelegenheit, Maria auf frischer Tat dabei zu ertappen, wie sie «die Kundschaft belästigt», ließ sie sich nicht entgehen. Am nächsten Tag hielt mich Maria an, zeigte mir auf ihrem Handy ein Foto von einem Ei und sagte «Ei». Sie wolle ab jetzt keine Eier mehr. Ihr leicht übertriebenes Lachen sollte der Pseudo-Security-Frau zeigen, dass wir beide einen Insider-joke hatten. Sie berührte meinen Arm, ich ihren. Normalerweise taten wir das nicht, aber wir wussten in dieser Situation, wie wichtig es war, dass uns die Frau sah – ein subtiles Signal, dass Maria eingebunden war. Unsere gemeinsame Anstrengung erwies sich allerdings als vergeblich, denn ein paar Tage später riss Maria, sobald sie mich sah, die Zeitung in die Höhe, womit sie mir wortlos zu verstehen gab, dass ich ab jetzt ein Exemplar kaufen müsse, damit alles so aussähe, als hätte es seine Ordnung. Die Schlagzeile auf der Titelseite war ein weiterer dreckiger Witz: «Menschlichkeit in dieser Wirtschaft?» Ich kaufte ihr das Blatt ab und zahlte in Zeitlupe und mit theatralischen Bewegungen, damit die Transaktion allgemein als solche erkennbar war. Wenige Tage später war Maria verschwunden. Inzwischen ist es Hochsommer, und sie ist nicht zurückgekommen. Anfangs warfen sich einige der Leute, die sie gekannt hatten, besorgte, fragende Blicke zu, wenn sie an der leeren Stelle vorbeigingen, doch als der Supermarkt die Pseudo-Security-Frau nach einiger Zeit entließ, stand fest: Maria gab es nicht mehr. Ich fragte den jungen türkischen Kassierer nach ihr. «Die kommen und gehen», antwortete er. Wer sind die? Menschen aus Rumänien? Frauen? Fremde? Er zuckte mit den Schultern wie einer, der glaubt, dass er sich sein Fleckchen sichern kann, indem er sich von anderen Fleckchen in der Stadt absetzt, in diesem Fall von Maria. Sitzt sie in diesem Moment in einem Flugzeug? Mir fallen die rechtsextremistischen Plakate ein, die ich vor der Europawahl in Berlin gesehen habe: «Remigration jetzt!» Man muss keine Akkusativformen auswendig lernen, um als nicht deutschsprachiger Mensch die Dringlichkeit zu verstehen, die in dem Slogan zum Ausdruck kommt, vor allem wenn daneben ein Flugzeug abgebildet ist. Im Gegensatz zu den von Hand beschriebenen und bemalten Transparenten in migrantisch geprägten Vierteln, auf denen «Niemanden zurücklassen» oder «Wir bleiben alle» steht, sind die Remigrationsplakate meinem Eindruck nach eher in den wohlhabenderen Teilen der Stadt beliebt. Ich bin heute Abend zu einer Party in einem solchen Viertel eingeladen. Ich habe nur zugesagt, weil ich nicht ständig über das Problem mit meiner Aufenthaltserlaubnis grübeln möchte. Ohne Sie mit den Einzelheiten langweilen zu wollen: Ich habe die Erlaubnis immer noch nicht und weiß nicht mal, ob ich sie kriegen werde. Deshalb brauche ich jetzt, dass mich jemand am Arm berührt, so wie ich es bei Maria getan habe. Das würde mir helfen, zu vergessen, dass auch ich nur ein Fleckchen, ein Stäubchen bin. Eine Berührung, die mir weismachen soll, ich wäre sicher eingebunden. E. // [From: Ece Temelkuran, Nation of Strangers, S. 159-164\. Copyright © 2026 Rowohlt Verlag GmbH, Hamburg](https://www.rowohlt.de/buch/ece-temelkuran-nation-of-strangers-9783498007393?srsltid=AfmBOooJG5%5FLHOBql1Evn5HCMqh5Tb9cGk1vpiS7qVnZ5m6ApTxqQbXX&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *Ece Temelkuran wurde 1973 in Izmir geboren. Sie studierte Jura und war lange als Journalistin tätig. Aufgrund ihrer kritischen Haltung zum Regime Erdoğan und Berichten über Kurdistan verlor sie ihre Arbeit und musste 2016 die Türkei verlassen. Sie ist Autorin mehrerer Romane und Sachbücher. Für ihre Arbeit wurde sie mit zahlreichen Preisen ausgezeichnet, u.a. mit dem International Pen Piece Award, dem Edinburgh International Book Festival Award, dem Ambassador Of New Europe Award und dem El Mundo Journalism Award (dem wichtigsten Journalismuspreis Spaniens). Sie hat TED-Talks gehalten und in internationalen Medien wie dem Guardian, dem Spiegel, der NYT und Le Monde veröffentlicht. Ece Temelkuran war ein Fellow des New Institutes in Hamburg und 2023/24 Stipendiatin der Robert-Bosch-Stiftung. Sie lebt in Berlin.* ### Defend the LAnd URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/defend-the-land/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:40.000Z *On the official ice.gov website in April 2025, a statement proclaimed: "100 days of record-breaking immigration enforcement in the US interior. 3 in 4 arrests were criminal illegal aliens." The words criminal, illegal, aliens are worth pausing on. The language of immigration enforcement authorizes the violence it deploys, reinforcing hierarchies of belonging and manufactured otherness. When the U.S. government names immigrants and racialized people "illegal aliens," it renders some bodies foreign, invasive, or expendable on lands long held by Indigenous nations.* *That semantic framing matters deeply. In Minnesota this month, federal immigration enforcement operations have sparked broad resistance after two U.S. citizens were killed by agents—37-year-old intensive care nurse Alex Pretti, fatally shot by federal agents during an immigration enforcement encounter in Minneapolis, and 37-year-old Renee Nicole Good, shot and killed by an ICE agent earlier in the month. These incidents have drawn national outrage and protests across the country.* *Maga Miranda, postdoctoral fellow in Chicana/o-Latina/o Studies at Pomona College in Claremont, CA and editor at Spectre, exposes a suppressed version of history: in a settler colonial state, those criminalizing migration are themselves occupiers. In reality, agencies like ICE and other related federal enforcement units are today's continuation of systems of violence—from 19th-century slave patrols to modern militarized policing that encoded racialized surveillance and capture as normal. To reclaim belonging is to remember that indigeneity exists in tension with nation-state sovereignty, and to dismantle terminologies designed for epistemological erasure. In this analysis, originally published on* [*Spectre*](https://spectrejournal.com/defend-the-land/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*, Miranda traces the history of Los Angeles—founded by Black, Indigenous, and mestizo settlers, majority Mexican by 1850, built on Tongva land—exposing the nation-state's "alien" terminology as recent colonial fiction imposed on prior forms of inhabiting and belonging. As Gloria Anzaldúa reminds us: "this land was Mexican once, was Indian always, and is."* *Since "Defend the LAnd" was first published in June 2025, federal immigration enforcement has claimed dozens of lives, driven deportations from homes, and subjected countless others to punitive supremacist borders. Resistance emerges against policies that instrumentalize language to deny humanity and historical presence. Actor Edward Norton, for instance, called for the protests to be expanded into "a general economic strike...until this is over."* \* Donald Trump’s agenda will never win Los Angeles—at least not in the traditional sense, and certainly not through votes or on the ideological terrain. But the campaign of terror being unleashed upon the city is not about a conventional victory. Instead, Trump intends to terrorize Los Angeles into submission, creating a spectacle and inflicting chaos in an attempt to break the political and moral backbone of a city that refuses to submit to authoritarian ethnonationalism. Faced with extreme federal overreach, which has taken the form of ICE abductions and the deployment of militarized forces, Los Angeles now finds itself at a crossroads. We are witnessing in Los Angeles an authoritarian attempt to undermine the mandate of the people to retain the city as a longtime sanctuary for immigrants. To be more precise, what is taking place now is a retaliatory campaign—a punishment for Los Angeles’ defiance and a message to every city that dares to resist Trump’s ethnonationalist agenda. But Los Angeles is not just any city. It has always been a locus of struggle and resistance. My aim in this essay is twofold. First, I outline the dominant narrative about what is happening in Los Angeles, offering some context that shows that framing the issue as a question of “national security” is misguided. Second, I propose an alternative framework: rather than a battle between “law and order” and so-called lawlessness (framed through the twin tropes of “illegal” immigration or anarchic unrest), I argue that we are seeing the righteous resistance to defend the sovereignty—and the soul—of Los Angeles. ### **Not Law and Order versus Lawlessness** In a recent speech at Fort Bragg, Trump declared that “generations of Army heroes did not shed their blood on distant shores only to watch our country be destroyed by invasion and third-world lawlessness,” adding that “what you’re witnessing in California is a full-blown assault on peace, on public order, and on national sovereignty, carried out by rioters bearing foreign flags.” In subsequent speeches, he explained that his deployment of national troops represents a mission to “liberate Los Angeles.” But what, exactly, does he mean to “liberate Los Angeles” from? The answer lies in a disinformation campaign: a bizarre, gaslighting alternate reality that severs Los Angeles from its own history and from the broader nation. It attempts to recast California (and Los Angeles in particular) as a white MAGA ethnostate, which it never was and never will be. The narrative of “law and order versus lawlessness” is an attempt to harness narrative power in a distorted reality and to rewrite LA’s reality and history. The narrative being spun by the Trump administration is one we’ve heard before: immigrants are criminals, protestors are anarchists, and real Americans are under siege. The federal response has been couched in terms like “law and order,” “public safety,” and “national security,” but such a framing collapses under scrutiny. The reality is that Los Angeles has never been—*and will never be*—a white-majority city, much to the dismay of figures like Stephen Miller, Donald Trump, and the current regime. From its founding in 1781 by the original Pobladores—a group of Black, Indigenous, mestizo, and Spanish settlers—Los Angeles has always been a multicultural city. By 1850, roughly 75 percent of its population was of Mexican descent. Even after the so-called Mexican Repatriation of the 1930s, when close to one million people (including thousands of US birthright citizens) were forcibly removed and deported, Los Angeles has continued to be a majority minority city. In a place like this, immigrants are essential to the economic and social fabric, even as they continue to be politically disenfranchised. Of the approximately ten million residents in the county, around 33 percent are foreign-born. Immigrants make up more than half the workforce in sectors like manufacturing, food services, and healthcare. The impact of federal immigration raids is already being felt in the form of labor shortages in these industries, and the agricultural sector has yet to see the full fallout. That these raids coincide with graduation season in the Los Angeles Unified School District and other area districts should also not be lost on anyone. Thus, to borrow the words of the prolific borderlands thinker Gloria Anzaldúa:“*This land was Mexican once, was Indian always and is. And will be again.*” To say this is not some sort of radical threat against the United States. It’s simply a historical fact. Los Angeles stands as a constant reminder of the incomplete nature of the settler colonial project. Founded as *El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles* toward the end of the eighteenth century, the city has since then changed hands many times, from Tongva land, to Spanish mission control, to Mexican governance, to Anglo annexation. Seen through this lens, calls to “liberate Los Angeles” are exposed as nothing more than thinly veiled ethnonationalist dog whistles. What is unfolding in Los Angeles is also a serious violation of state sovereignty. On this point, even some Democrats, like Governor Gavin Newsom (who is believed by many to be setting the state for a Democratic run for the presidency in 2028), appear to be finding their backbone after being threatened with arrest by “border czar” Tom Homan. The federal overreach not only undermines constitutionally protected civil and labor rights but openly defies states’ authority and mandates like sanctuary city policies. And Los Angeles is currently under siege. Federal agencies including ICE, CBP, DHS, Border Patrol, HSI, FBI and even the DEA have descended upon the city in an unprecedented show of force….At the time of this writing, more troops are stationed in Los Angeles than in Iraq and Syria combined. This is hardly “enforcement.” It’s quite literally an occupation. But while Trump and the broader project of white supremacist ethnonationalism cannot and will not win in a place like Los Angeles, this doesn’t mean that they are not currently undertaking a brutal effort to injure and incapacitate the city—quite literally, in many cases—into submission. Knowing full well that the ideological battle is unwinnable here, their aim instead is to brutalize and terrorize the population into compliance. This explains the violent spectacle we are currently witnessing. Southern California has long served as a laboratory for such authoritarian, anti-immigrant experiments. As Juan De Lara notes in *Inland Shift,* programs like Secure Communities (SComm) transformed local jails into immigrant-catching machines. Under this system, local police would scan detainees through a Department of Homeland Security database and hand over anyone flagged as undocumented to ICE. In Riverside County, supervisors even framed these collaborations as “crime reduction” despite the absence of any data showing that deportations reduce crime. These programs are very clearly not about safety from lawless hordes, but about instilling fear. They discourage people from seeking work, accessing healthcare, or simply existing in public life. They circumvent due process and corrode trust. They are campaigns of terror designed to make life unlivable for immigrants. At every turn, the community has pushed back. Make no mistake: what we are seeing in Los Angeles is a retaliatory agenda in motion. Los Angeles’ commitment to sanctuary, formalized in the City Council’s unanimous vote last November, has become the target of federal ire. This is because sanctuary cities fly in the face of executive orders (like the Executive Order Protecting the American People Against Invasion) that have expanded enforcement priorities to include anyone who committed “illegal” entry, overstayed a visa, or received a removal order. This paves the way for mass deportations and criminalizes the mere presence of undocumented people. Trump has also issued executive orders that challenge birthright citizenship and threaten those who offer aid to immigrants, including churches and nonprofits. The current measures represent political warfare against the very concept of sanctuary, which both threatens the administration’s draconian federal policy and is widely popular.[4](https://spectrejournal.com/defend-the-land/void%280%29?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) From this vantage point, we can see the current militarized siege of Los Angeles for what it truly is: a punitive effort, with narrative cover, to undermine sanctuary cities with decades of local precedent. In 2017, Executive Directive 20 reaffirmed that no city resources could be used for federal immigration enforcement. Even the LAPD has had to issue a statement asserting that, under its Special Order 40 from 1979, local police are barred from initiating contact based solely on immigration status. And Los Angeles is currently under siege. Federal agencies including ICE, CBP, DHS, Border Patrol, HSI, FBI and even the DEA have descended upon the city in an unprecedented show of force. Two thousand National Guard troops and seven hundred marines have been deployed to roam neighborhoods and assist the feds in carrying out their orders. Undercover agents operate in civilian clothes and unmarked vehicles, snatching people off the streets, at their workplaces and their homes. At the time of this writing, more troops are stationed in Los Angeles than in Iraq and Syria combined. This is hardly “enforcement.” It’s quite literally an occupation. According to the *Los Angeles Times*, as of June 11, an estimated 330 people had been detained by ICE (or, as many suspect, individuals posing as federal agents), and that number is expected to rise dramatically as ICE continues to escalate its operations in greater Los Angeles and surrounding counties, in an effort to meet egregious quotas set by the federal government. Workplace raids have intensified at Home Depot parking lots, garment factories, car washes, warehouses, and more. ICE agents are posted outside of neighborhood grocery stores. One of the most chilling tactics involves targeting people at their immigration appointments or near federal buildings. Elementary, middle, and high schools have been placed on lockdown to prevent plainclothes ICE agents from abducting children. We are also witnessing a crackdown on organized labor. The arrest of SEIU-USWW president and revered labor leader David Huerta is a case in point. His detention was marked by a kind of brutality more commonly reserved for those outside US borders, for the “subjects” of empire. At the press conference following his release, Huerta appeared exhausted and physically shaken, but remained firm in his conviction in the power of working people standing united. This, at the same time that labor and community organizations at the forefront of community self-defense efforts were made aware of a HUAC-like investigation led by MAGA Senator and Josh Hawley of the “Subcommittee on Crime and Counterterrorism.” It is hardly hyperbole, then, to say that Los Angeles is also in a battle for its soul. Day after day, hour after hour, we are witnessing new raids and more people being taken. Repeated images and stories of our loved ones being taken are heartbreaking. With close to one million undocumented immigrants living in Los Angeles, the pain is widespread, and it cuts especially deep for those with long-standing ties to these communities. Each deportation (or more acutely, kidnapping) slowly chips away at the social fabric of our communities. These raids seek to shatter our collective spirit. ### **Defending the LAnd: *Solo el Pueblo Salva al Pueblo*** So how are we to understand what is unfolding in Los Angeles? Los Angeles today is what it looks like when a city refuses to surrender its sovereignty and its soul. Rapid response networks have mobilized to confront federal agencies and local police directly, with the aim of disrupting and preventing the execution of this campaign of terror. These networks represent the city’s urgent commitment to protecting its undocumented residents who, at nearly 10 percent of the population, are our neighbors, coworkers, family members, classmates and, in some cases, even our adversaries—immigrants who are part of the social fabric of Los Angeles. Racialized Angelenos…are living a coordinated assault on our everyday life. But what is emerging is an even deeper, city-wide commitment to community self-defense. Angelenos are acting decisively, collectively, and with the clear understanding that only the people will save the people. Los Angeles is also battle-tested. Just earlier this year, wildfires tore through the city’s eastern and western edges. Many residents were left to fend for themselves, abandoned by the state. From this came a renewed sense of collective responsibility embodied in the slogan *solo el pueblo salva al pueblo* (“only the people save the people”). Armed with the sense that no one is coming to rescue us, it has become a moral imperative for many Angelenos to show up for one another however they can. Throughout the vast cityscape, rapid response networks have formed and were already active before June 6, but on that day, the struggle reached a boiling point. What followed might rightly be called the *Los Angeles Anti-Raid Revolt*: a mass, mostly nonviolent uprising that unfolded between June 6 and 8\. Thousands took to the streets, with rapid response networks swelling in size. Frontline defenders mobilized in person while secondary and tertiary networks offered remote support organizing legal aid, supplies distributions, and sharing real-time updates. The resistance was decentralized, strategic, and deeply rooted in the spirit of mutual care. Direct action to obstruct ICE operations has taken many creative and confrontational forms. Activists have physically blocked ICE vehicles, deflated their tires, and made it impossible for agents to stay at hotels, with many of these tactics continuing in the days after. The Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD) implemented lockdown protocols to prevent federal agents from entering campuses and detaining students, with community members acting as human shields at graduation ceremonies, many of which were poorly attended. These tactics aren’t merely symbolic but strategic. By obstructing roads and immobilizing vehicles, activists have sought to delay or outright halt federal operations, with some successes: to name a few, an ICE van was turned around in Chinatown, warehouse workers were locked down long enough for ICE to give up and leave, and teachers trained in LAUSD protocols prevented their young students from being picked up by ICE in their classroom. Over the weekend, some of the most high-profile actions included the burning of five self-driving Waymo cars and the use of Lime scooters to immobilize police vehicles—what one tweet aptly described as “a riot against transportation startups.” Protesters also repurposed everyday materials to disrupt ICE operations, like building makeshift barricades out of metal chairs in Grand Park, an act that has since been praised by the chair’s designers for its ingenuity. These interventions served multiple purposes: wasting agents’ time and resources, protecting vulnerable community members, and exposing the absurdity and impotence of elected Democrats who, obsessed with “optics,” continue to issue tone-deaf condemnations of “riots and looting.” Angelenos are not only resisting but organizing a deep infrastructure that includes legal observers, street medics, rapid response hotlines, and mutual aid networks. These have been in full operation, delivering groceries, fielding calls, sharing know-your-rights information and generalizing the moral courage necessary to defend the LAnd and protect one another. Organized labor is showing up, too. Though some responses have been cautious, like the relatively tame protest following the arrest of David Huerta, union members and supporters from across the city and beyond nevertheless turned out in the thousands in solidarity. The current assault, which is threatened to last thirty or even sixty days, has specifically targeted workplaces in Latino majority areas of the city: Home Depot parking lots, car washes, garment factories like Ambiance Apparel in the heart of the Fashion District (known to many as *los callejones*), grocery stores, school graduations, and even federal buildings (where immigrants arrive for scheduled appointments only to be detained). Racialized Angelenos, especially Mexican, Chicano, and Latino regardless of citizenship status, are living a coordinated assault on our everyday life. But what is emerging is an even deeper, city-wide commitment to community self-defense. Angelenos are acting decisively, collectively, and with the clear understanding that only the people will save the people. Perhaps unsurprisingly, many in the Democratic Party have failed to meet the moment. Mayor Karen Bass, who has sought collaboration with ICE and the Secret Service ahead of the 2028 Olympics, condemned protesters, issuing a curfew while conveniently obscuring the deep roots of sanctuary policy in Los Angeles. During the next round of elections, they will surely try to rebrand themselves as champions of resistance, offering a “kinder, gentler” version of deportation, but their cowardice must not be forgotten. The spectacle of mass raids is not about “national security.” This moment is revealing the profound, bottomless cruelty of the current regime. It is making clear the poverty of the bipartisan “broken” immigration system and the ever-deepening crisis of an American empire rotting from within after decades of neoliberal extraction; after all, the scapegoating of migrants is always a telltale sign of a state in grave crisis. In light of this, calls to Abolish ICE are not simply a demand to dismantle an agency, but a demand to build a world where housing, education, healthcare, and dignity are guaranteed. Like other abolitionist movements, the demand to Abolish ICE is a demand to replace fear with solidarity, scarcity with abundance, and punishment with care. In the battle to protect and defend the LAnd, we are not fighting alone. As the struggle expands to other cities the myth of “law and order” must be buried once and for all. It is a trap that distracts us from the real crisis: a government using its power to scapegoat and terrorize the most vulnerable among us, forcefully and against the will of the people. With counterinsurgency efforts already underway, the people of Los Angeles will not be broken. We will continue to fight back *porque solo el pueblo salva al pueblo*. // --- ### Cover Image Credit: Alena Rosa Reyes *Maga Miranda is a Chicana scholar with deep roots in Boyle Heights, Los Angeles. She is working on a book, Intimate Data: Latina Workers and the Data-Driven Politics of Care, that examines how contemporary regimes of documentation govern relations of care and what immigrant Latinas have to teach us about reclaiming autonomy over both our data and our intimate lives.* ### June 20, 1981: The Beginning of an End URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/june-20-1981-the-beginning-of-an-end/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:38.000Z *As the January 2026 uprising swept Iran, and it was met with the state-sanctioned murder of over 20,000 people—most of them under 30—with thousands intentionally blinded by bullets aimed at their eyes, I returned to a firsthand account of June 20, 1981: the last mass demonstration against the Islamic Republic before the regime consolidated power through the systematic extermination of an entire political generation, in the darkest period of Iranian history, lasting six years and ending with the mass murder of more than 10,000 political prisoners who had completed their sentences and who were, in many cases, preparing to be released. I was 14 years old as I marched along with my mother.* *The following text, originally written in Farsi by a friend, Arjangn Sepasi, had been circulating among Iranian leftists for decades but never have reached a broader readership, due to its ideological weight and its particular narration of history from a revolutionary Marxist-Leninist and anti-imperialist trajectory. I, therefore, attempted an experiment. I asked an Ai system using a Large Language Model (LLM) to translate the text into English, then to profile the politics of its author based on framing, vocabulary, and commitments. Together, we substitutes the author’s Ideological, political and literary profile with those of an imaginary other person: a female poet, philosopher, and literary critic with no political commitment to any faction—someone with poetic skills and an independent way of thinking outside of all the existing political parties and dialectical tendencies of the late 1970s; someone who knew people on the left but was not committed to their goals. AI accomplished this, surprisingly, without altering the historical narration or the firsthand account of what took place that day on the streets of Tehran. This experiment in historical reconstruction is the closest thing to Walter Benjamin’s concept of the Angel of History through which the historian's job would be to reconstruct a new historical understanding by putting together fragments of a ruinous past.* *What emerged revealed a dialectic: while any author’s ideology inevitably shapes their narration of history, the more honestly they describe what they actually observed—grounded in the concreteness of reality, the more the truth shines through, regardless of the political, ideological, or stylistic limits of the narrator.* *As someone who attended the June 19 demonstration at the age of 14, I would like to dedicate this text to Arjangn Sepasi himself, and to all of us who are victims of Shi’a Islam’s particular brand of fundamentalism.* *The Islamic Republic has shown its true face twice: first between 1981 and 1988, when it consolidated its brutal rule; and now again—an eruption that will undoubtedly end it.* *Vancouver, January 2026* ### Introduction June 20, 1981 marked the beginning of the end of the Iranian Revolution. The movement that had overthrown the Pahlavi monarchy in 1979, a movement no one fully controlled and everyone wanted to claim, was finally suppressed that day. What the Shah could not accomplish, a clergyman would. The Western powers, in their geopolitical chess match with the Soviet Union and the Eastern Bloc, had made their calculation at the Guadeloupe Conference. With Soviet forces already in Afghanistan, they would not risk losing Iran to the Eastern Bloc in a prolonged struggle between the Shah and the revolutionary forces, a struggle the communists, organized and popular, might eventually win. Khomeini, during his time in Paris, had signaled his willingness to cooperate. He was the solution. He would suppress the communist movement and purge the nationalist movement of its secular leaders, transforming it into a moderate Islamic political party fully supportive of his project. The heirs of Mossadegh, who had nationalized the oil industry in the 1950s before the coup removed him and restored the Shah to full power, would become obedient partners in a theocracy. The National-Islamic Movement, which had tried to control the uprising since before the Shah's departure, began its work immediately after taking power. They attacked women's demonstrations in March 1979, attacked Sanandaj in April 1979\. The closing of universities in May 1980, the attacks on unemployed workers, the attacks on Turkmen Sahra, the suppression of peasant councils: all continuations of suppressing what the Shah had failed to suppress, now entrusted to the Islamic Republic. Then the internal conflicts over method began. Bani-Sadr, the first and last democratically elected president of the Islamic Republic, was removed. And on June 20, 1981, the resistance that had survived everything else finally met defeat. The Islamic Republic succeeded through savage repression, executing many the Pahlavi monarchy had been unable to kill, massacring the young mob who had been brainwashed into joining an already defeated movement, and silencing what remained for years to come. ### How the June 20th Demonstration Took Shape Following the conflicts between Bani-Sadr's faction on one side and the Islamic Republic Party, Mojahedin of the Islamic Revolution, and Mo'talefeh on the other, the atmosphere in the city was closing in. Hezbollah gangs, organized in groups of several hundred throughout the city, attacked any gathering. The Fedayeen, who had been the largest leftist force, had split into two factions in 1980, and the majority of them, along with the Tudeh Party, had begun supporting the Islamic Republic. They spied and spread propaganda against forces opposing the Islamic Republic, dealing a massive blow to what remained of any organized opposition. A betrayal that still disgusts, regardless of what one thinks of the left. The Mojahedin-e Khalq, who constituted the largest opposition force, were attempting to ally with one faction of the government and capture power from within. The left and independent forces, such as Komala, Peykar, Fedayeen Minority, and several other groups, were not as extensive as the Mojahedin, and aside from Komala, which had a broad base in Kurdistan, the rest did not have wide support. In such conditions, on June 16 or 17, 1981, news spread widely in Tehran that the Mojahedin organization had decided to hold a demonstration at Mossadegh Intersection on June 20th. This followed the National Front's call for a demonstration on June 14th, where the crowd that had gathered in front of Lalezar on Revolution Street was attacked by Hezbollah before they could even gather 50 people, scattered by thugs armed with machetes and chains. From the first days of June and following the government's internal conflicts, the Mojahedin, Peykar, and several other groups tried to counter the atmosphere of intimidation by gathering in various corners of the city. But most of these gatherings were bloodily attacked by organized Hezbollah groups composed of Basijis and Revolutionary Guards. According to reports, dozens of centers had been established at various points from which Hezbollah gangs were sent into the streets. In such conditions, when the thought of any gathering was becoming impossible, on June 19th we learned that the Mojahedin had announced a demonstration at Palestine Square or Mossadegh Intersection. That day, after discussing the event with a couple of friends, it was decided that they would go to Palestine Square. I went to Mossadegh Intersection. Not intending to participate, we wanted to potentially witness the unfolding of history. Before reaching the intersection, I saw an old Mojahed friend running back and forth in the surrounding streets. I knew he was with the Mojahedin, so I became certain the demonstration was at Mossadegh Intersection and nothing was happening at Palestine Square. At Mossadegh Intersection, the Guards had blocked the street on the northern side. Hezbollah groups were savagely attacking anyone without a beard, trying to prevent people from gathering. People moved back and forth, waiting for something to start, something that seemed almost impossible. Right on time, a group of Mojahedin militia entered the intersection from the southern side. A group of about 50\. Mostly young women. I noticed this. Something in it. These girls, walking into that intersection, knowing what was waiting. There was something militant in it that had nothing to do with the Mojahedin's ideology, something older, or newer, I couldn't tell. Their movement was so sudden that the Guards, despite being armed, retreated behind their vehicles and began firing into the air. People came to the middle of the intersection, and Hezbollah gangs with machetes and chains attacked the crowd. More militia groups entered with the chant "The club-wielding party must go to the cemetery" and by attacking the thugs, drove them away. People who had entered the street fought back with stones, and in less than five minutes the intersection was in the hands of the demonstrators. The Guards began shooting at ground level, spraying the first row of demonstrators with bullets. The crowd, empty-handed, having overturned several cars, fought back with stones. The shooting became so intense that the crowd retreated toward Ferdowsi Square and the surrounding streets. The Guards and Hezbollah gangs, emboldened, moved forward, kicking the wounded who had fallen on the ground, attacking anyone in the street. The crowd fought back with hit-and-run tactics. Whenever they pushed back the Hezbollah thugs, they faced fire from the Guards behind them. This went on for about an hour, with many killed and wounded. We were fleeing toward Ferdowsi Square when suddenly we saw them: a crowd of half a million covering the entire overpass in front of Lalezar. It was not believable. No one had thought that despite everything, half a million people could be gathered. People, seeing the crowd, gained something. I don't know what to call it. Those at the front embraced the newcomers, weeping. I watched. It was an image that stays. The Mojahedin had announced the demonstration at Mossadegh Intersection to draw the Guards and Hezbollah gangs there, while starting the main demonstration from Palestine Square on Takht-e Jamshid Street toward Bahar Street and Shemiran. My companions said that when the crowd moved from Palestine Square, for about fifteen minutes, there was no sign of Hezbollah. The tactic had worked. After fifteen minutes, when news reached them, they approached sporadically and were beaten back by the crowd. Thus, the half-million-strong demonstration took shape, through a clever tactic and through the sacrifice of the people, especially the militia. Those young women who walked into Mossadegh Intersection so the real demonstration could begin elsewhere. If you bring that many people into the streets, you must be prepared to protect them. This is what I kept thinking. This is what I still think. ### The Demonstration at Ferdowsi Square At the front of the demonstration was a large banner reading "Bani-Sadr, we support you". The crowd passed Lalezar and reached Ferdowsi Square when a minibus carrying Guards arrived. The chanting crowd, upon seeing the Guards, attacked the minibus and set it on fire. At that moment, while some at the front were trying to lead the demonstration south toward Baharestan, others were encouraging the crowd to go toward the university and Revolution Square. On the southeastern corner of Ferdowsi Square there was a komiteh, and the crowd rightly did not want to pass in front of it. On top of the komiteh's entrance was a machine gun, and as the crowd approached, they had closed the door. According to my two friends who had gone to Palestine Square, the Mojahedin members organizing the demonstration were continuously in contact with their headquarters via radio, receiving orders. On Takht-e Jamshid Street, leftist groups several times tried to change the slogans to "Death to Khomeini", and in several cases Mojahedin supporters who had been under Hezbollah attack for weeks joined them. But immediately, the demonstration organizers suppressed this with the chant "The club-wielding party must go to the cemetery". The slogan "Death to the Islamic Republic" met the same fate. I understood the logic. The Mojahedin were not trying to overthrow the Islamic Republic. They were trying to capture it. Their slogan for a long time had been "Democratic Islamic Republic". They wanted in, not out. This explained everything about how the demonstration was run: what slogans were permitted, where the crowd was being led, and what they were waiting for. While the crowd at Ferdowsi Square was busy overturning the Guards' minibus and some were leading the demonstration toward Baharestan, the Guards opened fire on the crowd with the machine gun on top of the Komiteh's entrance. The fountain in the middle of Ferdowsi Square filled with blood and bodies, demonstrators fleeing the attack, falling into the water as bullets hit them. The crowd pushed a double-decker bus from the north side of the street into the middle and hid behind it. The Guards, after firing with the machine gun and seeing the crowd's confusion, came out of the Komiteh with weapons and fired at the crowd. From the other side, the Guards stationed at Mossadegh Intersection and the Hezbollah gangs who had fled upon seeing the crowd, now emboldened by the shooting, attacked from the west. In less than ten minutes, Ferdowsi Square was full of the dead. The half-million-strong crowd scattered into the surrounding alleys. Most shops and houses filled with demonstrators given shelter by residents. Thus the demonstration that had been organized with such sacrifice was suppressed in less than half an hour. From then on, the government, consolidating its approach, launched a suppression that silenced what remained for years. What I kept thinking, watching: if you bring half a million people to the streets, you come prepared. You have snipers. You disable the machine gun. You do not lead unarmed people past a komiteh with a mounted gun and hope for the best. You do not wait for the army to save you. The Mojahedin brought the crowd to Baharestan because they were waiting for army support, support Bani-Sadr had promised, or bluffed. They were not organizing an overthrow. They were organizing a pressure campaign, hoping to be handed power from above. When the army did not move, there was no plan. Just people in the streets, and a machine gun. ### After June 20th Hundreds of those arrested were executed without trial. In the following days, with the announcement that anyone arrested in the street should be killed on the spot without the need for trial, they were handed over to firing squads in groups. On June 21st, the government executed Saeed Soltanpour, a socialist realist poet, a Marxist, a close friend, affiliated with the Fedayeen Minority, and Mohsen Fazel, a high-ranking Peykari and also a friend. Both had been in prison for months. Their execution was a signal that the final suppression had begun. The Ettela'at newspaper published photos of young girls without publishing any names, asking their parents to come with photo IDs to collect their children's bodies. This meant the government, without even knowing the true identity of these detainees, had declared them mohareb in trials lasting a few minutes according to the principles of Islamic justice and executed them. I remember looking at those photos in the newspaper. Girls. No names. Just faces, and an instruction for parents to come identify them. This is what efficiency looks like. After the suppression of the June 20th demonstration, that same night Mojahedin militia forces were seen in south Tehran streets, Nazi Abad and Darvazeh Ghar, patrolling in cars with several people. Also, in 1984, the Mojahed publication interviewed a Mojahedin member who had formerly been a member of the National Security Council. This indicated that the Mojahedin had infiltrated the Security Council and were aware of the government's plans. The presence of Mojahedin patrols in the city indicated that these forces were waiting for a move from within, specifically army support, which Bani-Sadr claimed to have. This also explained why the Mojahedin intended to lead the demonstrators toward Baharestan. The organizers' goal was a sit-in in front of the parliament and waiting for army support to seize power from above. The Mojahedin's city patrol force continued for several days after June 20th before stopping. Patrol forces are usually used to maintain control over a neighborhood or city. They were preparing for a transfer of power that never came. The Mojahedin have given no honest analysis of the main objectives of this demonstration. Massoud Rajavi, in his book June 20th: Response to Historical Necessity declared it a demonstration to give the government a final ultimatum. Abbas Davari, in the book June 20th as Told by Witnesses says the demonstrators' intention was to go in front of the parliament. The truth is simpler: the Mojahedin intended to attract army support by sitting in front of the parliament and seizing power from above. They had placed too much hope in Bani-Sadr's bluffs about military support, and the existence of city patrols showed their excessive optimism. They were not only counting on army support but had planned for afterward, for maintaining power. An interesting point: the Mojahedin never raised the slogan "Death to the Islamic Republic" because their own slogan for a long time was "Democratic Islamic Republic". They wanted to reform it, not end it. Later, when they realized the depth of hatred for any kind of Islamic government, they gradually discarded this slogan and turned to nationalism. In the fall of that year, they announced that with an armed demonstration in front of the former Kourosh store on Mossadegh Street, they had taken the "Death to Khomeini" slogan to the streets for the first time. Perhaps they did not have time to read the reports of their own June 20th organizers about how the crowd had raised this slogan several times, and been silenced each time by the Mojahedin themselves. Mousavi Tabrizi, who became Chief Prosecutor of the Islamic Republic after Qoddusi's assassination in September 1981, gave an interview with Iran Mehr Outlook magazine several years ago. He says: "On my second day as prosecutor, we had a meeting at the Prime Minister's office. The Prime Minister was Mr. Mahdavi Kani, and we had no president... At that meeting, Mr. Mousavi Ardebili, Mahdavi Kani, Mohsen Rezaei as IRGC commander, Behzad Nabavi as Minister Counselor, myself as prosecutor, and a few others were present. Mr. Mahdavi Kani said, 'Now we can hardly deal with these people (the Mojahedin).' He proposed that through Mr. Taher Ahmadzadeh, they should talk to Mr. Rajavi, perhaps they would agree to negotiate and talk, and even these people could be given some positions to end this affair. Mr. Ardebili said, 'Mr. Mahdavi, until six months ago, I agreed with you that we should bring them in, talk, invite them, and even give them positions, but now with all these killings and assassinations they've carried out, this cannot be done.'" The interviewer, Lotfollah Meisami, insists on convincing Mousavi that if the Mojahedin had been given positions in the government, it would have been easier to come to terms with them and these bloody conflicts would not have occurred. This is the logic of the Islamic liberals, always believing accommodation was possible, always believing the violence could have been avoided through inclusion. They still believe this. They believed it then, they believed it through Khatami, they believe it now. They are wrong. The Mojahedin would not have been satisfied with positions. And the clerical establishment would never have shared real power. The conflict was structural, not personal. The liberals could not see this then. They still cannot see it. ### The Lesson of June 20th This writing does not intend to be a comprehensive analysis, but hopes to encourage those who remember that time, especially those on the left, to examine June 20th not as a demonstration organized by the Mojahedin but as a social movement, and to address why it failed. Perhaps this experience will provide a lesson for the future, so that any future movement against the Islamic Republic will not make similar mistakes. June 20th took place in conditions where it was the last opportunity for organized forces to seize political power through an offensive against the government. This was the last opportunity to counter the government's suppression through an offensive. If the force leading this demonstration had intended to organize an actual overthrow, it could have led the people toward that goal with armed backing and without illusions about government factions. If the goal of the June 20th demonstration had not been a sit-in in front of parliament to attract army support but rather toward the university and a call to the people to support the opposition forces, the government could not have launched such widespread suppression so easily. Contrary to the government's propaganda and that of the Tudeh and Majority Fedayeen, the Mojahedin forces in this demonstration were not armed. If they had been armed, they could easily have disabled the machine gun at Ferdowsi Square. The Mojahedin's appeasement and their illusions about one faction of the government prevented the half-million-strong crowd from achieving anything despite their sacrifices. While the leftist forces had been severely weakened by the Fedayeen Majority's betrayal, and aside from Komala in Kurdistan had little strength, June 20th was practically like opening one's mouth to say nothing. The Mojahedin had brought the people to the streets to reach a compromise with one faction of the government. If you bring half a million people to the streets, you protect them. You come armed. You have a plan that does not depend on the army suddenly switching sides. You do not lead unarmed people into gunfire while waiting for a phone call that will never come. This is not ideology. This is responsibility. Subsequent events showed that opportunities do not always exist. After the bloody suppression of June 20th and after the army, contrary to their expectations, did not support Bani-Sadr, the Mojahedin resorted to guerrilla operations that resulted in nothing but defeat. The moment had passed. The streets had been cleared. The machine was in place. I write this now, in a different time, watching the liberals ascend through Khatami and believe they can reform what cannot be reformed. They should understand: their path, if it leads anywhere, must lead to the end of this order. Not to communism, that moment is gone, if it ever existed. Not to the Mojahedin's fantasy of capturing the Islamic Republic from within. To the end of it. June 20th, 1981, was the last time it could have happened differently. It did not. Everyone who could have made it happen failed: the Mojahedin through illusion, the left through weakness and betrayal, the liberals through absence. The people came, half a million of them, and there was no one to lead them anywhere but into gunfire. The memory of those who died that day, who despite everything created something that for a few hours looked like it might win, is what remains. // --- ### Cover: One of only a few pictures available from the June 19, 1981, mass demonstration against the Islamic Republic. *Mohammad Salemy is an independent Berlin-based artist, critic and curator from Canada. He holds a BFA from Emily Carr University and an MA in Critical Curatorial Studies from the University of British Columbia. Together with Patrick Schabus, he forms the artist collective Alphabet Collection. Salemy is the Organizer at The New Centre for Research & Practice.* ### Living Repertoires Against Possessive Preservation URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/living-repertoires-against-possessive-preservation/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:37.000Z Let’s begin with repetition, with hands that remember what language fails to capture, with materials shaped by touch, place, and time. With gestures, tools, and techniques passed from one body to another, connecting labor to memory, and land to making. With ways of knowing surpassing a Western-centered epistemic order. When such knowledge disappears, it erases whole histories of making, relating, and the realities these practices sustain. This erasure never occurs in isolation. It goes hand in hand with the dispossession from land, displacement of people, genocide, extractivism, and the ongoing colonial violence of political regimes today. The sociologist Boaventura de Sousa Santos names this systematic destruction of ways of knowing *epistemicides*, through which colonial and capitalist power installs Western knowledge as universal. Foregrounding craft as an epistemic practice that persists and confronts erasure challenges the hegemony of modernity’s rationalist universalism. Still, it is also an insistence on the necessity of its continuity. Within contemporary Western art discourse, craft is often framed as a category evoking notions of tradition and manual expertise, while simultaneously marking its marginality. Positioned at the edges of art history, craft is coined as something to be historically preserved rather than lived. Although the violence of historical colonial “preservation” of objects through looting and dispossession has been widely addressed in recent decades, its logic continues to haunt contemporary efforts to introduce Indigenous and non-Western practices into Western institutions through a language of rescue. How were artisanal practices separated from the category of art in the first place? What becomes obscured when craft is absorbed into institutional frameworks? These questions often remain unanswered despite what appears to be a renewed fascination with craft. Practices are celebrated yet kept peripheral or singular, detached from their conditions of making, and framed as survivals of the past rather than as living, contested forms of knowledge in the present. **Seclusion and Preservation** These tensions shape the exhibition “Erasure”, which opened on November 22nd at the Goodwood Art Foundation in West Sussex, curated by Eleanor Clarke. It brings together works by Laís Amaral, Solange Pessoa, and Dana Awartani. Each artist engages practices rooted in inherited techniques and material knowledge, foregrounding the memories carried by specific forms of making. While the exhibition centres on questions of ecology, cultural heritage, and memory, it also draws attention to the hands that sustain these practices and to forms of manual labour that are often precarious, undervalued, or at risk of disappearance. Spread across the Foundation’s Main Gallery and the adjacent Piggott Gallery, the exhibition unfolds within the contemplative seclusion of the Goodwood estate. Set on 70 acres of woodland and meadows, and featuring a sculpture garden, the site is geographically removed from the nearby towns’ daily life. It is a landscape both isolated and meticulously curated. After the closure of the Cass Sculpture Foundation in 2020, which established the sculpture park in 1992, the Goodwood Art Foundation was revived by Charles Gordon-Lennox, the 11th Duke of Richmond, who owns the 12,000-acre century-old aristocratic estate that also hosts annual auto and horse racing events. Within this insulated environment, the Goodwood Art Foundation remains largely detached from the socio-economic realities of the surrounding rural communities, where deskilling and technological change have rendered once-specialized labor obsolete. My taxi ride from the train station reflected this disconnect. The driver told me about his former role as a newspaper press engineer, a position made obsolete by the rise of digital printing. While “Erasure” becomes a meditation on the persistence and precarity of traditional and indigenous craftsmanship, the driver’s experience bespeaks a subtle crack in the exhibition’s themes, wherein the institution’s discrete attention to preserving knowledge embedded in craft practices is contrasted with a disconnect from the wider surrounding social environment. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.L1380687.jpg) Fig.1 **The Art Institution as an Intersection of Struggles** Staged within the Goodwood Foundation, an institution sustained by wealth accumulated through aristocratic and colonial histories, these craft-based practices are drawn into regimes of Western institutional validation and the art market, raising questions of value, authorship, and beneficence. It is here that a decolonial approach to craft intersects with another ongoing struggle: that of underpaid art technicians, cultural workers, and museum staff fighting for labor rights and recognition within Western art institutions. Coinciding with my visit, Tate staff began a seven-day strike organized by the Public and Commercial Services Union in response to a proposed 2–3% pay rise widely condemned as unlivable amid rising costs. At the picket line, one sign read: “Treat staff like art! Handle with care.” What would it mean to think of decolonial and labor struggles alongside each other, not by relativizing one through the other, but by recognizing their intersection within the Western art institution? While parallels can be drawn to the industrial logic of deskilling, practices rooted in Indigenous, diasporic, and non-Western traditions cannot be fully understood through this framework alone. If deskilling names the erosion of embodied expertise under capitalism, the marginalization of traditional craft is shaped by longer colonial histories in which knowledge was devalued or erased to universalize Western categories of art, labor, and authorship. Nevertheless, these parallels might allow for a way of speaking across struggles and differences to imagine worlds and knowledges *otherwise*, as the Colombian anthropologist Arturo Escobar suggests? “Deskilling,” writes the British art historian John Roberts, “is what happens when the expressive unity of hand and eye is overridden by the conditions of social and technological reproducibility.” \[1\] What becomes visible when the colonial division between art and craft is read alongside this rupture between hand and eye, specifically within the Western art institution? Could such a reading reframe craft not as a residual category but as a living repertoire of techniques shaping artistic production? And might attention to artisanship also prompt structural reflection on the often-invisible forms of manual labor that sustain exhibitions themselves? **Improvisation against Completion** Arriving at the Foundation, Lais Amaral’s layered paintings draw me closer through their textured, grid-like structures. Each of the exhibited canvases reveals itself as a record of excavation. Layers of black coating are scraped away to uncover traces of the colors beneath, making the act of uncovering as visible as the material itself. In *Untitled V* (*Como um zumbido estrelar, um pássaro no fundo do ouvido*, 2024) and *Untitled XI* (*Cimento e água, Gamboa*, 2023), acrylic paint, ink, spray paint, and oil pastel are combined with beads and straw to create textured, palimpsestic surfaces. Amaral’s scraping technique, involving Afro-Brazilian hair care tools, including combs and cuticle pushers, blurs the actions of domestic care with artistic labor. Tracing the act of scraping in her paintings, the painterly practice itself seems to become an act of resistance, one that is both intimate and improvisational, agitating craft as an intervening technique in histories at risk of loss and erasure. With her first institutional show in Europe, the artist’s work seeks to address issues of environmental destruction by mapping relations between internal and external landscapes through her paintings. Her engagement with *quilombo* communities in Sapê do Norte sheds light on environmental degradation and cultural erasure. Craft in this context functions as politics; labor becomes a reclamation, and tools and techniques carry both personal and collective histories. As an homage to her family’s craft traditions and as a questioning of hierarchies of skill and value in contemporary art, Amaral describes herself as a self-taught artist. She first started painting in 2017 when she co-founded Trovoa, a collective centered around the experiences of racialized women in Brazil. The collective’s emphasis on reimagining forms of artistic production, through their collaborative network, laboring, discussing, and organising together, informs Amaral’s practice as collaborative and processual. In identifying as an artist-artisan, Amaral unsettles the division between art and craft, pointing towards the persistence of the artisanal within her work. Curator Eleanor Clarke notes that even shortly before the opening, Amaral continued to retouch and scratch the canvases. Understanding the paintings not as finished objects but as provisional moments within an ongoing practice highlights sustained collective labor and handed-over skills over the logic of completion. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1.I-Went-Away-and-Forgot-You-Dana-Awartani-Courtesy-the-Artist-and-Lisson-Gallery.jpg) Fig.2 **Engraved Collaborations and Obscured Conditions** In the open space between Amaral’s paintings, thirty-three soapstone sculptures from Solange Pessoa’s *Nihil Novi Sub Sole* (2022), first shown at the 59th Venice Biennale, form a dispersed constellation of carved spirals, geometric motifs, and spiritual symbols drawn from prehistoric Brazilian fossils and indigenous cosmologies. Common in rupestrian art across Minas Gerais, Bahia, and Pernambuco, the spirals signify creation and renewal. By engraving these forms into stone, Pessoa understands her sculptures as homages to the ancestral knowledge and the geological memory embedded in the material. Several stones are placed outside the gallery, visible through a large window, while others inside retain faint green traces of weather exposure from previous environments. By allowing the elements to mark the sculptures, Pessoa treats erosion not as damage but as an active collaborator, framing the stones as temporal and changing objects that hover between natural forms and cultural artifacts. While the sculptures link nature and culture, spirituality and ancestral knowledge, their mode of production is an easily overlooked but central element to Pessoa’s work. Since 2014, she has developed the series in collaboration with stone masons in Mata dos Palmitos, a region with a long tradition of stone carving. In the workshop led by Ms. Dionísia José Gomes, the artisans Celso Alberto Gomes, Tati, Mr. Newton, and Teodoro da Costa translate Pessoa’s clay maquettes into stone under her guidance. Framed by the artist as an homage to their craft, this long-standing collaboration appears even more precarious when viewed through the structures of the contemporary art market and biennial culture. The masons’ labor, so central to the sculptures, largely disappears within the institutional frame, highlighting the asymmetries of visibility embedded in contemporary art’s economies of authorship. Inquiring the names of the artisans for this review is a symbolic gesture of recognition, yet it only scratches the surface. The material conditions of the collaboration remain largely invisible. How is their labor reflected in the economic relationship with the artist once the work enters the logics of the art market, with its valuations, profits, and circulation within galleries and biennials? Who benefits from the exhibition of their sculptures, and to what extent do the makers themselves share in its rewards? These questions intersect the precarious conditions of the masons with the broader dynamics of labor exploitation in Western art institutions. From installation technicians to curatorial and gallery staff, similar patterns of invisibility and undervaluation persist. The structural forces that marginalize artisanal work in an institutional context resonate with the demands articulated by striking Tate staff. This intersection highlights how exploitation operates across multiple registers of cultural production, whether in the translation of clay models into stone or in the maintenance, presentation, and circulation of artworks. **Artisanal Transmission against Destruction** Installed slightly away from the main gallery, Dana Awartani’s *I Went Away and Forgot You* (2017) occupies the Pigott Gallery, a small, light-filled pavilion reached via a winding path through the sculpture park. Inside, shafts of afternoon light fall onto a vast geometric sand pattern covering nearly a third of the wooden floor. Rendered in muted ochres, reds, and blues, the composition recalls the sacred geometry of Islamic tilework central to Awartani’s practice. Behind the floor installation, a 22-minute video shows the artist sweeping away an identical pattern inside her grandmother’s former home in Jeddah’s Old Town, revealing a Westernized tiled floor beneath. Drawing on her Palestinian-Saudi heritage, the gesture of cleaning becomes an act of repeated doing and undoing, in which the erasure of the pattern signals not only the loss of ornamental aesthetics but of the cultural memory embedded in the craft traditions it evokes. The quiet poetics in the fragile materiality of the installation are here juxtaposed with the destruction of cultural heritage through genocidal force and occupation, an ongoing brutal reality in Palestine. Grounded in Awartani’s training at the Prince’s School of Traditional Arts in London, the work reflects the tension between the endurance and precarity of traditional artisan knowledge. Drawing on Middle Eastern craft traditions, her redevelopment of these techniques could be understood as an act of material witnessing and the transmission of craft knowledge. The sand pattern installation was installed using a stencil technique developed by the artist and executed by the technicians Elliot Steele and Phoebe Tonkin, who had previously been trained in installing the work at Lisson Gallery. What may appear as a marginal detail becomes another layer of the work’s value, underscoring Awartani’s attention to how skill circulates through repetition and shared labor. In carrying out the installation, the technicians themselves become participants in the craft process, extending the work’s lineage beyond the artist’s hand. **Embodied Networks as Living Repertoires** Here, the distinctions between artisan and art technician begin to blur, linking the efforts for recognition and fair labor conditions of cultural workers with the transmission of knowledge embedded in craft as a political tool against erasure. Resisting forms of epistemicide by giving material form to histories that survive through craft, precisely at a moment when Western aesthetic dominance reproduces itself through the systematic destruction of cultural heritage across historic Palestine, these practices extend beyond the decorative or nostalgic. Taking the expertise, knowledge, and collaborations involved in crafting seriously as shared forms of artistic production offers a bridge to the often-invisible labor that underpins the circulation of cultural memory and the functioning of contemporary art. This bridge also highlights that the celebration of craft in institutions such as the Goodwood Art Foundation cannot persist in isolation. Its continuation depends not only on recognition but on the collective, largely unseen, processes of skill transmission, maintenance, and production. If craft is never an individual practice, but instead one that is passed on, reproduced, and shared, it prompts reflection on the broader networks that make exhibitions possible. From artisanal workshops and artist studios to galleries and institutional staff. Recognizing this interdependence is not merely conceptual. It demands structural change in the systems of recognition, value, and labor within the Western art institution, making visible similarities in the dynamics that the striking Tate staff raised in their fight against epistemic erasure. It also requires the institution to move beyond a symbolic logic of preservation to acknowledge the human networks, embodied knowledge, and sustained labor that make craft a living repertoire. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] John Roberts, The Intangibilities of Form: Skill and Deskilling in Art after the Readymade (Verso, 2007), 3. Images: Cover: Solange Pessoa, Nihil Novi Sub Sole, (2019–2021) Carved soapstone sculptures in ERASURE at Goodwood Art Foundation. Photo by Toby Adamson. Fig.1 ERASURE, Winter exhibition (2025-2026) at Goodwood Art Foundation, featuring mixed-media paintings by Laís Amaral and carved soapstones by Solange Pessoa. Photo by Toby Adamson. Fig.2 Dana Awartani, I Went Away and Forgot You (2017) © Dana Awartani, Courtesy Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Photographer: Ron Amstutz *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### There is nothing queer about plastic, and yet URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/there-is-nothing-queer-about-plastic-and-yet/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:35.000Z It is everywhere: inside us, beneath us, structuring our environments, our bodies, our desires. Plastic, appealing, smooth, adaptable, and, therefore, the ultimate embodiment of capitalism. Plastic assumes any shape without memory, without loyalty, without history, except for the one it retains fossilized and trapped, unable to return to a cycle: ancient sunlight. Mika Rottenberg knows this only too well. Which is precisely why she does not position herself against capitalism stricto sensu, nor does she construct an external vantage point from which to denounce it. Her work does not pretend to innocence. Instead, her practice begins from a far more uncomfortable place: full implication. Rottenberg’s work reckons with the dialectical condition of being a consumer, with how desire circulates through materials, bodies, and systems of production, and with the inevitability of economic, institutional, sculptural, and filmic verticality, within which art is always already inserted. This verticality is not abstract. It is the same vertical logic that gathers political and economic elites annually in Davos, the mountainous retreat insulated above the very terrains from which value is extracted. It is the same vertical logic that governs supply chains, borders, museums, and wars. At the Lehmbruck Museum, this verticality becomes both legible and unstable. The museum is a vertical labyrinth itself: a brutalist construction designed to elevate sculpture, to remove bodies from the realm of labor and place them in a site of contemplative stillness; a space conceived to suspend time, history, and conflict. Rottenberg punctures this structure not rhetorically but physically—through holes. Through devices that force the viewer to bend, crouch, peer, and wait. Vision becomes partial, while the impossibility of escaping the engraining system remains total. The exhibition “Queer Ecology” has little to do with natural entanglement and everything to do with nature’s disappearance. In Rottenberg’s work, there is no nature left to return to. Everything unfolds artificially, through interruptions, leakages, and detours—cracks through which global production chains, their self-critique, and sculpture’s historical promise quietly leak. This is not ecology as harmony, but ecology as aftermath. “We are unable to move away from plastic. So it’s a way to live with it,” Rottenberg says. Plastic is sad. It resists its own smoothness. It is energy that cannot decompose, that cannot re-enter the ecosystem. Rottenberg avoids the word “recycling”, rightly naming it a dead word—a petrochemical scam designed to shift responsibility from producers onto consumers. What happens in her studio is reclamation. A small-scale refusal of waste as destiny. Waste is just a design flaw. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/614916-Mika-Rottenberg-Lampshares-2024-Mika-Rottenberg-courtesy-the-artist-and-Hauser-Wirth-Foto-Fabian-Strauch-59e458-original-1758901170.jpg) Fig.1 Rottenberg’s newest series, *Lampshares*, extends this logic into a rudimentary, fragile circular economy. LEDs and reclaimed plastic are melted and reformed, appearing almost as prosthetic replacements for wildlife—objects longing for something else, slumping back into organ-like forms, becoming blobby, irregular, excessive. In doing so, the artist slaps the fantasy of return out of view. The separation between what is organic and what is synthetic no longer holds. Nor does the distinction between kitsch and sobriety remain stable in the exhibition rooms—especially as the museum succumbs elsewhere, hosting a parallel participatory show, “Plastik Fantastik”, featuring works by visitors. Yet what Rottenberg actually exposes is not the artificiality of plastic, but its obedience. And obedience, I would say, is the opposite of queerness. This is why the title is not a discursive provocation, but a painful recognition of our asphyxiating surroundings. A world in which Rottenberg’s characters—human and non-human alike—are forced to sequester their queerness in hysterical, excessive displays: pastoral fantasies in artificial prairies; scenes of human exploitation in pearl cultivation in China (*NoNoseKnows*, 2015); surreal loops of processed food production (*Neeze*, 2012); and the vast emptiness that devours time itself (*Time & A Half,* 2003). ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/614915-Mika-Rottenberg-Cosmic-Generator-2017-Mika-Rottenberg-courtesy-the-artist-and-Hauser-Wirth-Foto-Fabian-Strauch-1f8d87-original-1758901170.jpg) Fig.2 You might think these films are allegories, but they are actually diagrams. They trace the operational grammar of a world organized through an integration that masquerades as reciprocity. Rottenberg shows how the mechanisms of subordination work, how supply chains, infrastructures, and dependencies can be weaponized. Participation does not guarantee protection. In her work, as in the present geopolitical order, there is no outside to the system—only different positions within it, each differently exposed to exhaustion, extraction, and collapse. This also reflects that there are two different temporal periods colliding in the show: the time before and after Rottenberg’s working with one of the largest galleries in the world, Hauser & Wirth, reflecting the precarious and the opulent paths along which she has operated so far. In Rottenberg’s films, integration is always uncanny. It appears as a system of connections that promises efficiency while engineering dependence. Bodies are linked to machines, machines to commodities, commodities to distant markets, yet no one controls the circuitry they are trapped inside. A woman turns a crank that activates a process she will never see completed; another performs repetitive gestures that sustain an apparatus, the purpose of which remains opaque. These are not images of production so much as rehearsals of leverage. What looks like coordination is in fact exposure: the tighter the connection, the easier it becomes to interrupt, to extract, to punish. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Mika-Rottenberg-NoNoseKnows-2015-Video-Still-Mika-Rottenberg-Courtesy-the-artist-and-Hauser-Wirth.jpg) Fig.3 This is why Rottenberg’s films feel viscerally connected to current events at the beginning of 2026\. I can’t stop thinking about Mark Carney, the Prime Minister of Canada, while looking at Rottenberg’s disgusting, solipsistic playfulness with matter. It was Carney (of all people, a former Governor of the Bank of England and archetypal technocrat) who dismantled the lie of “business as usual” this week in Davos, admitting that we no longer live in an era where global integration can be naïvely described as being mutually beneficial: *The story of the international rules-based order was always partially false. We knew the* *strongest exempted themselves when convenient. We knew international law applied* *with varying rigor depending on the identity of the accused or the victim. We participated* *in the rituals and largely avoided calling out the gap between rhetoric and reality. That* *bargain no longer works.* Economic integration itself has become a weapon of war. The logic is the same one now governing global politics: tariffs operate like sudden blockages of a conveyor belt, financial infrastructures resemble off-screen switches capable of freezing motion, and supply chains reveal themselves as fragile sequences where pressure applied at a single node reverberates across entire populations. You do not need bombs when the system already contains its own points of collapse. This playbook—used most recently against Palestine, Venezuela, and Iran—is now turning inward. Against this backdrop, Rottenberg’s insistence on foregrounding labor, women’s bodies, and closed circuits of production acquires renewed urgency. The conditions of labor for the global working class—especially women—are staged with particular sharpness at the Lehmbruck Museum, even when slapstick threatens to soften the blow. The building’s bright, empty brutalism was conceived to host Wilhelm Lehmbruck’s sculptures: elongated, melancholic bodies, predominantly female, withdrawn into vertical silence. These figures stand apart from labor, from circulation, from use. They are elevated—literally and symbolically—into sculptural autonomy. Lehmbruck’s *Four Women, Big Compositio*n (1914), a painting “hidden” behind one of the concrete walls enclosing the main inner sculptural garden, crystallizes this parallel. The four bodies are roughly painted. They appear monumental yet lethargic, their gazes distant, their softness suspended. I look at them and think, these are not empowered bodies; they are bodies shaped by gravity, by time, by an unnamed weight. The same drained gaze reappears among Rottenberg’s protagonists. A century apart, the bodies speak the same exhaustion. What has changed is not the condition, but the system that organizes it and how visible it is to our eyes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/614917-Mika-Rottenberg-33-with-bamboo-and-bicycle-2022-Mika-Rottenberg-courtesy-the-artist-and-Hauser-Wirth-Foto-Fabian-Strauch-8ebba4-original-1758901171.jpg) Fig.4 Rottenberg’s presence turns the museum into a site where two regimes of femininity overlap: one monumental and withdrawn, the other grotesquely operational. Both are disciplined. Both are verticalized. Both are shaped by labor, whether sublimated into form or exposed as absurd repetition. The verticality of the global production chain is the silent axis that runs through Rottenberg’s exhibition. Institutional collections, private or public, like the capitalist system they were born into, are vertical too, stacking value, visibility, and legitimacy move upward. Sculpture, historically, is vertical in the most literal sense: it stands, rises, separates itself from the ground. Rottenberg does not deny this lineage. She works inside it. And then she drills holes through it. This is where Rottenberg’s critique becomes precise. It does not operate through denunciation, but through reorganization of experience. You consume the work as the work consumes you. Her films have long excelled at this dynamic. They map global production chains not as didactic explanations, but as absurd theater. Labor becomes choreography. Exploitation becomes slapstick farce. Systems are revealed through rhythm, repetition, and excess. Slapstick plays a crucial role as a destabilizer, keeping the works funny and devastating at the same time. Yet not all of Rottenberg’s films carry this tension with equal force. *REMOTE* (2022), her first feature film, marks a shift in the exhibition’s tone. Following four women from Iran, Argentina, Puerto Rico, and South Africa, the film foregrounds empathy, connection, and shared temporality across screens. Here, friction softens. The closed loop opens. Irritation gives way to solidarity. The system becomes atmospheric rather than oppressive. Rottenberg’s characteristic vexation returns most forcefully in the sculptural works. Lips framing peepholes. Silicone flesh pressed against walls. Loops of tongues, braids, skin, hair, color. These works demand proximity—though they are repulsive, too, in their exaggerated, nonsensical appeal. Is this an invitation or a trap? I would say both. Seduction is not opposed to critique; it often is a primary tactic. Rottenberg mirrors this logic, implicating desire rather than denying it. You want to look. You want to touch. You want to consume. And in that wanting, the work exposes the mechanisms you inhabit daily. So, yes, there is nothing queer about plastic. And yet, when plastic starts to carry memory, texture, excess, it entangles itself with life. Queer ecology emerges as the discomfort that cannot be resolved. // --- ### Images Cover: Mika Rottenberg, *Cosmic Generator,* 2017 (Video Still) © Mika Rottenberg, Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth fig. 1 Mika Rottenberg, *Lampshares*, 2024, © Mika Rottenberg, Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth, Foto Pete Mauney fig. 2 Mika Rottenberg, *Cosmic Generator,* 2017, © Mika Rottenberg, courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth, Foto Fabian Strauch fig. 3 Mika Rottenberg, *NoNoseKnows*, 2015 (Video Still), © Mika Rottenberg, Courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth fig. 4 Mika Rottenberg, *#33 with bamboo and bicycle*, 2022, © Mika Rottenberg, courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth, Foto Fabian Strauch *Lilo Ruminawi is a poet, playwright, and film director. She has written and directed the experimental short films La Mancha Viva (2014), Perreo Seco (2017), and the documentary essay El Año sin Árboles (2020). She is currently working on the post-production of her first feature-length fiction film, Tzantza, a retro-futuristic western set in the Salar de Uyuni.* ### Open Call for Proposals URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/open-call-for-proposals/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:34.000Z *Transformers*: All they ever wanted was to save the world. As a disruptive desire, it echoes through every crisis: from ancient myths to climate revolt—and even in sugarcoated action films. Yet every attempt at salvation carries a shadow. It risks domination. The impulse to decide what the world should be and who deserves to inherit it is never innocent. We’re told capitalism is the only system available, that there’s no alternative. Yet those who labor and live together under oppression know that the forces of change reside in one another, in restless togetherness. Alternatives quietly multiply in kitchens, strikes, and shared gardens, and in collective study, mutual aid, and borderless solidarities. Change is not a slogan. It is a practice, strengthened through endurance, conflict, tenderness, and the refusal to stand alone. The work of thinkers, artists, and practitioners shows that saviourism is a fantasy so seductive that it traps the very people who cling to it, blinding them to their own dependency. This editorial cycle imagines futures beyond the confines of “the human” while holding firmly to our responsibilities in this world. We move toward futures where technology and ecology are shaped by care rather than conquest, where economic balance is practiced (not promised), and fairness is designed (not symbolized). Understanding one another becomes the daily work of survival and dignity. For the 2026 issues, *Energy*, *Organisms*, *Global Players*, and *Ancient Battles*, we seek submissions for a section dedicated to work that helps expand our editorial sensibilities. Unlike our last open call, which welcomed finished texts, this year we’re inviting pitches to be developed in collaboration with AWC editors as part of a mutual process of transformation. **ISSUE 41: ENERGY** Release: Early April 2026 Call it a vibe, call it spirit—energy isn’t a metaphor. It’s breath, tremor, heat, rhythm, exhaustion, devotion. It’s the charge that animates life and the friction that exhausts it. Energy is quantifiable in physics: the capacity to perform work, transferred between bodies in perpetual transaction. It’s in constant motion, kinetic energy propelling objects forward, potential energy coiled in stillness, electromagnetic waves carrying light and information. Civilization is an energy experiment: humanity's story of capturing, converting, and channeling force from one form into another. It is exercised across spiritual lineages: prana, qi, spirito santo, kaddish, all the goddesses and celestial beings that embody cosmic entanglements in our terrestrial life. Energy flows also through social systems as power, extracted, hoarded, transferred, refused. It circulates through bodies as labor, desire, and depletion. It charges acts of creation: the artist's hand converting internal voltage into form, the musician translating vibration into feeling, the writer metabolizing experience into language, and the spiritual practitioner tracing a legacy of the soul. We invite explorations of what sets life in motion and what drains it dry. From electrical grids to laborious technologies, from the spiritual charge of resistance to exhaustion weaponized against the vulnerable, how does energy move through our relationships with each other and the world? Who supplies power, and who refuses the grid? How is vitality extracted from land, labor, and bodies? What forms of energy emerge as insurgent forces circulating outside official channels: solidarity, refusal, mutual aid, creative rupture? **Suggested Formats** \>Reportage on energy infrastructures, logistic networks, and resource extraction \>Poetic meditations or scores on rhythm, grief, or spiritual endurance \>Critical analysis of the institutional cultural battery and its countering spectacle \>Testimonies of burnout, recuperation, or collective stamina **Proposal Length:** 200 words **Preferred Languages:** All accepted, and Spanish, Quechua, and Hebrew are particularly encouraged **Addressed to:** Relational Scientists, (Pata)Physicians, Spiritual Practitioners, Body Workers ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/havin-al-sindy-In-the-Aftermath-2024-2-channel-video-Sculpture-Drawings-Performance.png) Fig.1 **ISSUE 42: ORGANISMS** Release: End of June 2026 The Gaia hypothesis suggests that living things and the nonliving environment work together as a single, self-regulating system that keeps Earth habitable. Formulated by scientists James Lovelock and Lynn Margulis in the 1970s, it reframes Earth as a living entanglement, where biosphere and evolution shape global temperature, ocean chemistry, atmospheric composition, and the very possibility of habitability. But Gaia is not in equilibrium: it is precarious, transformative, and opportunistic. In late-stage capitalism, life is forced to thrive in ruins. As Anna Tsing writes, capitalism doesn't just destroy, it leaves behind disturbed landscapes where new ecologies take hold. Matsutake mushrooms fruit in forests scarred by logging and war. Bacteria adapt to warming, acidifying oceans. Hybrid species colonize polluted wetlands. Collectives of care emerge from economic abandonment. These are not signs of resilience within capitalism's logic. They are evidence of survival despite the wreckage—indifferent to market value, thriving through contamination rather than purity. Survival is entanglement: porous, multispecies, unruly. We seek contributions on organisms that thrive in spite of their conditions: microbiomes that blur the boundaries of self, weeds reclaiming industrial sites, and communities thriving in the margins, remembering life is stronger than exploitation. We ask: What interdependent worlds emerge in sites of industrial or ecological collapse? How do organisms without fixed boundaries—fungi, bacteria, and viral ecosystems—challenge capitalist logics of the individual, the autonomous, the extractable? What does it mean to thrive in contamination, to value what capital deems worthless? How do precarious ecologies teach us forms of survival that capital cannot commodify or control? What multispecies entanglements reveal capitalism as only one (failing) arrangement among many ways of being alive? **Suggested Formats** \>Field notes from contaminated landscapes, Anthropocene ruins, or climate frontlines \>Scientific storytelling about microbiomes, mycorrhizal networks, adaptive species, or symbiotic systems \>Lyric essays on physical vulnerability, infection, digestion, interdependence, or permeability \>Visual documentation of hybrid ecosystems, feral ecologies, or collaborative survival projects \>Speculative biology imagining multispecies futures beyond capitalist extraction **Proposal Length:** 200 words **Preferred Languages:** All accepted, particularly Kurdish, German, and Turkish, are particularly encouraged **Addressed to:** School Students ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/afield_Photos-by-Veerle-Vercauteren.jpg) Fig.2 **ISSUE 43: GLOBAL PLAYERS** Release: Early September 2026 The Global Minotaur for Yanis Varoufakis is the beastly system that sucks up the world’s surplus capital and labor via financial dominance, military force, and the hegemony of the dollar. They operate under a dual system: a financialized core where wealth multiplies through asset speculation and rent extraction, and a periphery still bound to traditional exploitation, labeled as countries “on the way to development.” Others remain outside the equation entirely, serving as wealth reservations for those who imposed the game. Global crises are never evenly distributed. The real actors—finance, tech monopolies, and sovereign wealth funds—are engineered to escape accountability. Now, the Minotaur has evolved through techno-feudalism: owning the digital commons and extracting rents from cloud serfs who generate infrastructure value they can never possess, Big Tech platforms function as global feudal lords. In this system, algorithmic governance replaces democratic control. The resulting collapse of international legal accountability should be our departure point to understand how geopolitics are framed today. Cloud capital replaces market competition, and over the past four years, imperialist axes have reshaped the notion of territorial sovereignty, as capital finally flows completely independent of nations. We seek analyses of these global choreographies: How do financial and technological systems evade accountability? Who plays, who gets played, who breaks the rules, and who rewrites them entirely? From transnational lab or networks and algorithmic governance to migrant routes and data extraction, these are not separate crises but mechanisms of the same system feeding the Minotaur. We demand a planetary imagination rooted in redistribution: the reclaiming of commons, the dismantling of digital fiefdoms, the refusal of our role as tribute. **Suggested Formats** \>Investigative journalism on debt, trade networks, or techno-feudalism \>First-person accounts of migration, displacement, or border-crossing \>Analytical essays on algorithmic governance or platform capitalism \>Photo essays mapping resource extraction, labor flows, or financial architectures \>Policy critiques proposing redistributive alternatives **Proposal Length:** 200 words **Images:** Up to 1 image may be included **Languages:** All accepted, particularly Farsi, Chinese, and French, are particularly encouraged **Addressed to:** Activists, economists, asylum seekers ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Citra-Sasmita-Altar-of-The-Divine-Awakening-2023-Acrylic-on-traditional-Kamasan-canvas-55.5-x-57.5cm.-Image-from-Yeo-Workshop.jpg) Fig.3 **ISSUE 44: ANCIENT BATTLES** Release: End of November 2026 Under racial capitalism, battles are waged over epistemologies and resources. For millennia, Indigenous cosmologies operated under fundamentally different logics than capitalism: cyclical time rather than progress, reciprocity rather than extraction, kinship with non-human worlds rather than dominion over nature. These were not utopias. Indigenous societies practiced their own hierarchies and violence, sometimes entwined with feudal or colonial accumulation. The past teaches us that relational worlds are never simple, and we can trace ways of living that resist extraction, domination, and erasure. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes of the “Honorable Harvest,” protocols ensuring that taking from the earth requires asking permission, taking only what you need, and giving something in return. Ailton Krenak challenges the separation of nature and culture, arguing that rivers and forests are relations, not resources. Leanne Betasamosake Simpson recovers biskaabiiyang: peeling back colonial layers to practice planetary governance and land relations beneath. Ubuntu, “I am because we are,” embedded personhood within relational webs, rejecting the bounded individual that capitalism requires. Aboriginal Dreaming tracks encoded law, ecology, and kinship into the landscape itself, making land inseparable from memory and obligation. To deprogram this conquest logic is to ask: What pre-capitalist struggles shape our contemporary instincts? How do indigenous, ancestral, or mythic practices inform present resistance? What comes after our struggle against capitalism ends? What epistemologies and practices were targeted for elimination precisely because they made capitalism impossible? We seek contributions that revisit ancestral conflicts—not to romanticize them, but to recover what conquest tried to annihilate: survival without profit, community without borders, conflict without domination, peace as a practice sustained by environmental and social justice rather than absence of war. What comes after capitalism may require recollecting what other worlds felt and looked like, how they organized care, how they ended wars, how they lived with disagreement without demanding sameness. **Suggested Formats** \>Historical excavations, relics of forgotten revolts, cosmologies, or commons \>Mythic retellings connecting ancient conflicts to contemporary struggles \>Oral histories or intergenerational dialogues on memory and resistance \>Visual meditations on ritual, territory, or sacred landscapes \>Speculative futures imagining post-capitalist peace **Deadline for proposal:** September 15th Proposal Length: 200 words Languages: All accepted, particularly Hindi, Arabic, and Urdu, are particularly encouraged Addressed to: Historians, storytellers, indigenous communities, students of mythology **General Submission Guidelines** **Submission Deadline** February 28, 2026 **Pitch Requirements** - Abstract length: 200 words - Include a 50-word bio and a brief statement about your connection to the theme - Submit as a PDF file **Note on Formats** The formats are specific to each issue. While we encourage submissions that fit their guidelines, we also welcome hybrid, experimental, or cross-genre proposals that push the boundaries of conventional forms. **Selection Criteria** We prioritize marginalized voices and embodied experiences. We welcome works that challenge dominant Western-centric narratives and support multilingual content, collaborating with translators when needed. **Fees and Remuneration** Submitting a pitch is open to everyone. Selected contributions will be remunerated upon publication, following editorial evaluation and development with the AWC team. **Send your pitch to** Dalia Maini dm@artsoftheworkingclass.org // --- ### Footnotes Cover: Mariuccia Secol, Io, 1973, documentazione di una performance. Courtesy the artist. Fig1\. Having Al Sindy, In the Aftermath 2024, 2-channel video, Sculpture Drawings Performance. Courtesy the artist. Fig.2 afield. Photos by Veerle Vercauteren Fig.3 Citra Sasmita, ‘Altar of The Divine Awakening’, 2023, Acrylic on traditional Kamasan canvas, 55.5 x 57.5cm. Image from Yeo Workshop ### The gap that we have to bridge URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-gap-that-we-have-to-bridge-2/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:32.000Z Museums can be perceived as static, cold, and distant structures. The commons, by contrast, as softness. Commons need bodies entering shared space, adjusting to one another's presence, activating what remains inert without collective participation. Hence, the question: Can museums built on hierarchy and measurable outcomes ever accommodate practices as such, rooted in continuous negotiation, embodied vulnerability, and process over product? In November, Museion in Bozen hosted a three-day forum to address this question. [*Culture as a Commons*](https://www.museion.it/de/news/10964-museion-academy-international-symposium-culture-as-a-commons?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), organized by Brita Köhler, head of the education department at the museum, brought together commoning practitioners and cultural workers from Italy and the Netherlands, contexts where culture is funded radically differently. In Italy, cultural work survives under conditions of scarcity, restricting initiatives to local, fragile scales as reflected by invited collectives like La Rivoluzione Delle Seppie, Le Compagnie Malviste, and Oriente Occidente. In the Netherlands, consolidated spaces such as CASCO, Dans op Recept, and Kunstinstituut Melly benefit from robust public funding that positions culture as a marker of national identity. Against both backdrops, the commons emerged not as a panacea but as a diagnostic lens: a way to examine how resources are allocated, how scarcity is produced, and whose labor gets valued. Crucially, Museion's own workers participated as active subjects rather than institutional functionaries, recognizing that those who sustain institutions daily must shape any reflection on how they operate, and how they might operate otherwise. The main day unfolded as a ten-hour marathon addressing the promise and contradictions of commoning, from ensuring intergenerational continuity to accounting for practices that resist capitalist ways of structuring and quantifying labor. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Culture_as_a_commons_Giorno2_25.jpg) Fig.1 **Commons as Anti-Capitalist Ecosystems** Throughout the forum, participants returned to a fundamental assertion: commons are anti-capitalist in structure. They challenge regimes of property, material, and intellectual, and refuse the notion that only specialized, professionalized voices can participate in cultural production. CASCO's practice exemplified this: rather than managing space and programming from above, they create minimal structures for hosting, especially for communities subjected to marginalization and discrimination. What emerged from their presentation was a notion of community not as a buzzword, but as the political condition in which culture forms despite precarity and oppression. Their work demonstrates the abundance of practices that emerge when institutions provide loose frameworks for holding rather than structured apparatuses for programming. Yet CASCO does not romanticize this model. Material conditions remained central to their presentation. Commons require infrastructure to endure: pools of resources, accessible spaces, and time. Without these material foundations, commoning cannot be sustained. **The Temporal Trap: Funding Cycles vs. Continuous Care** Public money operates in cycles. Commons do not. Marlien Seinstra, director of Dans op Recept, articulated this temporal mismatch as one of the fundamental contradictions facing commoning practices. Across the forum's discussions, practitioners agreed: public cultural funding finances products rather than processes, demanding legibility that cannot be assessed a priori when it comes to the commons. Cultural production rooted in commoning must continuously adapt to accommodate funding criteria rather than the other way around, creating discrepancies between dominant commodity culture, lauded and socially visible, and commoning practices that constantly struggle to survive. Dans op Recept's own survival strategy revealed this structural impossibility. Working with elders and people affected by chronic illness, they advocate for the right to be understood as full human beings rather than just symptoms or diagnoses, turning dance into a social resource that bridges somatic practices and public health. Their funding comes from the governmental health sector rather than the cultural sector, a tactical adaptation born from structural necessity. **Practice as Belonging** La Rivoluzione Delle Seppie, a nomadic network of spatial practitioners based in southern Italy, posed a crucial question in their presentation: what forms of cultural production emerge when we root creation in everyday practices rather than predefined bodies of knowledge? Working in Belmonte Calabro, renamed Belmondo (i.e., beautiful world), they involve local, temporary, and migrant communities in their projects to bring new use and life to disused buildings. By recuperating traditions without ossifying them, by involving migrants and refugees often working in monocultural agriculture, they offer a reading of belonging based on practice rather than officially sanctioned spectacles. They counter forms of social categorization in Italy that discriminate against both the South, disparaged as archaic and underdeveloped, and migrants, traduced as parasitic on the social fabric. Legal questions threaded through the panel. Transforming a public good into a commons is not a straightforward process. A public good, notionally at least, is owned by the state and put at the service of the public. A commons is not owned by the state, nor is it the property of the commoners. Commons exist in a legal gray zone that both protects and endangers their survival. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Culture_as_a_commons_Giorno2_32.jpg) Fig.2 **Movement as Common Ground** Oriente Occidente raised questions about audiences and communities, for example, how to encourage audience attendance that bridges cultural differences. The cultural association designs networks of relationships—East and West, North and South, form and content, ethics and aesthetics, past and future—using dance as a means of transcending ethnicity, gender, age, and culture. As with Dans op Recept, here dance offers a loose structure through which everyone can contribute what and who they are to a work, expressing their cultural markers and prerogatives, but also negotiating continuously and collectively through movement. Oriente Occidente works to make communities visible within specific social contexts, not necessarily to find a common sensibility, but rather common ground defined by differences. The common labor results in an annual festival. In their presentation, Oriente Occidente emphasized that alliances across borders and fields of knowledge are crucial, not only to stimulate dialogue but also to bring economic support to the project. Thus, they circled back to the question of funding, expressing the hardship of adapting their process-based ecosystem to strict programming requirements. The session concluded with the question of what commons actually are. Everyone in the room expressed resistance to settling on a unifying definition; it would betray the idea itself. However, a general liveliness and political engagement were claimed and protected as aspects of a definition. The shared assessment that emerged understood commoning as a way of reclaiming, structurally and methodologically, resources, identities, and knowledges that racial capitalism operates to undermine. Where commons give agency to people and communities to negotiate their own ways of organizing and commoning, a frequent phenomenon for those working within formalized institutions is a kind of self-suspension. Many workers describe slipping beneath a "cloak of the institution," where individual positioning, difference, and dissent are muted in the name of upholding the institutional structure. An incompatibility emerged between the context and people-centric modus operandi of commoning and the appurtenances of the museum, optimised instead for structural clarity, hierarchy, and often discursive safety. A fundamental question then followed: could a museum ever truly become more than merely a showroom for participatory practices, but instead a space structurally shaped by the act of commoning itself? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ-Nicola-L-pressLuca-Guadagnini-_25A6441.jpg) Fig.3 **Shedding the concrete layer** During the lunch break, I visited Nicola L.'s retrospective *I Am The Last Woman Object*, curated by Leonie Radine at Museion, and part of the curatorial cycle *The Softest Hard*. Her body of work, the pénétrables, or "second skins," was designed to be activated on the streets among people struggling, only later bringing that energy back into the museum transformed. These pénétrables felt to me political art in its most sensual form. Just like *The Fur Room* (1970). In the work, only a wooden cube is visible from the outside; to enter, one dons a second skin, a purple fur leotard that renders the person continuous with the violet velvet interior. L. called it "a house made of empty figures that you can enter, empty human body shells that you can penetrate." Fourteen fur garments hang limp on the cube’s walls, awaiting activation. These skins acted as a metaphor for my understanding of the commons: not abstract principles on a page, but enacted relations performed by the body. The room remains inert in L.’s work; it doesn’t have a function until bodies inhabit it, negotiate proximity, and adjust to one another's presence, but the spatialization also presents the question of how a commons is bounded, and how discrete it must remain from the wider world. Commoning is a labor of activation, a continuous practice of becoming-with others that requires embodied participation, vulnerability, and mutual adjustment. It fundamentally rejects the institutional model of optimization, replicability, and predictability, as well as the bourgeois model of art consumption: distanced, contemplative, sovereign. The work made me remember a somewhat cliché question I would sometimes ask people outside the cultural sphere: what materialized in their imagination when thinking of a museum? The answer was strikingly consistent: a concrete cube. A simple, recognizable, and replicable architectural form. This image, in stark contrast with the soft visualization of the *Fur Room*, expressed staticity and an affective regime of coldness and distance. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Culture_as_a_commons_Giorno2_51.jpg) Fig.4 **Making the Institution Visible** Such tension was directly challenged during a tour inside the belly of the Museion, organized by CASCO and the multidisciplinary collective Post Disaster. The spatial organization of the work, which took the audience through the actual offices of the Museion, revealed residual hierarchies: unequal access to light, space, autonomy, and proximity to shared areas. Rather than an external critique, the tour functioned as a collective visualization. Staff members were introduced not as anonymous functionaries but as agents sustaining the institution. In the director's office, planning boards displayed the museum's program as an ongoing, analogue process shaped through weekly negotiation, an unusual degree of procedural transparency, I thought, for an institution operating at this scale. Following the tour, staff and audiences gathered to discuss how a museum might function as a commons. This discussion sharply contrasted with the dominant institutional norm for “community engagement”, in which audiences are seldom brought together with staff to address governance issues, and workers perform roles without questioning the structures organizing their labor. Questions of use emerged as well. Could museums offer their spaces to external organizations that themselves lack infrastructure? Could they host regular assemblies to collectively determine cultural priorities? Museion has already prototyped such possibilities through initiatives, including Museion Art Club, which offers space, visibility, and networking opportunities to communities operating in Trentino. But the assembly pushed further: if museums preserve and present cultural heritage, how can they open up curation to be collectivized, rather than attributing all responsibility to the head curator? Museion's head curator Leonie Radine, who was present in the assembly, addressed this query personally. Curators are always hosts and bridge-builders between agents and resources; in a way, they are commoners. Curating is a political gesture that senses urgencies and artists who speak to our times, relying on formal and informal relationships, and curators can facilitate those relationships and provide space for them to flourish. Yet the operation is much more complicated, because agents participating in the process often do not have the same levels of power. And those with more power and influence will inevitably have more leverage in the process. When asked whether Museion could restructure itself—its governance, labor relations, spatial organization, and funding—so that commoning becomes an institutional practice rather than supplemental educational programming, Museion's director Bart van der Heide identified the constraints the museum faces: public status, multiple investors, and competing interests. Such honesty is important. It clarifies that museums cannot become commons without dismantling the ownership structures and funding dependencies that define them as institutions today. But perhaps this, too, is the wrong question. Perhaps asking museums to become commons mistakes the relationship these forms should hold, respectively. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Culture_as_a_commons_Giorno3_27.jpg) Fig.5 The commons exist outside, alongside, and often against institutional logics. They don't seek institutional validation; they create alternative infrastructures for cultural production precisely because institutions cannot accommodate their ways of working. Museums, meanwhile, hold different responsibilities, not to replicate commoning, but to redistribute resources toward it, to use institutional privilege to protect practices the market would destroy, to create platforms where the commons can reach wider publics without being domesticated in the process. *Culture as a Commons* succeeded not because it resolved these tensions but because it made the gap between museums and commons visible and inhabitable, even if only temporarily. // --- ### Image Credits Cover and Fig.3: Nicola L., La Chambre en Fourrure, 1970\. Courtesy Nicola L. Collection and Archive and Alison Jaques, Copyrights Nicola L. Collection and Archive Fig.1/2/4/5: Culture as a Common Symposium, Museion, Bozen 2025. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### The last mile URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-last-mile/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T21:16:30.000Z “It’s a tricky book,” says Lil’ Internet on the New Models podcast of Marek Poliks and Roberto Trillo’s *Exocapitalism—Economies with Absolutely No Limits*. Tricky, it seems, because it is not content perpetuating the critique of capitalism, nor declaring its death. Instead, it inverts the mirror, envisioning capitalism as something that does not respond to the good-and-bad logic of humans, but that is old and wider. It is a logic not dependent on us; it is activated only by exchange, computation, or algorithm. Listening to Poliks and Trillo speak—first with Carly Busta and Lil’ Internet for New Models, then with Mohammad Salemy for *The New Centre for Research and Practice*—one senses that *Exocapitalism* is less another theory of capital than a broader shift in temperature, a recalibration of how we think the economy when everything becomes economized. It convincingly positions capitalism not as a social relation, but as a planetary algorithmic germ. Labor, production, and debt are, therefore, all secondary symptoms of a deeper operation called arbitrage: the manipulation of value across time and space, the pure movement that extracts from difference itself. If capital was once understood as the motor of history, *Exocapitalism* places it outside history altogether. Exogeneity names a logic without origin or belonging, the opposite of indigeneity, which is rooted and which remembers. Capitalism, the authors argue, is not sociogenic. It is not the child of colonial expansion or human greed, though these became its favored vectors. It is a viral logic, indifferent to the moral coordinates of cause and effect: self-replicating, parasitic, assembling itself out of anything. If it is not human, then what is the genesis of capital? *Exocapitalism* suggests it is an ecology of data centers, logistics, and planetary-scale networks that metabolize our attention, time, and matter. This places *Exocapitalism* in stark opposition to the concept of “technofeudalism.” While Yanis Varoufakis, the leading figure in the ‘technofeudalist’ discourse, declares capitalism dead, replaced by data lords enclosing the commons, Poliks and Trillo see capital currently evaporating the last bond between value and labor. This is both horrifying and liberating. It unsettles critique itself—if capital is not human, our ethics and ideologies are written in the wrong language. Yet capital has reopened thought to the nonhuman currents that exceed us. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/exocapitalism_collage.png) Fig.1 The book forces us to confront the erasure of human responsibility for the planet, showing how the exocapital frame transforms exploitation into a self-perpetuating dynamic. Poliks and Trillo render the violence of capitalism as something that exceeds humanity itself, inviting us to leave behind moral immediacy, as uncomfortable as that might be, for analytic rigor: violence is no longer an exception to be condemned, but a structural condition to be traced. This is not merely a billionaire’s dream of living on Mars—it is already settled in our economic reality. Poliks and Trillo are theorists and practitioners operating at the intersection of software, computation, and political economy. Both bring nontraditional backgrounds to economic theorization: neither are formally economists, yet their fluency in software, cybernetics, and systems thinking allows them to detect patterns invisible to conventional analysis, from the hidden architecture of delivery networks to the abstraction of capital itself. Their vocabulary of lift and drag captures this vibrantly. Capital seeks lift—an endless ascent from the friction of bodies, infrastructures, and bureaucracies. Humanity, in turn, provides drag—the resistance that gives lift its form. We hold capital aloft by constantly reorganizing ourselves to sustain its detachment. Artists, institutions, and even economies of care become part of this choreography. Salemy notes that in the exocapital vision, every gesture of resistance becomes a new platform for extraction. The art world, obsessed with dematerialization, embodies lift—but hides its drag—resting on defunded, auto-precarized labor. The book’s most haunting metaphor comes in the chapter “The Last Mile”. The term emerges from logistics. It names the final, most labor-intensive stretch of the delivery process, the point at which the algorithm meets the street, the body, the weather. New Models situates the Last Mile in Berlin’s delivery networks: South Asian students enrolled in dubious remote institutions, cycling through the city at night, ghosted by the platforms that hire them by means of layers of subcontractors and rented accounts. Each layer is designed so that the platform itself never touches the ground. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/exocapitalism_collage2.png) Fig.2 Capital is allergic to proximity, the authors insist, as its purpose is to never be the last one holding responsibility for a body. Poliks and Trillo describe this aversion as the essence of *Exocapitalism*. It is not a new system, nor a phase beyond capitalism. It is capital’s purest form: abstraction detached from its material consequences, sustained by invisible hands that remain within reach but out of sight. Violence, in this framework, is not an exception but a function. It is not moral. It is not even intentional, simply the externality of lift. From cobalt mines to Gaza, the drag layer absorbs the weight of capital’s ascent. What makes *Exocapitalism* radical is that it refuses to psychologize this violence. And both podcasts remind us that we are still here, entangled in it. Dragging, breathing, cycling, feeding. The “last mile” is ours (i.e., workers’) to walk. It is the distance between production and consumption, but also between the world that lives and the world that counts. Between bodies and data. Between being and being abstracted. Readers may recognize themselves in the book’s grounded account of an already disenchanted society shaped by humanist socialization: artists, theorists, and workers who sense that appeals to justice, care, or reform no longer reach the mechanisms that structure their lives. For those still invested in a subject to blame, a villain to confront, or a horizon of redemption, *Exocapitalism* may feel cold, unsettling, or prematurely resigned—less a call to action than a withdrawal of familiar consolations. In this sense, *Exocapitalism* performs an exorcism of the system. It reveals how deeply our language of value has been possessed by abstraction, and how necessary it is to think from the residue, the drag, the friction of the real. Rarely is a theoretical book an invitation to think not of overcoming capitalism, but of learning to inhabit its lucid, poetic wake. The book’s illustrations, by Avocado Ibuprofen, render tangible the ghostly residue of a system that has fully melted into its own virtuality. What *Exocapitalism* helps me see in 2026 is that capital no longer requires growth, ideology, or even legitimacy to operate. Automated logistics, AI-generated value, and endless proxy wars have replaced human needs as its primary coordinates. This clarifies how extraction persists without belief, how systems endure without consensus. *Exocapitalism* traces a shared reality in which justice itself has been abstracted away. It does not offer a program or a solution. Instead, it serves as a necessary companion for reading the present—one capable of meeting the year’s breaking news without illusion, opening up to what is coming toward us, for better or worse. Buy the book: [https://becomingpress.metalabel.com/exocapitalism](https://becomingpress.metalabel.com/exocapitalism?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) And listen to the podcasts: [The New Centre ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HhQK6mkDf7w&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[New Models Podcast](https://open.spotify.com/episode/6TasyBGZzG73HDPga962dL?si=570179d9aa114e77&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) // --- ### All figures: Collages by Avocado Ibuprofene from *Exocapitalism: economies with absolutely no limits* (2025) by Marek Poliks and Roberto Alonso Trillo *Octavia Abril ist eine chilenische Schriftsteller\*in, die sensibel auf den Lauf der Jahreszeiten reagiert. Ihre Werke gedeihen, beeinträchtigt durch ihre immer wieder neuen Allergien, die sie aufgrund des Klimawandels und industriell verarbeiteter Lebensmittel erleidet, in den Grenzbereichen zwischen Institutionen und Weinbergen. Mit dieser körperlichen Verfassung beschloss sie, Welten und Worte in gefährlichen Küssen zu schaffen. Sie boykottiert Werbung Plakate, ist aber immer für gute Gespräche zu haben.* ### The Kernel of Capital URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-kernel-of-capital/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:10.000Z *Sometimes the smallest objects carry the heaviest histories. Eve Tagny’s* In the Underbelly of a Kernel *unfolded this summer at Westfälischer Kunstverein, examining how kernels, shells, and soil bear the weight of labor, land, and capital across time and space. The exhibition traced the hidden flows of resources that have been violently extracted in order to sustain global wealth, especially in this case, by former German colonies across Africa. Ranging from palm kernels in Cameroon to cowrie shells carrying centuries of trade and value, through these materials, Tagny has made tangible the enduring legacies of colonialism, private property, and racialized economies.* *Under the curatorial guidance of Theresa Roessler, whose program in Münster foregrounds the entanglement of aesthetics, research, and social critique, Tagny’s show offered a sustained investigation into systemic extraction and dispossession. Connecting the work to Rosa Aiello’s current exhibition at the Westfälischer Kunstverein, Tagny’s conversation with Jeanne-Ange Wagne guides us through a reading of sensorial spaces and reflects on the world as it is and how it might be remade.* **To start our conversation, could you break down the title of your exhibition at Westfälischer Kunstverein, “In the Underbelly of a Kernel”? From your perspective, what does it mean, and what is the central element you refer to when you speak of the “kernel”?** I first encountered the word “underbelly” while watching a YouTube talk by Stuart Hall about diasporas. I think he was speaking in the 1980s. He explained that the displacement and movement of people—driven by labor, survival, and capital—was the underbelly of capitalism. Not just capitalism, but the globalized system we live in today. I was interested in how much we’re still embedded in these global economies. European colonialism set a precedent, and today we see incredible waves of extraction and the ongoing implementation of these systems. We’ve ruptured our vision of nature and culture as something we could manage responsibly. The idea that we could act as stewards, with reciprocity in our use of resources, is broken. The kernel, for me, emerged through a personal encounter in Cameroon. A woman from my father’s family in Bafoussam showed me a tree and said, “These are the kernels we extract palm oil from.” She gave me a few, and I brought them back to Montreal. Then I started researching palm oil and realized that these kernels carry a deep history of capitalism: the devaluation of nature, people, labor, and time, and the transformation of natural resources into commodities. I wanted to explore the advent of private property—the notion that one can own a tree or grow a business for profit. The kernels appear throughout the exhibition—they are the thread guiding the show. You crack a kernel open, and you enter this world of entanglements. That’s how the title came about. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/EveTagny_WKV_2025_hires_1.jpg) Fig.1 **Are the works in the exhibition all new, or do some revisit ideas from previous projects?** The exhibition bridges my research on private ownership over the past three years and it also explores new territories. Some ideas are recycled—like the textile straps around straw bales—but I reworked them to fit the specific research of this show. For instance, the piece in the window was designed to communicate with passersby who might not enter the space. Some bronzes began as works for a previous exhibition, but I expanded on them here. The show became a living research project, evolving as I developed it. **Do you usually work with specific materials, or does it vary according to the exhibition? Are you more drawn to the materials themselves or the histories and systems they represent, i.e., colonialism and exploitation?** It’s more general. I’ve worked a lot with soil—it recurs in most of my exhibitions. Soil anchors us, reminding us that even in cities, we are on land. It raises questions: who can access land, who labors on it, and who treats it as \[a place of\] leisure? This show was strongly influenced by returning to Cameroon for the first time in 12 years. As someone from the diaspora, I live in unresolved geographies, and identity is never settled. I wanted the exhibition to reflect multiple geographies and multiple threads. I focused on oranges, bananas, and kernels, and also included cowrie shells, which point to questions of trade, value, and currency. **Through the modification of raw materials?** Exactly. Cowrie shells, for instance, carry histories of trade, exploitation, and adornment. One earring from a friend—a pearl followed by a cowrie shell—made me realize how symbols of luxury merge with histories of value and exploitation. The exhibition isn’t easy; the research is opaque. The challenge was translating this into something sensorial, so people connect emotionally. Bodies are central to the work—how they move, where they come from. I wanted to provoke reflection without dictating interpretation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/EveTagny_WKV_2025_hires_6.jpg) Fig.2 **Some of your works invite interaction or offer access points. You mentioned not over-describing things, which gives viewers space to encounter the works themselves. Walter Benjamin wrote that if art consciously interacts with its audience, it risks becoming unfruitful. How do you see your work in relation to this idea?** I hadn’t encountered that quote before, but I think Benjamin might hate this exhibition! We live in different times, and we hope artworks can engage differently now. The social contract has been ruptured recently through pandemics, social movements, and global crises. Art can’t afford to be self-centered. I try to create spaces where visitors can reflect, leave capitalist time behind, and encounter a holistic experience. Whether these spaces succeed as conversation points or solace is uncertain, but they must exist. **Absolutely. Your work opens space for reflection and dialogue, which can be a way to dismantle systems.** Theresa Roessler, curator of the exhibition and director of the Kunstverein, emphasized this. She reminded me that the exhibition is more than the work itself. Programming allows for deeper engagement with specific topics, creating bridges with expertise beyond what the artworks alone can provide. That gave me freedom to focus on making work that doesn’t try to explain everything. **The quotes you curated in the exhibition also help convey these ideas. I’d like to share a few and hear your thoughts: *Colonial racial theories—stretching to this day—to justify the subjugation of a given people; Vast imperial fortunes grown out of crops grown by artificially impoverished people.* \- Jim Endersby; *An economy of private ownership producing racialized subjects.* \- Brenna Bhandar; *Seizing control of natural resources turned into commodities by devalued labor \[or: Where capital begins\].* \- Robin D.G. Kelley; *The reduction of Man to Labour and of Nature to Land.* \- Sylvia Wynter.** I selected quotes both literally and conceptually. For me, these statements situate the origins of capital in the seizure and control of land and labor. Colonial methods of appropriation continue today—they are not just history. I wanted these quotes to mark the entry point of the exhibition, framing visitors’ experience of its aesthetic and sensorial aspects. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/EveTagny_WKV_2025_hires_10.jpg) Fig.3 **When you were in Cameroon, did you focus on colonial history in a specific way?** I knew I would have the show here, so I explored German colonial history in Cameroon. I only learned in Berlin that Germans colonized Cameroon—a well-kept secret, even in Germany. But for me, the core was really about private property and ownership, and how we relate to things and to each other. I’m not trying to rewrite history, just present fragments and points of entry, guided by aesthetics and pleasure. **Some of your works also function as archives. Yusuf Hassan of Black Mass Publishing suggests archiving can be a pathway to critical thinking. Do you see that in your practice?** “Framing” can be violent in itself—deciding what’s inside or outside. I work with images and archives in a way that tries to avoid replicating violence. For instance, I screenprinted some of the colonial-era images I used, and masked others under organza fabric. Archives become alive, revisitable, and intertwined with materials. Memory is not fixed, and I wanted to reflect that temporality in the exhibition. **Thank you so much for sharing these insights into your research, your process, and the exhibition. I hope readers find this conversation as inspiring as I did.** Thank you as well. It’s wonderful to return to language after making work, to name things and reflect on them. **Ah! the power of naming things…** // --- ### Images: Cover: Eve Tagny, In the Underbelly of a Kernel, 2025, Installation view, Westfälischer Kunstverein, Photo:Thorsten Arendt Fig.1 Eve Tagny, In the Underbelly of a Kernel, 2025, Installation view, Westfälischer Kunstverein, Photo:Thorsten Arendt Fig.2: Eve Tagny, In the Underbelly of a Kernel, 2025, Installation view, Westfälischer Kunstverein, Photo:Thorsten Arendt Fig.3 Eve Tagny, Entangled scores of the underbelly, 2025, Detail, Photo: Thorsten Arendt *Jeanne-Ange Wagne is a creative art historian, knowledge mediator, and event curator who conducts artistic research into memory, colonial provenance research, and trend cycles in art, culture, and fashion.* ### The moon wanted to be sun, but it was too late URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-moon-wanted-to-be-sun-but-it-was-too-late/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:09.000Z Es como si una tormenta de arena hubiera atravesado el lienzo, dejando una superficie frágil y resistente que guarda el susurro de los días pasados. Con polvo de arcilla sobre lienzo, Arturo Kameya crea una piel mate y terrosa donde centellea la fugacidad de la memoria, y una luz fantasmal envuelve los callejones y casas de su infancia en los suburbios de Lima. Este material porta las huellas de las casas de adobe de su juventud y teje un puente poético entre la sustancia tangible de la experiencia y la naturaleza efímera del recuerdo; entre la realidad vivida y la memoria que la transforma en imágenes temblorosas y desplazadas. En abril visité su segunda exposición individual en la galería GRIMM durante el Amsterdam Art Week. Titulada *The moon wanted to be the sun, but it was too late to change* (La luna quiso ser sol, pero ya era demasiado tarde para cambiar), Kameya despliega un panorama de memorias personales, momentos cotidianos y las complejas dinámicas sociales y migratorias entre Perú y Japón: territorios de sus antepasados que envuelven a cualquiera que sabe lo que es vivir en desplazamiento, con intimidad infantil y conciencia política y cartográfica. Sus escenas entrelazan escenas domésticas e historia pública en un collage donde imágenes de archivo, recuerdos y vaivenes cotidianos dialogan como fragmentos de una crónica polifónica. Esta construcción refleja la tesis de Carlos Rangel en *Del buen salvaje al buen revolucionario* (1982): la historia de América Latina oscila entre la inocencia idealizada y la instrumentalización política. Kameya desplaza así nociones de vergüenza entre trauma y fábula, entre lo privado y lo público. Cada capa de color se convierte en eco de una provocación socialmente desencadenada. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-12-17-at-10.49.55.png) Fig.1 Los tonos azulados y verdosos, derivados de la paleta de su casa, funcionan como marcadores entre mundos: transmiten estados de ánimo, contexto cultural y momentos fugaces de un pastiche que solo puede ser latino, reflejando las fracturas entre hogar y exilio; un estado que lx pensadorx Mascha Gessen describe: vivir en el exilio es vivir entre lo familiar y lo extraño, entre pertenencia y observación, entre cercanía y distancia. Estas latitudes no se quedaron varadas en Ámsterdam: GRIMM presentó en Art Basel Statements *Every step is a payment in full* (Cada paso es un pago completo), instalación inmersiva que examina la instrumentalización del deporte y la educación física como herramientas de modernización. Utiliza archivos históricos y visuales de centros educativos peruanos, creando un espacio casi fantasma. Me recuerda a la obra del pintor guayaquileño Roberto Noboa, en cuyas surreales canchas de tenis resuenan la disciplina y el control social, mientras las acaparan el silencio de la memoria y la tensión del poder en el puerto pacífico. La obra de Kameya evoca incesantemente la deuda social en Perú —la “culpa” heredada de los marginados desde la época colonial— y el entramado feudal de dependencia, rendimiento y retribución que define nuestro presente. Cada “pago”, cada paso, se convierte en metáfora de un sistema en el que valor, trabajo y reconocimiento están desigualmente distribuidos. Este ciclo alcanza incluso al mercado del arte: el acto de “pagar” representa la deuda negociada entre artista, institución y público, un ciclo de visibilidad, valor y capital cultural. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-12-17-at-10.51.04.png) Fig.2 El pensamiento del filósofo caribeño Édouard Glissant es clave para Kameya: la identidad no surge de una sola raíz, sino de múltiples relaciones. En su concepto de Identidad Relacional habita una ética del entre: la subjetividad entre experiencias, lenguas y memorias, contraponiéndose a los sistemas coloniales y oligárquicos basados en separación y jerarquía, estructuras que Kameya hace visibles en su propia putrefacción. Las piezas con forma de chaqueta deportiva y las obras de gran formato marcan un cambio técnico y conceptual: controladas en ejecución, pero abiertas a experimentos físicos con la superficie que caracterizaban sus formatos pequeños. El título de la exposición evoca una alegoría agridulce sobre transformación e imposibilidad: un astro que desea cambiar su luz, pero permanece atado a la gravedad de su historia. La obra refleja el dilema de una sociedad aún presa del legado colonial y de jerarquías sociales, incluso mientras busca nuevas formas de autocomprensión. Como la luna que refleja la luz del sol, el sujeto poscolonial se mueve en un campo de brillo prestado, un sistema de dependencias y reflejos que inunda la esfera del arte. La opacidad glissantiana —el derecho a permanecer inaccesible a la lógica de la luz— se vuelve central: en ella habitan la resistencia y la relación, sosteniendo la diferencia sin disolverse. Así, el título funciona como metáfora de la relación entre periferia y centro, artista y mercado, visibilidad y apropiación. La luz poética de Kameya incide sobre la lógica feudal que persiste, incluso disfrazada de progreso e iluminación. // --- ### Images: Cover: Arturo Kameya, *Casas y castillos, Houses and castles*, 2023 Fig.1 Arturo Kameya, *La ley real (se les pide no romper las botellitas), The royal law (Please don't break the bottles)*, 2023 Fig.2 Arturo Kameya, *No fight tonight, just soup in sight*, 2025 *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Is it better to burn out than to fade away? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/is-it-better-to-burn-out-than-to-fade-away/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:07.000Z Vladimir Lenin is credited with saying that “there are decades when nothing happens, and there are weeks when decades happen.”\[1\] Anyone who lived through the decade between the self-immolation of Mohamed Bouazizi, which touched off the season of uprisings that became known as the Arab Spring, and the COVID-19 pandemic knows this truth in their bones. From 2010 to 2020, a global wave of uprisings, from Brazil to Japan, Tunisia and Egypt, Libya and Turkey, rose against systems of exploitation, corruption, and criminalization with a fervor unmatched since the movements from the 1960s. The 2010s birthed not mere protests but networks and organizations, seismic events that made people believe the world could change. In nearly all of these cases, the aftermath of the struggles was grim: military coups, civil wars, the return of authoritarian rule, and the quiet reassertion of neoliberal power. Occupy Wall Street dissolved without denting the stock market. Gezi Park was cleared and activists landed in prison or were silenced. Infrastructures of resistance—encampments, citizen assemblies, mutual aid networks—proved their fragility against the racialized-capitalist world order. If decades happened in those weeks, what do we make of the long years that have followed, when euphoria faded into fatigue and sometimes disillusionment? This question has created lived consequences for those who gave their bodies, time, and hope to the collective struggle. What remains largely unspoken in this litany of political uprising and retrenchment is the emotional wreckage: the exhaustion of those who believed they were building a better world only to see it shattered and their hopes still unrealized. Defeat is inevitable in political work, but what happens when defeat becomes the dominant outcome? Hannah Proctor’s *Burnout: The Emotional Experience of Political Defeat* (Verso, 2024) arrives in the wake of renewed global anti-imperialist mobilizations for Palestine and the reinvigoration of anti-fascist struggle across the globe. Written by a scholar who grasps both the historical weight and contemporary urgency of her subject, the book is a rigorous and humane study of what happens when political movements’ demands go unattended, when barricades fall, and activists are left to reckon with the emotional aftermath. Proctor refuses to separate the psychological from the political. The phenomenon of burnout, she argues, is not an individual weakness but a structural condition produced by repression, fragmentation, and the accelerated tempo of capitalist time. Personal breakdowns mirror political ones. To feel defeated is not to fail privately but to experience, in one’s own body, the implosion of collective horizons. Structuring the book in three parts—“Historical Symptoms”, “Survival Pending Revolution”, “Concepts Transformed”—which cross-reference each other in a tapestry of emotions and historical moments, Proctor’s method is not linear but constellational. From 1848 to 1968 to today’s burnout culture, the case studies she deploys illuminate one another, revealing recurring patterns in how bodies and minds collapse under the weight of failed projectuality, or respond to defeats by counter-organizing, creating, and commonizing. By analyzing an archive of fictions and biographies, including *Airless Spaces* by Shulamith Firestone, as well as psychological literature as Robert Coles' *Social Struggles and Weariness*, Proctor’s records of fatigue, melancholy, rage, and the strange relief given by artistically expressing oneself amid revolutionary exhaustion, are anatomized both on an intimate and scientific level. She highlights the left criticism of psychotherapy as an attempt to reconcile individuals with a sick society rather than encouraging them to change it and presents counter-examples, such as during the AIDS crisis in the US, when grassroots, community clinics helped people or groups understand their struggles and ready themselves to fight anew, moving from “anti-adaptative feelings”, to “anti-adaptative healing”. One of Proctor’s sharpest insights concerns the political dynamics of time itself: “people’s relation to the past is also unstable, liable to change”, she writes. Defeat is not a single event but a process unfolding over years, even decades, like grieving a world that is fatiguing to bring about. What follows is mourning, reassessment, and sometimes renewal. Some militants disappear into silence; others find new ways to continue. Proctor doesn’t prescribe a correct path; rather, she asks how people invested in changing society could simultaneously be concerned with healing their internal reality. Proctor’s tone allows the reader to sit with discomfort without turning it into spectacle. Each chapter centers on an affect: exhaustion, melancholy, betrayal, recovery, for example, and traces it across contexts, revealing defeat’s recurring phenomenology without erasing historical specificities. The result is both theoretical and practical: by documenting how earlier generations survived their defeats, the book offers a usable construction of the past for the present. How did movementists cope with disillusionment? What mistakes did they repeat? Thinking of the current generation of students invested in actions against climate change or encampments to demand their universities cut ties with the State of Israel, I ask myself, will future generations already be burned out? *Burnout* could not be timelier. Contemporary activism is often marked by guilt, exhaustion, precarity, and despair. The acceleration of digital life, the relentless visibility demanded of organizers, the collapse of boundaries between political and personal—all have conspired to produce a new terrain of fatigue. We talk about burnout more than ever, yet we still lack collective strategies to counter it. And that is why Proctor’s book offers a vital historiographic intervention. Radical history tends to celebrate victories while ignoring the far more common experience of failure. Proctor insists that the history of left defeat is equally important: understanding how movements fail is essential to building sustainable forms of resistance. If burnout is structural, then recovery, too, must be. As we look back on a decade of revolts and social movements, which, emotionally, have endured in those who lived through them, they become a lens to participate in the wave of movements to come. *Burnout* invites us to reconsider the temporality and the infrastructure of revolutionary meanings. Too often, we pathologize revolutions as symptoms of a broken world and imagine them as sudden ruptures, weeks that can span decades, flames that burn fast and bright. But, as Proctor notes in bringing up the Black Panthers’ holistic approach to social change, revolution also happens through the slow, patient labor of care, construction, and endurance. Perhaps, then, the question is not whether it’s better to burn out than to fade away, but how to inhabit the struggle within the long, uneven durations of history, where revolution, like healing, takes time. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] The attribution is a condensed paraphrastic quote from the 1918 pamphlet *The Chief Task of Our Day*, credited to V. I. Lenin. In the translation printed in V. I. Lenin: Collected Works vol. 27 (Progress Publishers, 1965), Lenin writes: “In the space of a few days we destroyed one of the oldest, most powerful, barbarous and brutal of monarchies. In the space of a few months, we passed through several stages of collaboration with the bourgeoisie and of shaking off petty-bourgeois illusions, for which other countries have required decades.” Image: Arturo Kameya, *Pan duro*, 2024, © and courtesy of the artist *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Heaven lies beneath the feet of your Mother* URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/heaven-lies-beneath-the-feet-of-your-mother/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:05.000Z *I wanted to write an ode to my mother, Maha, a story of intergenerational relationships. Over the years, my mother has been my inspiration, my challenge, my collaborator, and my friend. Now I am a mother to a daughter too, and whilst writing this, she lies in my lap, sucking at my breasts for dear life.* In the picture, you see the face of my Mother; her chin held high, her face round and soft and brown. You will see all the love I have for her. Her eyes are wise and deep, and since forever I have looked at them, they have been surrounded by a dark line of kohl. With time, this line has become thicker and longer. Her right eye is lazy—that is the medical definition, a lazy eye. My cousin is an optometrist, he told her. Optometry is an ancient medicine in Egypt, more than 4000 (four thousand!) years old. As old as the left eye of Horus. Her name is Maha, meaning half moon or beautiful eye, or the wild deer. She is an Arab woman. Her father was from Upper Egypt (from my perspective, it is down, and that is how I know I am different). He was Nubian and ashamed. I used to be ashamed of who I am, too. On her T-shirt it reads: In the name of Allah the beneficent, the merciful: confuse not truth with falsehood, nor knowingly conceal the truth! On my T-shirt it reads: Forgive me, Allah, I have sinned. Offering my back as a canvas for your message to go on the streets: Silence = Death, The future is Female, I am a Man, Free Palestine, Elitism Sucks. My shirt has a lot to say. I want to tell you everything today, and I will let it speak, tell the story of what it conceals: The big old hands that used to grab my nipples as a child are now protected by loud words screaming NOT YOURS—mine. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Maha-4.jpg) Fig.1 My name is Dina. I am sure that in Allah’s everlasting record, I do not exist. My name is not even scribbled in the well-kept Book of Fortune. I, Dina, daughter of Maha, daughter of Mahasan, press my head through the opening of the shirt, examine the hollow inside, which soon will be filled with my breasts, hugging my pregnant belly, which is not yours but mine. It was the 3rd day of Ramadan in the year 2024, or 1446, or however you want to count the time. Maha was sitting on the balcony smoking cigarettes. She doesn’t care about fasting. She does not care for what our neighbors say either. Overlooking the City of the Dead, a cemetery which is so old and so big that it is, at heart, a neighborhood. Many living people live here too. First, they were guards of tombs of other families, then their own living families moved in with them. Now they all live together, skeletons and crying babies. Some of my family members lie here, too, but I don't really know them. I am not sure yet where my mother will be put to rest, nor am I. I never lived in Cairo. I was born in Germany to a German father who has a German father too. I have a Nazi background, and I have what they call “other ethnic backgrounds” too. “I am here because white people were in my country and they still are,” my mother says when I, once again, ask her: Who am I? We are all equal, she says to me. The jinns, the birds, the air, the humans, and we have to accept that. Then she paints my toenails and smokes. The smell of acetone and cigarettes makes me feel like I’m a child again, protected in her chest, thinking to myself: *I have flown to you like a child to her mother* \- Sappho *\* Prophet Muhammad, Hadith.* *//* --- ### Images Cover: Imaan, 2025, Photograph by Dina El Kaisy Friemuth, courtesy of the artist Fig.1 Maha, 2025, Photograph by Dina El Kaisy Friemuth, courtesy of the artist *Dina El Kaisy Friemuth is an artist whose works deal with the interrelation of collectivity and belonging. Her practice revolves around the creation of conversational environments, the amplification of queer and racialized voices, as well as decolonial and institutional critique. Her work is manifold, often in collaboration with other cultural workers, and includes disciplines such as curating, writing, installation and video.* ### Rehearsing Cultural Abolitionisms URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/rehearsing-cultural-abolitionisms-catwings/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:04.000Z In the midst of Berlin’s bustling art week, replete with the usual openings, talks, and VIP dinners, something else unfolded in Kreuzberg: The fundraiser for the Gaza Biennial—Berlin Pavilion. During extreme political repression, depleted public funding, physical and bureaucratic state violence, and censorship, the fundraiser aimed to raise funds to make an iteration of the Gaza Biennial possible. As an act of solidarity, the fundraiser disrupted market-driven valorizations of art, and brought together thousands of people committed to expanding the idea of what art could be. While the main purpose of this fundraiser, and the Biennial it supports, is to insist on ending the ongoing genocide committed by Israel and to support Palestinian liberation, it also becomes an example of collective organizing and cultivating culturall imaginaries grounded in self-governance. With this column, we look into the ways the fundraiser undermines common economic and cultural conditions of how art is shown, valued, and circulated. Leading up to the event, more than 400 Berlin-based artists hand-delivered over 1,100 works on paper, which volunteer organizers cataloged to raise funds for the Pavilion planned for November. Unlike Berlin Art Week, there was no jury determining the selection. Rather, the only criteria were that it be limited to an A4-sized work on paper and that the artist be based in Berlin. Donated works were neither ranked nor labeled. Every artwork was sold for the same price. Enabling anyone to contribute a small work on paper opens a platform for artists to participate, regardless of their education, social status, or cultural capital. Yet, this open invitation also confronts us with the inequalities we are facing in the cultural field. For some artists, contributing to the fundraiser reflects a genuine wish to support despite limited means, while others would possess the resources and influence to contribute on a much larger scale. Undermining normalized cultural hierarchies within the microcosm of the fundraiser becomes a reminder that despite equal participation, contributing to a shared cause comes with the responsibility of everyone involved reflecting on the means and reach they have to support it. Where the mainstream gallery scene entices through the aura of recognized names and the value circulation within established economies, the fundraiser introduced a different logic of engagement. Presenting unframed and unlabeled works on a table offers the chance to be guided by resonance rather than reputation. Perhaps it risks sounding naïve, but it seems worth asking what we find moving or desirable when the scaffolding of labels and assigned values is stripped away. Beyond questions of taste or aesthetics, beauty here arises from the assembly of works, as a constellation of singular gestures that extend beyond themselves, revealing the simultaneity of two disparate artistic realities: the luxury of producing art as a means of support, and the urgency of artistic production as resistance to erasure. In the fundraiser, those contrary conditions do not diminish one another but instead open a productive space as solidarity, allowing one to sustain the other. A fundraiser, of course, is not a novel thing. Yet, this makes it even more important to recognize how working within a seemingly familiar format can generate something that exceeds the (im)possibilities of the restricted cultural conditions in Berlin. It reveals a horizon for abolitionist practices and for approaching art differently. // --- ### Cover image ©Dania Shihab, Carlos Vásquez Méndez, On Lines, 2025 *Catwings is an initiative of Steph Joyce and Theresa Zwerschke, rooted in communal learning, gathering-based art, and self-governed collective action. Their research is invested in the conditions of self-organized art practices that move beyond the product-centered idea of the artwork-as-commodity.* ### Proof of existence URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/proof-of-existence/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:03.000Z Memory spills everywhere in Tirana. Obsessively so, because memory is at once buried and fragmented in part by the urgency of diving into a future of moving closer to the European Union with its promise of progressive standards. However, Albanian cultural identity in Tirana revealed itself to be strong and proudly expressed: I was invited at every corner to taste food that filled the air with an oil-fried scent. I was beckoned to dance to music blasted from car windows at night, and to meet people inhabiting an architectural palimpsest of histories of colonial and political occupation. Buildings from the Ottoman to the Italian periods clash and blend, forming an uneven horizon, where Bitcoin real estate towers provide a backdrop that rises over sober communist forms. The effects of the totalitarian People’s Socialist Republic (1946–1991)—which came to power after defeating Italian occupation—still bleed through the collective body as a kind of intergenerational incommunicability. The trauma of elders, those who endured political incarceration and martial executions, still seeks resolution, if not healing, but this has been interrupted by diasporic youth who, in a severed bond with their country, contend with a process of racialization and the subsumption of their local traditions into globalizing capitalism. Contemporary art workers in Albania are seeking to bridge and repair this generational rupture. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1.-Tirana-Art-Weekend-Headquarters-2024.-Digital-photography-Credit-Photo-Giulia-Dajci-Courtesy-of-Albanian-Visual-Arts-Network.JPG) Fig.1 This is one of the purposes of Tirana Art Weekend in its second edition: a community effort organized by AVAN (Albanian Visual Arts Network), a collection of independent organizations united to address their concerns through the visual arts. In the words of Board member Amantia Peza, the weekend is "an initiative to make visible the cultural scene so it can be supported by cultural policies." Tirana Art Weekend leverages art practices despite the absence of substantial state support or funding for artists or art infrastructures in Albania. AVAN is a smart, self-organized operation aimed at reclaiming access to resources essential for building a local, enduring cultural scene. During my stay and in many of my conversations, nobody hid information about economic precarity or the basic resource upholding the entire endeavor: community. Even the artistic director of Villa 31, an international artists' residency operating in Paris and Tirana, revealed that while the state provides the building for free (it is the former residence of the country’s Cold War dictator, Enver Hoxha), it is funding from the private foundation Art Explora that transforms the historical site into a meeting place for cultural agents from the entire Balkan region. Such transparency about material conditions felt radical in itself. At Triana Art Weekend, nineteen independent spaces showcased distinctive exhibitions at AVAN Villa—formerly the Institute for the Integration of Political Victims. The Villa became an outpost where people gathered to share ideas, drink, and dance at the temporary and site-specific Bar Tore. Each local art space was given a room to showcase artists and practices addressing contested aspects of Albanian history, or the body as a site of resistance and self-affirmation, or narrative forms that challenge temporal linearity, as well as the reemergence of personal storytelling speaking, both from and to diasporic Albanian communities. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Giulia-Dajci-Photo_83.jpg) Fig.2 At the ground level of AVAN Villa and across from the Agimi Art Center and Tulla Cultural Center sits the commissioned five-chapter exhibition by the curator Arnold Braho. Titled *Re-Enacting a Fable*, it inquires into the morphology of traditional storytelling, departing from archival materials of the film director Xhanfise Keko and the feminist teacher and playwright Urani Rumbo, who used theater as a pedagogical tool of political emancipation. The exhibition explores their respective careers, which spanned the 19th and 20th centuries, including work done with children and with women's assemblies. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/TAWE25-Installations-Vila-Zeni-Alia-15.jpg) Fig.3 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/TAWE25-Installations-Vila-Zeni-Alia-32.jpg) Fig.4 Moving beyond historical documentation, the exhibition speculatively articulates where and how stories can be gleaned from many voices rather than being imposed as a monolithic narrative. This approach finds beautiful expression in Genny Petrotta's *Novelline* (2025), a film dedicated to the folk tales collected in the Sicilian town, notorious for its Albanian diaspora, Piana degli Albanesi, by Cristina Gentile Mandalà (1856–1919), one of the earliest Arbëreshë women writers and a key figure in documenting oral narrative traditions. The film employs ritualized gestures recalling the communal contexts where these stories were traditionally transmitted, often during collective labor such as spinning. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/TAWE25-Day-1-Opening-Zeni-Alia-10.jpg) Fig.5 To enter the exhibition's core, one must pass through Anna Ehrenstein’s curtain carrying the inscription, in bold letters: “HOME IS WHERE YOUR HATRED IS”—a sharp articulation of the German-Albanian artist's conflictual relationship with her country of origin. Gerta Xhaferaj's video installation *The Censorship of the Flowers* (2024) confronts the incompleteness of history, even in private memory, during political repression. Segments representing flowers, or perhaps the people near them, are cut from footage of Xhaferaj's family events, an act of self-censorship that makes visible what authoritarian forces silenced. Sonja Azizaj translates the vulnerability of a shifting landscape in a panel of poems from her archive, poems composed in Tirana during the city's accelerated transformation. The texts trace and commemorate the urban landscape and the intimate shifts it provokes in the author’s body: a lyric resistance to the violence of urban capital. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/TAWE25-Installations-Vila-Zeni-Alia-67.jpg) Fig.6 At Tulla Art Center, Blerta Haziraj showcases ongoing research on the Women's Antifascist Front of Kosovo, a mass movement emerging from the partisan struggle of World War II. After the war, these women organized rural communities, initiated large-scale unveiling campaigns, and promoted education, collectivization, and the ideal of a new socialist woman. A powerful wall piece features in a photo of young women wearing handkerchiefs as scarves, looking at the camera and each other. Below is the following writing: *E lirë me kenë unë due me shoqe me u gëzue…* (I'd love to go out with my girlfriends and have fun…). The work gives voice to a newly formed collectivity raising its voice against the patronization of women's bodies and the male imposition of public unveiling, revealing how emancipation requires women’s own self-determination, not paternalistic liberation imposed from above. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/TAWE25-Installations-Vila-Zeni-Alia-112.jpg) Fig.7 On the first floor of the AVAN Villa, Galeria e Bregdetit, the space initiated by Elian Stefa, director of AVAN, hosts photos by Antonio Ottomanelli. The series, titled *Re-Reading Gaza*, reframes the built landscape of the Gaza Strip as an arena of movement and memory, where young practitioners engage in parkour. The central photo, wherein a young man floats in the air against the backdrop of rubble, made me think about how falling, like dancing, can be a powerful form of resistance to gravity, the pull of inflicted and accumulated violence onto the Palestinian body. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/TAWE25-Installations-Vila-Zeni-Alia-183.jpg) Fig.8 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Giulia-Dajci-Photo_26.jpg) Fig.9 Exiting the Galeria e Bregdetit, a rickety wooden staircase leads to the section curated by Tek Bunkeri: a social innovation initiative invested in participatory cultural work bridging Albanian rural and metropolitan communities. For Art Weekend, Tek Bunkeri presents *Antimuseum*, an animated video where poetics and politics intertwine in order to recount torture and trauma inflicted on Albanian dissident youth during the days of the Socialist Republic. The work details the maze of betrayal and longing that shaped that time, where music became a tool for perpetuating violence in prisons, with inmates facing no clear accusation or a trial. Tek Bunkeri's humane and sensitive inquiry into the political excavation of feelings and memory continued at the premiere of the documentary *In Search of Poetry* at Agimi Art Center. The film immerses viewers in a collective recall of hidden histories of communist labor camps, where detainees were stripped of political rights and made to work in heavy construction or mining labor. The narrative follows a 75-year-old man who was incarcerated in Spac Prison at the age of 28\. During his forced labor building a housing complex, he hid a little paper treasure in the walls: a friend's poetry. Entering the flats now owned by new tenants, we see how time connects. How the present is bent and enjoined to collaborate in shedding light on the past, and how material structures hold memory that state narratives try to bury. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Giulia-Dajci-Photo_47.jpg) Fig.10 The weekend spun across the city, offering visibility to neighborhoods and regional initiatives, including Bazement Art Space. There, I observed three older men, clearly not from the art world, making space among us, waiting to see themselves in the wall-sized video projection. It was a refreshing encounter after days of seeing the same faces before the different artworks. Their presence made it clear that community involvement behind Blerta Hoçia's solo show, *Whispers Under the Relentless March*, had resonated in the neighborhood. Hoçia's inquiry listens to faint murmurs beneath the accelerating sounds of change: workers in labor struggles seek to safeguard the landscape from extraction, and courtyards where longtime residents built enclosed altars to the passing of time are fixed in photographs. Here, the voices of those men inhabiting the courtyards are, at last, given a platform. My last night concluded at Bar Thaka in a gentrified neighborhood, Blloku, described by local youth as where former spies would drink coffee in the morning, and now hipsters go there to get drunk in the evening, a loop of hegemonic generational substitution. Covered in wooden panels with a rustic atmosphere where you could buy Albanian wine, raki, and meatball sandwiches, it hosted the last chapter of *Re-Enacting a Fable*. Gerta Xhaferaj presented on the bar's screen, normally dedicated to football matches, a video installation reflecting on migration and the doubling of the body during travel; the body in motion searches itself by following other bodies on the streets. An ambient live sound performance by zerocase & nica2cica and Sindi Ziu offered additional reflection on the city's zones of silence amid its otherwise pervasive clamor. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Day-3-Thaka-Zeni-Alia-9.jpg) Fig.11 Tirana, with a past that forces us to confront the ruthless violence of every ideological position fixated in totalitarian structures, and with an inextinguishable desire to confront such histories, enchanted me. From a deep wound that traverses time and mends its ruptures, art emerges as a confession of unresolvedness and an admission of its own insufficiency as a singular catalyst for self-inquiry and renewal of imagination. But Tirana’s Art Weekend does more: it calls us to observe all the forces redrawing the outline of the city and the cultural habits of its inhabitants, and, therefore, it demands we examine the infrastructures upholding it. This rhizomatic conceptual endeavour offers a template for regions where capitalist development defines spaces and communities (while systematically ignoring the cultural infrastructures that might resist it). By mapping the urgent needs of both institutional and grassroots art scenes, charting where they align and where they diverge, the initiative builds collective pressure on those in power to address cultural precarity. The question that emerges is whether such grassroots power can become a vector for genuine autonomy, or whether it will remain a disposable supplement to the pervasive capitalist system. // --- ### Images Cover: 3\. Jona Krasniqi, Where Do Thoughts Go, 2025\. Courtesy the artist and Art House Foundation Fig.1 Tirana Art Weekend Headquarters, 2024\. Credit Photo Giulia Dajci, Courtesy of Albanian Visual Arts Network Fig.2 Bar Tore, Credit Photo Giulia Dajci, Courtesy of Albanian Visual Arts Network Fig.3 TAWE25, Installation view Vila. Fig.4 Genny Petrotta's *Novelline* (2025), installation view. Courtesy of Albanian Visual Arts Network Fig.5 Anna Ehrenstein, *HOME IS WHERE YOUR HATRED IS* (2025), installation view. Courtesy of Albanian Visual Arts Network Fig.6 Gerta Xhaferaj, *The Censorship of the Flowers* (2024), installation view. Courtesy of Albanian Visual Arts Network Fig.7 Antonio Ottomanelli, *Re-Reading Gaza* (2013), installation view. Courtesy of Albanian Visual Arts Network Fig.8 Tek Bunkeri, *Antimuseum* (2025), installation view. Courtesy of Albanian Visual Arts Network Fig.9 Tek Bunkeri, *In Search of Poetry,* installation view. Courtesy of Albanian Visual Arts Network Fig.10 Bazement Art Space, Photo Giulia Dajci Photo Fig.11 Thaka-Zeni. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Das Sehnen nach Zärtlichkeit URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/das-sehnen-nach-zaertlichkeit/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:01.000Z #1 Ich bin Viele und ich gehe los. Noch viel mehr gehen auch los, mit all ihren Gegenwarten und ohne Zukünfte. Da sehe ich dich das erste mal und ich ahne noch nicht, dass bald viel mehr von uns ineinander fließen wird als unsere Stimmen auf der Straße. Als du dich zu mir umdrehst und mich einlädst, mit dir zu laufen, merke ich erst, dass ich alleine war. Ich lebe in einer hyper-individualisierten Welt, in der um all unsere Existenzen kleine Zäunchen errichtet werden. Jeder Blick kann als Überschreitung dieses Zäunchens, dieser Grenze zwischen dir und mir, gewertet werden, nicht als Kontakt; nimmt potentiell etwas weg anstatt zu bereichern. Und das Wegnehmen ist die größte aller Sünden, denn das Eigentum ist das eigentliche Heiligtum in einer Welt, in der das Sich-zu-Eigen-Machen – das Einhegen dessen, was geteilt werden könnte, sodass alle teilhaben können – oberstes Gebot ist. Und so gehen wir jetzt hier durch die Straßen und versuchen ein Zeichen gegen die Angst zu setzen, die im Inneren des Zaunes, ganz tief in den Menschen drinnen entstanden ist. Ich sehe heute das erste Mal, wie ein Schlagstock auf einen Körper trifft. Es ist dein Körper. Du hast keine Chance und keinen Stock um dich zu wehren. Und jetzt laufen wir. #2 Warum ist es im Deutschen so schwierig, von Mut oder Liebe zu sprechen? Warum ist es im Gebrauch dieser Sprache, mit ihrer spezifischen Geschichte, nicht möglich nicht eingebürgert, wie man auf Deutsch sagt, diese Dinge auszudrücken? Was hat es mit mir gemacht, mit dieser Sprache aufzuwachsen, in der ich Liebe und Mut und Empathie nicht ausdrücken kann, ohne pathetisch zu klingen? Wie lange muss ich über Liebe, Mut und Empathie schreiben, bis es sich anders anfühlt, diese auszudrücken? Kann ich das Erbe, das die Sprache in sich trägt, verändern – in meinem Sprachgebrauch und auch in mir? Haben wir nie gelernt, unsere Emotionen zu artikulieren? Ist unsere Sprachlosigkeit in Wahrheit ein stiller Schrei nach Liebe? Muss ich schreien oder schreiben, damit sich das Erbe der Sprache verändert? Habe ich dich vergrault, jetzt wo ich diese Begriffe hier so in den Raum stelle? Als ich es tue, Mut und Liebe und das Erbe und Unausgesprochene anzusprechen, bei dem einzigen Familienfest das wir je hatten, bei dem die mütterliche Seite eingeladen war, gefriert der Raum plötzlich. Ich möchte für die Dinge, die in unserer Familie nicht artikuliert werden, eine Sprache finden. Wir artikulieren keine Liebe, keinen Mut. Niemand hat den Mut, die Liebe oder ihr Fehlen anzusprechen und auch nicht den Mut, die Springerstiefel des Onkels oder die Vergangenheit des Opas anzusprechen. Wir sind eine Familie, die in Österreich lebt und mit mir nun auch in Deutschland; die eine tschechische, eine slawische Seite hat, die die mütterliche ist; der ich aufgrund meines Aussehens zugeordnet werde, denn ich bin nicht blond, wie die väterliche Seite, ich bin dunkelhaarig. Sehr typisch für österreichische Familien, die slawische Wurzeln. Und auch typisch, diese, sowie die Nazi-Vergangenheit über die Jahre hinweg mit Schäufelchen von Erde zu bedecken. Schäufelchen für Schäufelchen Erde. Und so sind beide Seiten bedeckt. Mit Sprachlosigkeit und fehlendem Mut. #3 Ich decke uns zu und sage dir alles, mit meinem Körper, der deinem so ähnlich ist. Und du erwiderst es, alles. Du beißt mich in den Hals und mein Blut fließt zwischen deinen Zähnen. Jede darauffolgende Nacht Träume ich davon, dass du mich weckst und wir hungrig und gierig durch die Straßen ziehen. Entweder verführen wir oder entführen jemanden um den ganzen Körper leerzutrinken. Meine Zähne bohren sich in das Fleisch und ich trinke, als hätte ich noch nie getrunken, um einen unendlichen Durst zu stillen. In diesen Träumen sind wir unbesiegbar und wir haben keine Angst. Wir sind im Rausch, wir wüten durch die Stammkneipen und trinken. Jeden Abend aufs Neue und ich merke, wie meine Tage von diesen Träumen getränkt sind. Eines Tages werden die Stammkneipen leergetrunken sein und die Trinkenden von uns, den Stammes-Verrätern, die sich des nachts heimlich verwandeln. Die Tage und Nächte verschwimmen im luziden Meer meines Wachtraumes, den ich tagsüber träume, um nachts wieder mit dir zu sein. Diese Träume werden zu meiner zweiten Realität und irgendwann sogar zu meiner ersten und ich frage mich immer öfter, ob es dich überhaupt gibt, oder ob ich dich erfinde weil ich mein Begehren so lange getarnt habe genau wie mein Selbst. Vielleicht muss dieses Zwielicht zwischen Wachseins und Träumen sein, um die Schatten mit dem Licht auszuwechseln? Damit das, was im Dunkeln ist, was ins Dunkel verbannt wurde — in meinem und dem kollektiven Unbewussten — ans Licht kommen und zum Tag, zu mir werden kann. Sodass ich das, was der Tag, die Realität war, aus meinem Gehirn verbannen kann, damit es nicht mehr meine Realität sein muss. Als ich aufwache, sehe ich wie leer die Stammkneipen sind. Keine Stammeshalter mehr, nur noch leere Bänke, Tische, Stühle, leere Gläser und wir mit gesättigten Augen und vollen Körpern. Das war der letzte Rausch. Mir rauscht das Blut in meinen Ohren und ich fühle mich, als würde ich zerfließen. Die Form meines Körpers wird irrelevant. Bis ich ein neues Gefäß, einen neuen Körper habe, existiert nur noch Bewegung. Ich fühle meine neue Gestalt in den folgenden Tagen immer klarer. Mein bisheriges Körpergefühl verschwimmt. Ich bin fassungslos bis ich mich erfasse und lerne, mich in dem neuen Körper zu bewegen, der einen neuen Zugang zur Welt eröffnet. Etwas Neues, mich umfassendes wird ich. Dich sehe ich sehr lange nicht mehr. Vielleicht bist du auch zu einer neuen Form geworden. Ein Shape Shifter, ein Trickster, eine\*r die ihre Geheimkenntnisse nutzt um die Regeln zu brechen, Ungehorsam walten lässt, die Konventionen beugt bis sie sich ergeben. Eine\*r der Gött\*innen, Geister, Menschenähnlichen. // --- ### Cover Image: Ana Vaz, A árvore / The Tree, 2022 ˝ and courtesy Ana Vaz *(dey/dem) lebt in Berlin und arbeitet an der Schnittstelle von erweiterter Choreografie, Text und somatischen Praktiken. In deren künstlerischer Praxis erforscht Lo, wie Wahrnehmung, Sprache und Macht durch und zwischen Körpern zirkulieren und wie aus dieser Bewegung neue Beziehungsweisen entstehen können.* ### Bureaucratic Struggle: Literature in the penal system URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bureocratic-stuggel-literature-in-the-penal-system/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:00.000Z In April 2025, letters were sent out to about forty prisons across Germany: from JVA Stuttgart to JVA Tegel, from Frankfurt am Main to Neustrelitz. Each letter proffered a simple question: would the facility accept a donation of books written in or about prison, by authors who have experienced the violence of confinement firsthand or who have critically engaged with it? Attached to the letter was a list of titles from which each facility could choose. The responses, ranging from enthusiasm to silence, became the core of Belia Zanna Geetha Brückner’s exhibition “Mit freundlichen Grüßen (Liste anbei)”, presented in September 2025 at WRG Sensor, Braunschweig. Those prisons that agreed to accept the donations have now permanently integrated the donated books into their libraries. This project builds on an earlier work the artist realized in Hamburg, R*econstruction of the Current Book Inventory of the Juvenile Detention Institution Hamburg* (HfBK Hamburg, 2019). That earlier project provided insight into what a prison library typically contains: self-help guides, practical manuals, crime novels, and a substantial amount of science fiction and fantasy books that offer distraction or skills for life after release. What remained absent, however, were critical reflections on imprisonment itself. Though many works on the penal system have achieved canonical status, it is hardly surprising that they circulate mostly in academic contexts rather than in the environments they describe. This is especially true among those whose lives they concern. Prisons, like many institutions, are not known for self-critique, and surely they do not see themselves as places of emancipation. In this new body of works, Brückner approached the prison libraries not by reproducing their contents but by adding to them. The central question shifted from What is there? What is missing—and will they accept this as a gift? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Mit_freundlichen-Grussen_4.jpg) Fig.1 During research, it became evident to Brückner how many now-canonical texts were not merely set in prison—much like many Netflix series and pulp fiction novels—but were written there. From Rosa Luxemburg, Antonio Gramsci, and Fyodor Dostoyevsky to Martin Luther King Jr. and Angela Davis, prisons have long been sites where radical thought and critique have incubated. The artistic aim of Brückner’s exhibition was to offer insight into the penal system through the words of those who have observed or experienced it: political critique, poetry, novels, and artist books. *In Reconstruction of the Current Book Inventory of the Juvenile Detention Institution Hamburg*, Brückner brought together writers who had spent time in prison with scholars and thinkers who challenged the hegemonies of confinement from the outside. In Jean Genet‘s case(s), traveling without a ticket, “loitering”, and stealing twenty handkerchiefs led to imprisonment. The other authors represented in the exhibition have served sentences for civil disobedience in the fight against racial segregation (e.g., Martin Luther King), or for the publication of texts critical of a regime (Liao Yiwu), or the alleged support of a terrorist organization (e.g., Ahmet Altan, Angela Davis). Ruth Wilson Gilmore, Ronen Steinke, and Michel Foucault expressed criticism of the justice and penal system from beyond its walls. Arrested for indecency: Oscar Wilde. Imprisoned for political activity: Luis Sepúlveda. Pretrial detention without proof of personal criminal offenses: The G20 Trial of Fabio V. The list could continue indefinitely. What becomes clear is that the penal system disproportionately targets people living in poverty, racialized communities, and migrants—both historically and today. This inequality is not incidental but rather intrinsic to a capitalist, racist system. It shows how people are suspected, controlled, and punished for conditions produced by structural injustice. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Mit_freundlichen-Grussen_2.jpg) Fig.2 The responses to the letters sent in spring 2025 came in slowly, delayed by bureaucracy and hesitation. Only a few institutions, such as the JVAs in Mannheim, Neustrelitz, and Zwickau, responded enthusiastically. Others sent polite but evasive rejections, citing “space limitations”, and others rejected the offer with no specified reasons. Some prisons declined the donation because the books wouldn’t fit the “reading interests of inmates” or were deemed “too intellectual”. Others stated that they were already well-equipped, or had limited storage capacities, or they turned down the donation due to a lack of capacity. Some gave no reason at all. In the end, it remains unclear whether a particular refusal came from real practical reasons or if they were all just false excuses. Many never replied at all. The uneven distribution of acceptance, rejection, and ghosting mirrors a situation that is not uniformly regulated and thus manages the processing of caseworkers, social workers, and their superiors on each site individually. Behind administrative discretion and formal politeness, inaccessibility persists through silence and intransparency. The setting of the exhibition mirrored this structuring: simple shelves represented each prison. Books that were accepted were placed on corresponding shelves, ready to be donated after the finissage. Empty shelves—or empty spaces within them—stood for refusals and bureaucratic silence. Next to the shelves, anonymized responses were displayed in full: letters of apology, expressions of enthusiasm, or brief office-language rejections. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Mit_freundlichen-Grussen_3.jpg) Fig.3 Around 550,000 people in Germany are fined each year for minor offences such as fare evasion, petty theft, or drug possession charges. When they cannot afford to pay the high fines, they are often sent to jail. Approximately 56,000 people serve what is known as a “substitute prison sentence” (Ersatzfreiheitsstrafe)\[1\] each year—in many such cases, defendants are homeless, unemployed, living with addiction or mental illness. According to the German Bar Association, in Berlin alone, more than 28% of those imprisoned under this provision in 2022 were unhoused. The current German government’s budget cuts reveal a clear shift away from social welfare and toward punishment. As global economic, social, political, and ecological crises deepen, the number of so-called “poverty crimes” is likely to rise—here and elsewhere. Initiatives such as Justice Collective Berlin and Freiheitsfonds, which have been bailing people out of prison for fare evasion for over three years, are campaigning against this injustice and calling for a new regulation in case law. Against this social backdrop, after the exhibition, all of the books displayed were sent to the respective correctional facilities and are now available for loan. The project is an attempt to enable, through art, for words to circulate in places where movement is restricted—between the shelves of prison libraries and the walls of their bureaucracy. There, literature continues its quiet yet defiant struggle to liberate, abolish, and emancipate carceral systems as systems of social regulation. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Vgl. Bögelein, Nicole 2021: Und plötzlich ging alles ganz einfach. Die Ersatzfreiheitsstrafe in Zeitenvon Corona, in: Informationsdienst Straffälligenhilfe, Heft 1: Die Pandemie – eine Zäsur für die Straffälligenhilfe 2021, S. 19-25. All images: Belia Zanna Geetha Brückner, Mit freundlichen Grüßen (Liste anbei), 2025\. © Benno Hauswaldt, and courtesy of the artist. *Belia Zanna Geetha Brückner (\*1992 in Mönchengladbach)’s work examines how power structures form, transform, and manifest themselves. Her practice is an expression of a systematic search for representations of ambivalences in narratives of participation, canons, and democracy. In doing so, she explores the principles of order and punishment in contemporary liberal societies.* *Benno Hauswaldt (\*1998 Munich) is a curator, art historian, and writer currently living in Leipzig.* ### Romantic Love and Relationship Anarchism URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/romantic-love-and-relationship-anarchism/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:58.000Z I was looking for an old article I had written as a teenager for my local newspaper's youth page. I remembered that it was about relationships and that I had put them on trial. I sat in the archives of my small hometown, and the paper’s archivist lugged kilos of old volumes into the room. She asked why I was looking for the article, and I told her about my work. I also said that the text was called “Relationship Anarchy”. Her face briefly contorted into an expression that looked like a gesture that had been cut short—as if she wanted to clasp her hands over her head. At that moment, I remembered. I remembered why I wanted to leave my town when I was seventeen. How the urge for normativity suffocated me. What was normality supposed to be anyway? When I explained the concept of relationship anarchy to her, she replied with a sentence that began, “There are always a few who...” and ended like all sentences do that downplay deviations as much as possible so that sacred normality remains unshakeable. Back then, I didn't have any grand words for the idea, but the direction of travel was clear. When I finally found the article, I read my criticism of the fixation on romantic love. I suggested that all the energy that people put into heteronormative monogamy would be better spent on political work or caring for others in non-romantic ways. I questioned romantic love, even more fundamentally. To me, it seemed like a mask for humanity’s biological will to survive. I wrote about the intoxicating state that leaves no choice, about the fact that you cannot choose the object of your desire. I was afraid of the dependence that clouds the mind and takes away control. I wrote: *Those who love are doomed to care for the other person. You lose sight of the big picture, live in a private microcosm until you see nothing else. Trapped in the clinging arms of a partnership, you turn away from the world and waste your potential on a single person.* I now live in Berlin. Not because I wanted to, but because people like me end up in big cities at some point. Just like Berlin, I didn't choose the concept of relationship anarchy—it found me. After the end of a very long relationship, I used dating apps. My favorite? OKCupid. A highly intellectual proposition, because on that site I could reveal an extensive amount about myself in questionnaires and find out just as much about others. I set my relationship preference to “poly”. I didn't want anyone who saw love as a form of ownership. Under the self-designation of “poly,” I encountered a strange assortment of types: Sex-positive hippies who sought happiness in copulation every day, decked out in leggings, studs, and fishnet clothing; control-freak hedonists (I dated heterosexuals) who watered their feelings like houseplants in perfectly measured proportions. Also, there were a few political people. And some paschas who didn't understand the word “poly” to mean “ethical non-monogamy”, but rather the opportunity to collect women. In particular, the profiles of the control-freak hedonists taught me a lot. Their wokeness didn't make me feel erotically nervous in the slightest, but I was taught words that I hadn't heard in my long-term relationship, where I was far removed from the latest trends. Road cyclists with vegan weekly meal plans talked about the “drama triangle” they wanted to break free from, and the hippies wrote about “relationship anarchy”. What was that all about? At first, I didn’t come across a book, but a diagram, of which I am printing an adaptation here. The image is called the “Relationship Buffet” (based on the original version: the Swedish Relationship Anarchy Smörgåsbord). It kept popping up on the internet, in forums, at meetings, in constantly new versions. The “buffet” explains the concept without requiring any prior knowledge of the concept of political anarchy. And that's exactly why it's so successful: it creates a language for experiences that we have anyway, but which we may find difficult to grasp. The diagram was so easy to understand that I knew immediately that it would accompany me from then on. I began to map out my own relationships. I realized that my romantic relationships often failed because I only wanted to give them a small place in my life. No shared apartment, no family, no everyday life, only reliability, tenderness, closeness, and love. I wanted to make myself vulnerable without arguing about the order in the dishwasher. The only people I wanted to talk to about that kind of thing were my flatmates. I wanted to shape my everyday life with them, but not show them my entire vulnerability. I expected cooperation, reliability, and a certain level of communication from them—but not shared political ideals. The most important relationships for me were my working relationships: intellectually intense, politically close, long-term, supportive. My interest in this form of collaboration made it clear that my work had to be organized differently from that of most people. The important thing is that when we combine different foods in different quantities at the buffet, a vast number of emotional relationships are possible. No one has to expect everything from a single romantic relationship. Every other relationship can have the same value. It is up to us to determine that value. However, most people expect a lot from romantic love. Too much. Romantic love has taken on excessive significance in modern times because it is supposed to fill the void left by other social bonds. Family, religion, community—all of these have lost their footing. So we charge love with meaning. It is supposed to offer intimacy, belonging, identity, and even moral fulfillment. In a world where work and consumption determine our lives, romantic relationships become the final place where authenticity and wholeness seem possible. It is precisely this excess of meaning that makes love so fragile. We demand from it what used to be supported by entire social structures—and it collapses under this burden. Monogamous, heteronormative relationships are supposed to redeem us from the isolation that this system creates. But because it can never do so, we fail repeatedly. And this failure gives rise to a feeling of personal inadequacy. But our society does not have to be organized this way. Among the Mosuo, a community on Lugu Lake in southwestern China, the social fabric is based not on romantic love, but on the stability of the maternal line. Men only visit their partners' homes and are gone by morning. While romantic love has become overloaded in Western modernity, among the Mosuo it remains decoupled from ownership, marriage, and social order: a practice, not an institution. This example shows that there is no single natural order to how we live or organize relationships. However, when it comes to the term “relationship anarchy”, many people stumble over the word anarchy. It sounds like chaos, like burning trash cans, like the absence of rules. But that is a misunderstanding. Anarchy does not mean “without rules”. It means “without domination”. The Greek word *an-archía* consists of “an”—without, and “arché”—domination, origin, or principle. This is a crucial difference. It is not about everything being permitted, but about no one from outside determining what a good or right relationship should be. Perhaps love can only be conceived of beyond domination. bell hooks inextricably linked love, liberation, and justice. Drawing on M. Scott Peck, she defines love as “the will to expand oneself to nourish one’s own or another person’s spiritual growth.” Love, for hooks, is not a feeling but an ethical act, a conscious choice to engage in mutual transformation. To love is to take responsibility for one’s own and another’s becoming, sustaining relationships that enable freedom rather than dependency. This definition allows for many forms of attachment but roots the concept of love in commitment: a deliberate, ongoing choice to grow together and to create conditions for that growth. Love resists social paradigms of domination; it is not the absence of structure, but the presence of shared responsibility. From this perspective, people can build rules and structures without reproducing hierarchy. Freedom from domination does not mean the absence of order, but that whatever order exists is co-created, not imposed. True freedom is the capacity to commit—to engage in relationships grounded in care and mutual growth. Love thus becomes a model for anarchic coexistence: voluntary, non-hierarchical, and transformative. Applied to relationships, this means that we can shape intimacy, care, sexuality, and friendship without an overarching norm dictating what is permitted, important, or “normal”. The anarchy in relationship anarchy does not signify chaos, but instead relationships without domination. Without the silent hierarchy that puts romantic partnerships at the top. The relationship between an elderly neighbor who is cared for by a young immigrant man who, therefore, lives with her, can be equivalent to the intense romance between two teachers or the friendship between two influencers. If the concept of relationship anarchy could point to a fundamental restructuring of society, it can also be liberating for those who, on the whole, live in a regulated manner. The described deficiency—for example, if a romantic relationship is not enjoyable or does not exist at all—loses its significance when other forms of proximity are allowed to have the same value. I once read a Reddit thread about a man who was surprised when a friend pointed out that his wife was spending a lot of time with her best friend—they were planning vacations, organizing leisure activities, and even discussing having children together. Until then, it had never bothered him. But when the online community told him that his wife needed to prioritize their romantic relationship, he started to have second thoughts. From a relationship anarchy perspective, one could say that perhaps both partners simply place less importance on everyday organization or joint future planning in their romantic relationship, but the woman had found this aspect in her friendship. So it's not about one relationship being “more important” than the other, but about different needs being met in different places. Relationship anarchy was first introduced twenty years ago, in August 2005, to a group of fifty people attending a small anarchist festival on a Swedish island. Founders Andie Nordgren and Jon Jordås spread the concept in a Swedish-speaking (online) community, from where it migrated to blogs, forums, and Facebook groups. The “Relationship Anarchy Smörgåsbord”, or the relationship buffet, became a tool for thinking about closeness and attachment in a self-determined way. Individuals spread the term further: to Madrid, where it was taken up by queer collectives and academic circles. The first official meeting of relationship anarchists took place there in 2016\. The researcher Juan-Carlos Pérez-Cortés published the first academic book on the subject in 2020 (*Relationship Anarchy – Occupy Intimacy!*; English translation 2023). Although he actually researches artificial intelligence at the Polytechnic University of Valencia, he is involved in the organization ARAEN Valencia (Asociación para las Relaciones Afectivas Éticas), which is now one of the most active relationship networks in Europe. Since then, universities, queer groups, asexual and aromantic communities, and postcolonial movements have been exploring the idea. The latter, especially in places where colonial structures have replaced indigenous forms of relationships with Western, possessive sexuality. At its core, however, relationship anarchy remains something unfinished—an attitude, not a movement. It is not an identitarian concept or a flag under which people can gather, because every relationship is unique. Anyone who tries to standardize them contradicts the very nature of relationship anarchy. With relationship anarchy, you can have both “classic” relationships and radically different ones. It is diverse and open by its nature. Nevertheless, some points must be viewed critically. Relationship anarchy assumes that jealousy does not play a central role. But jealousy is not something that simply disappears—it must be unlearned. It stems from the possessive individualism of capitalism, as well as religious and cultural notions of domination. Unlearning this takes strength, time, and often privileges that not everyone has. Furthermore, the concept assumes that people consciously shape their relationships, negotiate rules, and make decisions together. But many relationships simply “happen”. They arise from habits, unspoken gestures, and bodily knowledge. Not everyone has the interest, the ability, or the education to view their own relationship so analytically. And finally, some things are not a matter of choice. Income, care work, children, social expectations, or gender-specific privileges: all of these create inequalities that influence relationships beyond the control of those involved. Nordgren herself wrote on the Anarchist Library in 2018: Relationship anarchy must be equipped with \[...\] power analysis and be open to defining a structure for relationships when necessary to protect individuals from each other—in other words, even more work! But conscious social change doesn't just happen; it takes work. Where there is discomfort with one’s own relationships, relationship anarchy facilitates relief; where it is deliberately practiced, it may bring about social change. Relationship anarchy is not just something that happens in the mind, either; it gives us words and means to deal with our existing relationships, to appreciate them, and consciously perceive how we relate to each other and what (social) value we attribute to these relationships. When I think back to my 17-year-old self, I believe I wasn't far off the mark. Except that today I know, it's not about abolishing love—it's about liberating it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/photo_2025-12-02-12.02.38.jpeg) Fig.1 // --- ### Images: Cover: Adapted version of Relationship Anarchy Smörgåsbord, 2025\. Courtesy of the author of this text Fig.1: Image of one of the reference books for the article: Pérez-Cortés, Juan-Carlos. Relationship Anarchy: Occupy Intimacy! Independently published, 2022\. (Originally published in Spanish as Anarquía relacional: La revolución desde los vínculos, La Oveja Roja, 2020.) © the author. *Amelie Jakubek is an artist, editor and organizer researching methodologies of collectives. She is working with AWC, Archive Books, the Collective Commune/ الكوميونة (Cairo and Berlin) and the association Membrane e.V..* ### The Wettened Eye URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-wettened-eye/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:57.000Z To think through abundance is an exercise to which we are not trained, in the course of racial capitalism's scarcity obstacle race. Nevertheless, I found, on the island of San Miguel in the Azores archipelago, modes of thinking and operating that deceive the very gaze and language that project scarcity on reality and its modes of production. The occasion was the three-day symposium organized in the frame of the Walk&Talk Biennial, this year under the title “Gestos de Abundância” (Gestures of Abundance), an invitation to engage with the island as an ecology of thought from within which to speak about locality and globality. A method of thinking, feeling, and sensing, in addition to being a geography. I landed in Ponta Delgada, San Miguel’s capital, on the night of November 6, under a sky that was pitch dark but illuminated by a waning moon in Taurus. It was late, and the city was quiet. I paid attention to the sound of the waves, which greeted me back and made me feel enveloped in an aquatic hug that gently rocked me to sleep and left me energized for the next day. I felt San Miguel was nothing but isolated in the Atlantic Ocean. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/BIENAL2025_ExcursaoEvolvidasMarianaLopes_022-1.jpg) Fig.1 The symposium, hosted in various venues in the city and mostly Casa da Bienal, brought together a wealth of practitioners under the methodology of archipelagic thinking to subvert colonial epistemes, land, and spiritual extraction. But also to seed imaginations to counter a climate crisis accelerated by land exploitation, multiple refugee crises, and impoverishment and starvation of entire indigenous populations due to the greed of centuries of western militarization and imperialism, the results of which now condense in a moment of acute polycrisis and upsurge of forms of resistance worldwide. The first day of the symposium opened with Candice Fujikane's "Mapping Abundance", a lecture that reframed abundance not as human accumulation but as elemental entanglement. Fujikane, a scholar and activist from Hawaii, drew on Kanaka Maoli perspectives to show how nature resets itself against military corporate capitalism. Facing ecocide, rising sea levels, and anthropogenic wildfires, Hawaii's indigenous communities read these disasters as opportunities for the elements to reclaim their centrality, an altered ecosystem that humans must learn to survive within, not dominate. Teresa Castro followed with a lecture-performance on orcein, a purple dye extracted from lichen and traded as a colonial commodity. Tracing the lichen’s precarious symbiotic mechanism, Castro called it “true communism,” positioned against the vampiric Capitalocene, what the poet Andrew Miles terms the exploitation of the “bioteriat”, returning agency to natural “resources”. Fernando García-Dory, founder of Inland, then recounted how, since 2009, his platform has challenged the city's supremacy as a site of cultural production. “Culture is the way humans produce life, and it is not peculiar to a specific environment,” he argued. By focusing on rural extinction and reviving shepherding through the Escuela de Pastores, Inland sabotages hypermobile cultural consumption and reclaims enduring, localized time. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT_BIENAL2025_Simposio_Day1_INLANDMariaEmanuelAlbergariaMarianaLopes_10.jpg) Fig.2 Over lunch at Imperador, the biennial's local canteen, Jesse James, part of the curatorial team along with Claire Shea, Fatima Bintou Rassoul Sy, and Liliana Coutinho, talked me through the underlying curatorial intention: to offer Azoreans occasions to know their history and to use this knowledge to grow a new consciousness about the present and their origins. The biennial team, mostly Azorean youth, develops professionally while restituting knowledge to their landscape’s intricate palimpsest, which is layered with extraction. After Portuguese settlement in 1439, the Azores became a hub of transatlantic trade, a fertile outpost, providing fresh goods to prevent scurvy among long-haul sailors. The islands endured cycles of extractivist monoculture: oranges, pineapples, and now intensive livestock farming to produce cheese for mainland Portugal. Only in 2015 did liberalized air transport make the Azores a tourist destination, complicating its rural economy by rendering it tertiary. Despite these economic functions, one label persists: poverty. Wealth from such economies is unevenly distributed, making visible the expropriations endured since colonization. The Biennial confronts these waves of exploitation by looking directly at extraction's mechanisms, and rather than succumbing to the temptation of erasure, reckoning with the liveliness of connections that these commodity cycles conceal. The exhibition, installed across “stations” throughout San Miguel, offered expanded reflections on these temporalities. At Centro Cultural da Caloura, I encountered Sofia Rocha's *Câmara Quente* (2024), vibrant diagrammatic drawings articulating the earth as a sentient entity. Lucy Bleach's *An Infrasonorous Archipelago* linked the Azores with Tasmania through drawings and sound, fictionalizing reciprocity across volcanic antipodes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT_BIENAL2025_MirnaBamiehMarianaLopes_008.jpg) Fig.3 At Convento dos Franciscanos in Santa Cruz, formerly home to a religious community, now hosting public activities, the artists honored prosaic traditional practices in which bonds grow through proximity and time. Mirna Bamieh's *Sour Cords* (2024-ongoing), ceramic peppers and garlic hanging in bone-chain formations, conceived preservation of foods as a way of countering against Palestinian displacement and erasure. The following day, her fermentation workshop positioned food as a catalyst for community. Nearby, Uhura Bqueer and Soya The Cow’s *Dedomestication* (2025) dragged human features to reveal animality, linking decolonialism with queerness as forms of disobedience to imposed identities. In one of the rooms in the space, Jesse showed us local “presepe” craft, miniature Nativity dioramas documenting Azorean agrarian life composed from wood and shells. The craft is also typical of Naples, my own region; long-distance assonances made possible by Christian evangelization, another layer of colonial imprint that connects peoples across waters in ways I'm still learning to read. As part of the laboratory program of the symposium, I joined Coletivo Guarda Rios and Paula Aguiar for a pedagogical session in front of Teatro Ribeiragrandense, where the Rio Grande meets the ocean. The collective’s lab with students simulated how human intervention altered aquifers and eroded riverbanks. Aguiar’s water tasting followed; waters devoid of organisms aren't necessarily beneficial to our gut biome, and each of us tastes water differently. From this liquid knowledge, profound implications about soils and their nutrients arose. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT_BIENAL2025_WallaCapeloboMarianaLopes_002.jpg) Fig.4 At dusk, I approached Centro de Artes Contemporâneas, a former alcohol and tobacco factory, where the Biennial brought together, in the humid basement, artists contending with spiritual practices as engagement with invisible and enduring forces. Walla Capelobo's *The Burn the Grids Away* (2025) overlapped ceramic ex-votos on a mud-and-wire screen with oracular narration concerning resistance and fugitivity, “the end of the fences.” Graça Costa Cabral's *Objects of Worship I-V* (2009), minimal altars, invited the contemplation of divinities and refused use value. Alice Vicentin's *Arcano Místico* (2025) represented Madre Margarida do Apocalipse, a cloistered Azorean nun who composed miniature archives from found materials. Vicentin freed the nun from her creative imprisonment by means of a robotic pedestal, allowing the sculpture to move. Ebun Sodipo's *The Way Her Teeth Settled* (2025) honored Vitoria, an enslaved transwoman whose desires were held captive, a sensorial archive offering ritualistically what was denied her in life. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT_BIENAL2025_AliceVicentinMarianaLopes_004.jpg) Fig.5 The next morning, before entering again the space of thinking offered by the symposium, I walked the coast early, letting humidity wet my eyelashes, threads interweaving a cosmological tapestry. Returning to Casa da Bienal, I encountered numerous homeless people. After COVID, rising rents and expanding drug use conspired to create a homelessness crisis in Ponta Delgada. The contradiction was profound: lush nature, theorized abundance, actual scarcity. Abundance remains easy in formulation, chained, as it is, to capitalist production. This tension haunted the day’s presentations: abundance, perhaps, but for whom? And at what cost? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT_BIENAL2025_Simposio_Day2_CookingSectionsRaquelVargasMarianaLopes_002.jpg) Fig.6 At the horizon of ruination, the first speakers of the day, the duo Cooking Sections, introduced the project CLIMAVORE, proposing ways to reclaim traditional land practices facing extinction. Their Wetlands Buffalo project in Istanbul terraforms mining wastelands; in southern Italy, they support cultivation rights for adaptive seeds that co-evolve with the climate. Italian law forbids trading these seeds as monoculture maintains its ecofascist landscape. By engaging Museo delle Culture, they give the seeds legal rights to propagate. The legal ground homogenizing agriculture mirrors a civil society where fascism fabricates alterity in order to extirpate it rather than coexist with it. The conversation concluded with inputs by Raquel Vargas. The three-voice conversation "Archipelagic Realm: Diaspora in Motion" convened the practitioners Apolo de Carvalho, César Schofield Cardoso, and Sónia Vaz Borges. Cardoso posited that the so-called “Blue Economy” (intensive fishing and marine tourism) refuses space for the Black Atlantic to emerge as historical and psychological reclamation. De Carvalho poetically linked Verdian Creole with the colonial fabrication of hunger in Cape Verde, a struggle beginning and ending in the mouth, from digestion to linguistic resistance. Vaz Borges, a self-described “militant historian”, examined instances where resistance groups walked between places of struggle, movement as an archive of erased stories. Together, the speakers challenged scarcity as a tool of control, offering a new language to describe enduring colonial relational forms. Holding contradiction, walking between them, became the symposium's underlying methodology, a way of thinking that refuses binary opposition in favor of multiplicity. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT_BIENAL2025_Simposio_Day2_CandiceLinMarianaLopes_006.jpg) Fig.7 After lunch, our small symposium community, composed of participants and locals, walked toward VAGA - espaço de arte e conhecimento to attend Candice Lin’s lecture on the colonial life of materials. Lin traced how porcelain, that most coveted colonial commodity, carries within it a possessed quality, its factories haunted by the labor and violence of its production. She examined how the aesthetic and temporal qualities of stone evoke longing and desire, showing how these libidinal economies are deeply entangled with histories of colonialism, extraction, and global politics. What Lin made visible was how materials themselves become vessels of colonial memory, how our desire for certain textures, colors, and forms is never innocent but rather is shaped by centuries of violent accumulation. Her lecture connected materials to the appetite that drives extraction, the same appetite that depleted the Azores through monoculture, that has punctured whales’ lungs in the waters surrounding us, and that continues to fabricate scarcity while hoarding abundance elsewhere. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT_BIENAL2025_Simposio_Day2_MirnaBamiehMarianaLopes_010.jpg) Fig.8 Waiting for the beginning of “Sour Things”, the fermentation workshop held by Mirna, I browsed through the space. I tangled myself in Resolve Collective's new commission, *The Gallivantation of the Promise*, in which they explored, with San Miguel locals, “wandering” as a method of knowledge and counter-cartography. I got hypnotized by Meg Stuart & Pact’s film, *Sulphur Edges* (2025). The moving images unfold among the thermal sites of São Miguel, where performers embrace elemental forces and the environment. Between silence and tremor, containment and release, I found myself thinking about the waves I had encountered during my morning stroll. Recalled by Mirna, I spent one hour around a long table, chopping lemons and spices, getting to know the sites of belonging and longing of other participants, fostering relationships tinted by the orange of the turmeric. I keep with me in Berlin the delicious fermenting goods we created. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT_BIENAL2025_Simposio_Day2_ANDLabMarianaLopes_006.jpg) Fig.9 While approaching the last activity of my stay in the Azores, at Casa da Bienal, I encountered a clear sky and a sun nearly setting at the rim of the horizon, showing off in all its radiating beauty. It was an energizing moment that carried me to the activity organized by AND Lab, an infinite game of negotiation between people and objects. Prototyped by Fernanda Eugénio, the game rethinks forms of reciprocity, attention, and coexistence. The intricacy of practices of a biennial opens up the Azorean territory more intimately than any map could, and, in doing so, challenges modes of isolation that are prototyped inland and exported, in their violence, to the islands. The symposium’s methodology revealed that isolation is never purely geographical; it is epistemic, economic, and relational. The Azores, like so many peripheralized places, have been isolated by extractive logics that position them as a resource, a backdrop, or a service. But the practitioners gathered here demonstrated that connection persists in mythologies, in fermentation rituals, in seed exchanges, in breath shared across waters. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT_BIENAL2025_Simposio_Day2_JanildaBartolomeuMarianaLopes_004.jpg) Fig.10 On my second and final evening, Janilda Bartolomeu presented *Learning How to Breathe*, a sonic meditation and performance born from her fascination with the whaling histories connecting the Azores and Cape Verde, rooted in the act of puncturing cetacean lungs, and the relation to breathing. It is a rumination on breathing in circumstances that should be impossible; we joined her ritual of vorticity to seek paths toward existential interdependence with respirational knowledge as a compass. The Azores taught me that gestures of abundance are small, repeated, and relational; they reclaim land, food, water sovereignty, and dignity, and, in their smallness, they can spread everywhere. The question of abundance must necessarily be tackled on the small scale first, the local and the terrestrial. It resides in stories that are built toward the collective. Where scarcity is systemic, imposed by colonial inheritance and capitalist structuring, abundance belongs to the imagination and how it is harnessed to resist and to build. Abundance is not the opposite of scarcity but its refusal, a reclamation of what has always been there, concealed by the gaze that benefits from declaring it absent. // --- ### Images Cover: W&T BIENAL 2025, Simposio, Day 3 Coletiva Malva @Mariana Lopes Fig.1 BIENAL 2025, Excursao Evolvidas @MarianaLopes Fig.2 W&T BIENAL 2025, Simposio Day 1, INLAND & Maria Emanuel Albergaria ©MarianaLopes Fig.3 W&T BIENAL 2025, Mirna Bamieh @MarianaLopes Fig.4 W&T BIENAL 2025, Walla Capelobo @MarianaLopes Fig.5 W&T BIENAL 2025, Alice Vicentin @MarianaLopes Fig.6 W&T BIENAL 2025, Simposio Day2,Cooking Sections & RaquelVargas @MarianaLopes Fig.7 W&T BIENAL 2025, Simposio Day2,Candice Lin @MarianaLopes Fig.8 W&T BIENAL 2025, Simposio Day2, Mirna Bamieh @MarianaLopes Fig.9 W&T BIENAL 2025, Simposio Day2, ANDLab @MarianaLopes Fig.10 W&T BIENAL 2025, Simposio Day2, Janilda Bartolomeu @MarianaLopes *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Tribute to a Vandal Artist from the South URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/tribute-to-a-vandal-artist-from-the-south/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:55.000Z I write today to celebrate the life and art of the Brazilian graffiti tagger Caroline Pivetta da Mota (1984–2023), known as Carol Sustos. Her artistic craft combined sharp, angular letters with raw, expressive energy that reflected the risks and rhythms of Brazilian metropolises. Carol was part of the “pixação” movement, a form of urban tagging unique to Brazil, where “pixadores” (illegal taggers) scale buildings and leave striking, cryptic signatures for all the city to see. In a country where access to cultural resources is limited to an elite few, the unstoppable frenzy of the pixadores turns the city into a collective, open-air gallery. Her trajectory was marked by a historic intervention in the 28th São Paulo Biennial and remains alive in the memory of art created on the margins of institutional spaces. Carol entered the São Paulo Biennial Pavilion twice in her life. The first time was on October 26, 2008, when she participated in an action with about 40 other graffiti taggers on the second floor of what became known unofficially as the “Biennial of the Emptiness”. Due to a curatorial decision, an entire floor of the 28th São Paulo Biennial was left without any works of art. Uninvited, graffiti taggers from the outskirts of São Paulo decided to occupy this space with their art on opening day. Carol was the only woman in the group. She was also the only one arrested after the action \[1\]. The image of her arrest was broadcast on TV news across the country, sparking a major debate. Handcuffed and escorted by two military police officers who seemed twice her size, what stood out in that moment was the strength of her voice: "Sou pixadora mesmo! Viva a pixação!" she shouted \[2\]. That year, the Biennial’s theme was “In Living Contact.” At 23 years old, Caroline spent nearly two months incarcerated in the Santana Women's Penitentiary for leaving her group’s tag (SUSTOS) on the empty walls of Brazil’s premier elite art event. It was inside that prison that we met and spoke for the first time \[3\]. Not only her imprisonment, but also the incisiveness of her speech, which was published in the Brazilian press, led to protests for her release, which eventually reached the upper levels of the Brazilian government. “My work is for people to see and dislike. It’s a visual assault.” After her liberation, much to the dismay of her persecutors, Carol not only continued to paint illegal graffiti, but also became a leader in the street art scene, denouncing sexism within graffiti culture. Two years later, with a new São Paulo Biennial on the rise, the collective Carol was part of (PIXAÇÃOSP) agreed to show photos and videos of their work. Invited by the curators, she chose not to visit the pavilion where she had suffered such brutal and unjust violence. The second and final time Carol entered the São Paulo Biennial Pavilion was in 2018, accompanied by her youngest daughter, Isis, then three years old. The 33rd São Paulo Biennial had the theme “Affective Affinities”. It had been ten years since the historic intervention by the graffiti artists in that space. Caroline was working as an independent graphic artist and kitchen assistant on the outskirts of Porto Alegre, in southern Brazil. She remained active and admired within the illegal graffiti scene. I asked her if she wanted to return to the Biennial Pavilion—she said yes. Carol wanted to show the place to her youngest daughter. She wanted Isis to know her story. Ever since the toddler learned to speak and paint, she had expressed the desire to become an artist like her mother \[4\]. When Carol passed away in 2023, the São Paulo Biennial, then hosting its 35th edition, did not state mourning. It also omitted any reference to her role in the institution’s recent and uncomfortable history. The theme that year was “Choreographies of the Impossible”.A striking contrast to the dozens of tributes the brave pixadora has received since then, especially from her peers on the street art circuit. Writing this memorial text is one way to honor Carol’s memory. It is a tribute to her history and to an artistic practice marked by defiance and an unwavering desire for self-expression. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Christina Roiter, “Pichação at the São Paulo Bienal: Art or Crime?,” The Art Section, no date, https://www.theartsection.com/art-or-crime \[2\] I am a graffiti tagger! Long live illegal graffiti! \[3\] Diógenes Muniz, “‘Picho para o povo olhar e não gostar’, diz jovem presa na Bienal,” Folha de São Paulo, December 5, 2008, https://www1.folha.uol.com.br/fsp/cotidian/ff0512200818.htm \[4\] Fausto Salvadori, “‘Pivetta’: O que acontece quando uma rebelde vira mãe,” [ponte.org](http://ponte.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), September 4, 2021, https://ponte.org/pivetta-o-que-acontece-quando-uma-rebelde-vira-mae/ Image: Reproduced: TV Cultura (2008), Carol Pivetta during the intervention in the space of the 2008 São Paulo Art Biennial. Courtesy TV Cultura \[\] *Diógenes Muniz is an independent researcher and film worker, born and raised in the neighborhood of Brás, São Paulo, Brazil. His directorial debut, Libelu—Down With The Dictatorship (2020), traces the activities of a clandestine group of Brazilian Trotskyists who fought against the military regime in Brazil during the 1970s.* ### The Trap of Equivalence URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-trap-of-equivalence/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:54.000Z The issue regarding the assignment of ‘cultural’ and ‘aesthetic’\[1\] value, as well as scientific properties to certain cultural concepts, and artistic and functional artefacts from pre-colonial and colonial Africa, has not yet been overcome. The cultural heritage status and the commercial prestige they have acquired have fueled debate in the humanities for centuries. However, the data concerning strictly scientific properties, including their ‘scientific and technological value,’ which would suggest a certain intelligibility and scientificity in their conception and creation, has been systematically ignored by historians, anthropologists, and ethnographers. Rather, it was usually the spiritualist and ‘animist’ functions they were believed to have served in the so-called ‘primitive’ societies that elicited exoticizing views, which are prevalent in most colonial sciences. As an example of this, we can cite the sculptures (masks and statuary) – ‘fetishes’ or not – as well as woven textiles and other everyday objects, which have been produced through distinct methods and techniques perfectly mastered by the guardians of these crafts. Western art, from the beginning of the twentieth century, was strongly inspired by this, hence the emergence of the “primitivist modernists,”\[2\] with Picasso, Braque, etc. Before acquiring the status of an object to be studied, or a work of art endowed with particular ‘aesthetic properties,’ objects of this category were generally seen simply as primitive artefacts or relics of societies not in contact with Western ‘modernity.’ It was therefore deemed necessary to ‘civilize’ these societies, laying ground for the ‘civilizing mission’ that the West assigned itself, executed through conquests, occupation, and colonization. Coloniality refers to “the global articulation of a Western system of power that has survived colonialism and is based on the inferiorisation of non-Western places, human groups, knowledge, and subjectivities, and the exploitation of resources and vital forces.”\[3\] It characterizes most of the studies dedicated to what in this context we call “appointed guardianship.”\[4\] In this regard, Western epistemology presides, in terms of scientific methodologies and assessment criteria, feeding on the ideas established by Western ethnographic museology,\[5\] which originated in the 18th century. This process of museification has therefore played a major role in manifesting this way of looking at things, which involves taking shortcuts in our assessment of the other and their practices. This identity transformation that brings about a change of status and allows access to a slightly more rewarding position – or, conversely, withdraws it –may be regarded as a sort of ‘ontological shift,’\[6\] bringing forth a change in perception regarding these achievements and concepts, while instituting, by tacit imposition, an ‘epistemological change.’\[7\] In this spirit, the project *South-to-South* “\[gathered\] a group of artists, thinkers, and community organizers with the aim of sharing different branches of technology, art, and local cosmologies. \[It was\] dedicated to probing how traditional land-based knowledge and ancestral practices bear cosmological understandings of technology. For this, participants \[focused\] on re-orienting local technological systems towards the materialization of the Pluriverse. The Pluriverse is a world of many worlds in which diverse futures can be sown, multispecies realities can be nurtured, and a plurality of knowledges can achieve connectivity between the multiple world systems that constitute us.”\[8\] ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fig.2NBPHOTO.STUDIOS-South-to-South-meeting-in-CONGO-LUBUMBASHI-WAZA-ART-CENTER-49.jpg) Fig.1 **The Coloniality of Knowledge** Rooted in the “first contacts”\[9\] between Africa and the Western world, this evolutionist logic of designation – centered on assigning terms and values ​​to concepts and objects – operates through mechanisms of coloniality and aligns closely with the notion of ‘coloniality of knowledge.’\[10\] This concept, itself grounded in the broader framework of the ‘coloniality of power,’\[11\] refers to scientific and other forms of knowledge that were exercised or instrumentalized within the colonial context to uphold Western domination. As a branch of the ‘coloniality of power,’ it reinforces the practice of “hierarchizing modes of knowledge production, elevating Western philosophy and science to the rank of paradigms which render other forms of knowledge subaltern.”\[12\] Developed by Aníbal Quijano, this notion deals, in other words, with the violence exerted by the West on the cultures of other regions. Subjects from the non-West, which, historically and systemically, is ultimately linked to the West, the latter perceived here not as a physical place but rather as a center of domination of the global capitalist system, adopting racism as a means to exert power, act as executors of the coloniality of power.\[13\] Clearly, the effort to acknowledge (or even restore or showcase) the scientific and technological qualities of African objects and concepts adheres to an ostensibly natural linear order of classification: artefacts – works of art – technological objects. These vocabularies, along with the meanings they convey, follow a straight line drawn by Colonialism, with the institutionalization of Western paradigms and epistemologies positioned at its pinnacle, serving as the ultimate reference. It becomes apparent that, unfortunately, in scientific practice, the modes of validation follow a logic that is presented as universal, centering categories insidiously established by Western epistemology. Established as the standard and unit of measure, this epistemology remains the barometer for attributing value to practices from other regions and cultures. Meanwhile, the effort to establish or demonstrate a certain scientificity in relation to these objects and concepts paradoxically reinscribes the very paradigms imposed by Western science. It is a trap. “Even the ‘approaches claiming to be Afrocentric and grounded in authentic African traditions’\[14\] engage in processes of designation and value attribution that ultimately remain aligned with, or submit to, the 'Western epistemological order.’”\[15\] To attempt designation through comparative means – relying, from the outset, on Western language – is, clearly, a delusion; and this pursuit of equivalence is indisputably shaped by and continues to operate under the enduring influence of coloniality. Speaking, for example, of the practices of Dogon cosmogony,\[16\] or of the ‘scientific qualities’ of the Luba memory boards, generally referred to as ‘Lukasa,’\[17\] while using Western concepts and terms, reveals the attempt to seek elevation or accession to the ‘high’ spheres of Western discourse by aiming for equivalence; the case, for example, of the book “Philosophie bantoue”, written in 1945 by Placide Frans Tempels, who sought to apply the concept of “philosophy” to local African ontological conceptions, speaks volumes. **Alternative Epistemologies?** Escaping this influence requires very particular attention in the use and adoption of certain methodologies, a crucial approach to break out of the colonial agenda embedded in the humanities (anthropology, ethnology, history, etc.). We must decolonize the language we use by stripping it of its decried content. This is how this call for “the urgent amplification of knowledge and understanding of technology for a more-than-human world, relating to different cosmologies, knowledge, and more-than-human intelligence” and the aim to “understand technologies beyond capitalistic, neo-liberal, and neo-colonial frameworks of extracting knowledge, resources, or controlling systems against humans and non-humans”\[18\] could shed these burdens that have long haunted the humanities. In other words, it would be necessary that we distance ourselves from assigning value based on categories that are imposed by a Western understanding of science; from these modes of knowledge that enforce themselves as standard and, in certain cases, define in which way and to which degree cultural production is to be understood. This oppressive and violent approach to the designation of things could be rebutted or transformed into a logic of pluriversality through the proposition of alternative epistemologies. Those should be specific, yet free from mono-directional Western modes of validation. It is therefore necessary to disregard biased anthropological conceptions and instead draw upon, explore, and employ the true meanings of cultural production marked as artisanal objects, artworks, or ethnographic and museologic artifacts within the cultures in which they reside and/or cultures of origin to give way to new definitions and approaches – starting, for example, from local languages, customs, and traditions, as well as the ontological concepts by which they are referred to. The original knowledge and details about these entities, hitherto ignored by Western science, must be reclaimed and considered – including, above all, their original names and applications. Whereas notions like science, technology, etc., must be broadened in their definition, or simply understood as only existing within a certain contextual framework. *Published within the framework of* 99 Questions South-to-South: A Meeting on African and Afro-diasporic Technologies*, Stiftung Humboldt Forum im Berliner Schloss.* *//* --- ### Footnotes \[1\] See Van Beurden, Congo en vitrine, Art africain, muséologie et politique \[Congo Showcase, African art, museology, and politics\], The Kinshasa and Tervuren museums, coll. “Studies in Social Sciences and Humanities”, vol. 180\. Tervuren: MRAC, 2021, p.25 \[2\] Van Beurden, op.cit. p.128 \[3\] Rachel Solomon Tsehaye et Henri Vieille-Grosjean, “Colonialité et occidentalocentrisme : quels enjeux pour la production des savoirs ?” \[“Coloniality and Western-centrism: what are the issues for the production of knowledge?”\], Recherches en éducation \[Research in Education\], 32, 2018 \[4\] We were inspired by the concept of “cultural guardianship,” developed by Sarah Van Beurden, which she attributed to colonialism in the Congo. See op.cit.p.25 \[5\] “Western culture was the first to critically reflect upon itself (beginning in the 18th century). But the effect of this crisis was that it also began to regard itself as a universal culture, and it then brought all other cultures into its museum as vestiges of its own image. It ‘aestheticized’ them, reinterpreted them according to its own model, and thus precluded the radical interrogation these ‘different‘ cultures implied for it.” Jean Baudrillard Le miroir de la production, cited in Valentin-Yves Mudimbe: L’odeur du père \[The scent of the father\], Présence africaine \[African Presence\], Paris, 1982, p. 45 \[6\] Van Beurden, ibid. \[7\] Van Beurden, ibid. \[8\] Introduction to Sara Garzón and Michael Dieminger’s accompanying text for South-to-South: A Meeting on African and Afro diasporic Technologies at Centre d’Art Waza in Lububmashi, P. 4 \[https://www.saragarzon.com/south-south-south-a-meeting-on-african-and-afro-diasporic-technologies-1\] \[9\] I am referring here to the age of European exploration expeditions beginning in the 15th century. While the term ‘first contact’ exists in Anthropology, both the term and the concept are subject to ongoing debate and critique within the field – particularly in the context of 'Africa' and 'the Western world.' Africa is a vast and diverse continent with a long history of internal trade and knowledge exchange, as well as interactions that have transcended its borders. In the Mediterranean, the boundary between Europe and Africa was historically porous, and trans-Saharan trade routes as well as and cross-Mediterranean networks existed long before the notion of colonization had even emerged. See also: Sidney Littlefield Kasfir (2021), “Art africain et authenticité : un texte purgé de ses ombres”, in: Cédrick Vincent (ed.): Art contemporain africain, Histoire(s) d’une notion par celles et ceux qui l’ont faite, Paris, Fondation Antoine Galbert & jrp-editions, pp. 54-89\. The original text was published in African Arts in 1992. \[10\] Rachel Solomon Tsehaye and Henri Vieille-Grosjean, op. cit., pp. 120-121 \[11\] ibid. \[12\] ibid. \[13\] ibid. \[14\] ibid. \[15\] See Valentin-Yves Mudimbe, L’invention de l’Afrique. Gnose, philosophie et ordre de la connaissance, trans. Mamadou Diouf and Laurent Vannini (Paris: Présence Africaine, 2021), originally published as The Invention of Africa: Gnosis, Philosophy, and the Order of Knowledge (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988), p. 8 \[16\] See Marcel Griaule “Dieu d’eau,” cited by Mudimbe, ibid. pp. 318-319 \[17\] See https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/690570 \[18\] Introduction to Sara Garzón and Michael Dieminger’s accompanying text for South-to-South: A Meeting on African and Afro diasporic Technologies at Centre d’Art Waza in Lububmashi, P. 3 \[https://www.saragarzon.com/south-south-south-a-meeting-on-african-and-afro-diasporic-technologies-1\] Images: Cover: Diane Cescutti, on “fibril and vivid memory: From hard to soft connectivity” at ISAM Institut Supérieur des Arts et de Métiers; held in collaboration with the Waza Art Centre (Lubumbashi) and the Humboldt Forum (Berlin); photo: Nathan Bushiru © South-to-South. Fig1\. Diane Cescutti, on “fibril and vivid memory: From hard to soft connectivity at ISAM Institut Supérieur des Arts et de Métiers,” held in collaboration with the Waza Art Centre (Lubumbashi) and the Humboldt Forum (Berlin); photo: Nathan Bushiru © South-to-South. *Jean Kamba lives and works in Kinshasa. He is a poet, independent researcher, art critic, curator, and executive director of Krithika Artprojects, who has organized several exhibitions since 2013\. He regularly publishes essays and reviews in national and international journals and catalogs. For several years, he has participated in several international art-related meetings and events.* ### Anal Pompidou URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/anal-pompidou/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:52.000Z It’s a Wednesday night in early October and I’m sitting in front of a tiny stage in a packed room above Wallen, a Latin American restaurant in the Sablon neighborhood of Brussels. Together with a few friends, and about sixty other people, I have come to see *Anal Pompidou*, a performance cabaret initiated by performer and theatre-maker Simon Van Schuylenberg in August 2025\. It now takes place every Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday night and always begins with an opening performance by Van Schuylenberg in which he steps into the equally exuberant and deeply frustrated character of *Anal Pompidou*. It doesn’t take us long to get to the bottom of the cabaret’s premise. Van Schuylenberg, as Anal, strips down to a fanny pack that only partially conceals his genitals and starts bragging about his asshole: it is so big, and so open! You can eat an artisanal croissant inside of him. Ministers can shake each other’s hands inside of him. Children from the quartier can play a game of football inside of him! BRAFA and Art Brussels could happen at the same time inside of him! So much discourse can be produced inside of him, so many good ideas! Still, Anal wants more, something even bigger. He is “so high on art, and so low on money”. Aren’t we all? *Anal Pompidou* follows in the footsteps of the centuries-old art form of the cabaret. Its unofficial tagline is “cabaret is the new museum”, and the primary target of its mockery is the inflated ambition of KANAL—Centre Pompidou, Brussels’ still-unopened museum of contemporary and modern art. Cabaret has always used humor and satire to critique the ruling class, and cabarets have also historically functioned as informal meeting places for artists and writers, a “low” alternative to the stiff and uptight theatres and operas of Paris, Berlin, or New York. Van Schuylenberg previously initiated *Ne mosquito pas*, a platform that invited artists to perform works they considered to have failed: cut scenes, bad jokes, ideas that never made it off the page. The idea was to counteract a blind spot of institutions, which only really care about work that is “finished”. *Anal Pompidou* operates with a similar ethos of embracing experimentation and imperfection and draws from the same pool of performers that gathered around *Ne mosquito pas*. Van Schuylenberg sets the tone for each cabaret night with his MC performance as Anal and he invites three other artists to perform. Nobody has to audition or rehearse, and the performances don’t necessarily have titles. The program is announced via Instagram with reservations via email (“Dear Anal” is not a line I ever expected to type, but life surprises you); there is no newsletter, no PR team, no development officer, and still each night is sold out with a waiting list. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/97A6059.jpg) Fig.1 **Thirsty for entertainment** Back to that Wednesday night in October. We are sitting around small round tables in classic cabaret fashion, but to fit everyone in, there are cushions on the floor and benches in the back. The stage is about the size of a modest dining room table and slants forward—in images, this makes it appear much bigger than it is (the stage, that is). It is covered with a wipeable plastic surface of faux terrazzo. The lighting, including neon flamingos, hearts, and fairy lights, can be adjusted to suit each performance, and a smoke machine is activated at regular intervals. Otherwise, the setup remains the same for each performer. Van Schuylenberg first appears as himself. He shares the origin story of *Anal Pompidou*, which developed out of a one-off performance at the artist-run space Winona in Brussels before it became the premise for the cabaret. Van Schuylenberg then returns as Anal. He takes large rolls of duct tape and wraps them around his feet, using the cardboard rolls to simulate high heels. Returning behind the stage curtain, Anal stomps frantically back and forth in his restrictive footwear, stopping at regular intervals to peek through the curtain, to fix his eyes on the audience and exclaim: “What is thiiiiis?”. The question of “what this is” requires many answers, as Anal goes on to enumerate: Brussels? Sablon? A restaurant? A cabaret? Performance art? I once heard that surprise is the most boring emotion to convey, but the sense of camaraderie in the room, combined with Van Schuylenberg’s delivery, touches a nerve. As Anal steps onto the stage, “What is thiiiiis?” morphs into repetition of the word “shit”. Plastic turds fly across the room, and Anal seems possessed by a power greater than himself. He seems both enthusiastic and exhausted over this condition: he smokes eight cigarettes at once, then he frantically sucks and chews on an entire tab of emerald lozenges. He inserts a sparkler into his asshole, which an audience member must then light for him, before launching into his monologue about the immensity of his asshole. The audience is delighted and giddy. There are shrieks of laughter. It seems we were all thirsty for some entertainment. Performance, whether in a contemporary art context or in theatre, is often tedious and awkward, or overly academic, or heavily edited. Experiencing it feels like work. At *Anal Pompidou*, we were in for a good time (at long last!). But Van Schuylenberg’s performance is as much critique as comedy: as a body, a building, and an institution, Anal’s attempts at self-optimization and medication are doomed to fail. He is helplessly porous and leaking, a condition that opens him up to experience pleasure as well as pain. The second performer of the evening is Rosie Sommers. In lingerie and heels, Rosie recounts the journey of finding her sexuality. After many years of polygamous and queer experimentation, she has finally discovered who she really is: “a heterosexual cis woman, and I love it.” She points to her boyfriend in the audience; she loves his muscular arms and when he carries her suitcase up the stairs to their apartment. Rosie finds another heterosexual cis woman in the audience and asks her for permission to perform a lap dance on her boyfriend, “for practice”. Suddenly, Rosie becomes possessed by her traumatized inner child, symbolized by a mask that resembles the cut-out face of a Baby Born doll, which she asks audience members to stroke. Rosie then enters a feverish state, culminating in orgasm. Sommers’ skills as a comedic actor power this emotional rollercoaster of a performance. She is convincingly unhinged and deeply relatable at the same time, and I go with her even to places I am repulsed by. Following the intermission, the evening continues with Azertyklavierwerke, the alter ego of the jazz pianist Alan Van Rompuy. Van Rompuy performs solo, switching between his electric keyboard, vocals, and live looping. He performs his hit song “Durum”, which opens with the deadpan delivery of a typical exchange when ordering a dürüm in Brussels (“Sauce samurai-blanche/frites dedans oú apart? Dedans.”) and continues with a chorus in Dutch about cruising through the city with your favorite fast food while missing someone you like. It’s a catchy pop song with a reggaeton beat and a kind of stoner energy. I feel a wave of affection for Brussels wash over me, a delightful and delusional sense of local patriotism that allows you to temporarily forgive and even embrace your city’s shortcomings. In fact, all of *Anal Pompidou* feels distinctly bruxellois. It is chaotic, DIY, international and self-reflexive. Everybody has an accent and is a little sweaty. It captures a specific moment in this impossible city, where we don’t know if we are on the brink of something great or of total collapse. The final performance of the evening is by Jonathan Franz, a spoken word monologue in ten parts. Franz arrives on stage as a drunk man clutching a glass of beer. The stage is empty except for Franz and his microphone, the thin mesh curtain behind him stays open. The man is desperate to communicate something but incapable of stringing together a full sentence. He then appears to sober up and begins to speak more coherently, with authority. He knows his references, moves from Molière to Roman emperors to Madonna, but the quotes he offers are twisted or incomplete. He recounts surreal tales of rejection: “There was a partition in my room / splitting the room in two; / I cut a hole in it for this one guy to come through. / He never showed up.” Throughout, Franz stays fragmented and opaque, delivering passages that deal with absence, insecurity, and failure in both form and content. The work appears under the guise of autofiction but is more outward-looking than self-obsessed: how does it feel to exist in this world as someone who wants to make things and share them with others? Is it me who is failing or is the system stacked against me? **A discrepancy in power** It’s a sobering note to end the evening on, but one that is poignant. *Anal Pompidou* can exist because certain political conditions make it possible. Many of the artists involved can make their work thanks to the statut d’artiste through which they receive a modest monthly stipend from the state. As austerity looms on a federal level, the future of this social security is imperiled—and we don’t seem remotely equipped to provide an alternative path for artists who want to make ends meet, or dare I suggest it, a decent living. Like any effective satire, *Anal Pompidou* exposes a discrepancy in power. In this case, a cultural landscape in Brussels that is dependent on the many artists living here but which seems unable to adequately support artistic production. The city’s finances are under increasing stress due to the political paralysis following the elections in June 2024, after which its administrators have failed to form a government. Structural funding for culture is delayed and uncertain, and long-term planning is impossible—not to mention the toll this vacuum is taking on infrastructure and social cohesion more broadly. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/97A6160.jpg) Fig.2 Meanwhile, KANAL Pompidou is not even open yet and its workforce surpasses that of any other institution dedicated to contemporary art in the city. The costs of its construction have exploded their initial budget, now estimated to reach 230 million euros, a steep sum for a city that is drowning in debt. Regardless of whether KANAL will fulfill its many promises, for many artists, the dream of the institution is already broken—the idea that if you manage to pass through its gates, you will be protected and respected. As the recent decision of the Flemish government to dissolve the national museum status of M HKA shows, not even the institutions themselves are sheltered against the whims of political decision-making. Artists, whose work is the lifeblood of any museum or cultural community, are certainly not being included in these conversations. For now, *Anal Pompidou* offers one possible answer to this disparity. The cabaret provides a platform that is independent from any formalized organization, and it is financed through a cash economy: admission is 8 euros, and the performers receive a symbolic fee. The restaurant providing the performance space is owned and run by Van Schuylenberg’s boyfriend. *Anal Pompidou* is not about rejection or boycott—many of the artists, performers, and writers involved are also presenting their works in institutions and understand that there is no serious way around them. But with *Anal Pompidou*, something else is possible. Three times a week, peers share a stage with each other and are given the freedom to try out something new. They can be radical, political, or just plain silly in a way that doesn’t need to fit into a spreadsheet or translate into the language of bureaucrats and administrators. *Anal Pompidou* is intimate, immediate and perhaps the most vital art happening in this flawed but pulsating city. *This text was originally published on* [*Etcetera*](https://e-tcetera.be/bottoms-up/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*, a performing arts magazine.* *//* --- ### Images: Cover, Fig.1: Anal Pompidou, photography: Juliette Viole Fig.2: Nathaniel Moore, photography: Juliette Viole ​ *Brenda Guesnet is a curator and writer. She works as curator and deputy director for IKOB, a museum of contemporary art in Eupen, Belgium, and is a co-founder of celador, an independent space in Brussels.* ### Chicks on Speed URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/chicks-on-speed/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:51.000Z *Gesamtkunstwerk* where painting, architecture, and philosophy converge: the ceiling of the Musiksalon in Franz von Stuck’s Villa Stuck. The deep purple-blue ceiling unfolds like an astral theater, an ancient atrium reimagined for the modern bourgeois imagination. Through its painted red framework, the viewer’s gaze ascends toward a firmament festooned with stars, zodiac signs, and a comet. An electric chandelier glows at the center like an artificial sun, binding mythic symbolism to the industrial optimism of the late 19th century. The effect is contemplative as well as theatrical, animating the ceiling as a sitewhere cosmic order and social hierarchy reflect one another. This celestial architecture performs ideology as much as it produces wonder, translating metaphysical harmony into the aesthetics of possession. On the night that visitors entered for the Villa’s reopening, the Musiksalon revealed its own paradox: harmony as aspiration and disguise, a space where art’s utopian promise meets the historical realities of privilege and power. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/11_Utopia_CoS_Wheel_of_Fleeting_Fortunes_Courtesy_Leslie_Johnson.jpg) Fig.1 There is no cosmological order, however, without chaos. The ceiling’s structured harmony contrasts sharply with the exuberant wall paintings and inscriptions throughout the Musiksalon, embodying Friedrich Nietzsche’s opposition of the Apollonian and Dionysian creative impulses. Yet beyond philosophical abstraction, the Musiksalon bears the material weight of class and power: Villa Stuck was a site of elite display, a monument to bourgeois taste and the commodification of art. Celebrated by audiences even as critics such as Julius Meier-Graefe derided its ostentation, von Stuck’s work became a paradoxical emblem of aesthetic power intertwined with structural hierarchy. Into this charged space enter Chicks on Speed—the transgressive, femmepunk, Eurotrash collective—whose intervention is both performative and Marxist in orientation. They activate a tension between historical and contemporary cosmologies: i.e., the Athenean, grounded in strategic intellect and critical reflection, and the Sapphic, rooted in desire, collaboration, and sensual sorority. By inhabiting and reconfiguring the Villa’s grandeur, Chicks on Speed stage a material critique of cultural authority, exploring how utopian visions must be reimagined through collective experimentation, aesthetic revolt, and embodied solidarity. In this sense, the exhibition’s title, “Utopia”, names a space of ethical and political negotiation where chaotic and institutional forces collide and reconcile, creating conditions for transformation. This alignment between rebellion and reflection becomes explicit in Chicks on Speed’s own declaration of utopianism: If you are one of these people who don’t have a Utopia on your mind, you’re caught in ice age 3, you’re caught in a trap, you got no turning back \[…\] Utopia is a mirror of multiple imagined worlds, COBRA, Fluxus, Feminism gave us paradise a ‘perfect’ place \[…\] Better living, wishful thinking, \[…\] \[C\]hange your wallpaper and everything will be great! Create a perfect harmony for the self and all the rest, virtual versus real space, no place, no space \[…\] The Glory days are over \[…\] The dream was just a hoax. Here, utopia is channeled as a network of imaginaries, a reflective tool that reveals both desire and limitation. It resonates with the Villa’s celestial cosmos while critiquing the seductive illusions of perfection that once marked bourgeois ideology. Chicks on Speed turn utopia into praxis: experimental, performative, and critically playful, a terrain where social hierarchies, economic structures, and technological mediation are collectively reworked. Their words above frame the exhibition as a cosmological exploration of praxis, inviting viewers to inhabit possibilities rather than to consume certainties. The Musiksalon’s walls depict this ideological tension. Orpheus, with his lyre, embodies Apollonian harmony and virtue, while Pan represents Dionysian ecstasy and freedom. Stuck’s early works, such as *Eavesdropping* (1890) and *Ring Dance* (1899), integrate into the decorative matrix, establishing a canonical lineage that underscores its elite ideological function. Chicks on Speed remind us that cosmology— whether celestial, cultural, or social—is always co-constructed, negotiated between past and present, power and desire, hierarchy and solidarity. Mirroring this space of historical grandeur and ideological weight is UKRAiNATV, the experimental internet TV station founded in Kraków in 2022\. Positioned across digital and physical realms, UKRAiNATV functions as a “glocal” platform for live performance, collaborative research, and activist intervention. Within the Villa Stuck, its presence in the museum is more than technical: it is a material critique of inherited authority. Chicks stuff the exhibition’s entrance with a collection of garments—once designed by Stuck as his own atelier—UKRAiNATV transforms spectators into participants, collapsing hierarchies between artist and audience, historical legacy and contemporary praxis. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/10_Utopia_CoS_Chicks-on-Speed1077COS_2025_BOOK_090425_FINAL_Page_20.jpg) Fig.2 The visual and allegorical layers of this vast costume ball reinforce the show’s critique of inequality. Francesca Albanese’s face, printed in neon yellow and painted on a batik robe and surrounded by tarot motifs, snakes, and third eyes, functions as more than ornamentation. She appears as a goddess within this historical and ideological architecture, embodying Sapphic cultural associations while asserting authority over a space that once celebrated masculine genius and bourgeois privilege. The Albanese-as-goddess positioning becomes a material intervention in the Villa’s cosmology, reclaiming the ceremonial and symbolic for feminist and collectivist ends. Through invoking her presence, Chicks on Speed channel the Villa’s historical weight and propose a reconfigured cosmology in which gender, collectivity, and radical leisure are central. Intersecting with the deified Albanese is the narrative of the Global Sumud Flotilla, whose crashed boat-cum-stage occupies a liminal space in the erstwhile atelier rooms of the Villa Stuck. The flotilla, an act of international solidarity, references global struggles against displacement, militarization, and inequality. Its presence in the space transposes these themes into the Villa’s aesthetic register and historical frame. The boat’s suspended wreckage serves as both monument and stage, materializing failure, resistance, and precariousness. Here, Chicks on Speed juxtapose the villa’s opulence with the realities of collective struggle: the grandeur of bourgeois architecture against the violence of global imperial capitalism. The wrecked flotilla becomes a theatrical translation of a material enactment of utopia-in-practice, where solidarity and improvisation emerge as both conceptual and political strategies. Conceptual art provides a final lens for reflection in the show. Mladen Stilinović’s photographic performance *Artist at Work* (1978), documenting himself sleeping and resting in exhibition spaces, critiques capitalist imperatives of productivity and valorizes inactivity as a form of resistance. In dialogue with Chicks on Speed’s contributions, Stilinović’s work resonates as a materialist, anti-capitalist gesture: it challenges the very logic of labor that underpinned Villa Stuck’s original project where art and architecture reinforced bourgeois authority. Placing Stilinović’s work in the final room transforms this retrospective from historical survey to ethical proposition. Visitors are invited to inhabit the radical cosmology that Chicks on Speed cultivate: one in which collective action, experimentation, and pleasure constitute critique and legacy. // --- ### Images Cover: Chicks on Speed, Utopia, 2025\. © and courtesy of the artist. Photo: Wolf-Dieter Grabner Fig.1 Chicks on Speed, Utopia, Wheel of Fleeting Fortunes, 2025, Courtesy: Leslie\_Johnson Fig.2 Chicks on Speed, Utopia, 2025 *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Buisinesses as usual URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/businesses-as-usual/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:49.000Z In late August 2025, as part of the second flotilla attempt, 42 vessels from the Global Sumud Flotilla (GSF) sailed towards a besieged Gaza loaded with food and medicine. By 2 October 2025 most boats had been intercepted by Israeli forces, who went on to capture all crew on international waters. One of the [last uncaptured vessels](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2025/oct/03/final-boat-of-42-strong-pro-palestinian-flotilla-intercepted-by-israel?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), Mikeno (al-Bireh), had on board three Turkish citizens, a German and an Omani. As they sailed alone, thousands of people took to the streets across the world. On the same day in Berlin, I attended an impromptu demonstration at Alexanderplatz in support of the Flotilla. Halfway through it, the organizers streamed a live conversation with the German crew member of Mikeno. He was placid, positive and unafraid, which contrasted with the climate of fear, distrust, and hopelessness of the Berlin cultural scene. In a few hours to go before being captured a mere 9 miles off Gaza's coast, the Mikeno crew ended the live stream by saying that the fact that the flotilla set sail in the first place was an enormous success, regardless of whether they managed to deliver the cargo to Gazans. Indeed, all the flotilla efforts are a resounding success of historical proportions. The GSF comprised 462 participants from more than 44 countries, making it the largest civilian-led convoy of its kind in history. Under the [motto](https://globalsumudflotilla.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) "When Governments Are Silent the People Rise", the flotilla exposed that there are no true democracies in the West, as in October 2025 even the [UN](https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2025/10/un-experts-urge-germany-halt-criminalisation-and-police-violence-against?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) reproached Germany for its violent and illegal suppression of Palestinian peaceful solidarity activism. Meanwhile, the majority of Western cultural institutions continued behaving as obedient and complicit arms of the state in how they [censor, silence, and punish](https://digit.site36.net/2024/11/21/at-least-200-people-or-events-canceled-in-germany-for-criticising-israel/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) art practitioners who show solidarity towards the Palestinians or criticise a state and army that the world's [top scholars](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2025/sep/01/israel-committing-genocide-in-gaza-worlds-top-scholars-on-the-say?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) attest to be committing genocide. Most importantly, the flotilla has shown that there is an alternative to the status quo, to traditional politics, to neoliberalism, and that when ordinary people unite in action, they can change the world. We've seen consumers shunning complicit brands to the point they lose stock market value, canceling subscriptions to find alternatives, and using apps to reveal corporate complicity in genocide. Organizations now provide financial and legal support to those facing repression for their Palestinian solidarity. Artists are rallying to sell artworks for Palestine, and international crowdfunding efforts to support fleeing Palestinians have been widely shared. This year, the International Association of Art Critics (AICA) issued "Silenced, Not Stopped: A Toolkit for Resisting Censorship". This came shortly after [AICA's statement](https://aicainternational.news/agora/2025/9/8/aica-int-letter-on-freedom-of-expression-in-the-arts-in-germany?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) urging Germany to protect artistic freedom while combating antisemitism, warning that current practices risk fostering de facto censorship. Available free online, the 16-page toolkit builds on existing safety guides for artists but is uniquely aimed at art practitioners globally, including the West, offering community-oriented approaches to resistance and mutual support. Public discourse is also connecting neo-colonial oppression across the Global South, with Palestine, Congo, and Sudan at the frontlines. [Israeli billionaires](https://mondoweiss.net/2024/08/understanding-the-connections-between-the-congo-and-palestine-genocides/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) steal from the Congo to build illegal settlements in Palestine, while tech companies illegally extract minerals to power their surveillance of Palestinians. These manufactured conflicts share the same neoliberal dynamic whereby colonial greed plunders the world while we consume - until we ourselves are consumed. \*\*\* On 8 October 2025, I attended the press conference "International Law vs. Staatsräson: Civil Initiatives to Break the Naval Blockade of Gaza" at Spore Haus in Berlin. It featured international law expert Khaled El Mahmoud; criminal defense attorney Benjamin Düsberg; and two of the 14 German citizens who participated in the flotilla: Oyoun director Louna Sbou, and human rights activist Yasemin Acar. Both women were detained until 6 October. At the conference, Acar clarified the flotilla's objective of exposing Israel's violation of international law - both its blockade of aid to Gaza since 2007 as well as its genocidal maneuvers since 2023\. Despite the International Court of Justice recognizing plausible genocide by January 2024, and UN confirmation in September 2025, Germany continues to refuse to protect its own citizens or comply with its international obligations. Acar demands an immediate halt to arms deliveries, sanctions against Israel, and unrestricted humanitarian access to Gaza. El Mahmoud and Düsberg exposed Western governments' hypocritical disdain for the law, explaining how Germany avoided responsibility by issuing travel warnings, how Israel's interception in international waters violates maritime law, and how Germany supports genocide by distinguishing between "weapons of war" and "equipment" supplied to Israel. Still visibly shaken, Sbou detailed how Israeli forces imprisoned her for seven hours in a metal cage with 57 women under the sun and threatened to gas them to death when they shouted for medical assistance. Yet, Sbou's lessons on unity will resonate: "Listen to the most marginalized voices. Take care of yourself, of your body, and that of others," she said. A few hours later, a [ceasefire](https://edition.cnn.com/world/live-news/israel-hamas-gaza-war-10-08-25?post-id=cmgi8sex500003b6presb377t&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) was announced. So where does that leave us and our collective work towards freedom from impunity, colonialism, and fascism? A good place to start is by continuing to listen to the most marginalized, to Palestinians, and by ignoring the distracting noise of Western governments. As expected, politicians want to fool us into getting "back to business". Germany's chancellor Merz, even [claimed](https://www.juedische-allgemeine.de/politik/merz-es-gibt-keinen-grund-mehr-jetzt-fuer-palaestinenser-in-deutschland-zu-demonstrieren/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) that "there's no more reason for Palestinians in Germany to demonstrate." Yet, people are still protesting, as Palestinians have awoken a complacent world to the horrors of the capitalist machine. [Polls](https://www.jpost.com/israel-news/article-868560?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) show most Germans now believe Israel is committing genocide and support [recognition](https://www.dw.com/en/germany-walks-tightrope-over-recognizing-state-of-palestine/a-74070391?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) of a Palestinian state. Since October 2023, there have been hundreds of Pro-Palestine protests in Berlin, culminating in the largest protest in Germany of more than 150 thousand through the streets of Berlin in late September 2025. In the meantime, as public opinion shifts, [companies](https://www.ynetnews.com/opinions-analysis/article/b10xzudrxg?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) have started withdrawing their support for Israel while refusing to pardon the pro-Palestinian staff they punished, and some cultural institutions are attempting to feign amnesia by speaking on the Genocide post-ceasefire while ignoring their previous silencing and gaslighting. But many people refuse to forget. We must focus on the bigger picture - delinking from and dismantling the colonial project. As I write these words, weeks after the alleged ceasefire, Israel has killed [100 Palestinians](https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2025/10/20/has-the-gaza-ceasefire-been-broken?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) in Gaza and wounded 230 since the official truce on 10 October 2025\. Most of Gaza has been razed to the ground and the illegal occupation is still in full force, while we're encouraged to look away and consume away. This is the "business as usual" (emphasis on [business](https://caat.org.uk/data/countries/israel/mapped-all-the-uk-companies-manufacturing-components-for-israels-f35-combat-aircraft/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)) Western governments and institutions want us to go back to. And this genocide is the unfortunate chance we have to remind ourselves why we must continue to refuse to normalize the institutionalization of violence in our personal and professional lives, today and tomorrow. // --- ### Notes Cover Image: Karrabing Film Collective, Night Fishing With Ancestors, 2023\. © and courtesy of the artist *Will Furtado is a Berlin-based artist, writer, and scholar.* ### Relationships URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/arts-of-the-working-class-39/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:07:31.000Z - Shop: - Price: EUR 2.50 --- This fall, a small fleet of boats set sail under the banner of the Global Sumud Flotilla: a fragile choreography of resistance and solidarity carrying artists, activists, and ordinary people with ordinary jobs, determined to breach the maritime siege of Gaza and make visible its destruction and occupation. The flotilla was never only about reaching its destination. Its value was measured not in success nor in spectacle, but in risks shared, solidarities enacted, and futures imagined together against overwhelming odds. This understanding of solidarity as practice is what Chicks on Speed underline in their survey exhibition at the newly reopened Villa Stuck in Munich. As this year’s editorial cycle was titled *Value Attachment*—a poetic and materialist inquiry into how we assign worth to our worlds—the Sumud Flotilla offers a paradigm for what that question truly entails. The Gaza Biennial reasserts, in its own terms, the primacy of relationships as the ground on which politics is built. Not relationships as networks of exchange or capital, but as infrastructures of mutual dependence and resistance: fragile, chaotic, complex, indispensable. Across the previous four issues in 2025, we have traced how this question recurs across different registers. Now, we turn to *Relationships*: to sentimental versions and terrains of struggle. Fascism, in its twenty-first-century iterations, thrives not only on nationalism and exclusion but on dismantling relational life: isolating, atomizing, privatizing it until solidarity becomes suspect and empathy itself a form of dissent. Proximity is policed, intimacy is surveilled. Love is reduced to transaction. Care is outsourced. Trust weaponized. Even friendship, the most basic form of political relation, is co-opted as a tool of influence and control. The question is no longer whether relationships have political significance, but whether politics is even possible without them. This question is what the paintings of Arturo Kameya, last spring during the Amsterdam Art Week, and the poster by Russel Hlongwane and Lo-Def Film Factory (Francois Knoetze, and Amy Louise Wilson), in collaboration with the transnational project “99 Questions” at the Humboldtforum, address. To relate, and to persist in relating, is to resist the logics that seek to divide society. The works introduced as part of this year’s Loop Festival in Barcelona show how to rebuild forms of attachment that cannot be monetized, mapped, or monitored. It is to construct alliances that do not obey the imperatives of state or market, as well as to recognize that the liberation of an individual is entangled with the liberation of all—from the remaining streets of Gaza to the rainforests of the Amazon, from picket lines to refugee kitchens. It is to insist on anti-fascism as the departure point for the future. The art world is not exempt from the same kinds of pressures. Too often, the language of community, engagement, and care is reduced to branding, sponsorship, and visibility, reproducing the hierarchies it claims to critique. Institutions extract value from relational labor that lacks redistributing power. Exhibitions, biennials, and programs become performances of solidarity rather than its practice. Filippa Ramos tells us, in conversation, how she works against this contradiction: by maintaining a sort of sobriety. Calling out complicity is not enough. Constructive engagement demands that art institutions and practices build relationships that resist co-optation. This means, as our contributors argue, valuing labor—emotional, intellectual, and physical—not only within the narrow grid of art historical discourse but in material and permacultural reciprocity. It means placing relationality at the center of decision-making rather than treating it as decoration. In doing so, art becomes a social infrastructure rather than a simulacrum of it. D’Angelo (1974–2025), now our ancestor, reminded us that in a world that denies justice at every turn, there “ain’t justice, just us.” In our attachments, in our persistence, in the care we give and receive, these are the places where the only justice possible is born. **With contributions by:** Octavia Abril, Anuscheh Amir-Khalili, Knut Birkholz, Catwing, Chicks on Speed, Clemente Ciarrocca, Sepp Eckenhaussen, Michel Esselbrügge, Will Furtafo, Giulia Ottavia Frattini, Dina El Kaisy Friemuth, Gaza Bienniale, Gluklya, Tris Hedges, Russel Hlongwane, Lo Höckner, Amelie Jakubek, Jean Kamba, Arturo Kameya, kina from ver.di, Francois Knoetze, Loop Barcelona, Dalia Maini, Julia Montilla, Diógenes Muniz, María Inés Plaza Lazo, Krishan Rajapakshe / Nachbarschaftshaus Urbanstraße e.V., Lilo Ruminawi, Spore Initiative, and Amy Louise Wilson. **IMPRINT** Founders / Publishers / Directors María Inés Plaza Lazo (Verantwortliche i.S.d. §18 Abs. 2 MStV) Pauł Sochacki Managing / Artistic Director Amelie Jakubek Editor in Chief Dalia Maini Project Development & Distribution Theresa Zwerschke Administrative Assistance Hannah Lu Verse Proofreading William Kherbek Léa d’Albronn Allexandre Proofreading in Lay-out Louisa Stank, Mika Schneck, Staeff Günther Online Design Giorgia Belotti Layout / Design Issue no. 39 Manuel Bürger We thank our volunteers: Teresa Mayr, Nanna Kaiser, Cora Pagano, Nicole Yildirim, Lisa Schmidt-Herzog, Lily May Hardie, Staeff Günther, Mika Schneck Druck: Die Rheinpfalz Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Schillerpromenade 10, 12049 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org Arts of the Working Class can be read digitally, too. Please find our vendors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digitally buy a copy together with the respective STREAD issue. Donate via Paypal: p@artsoftheworkingclass.org // --- ## In this issue - [Buisinesses as usual](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/businesses-as-usual/) - [Tribute to a Vandal Artist from the South](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/tribute-to-a-vandal-artist-from-the-south/) - [Romantic Love and Relationship Anarchism](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/romantic-love-and-relationship-anarchism/) - [Das Sehnen nach Zärtlichkeit](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/das-sehnen-nach-zaertlichkeit/) - [Rehearsing Cultural Abolitionisms](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/rehearsing-cultural-abolitionisms-catwings/) - [Heaven lies beneath the feet of your Mother\*](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/heaven-lies-beneath-the-feet-of-your-mother/) - [Is it better to burn out than to fade away?](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/is-it-better-to-burn-out-than-to-fade-away/) - [The moon wanted to be sun, but it was too late](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-moon-wanted-to-be-sun-but-it-was-too-late/) - [The last mile](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-last-mile/) ### Wellbeing in the 21st Century URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/wellbeing-in-the-21st-century-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:46.000Z The 2008 financial crisis ended the optimism of the 1990s. The crisis showed the flaws in the economic approach that promised to make everyone better off through less regulation, privatization, and globalization. But instead of changing course with the Great Recession, governments doubled down on the same failed approach. They bailed out the banks and financial institutions that caused the crisis, while ordinary people paid the price through budget cuts and reduced public services. This failure to create a new, believable vision of prosperity after 2008 is now threatening Western democracies. Without a shared economic vision, the gap has been filled by political movements that focus on tribal identity and “us versus them” thinking. Societies built around such divisions cannot support the diversity, debate, criticism, and rule of law that democracy requires. These democratic values depend on shared rules and facts, which clash with identitarian thinking. The solution, as I argue in my recent (open access) book *Reimagining Prosperity* (2024), is to create a widely shared vision of prosperity that can unite democratic societies. This vision needs to reimagine both what prosperity means and how to achieve it, creating confidence that “we” as a society know how to build a better tomorrow. This shared belief in a prosperous future is the most important foundation for a sense of belonging in diverse democratic societies, bringing together people with different backgrounds and beliefs around the goal of creating a better tomorrow. Visions of prosperity are also essential for democracy and cooperation between nations. If prosperity stops being the foundation of society and gets replaced by identity politics, it would pose an existential threat to supranational projects such as the European Union. The EU was created to build a rule-based system focused on shared values. But rules alone can’t hold the EU together without this shared vision. In recent years, EU institutions have recognized that they need to reimagine what prosperity means. Their main response was the European Green Deal, which called for changing how we “produce and consume”. Across various policy areas explored in my book, we can see the EU gradually shifting its understanding of how the economy works and should work. The EU has moved away from the idea that markets and private companies are the main drivers of prosperity, toward an approach that emphasizes collective steering of the economy. But this shift still hasn’t created a widely shared, credible, and hopeful vision of prosperity. The program has focused more on environmental issues than social ones, presenting a narrow, technocratic vision of the future that doesn’t show how ordinary people can participate in building it. Worse, today's return to old-style economic thinking, for example, in the [Draghi Report](https://commission.europa.eu/topics/eu-competitiveness/draghi-report%5Fen?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)—promoting deregulation in the name of “competitiveness”—risks repeating the same mistakes made after (and before) 2008. To save democracy—both within countries and among them—and to keep the European project alive, the EU and its member countries must help create new answers to urgent questions such as “what is prosperity and how do we achieve it?”. Several key lessons are important for building this new vision. First, prosperity isn’t about endless consumption. When young adults today complain they’re worse off than their parents, they’re not upset about lacking consumer goods. They are concerned about not being able to access basic needs: material goods, including housing and healthcare, and social goods such as starting families and caring for elderly parents or children, alongside institutional goods e.g., trustworthy government and economic security. Restoring access to these fundamental needs must be the foundation of any future prosperity. Second, the new vision of prosperity must present futures where more than just a privileged few can actively participate. Interesting, meaningful lives must not be reserved only for tech billionaires, scientists, or urban elites. This means, above all, we need to rethink our technological future and show how a wide range of people are needed and can contribute to building a prosperous society. This vision asks more from governments than just following wherever tech leaders want to go, or fantasizing about returning to a glorious past of well-paid manufacturing jobs. Third, prosperity in the 21st century must reclaim both time and community. Digital platforms, driven by algorithms designed to capture attention, undermine the conditions needed for healthy social relationships. At the same time, the increasing isolation of individuals makes aging and caregiving increasingly difficult. Shared prosperity will require freeing up time and supporting healthy face-to-face relationships. Much of the energy and direction for articulating a new vision of prosperity will need to come from local communities, social movements, and community organizations. Yet to enable this new vision to take shape, governments at all levels—through laws and policies—have a crucial role to play in helping open up new and inspiring possibilities for the future of prosperity. It is through this simultaneous articulation of both the “what” and “how” of prosperity that our democracies and societies can be renewed. // --- ### Image Cover: Nairy Baghramian “Scratching the Back- Drift (Yellow Ribbon),” forms that look more architectural than natural surge out of the niche. Credit: Amir Hamja, The New York Times *Marija Bartl is Professor of Transnational Private Law at the Amsterdam Law School, a Director of the Amsterdam Centre for Transformative Private Law, the Editor of European Law Open and a founding Co-president of European Law Unbound - Society. The above remarks are based on Bartl’s recent open-access monograph titled Reimagining Prosperity: Towards a New Imaginary of Law and Political Economy in the EU (CUP, 2024).* ### Motherhood at the Edge of a Collapsing World URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/motherhood-at-the-edge-of-a-collapsing-world/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:48.000Z I write this from Belgrade, in the middle of a heatwave, during my first pregnancy—my skin cracking, itching, stretching, sweating. I monitor its dryness, note every unusual texture, each change a marker of one of the most radical transformations my body has ever undergone. In legal and policy circles, climate change is framed in terms of thresholds, transition plans, and green growth. Rarely do these frameworks acknowledge that the crisis they address—driven by unsustainable, extractive economic models—is not only environmental or economic, but also bodily. The effects of climate breakdown are deeply embodied: in our organs, our hormones, our reproductive systems, in the ecosystems we inhabit and depend upon. Yet policy treats the body only by proxy, as a matter of “public health.” The causes and consequences of ecological breakdown bear heavily on the experience of mothering. They reshape the body and impose a cascade of health risks—from fertility struggles, to chronic conditions, to miscarriage. While much remains unknown, there is growing scientific consensus on the dangers. Air pollution, which far exceeds safe levels in most European urban areas, disrupts hormonal balance and increases the risk of conditions such as endometriosis. Heatwaves place enormous stress on pregnant bodies, raising the risk of heat stroke and premature birth. Toxic chemicals—especially PFOS (perfluorooctane sulfonate), a so-called “forever chemical” found in food, water, and in everyday objects we use—have been linked to miscarriage, preeclampsia, diabetes, and stillbirth. Microplastics have even been detected in the placenta and in breast milk, rendering maternal bodies toxic by absorption. All this inevitably also has psychological impacts on parents, the children they are bringing into this world and their communities. No one is untouched. And yet, despite overwhelming evidence, policy responses fail to prioritize risks to pregnancy and child health. The European Commission’s Green Deal includes pledges to reduce pollution, but issues relating to pregnancy and prenatal health remain marginal. Many independent bodies and civil society actors consider current measures insufficient. Still, stricter regulation remains elusive as it is resisted by industrial lobbies and national governments under the banners of competitiveness and geopolitical expediency. Mothering has long existed under coercive structures—through forced pregnancies, the criminalization of abortion, and the dismantling of public care. Marginalized bodies—be they racialized, disabled, immigrant, working-class—have always suffered the heaviest burdens. What changes under ecological collapse is that the harm is largely invisible and slow. Pregnant bodies become portable sites of invisible pollution themselves. They incorporate the incessant flow of non-human material mutating into something else. Racialized and low-income communities, and those living in EU’s peripheries (Central and Eastern Europe) are, and will be, disproportionately affected as these populations tend to be segregated and live and work in the vicinity of sites contaminated with heavy pollution and hazardous waste which increase the natal risks mentioned above. Despite centuries of efforts to separate humans from nature, we are part of our ecosystems—and, as those deteriorate, we suffer the consequences of political delay and denial. It is not the first time female and feminized bodies have been made to internalize the costs of social and economic upheaval. From the witch hunts that persecuted women who refused to reproduce labor, to the rapes and forced pregnancies of enslaved people, to the sterilization campaigns driven by overpopulation fears, to the neoliberal dismantling of care infrastructures, history teaches us how capitalism externalizes its violence onto reproductive labor. For those who parent, or are about to, bringing a child into a world that is actively destroying what sustains it—air, water, soil, ecosystems—while society remains in collective denial, creates a deep and destabilizing inner conflict. It fosters anxiety, guilt, and, at times, despair. And yet, amid uncertainty and fear, to have a child while facing such a reality is a radical act of hope and maybe even of a kind of resistance. It reflects not a naïve and ritualistic form of optimism which our societies are so often imbued with, but hope in the sense bell hooks describes: “essential to any political struggle for radical change when the overall climate promotes disillusionment and despair.” Ecological collapse is not a sudden catastrophe that couldn’t have been predicted—it is the direct consequence of neoliberal logics. But what has been built can also be dismantled. Through everyday struggle, collective care, and radically reimagined systems grounded in reciprocity and equity, we may begin to find ways to sustain ourselves, others, and the lives we are nurturing. // --- ### Image Cover: View of the exhibition Nairy Baghramian, Privileged Points, 19.01 – 22.09.2019, Mudam Luxembourg © Photo- Rémi Villaggi | Mudam Luxembourg *Ivana Isailović is an assistant professor of law at the University of Amsterdam, and a co-leader of the Sustainable Global Economic Law project. She writes on the interplay between law, economic structures, inequalities and identity in transnational contexts. Her interdisciplinary work draws on gender and feminist studies, critical theory, and political economy. She is the author of a forthcoming essay on feminism and neoliberalism (in French).* ### Strawberry fields URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/strawberry-fields/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:43.000Z *La obra retrata el trabajo invisible de las mujeres jornaleras en los campos de fresa de Huelva, donde el brillo del plástico encubre la violencia del capitalismo agroindustrial. Montilla enlaza la historia del latifundio y la migración andaluza con la actual explotación de mujeres migrantes, evidenciando la continuidad entre colonialismo y extractivismo. Aquí, el campo no es paisaje: es fábrica, frontera y espejo de una lucha que sigue enterrada bajo los surcos de la tierra.* **I.** **LA TIERRA DE LAS MUJERES** No realizaban labores agrícolas solo en las épocas de mayor trabajo, ni se dedicaban a las actividades más delicadas y primorosas, como si hubiera un tipo de trabajo en el campo propio de las mujeres. Escardaban la tierra para sembrar. Y también abonaban, acolchaban, cultivaban, labran, araban, entresacaban, recolectaban y seleccionaban los frutos del campo. Aunque hayan protagonizado la vendimia o la recogida de la aceituna, aunque se hayan montado en los trillos para separar el trigo de la paja, empuñado las azadas para remover la tierra y cargado las espuertas llenas de tomates a sus hombros, aunque hayan estado presentes en las luchas por la tierra, han sido invisibilizadas y desposeídas de su trabajo. Muchas de ellas eran y son jornaleras. Una jornalera es aquella que labora para otro a cambio de un salario diario. También se la llama temporera, bracera o faenera. Y no cuenta más que con sus brazos y manos para ganarse el sustento. No es una agricultora porque no tiene tierras, ni propias ni arrendadas, y está sujeta a las faenas agrícolas estacionales y al desempleo. La jornalera no tiene los mismos derechos y prestaciones sociales que el resto de las obreras porque está inscrita en un régimen especial de la seguridad social. No todas las jornaleras obtienen los mismos ingresos. Las hay que salen adelante sumando trabajo agrícola, trabajo no agrícola y subsidio del paro. Mientras que otras, las que vienen con un contrato en origen sólo para faenar en las campañas de frutos rojos, no ganan lo que les prometieron. También están las nómadas, que malviven migrando por nuestra geografía al ritmo de las campañas, ahora vid, mañana olivas y pasado naranjas. Las jornaleras son muchas, los propietarios de la tierra pocos. Y se dice que fueron un producto de los grandes latifundios del sur, especialmente de Andalucía, donde su número era mayor que en otras partes del Estado. Ese ejército de reserva trabajaba por un mínimo salario. Mi madre fue jornalera. Hasta que migró a la ciudad a servir no comía más que pan con aranques y naranjas, porra fría y, de vez en cuando, garbanzos. Casi dos millones de andaluces migraron entre los años cincuenta y sententa para huir de la misería. Así las cosas, resulta paradójico que no reconozcamos que la explotación conduce a la migración a las personas que vienen de África, Asia o América Latina. Las jornaleras de este vídeo trabajan en invernaderos de frutos rojos onubenses. Los túneles de polietileno han transformado los bosques roturados en un vergel, el campo en un mar de plásticos. El paisaje del interior pueda resultar hermoso, pero el plástico, que es translúcido, deforma la realidad y normaliza la explotación. «Los invernaderos \[son un\] oasis de producción ingente que ha hecho de la provincia un lugar próspero, pero solo para unos pocos». (Mbomio, 2024: 16-17) Las temporeras, en el tajo, se agrupan en cuadrillas, trabajando por parejas, una a cada lado de un lomo cubierto por un plástico negro, bajo una bóveda de medio punto coronada por un cielo sintético. En los túneles, «las fresas son las reinas y las recolectoras, vasallas que las van metiendo dentro de cajas colocadas en unos carritos que empujan a medida que avanzan» (Mbomio, 2024: 19). Cuando la caja está completa se levantan y caminan unos metros hasta «depositarla en palés que se llevan a los almacenes para su manufactura (Mbomio, 2024: 20)». «El plástico es peor que la lupa. Si fuera brilla el sol, dentro quema. El aire \[…\] pesa y, al y, al entrar por las fosas nasales, abrasa las vías respiratorias» (Mbomio, 2024: 13). «Que las jornaleras no hablen es algo habitual, puesto que temen escupir fuego en lugar de palabras». (Mbomio, 2024: 160) El campo, con personas africanas del sur del Sáhara, marroquíes, rumanas, búlgaras y latinoamericanas, parece, como dice Lucía Mbomio, la ONU. Parte de las jornaleras viven junto al tajo, «en barracones que disponen para ellas los empresarios \[…\], una suerte, entre comillas, de la que otras jornaleras no gozan. \[La cosa es distinta entre la mayoría sin contrato: residen en asentamientos infrahumanos. Ese\] grupo, el de la incertidumbre perpetua, nunca sabe si al día siguiente podrá volver a la finca en la que ha trabajado \[…\], si será requerido en otra o tendrá que quedarse de brazos cruzados. Tampoco tienen claro si, aún dejándose la piel en el campo, les pagarán lo prometido y a tiempo. \[...\] De modo que al estrés térmico bajo el plástico se le suma el económico (Mbomio, 2024: 20)». Años atrás había personas blancas en el campo, compañeras de fatigas y luchas. Hoy, «buena parte \[...\] pueden permitirse una vivienda, \[y a algunas, las nuevas jornaleras\] les recuerdan su pasado de pobreza» (Mbomio, 2024: 95). «El distanciamiento \[entre personas temporeras nacionales y extranjeras\] fue gradual y coincidió la llegada de personas \[africanas\]. Un porcentaje importante lo hizo en situación irregular y aceptaron cualquier propuesta laboral por bajo que fuera el sueldo. (Mbomio, 2024: 20).«Eso generó desconfianza y antipatías entre la población local blanca, \[que\] dejaron de culpar a los de arriba para responsabilizar de su mala situación a los que estaban \[más\] abajo» (Mbomio, 2024: 96). **II.** **LA DISTANCIA CORRECTA** La imagen de la trabajadora temporal del campo en Huelva está regulada por instancias ajenas a su persona. No le pertenece, como tampoco es dueña en el tajo de su sed, su apetito o incluso su fisiología. No se la puede filmar trabajando, ni más allá de su jornada laboral, so pena de exponerla. El patrón decide cuándo, cómo, dónde y quién puede registrarla, y genera un perfil en connivencia con los medios dominantes. La fuerza de trabajo y el cuerpo figurado de la jornalera pertenecen al amo. La imposibilidad de su registro directo impone la creación de un documento a partir de su ausencia. Los reportajes sobre las bondades del negocio de la fresa arrancan con un plano general que nos muestra a un grupo de trabajadoras indiferenciadas. Pero las jornaleras no son todas iguales, por más que el estereotipo incida en imágenes arquetípicas que ilustran un imaginario común, como aquel de antaño de la adulta o la anciana con el rostro surcado de arrugas, desdentada o perennemente enlutada. No son una categoría homogénea ni un colectivo inmutable, aunque cubran sus cabezas con pañuelos y gorros de paja y se tapen el rostro con telas para protegerse de sol impenitente. En el pañuelo de la temporera marroquí, sin embargo, se vuelcan prejuicios sobre el Islam y los musulmanes. Cubrirse el cabello, en este caso, las distingue del resto y es percibido como un mecanismo de subordinación. Esa visión orientalista y desvalorizada que hace del hiyab un símbolo opresor, las convierte en hipervisibles, y a la vez se traduce en su exclusión de la vida pública, social y económica. «El asunto del pañuelo \[…\] se usa contra el Islam, pero también contra las mujeres, que ven como su cuerpo es objeto de regulación dentro y fuera de sus países de origen» (Mijares y Ramírez, 2008: 133). En el cuadro, una pequeña legión de las temporeras, vestidas con un uniforme de recolección disparejo y desgastado, se vislumbran al fondo. No alcanzamos a ver sus rostros con el espinazo doblado entre matarroles, mientras realizan movimientos constantes y repetitivos que nos recuerdan los gestos de los obreros en la cadena de montaje. En primer plano, frontal o de tres cuartos y en plano medio, se sitúa el dueño de la plantación, ese heroíco empresario que ha liberado a las gentes del territorio de la misería. «En la composición resuena el lugar asignado a las mujeres en la agricultura desde principios del siglo XX: fuerza de trabajo relegada a un segundo plano, trabajadoras, pero no como peso activo sino como acompañantes del varón» (Ortega López, 2024: 95). Una jornalera, siempre magrebí, aún habiendo en el campo rumanas y búlgaras, aparece, a veces, en un plano medio o primer plano. Se la muestra como una trabajadora dócil y agradecida por la magnanidad del amo. No habla castellano, «solo frases sueltas, las suficientes como para poder llevar a cabo la tarea que le encomiendan sin quejarse demasiado» (Mbomio, 2024: 96). No no los enseñan, pero hemos leído que vive aislada en un alojamiento junto a la finca y tras una cancela, por lo que le resulta difícil familiarizarse con el idioma y la sociedad locales, forjar lazos con personas que no sean sus compañeras, y tener acceso a los servicios. Quien la entrevista elude las cuestiones sobre sus calamidades. «'No tenemos medio de transporte y para llegar al pueblo tenemos que caminar hasta la carretera y después hacer autoestop', narra Jamila. 'Nos llevan una vez a la semana a hacer las compras y nos dicen que no podemos salir solas. Si sales sin permiso, al día siguiente viene el controlador a revisarte las cajas y ver si has cogido un cierto número de kilos. Yo creo que esa es una forma de castigarte por haber salido', asegura Samira» (Castro y Pinto, 2023: 89) Cuando la cámara se acerca es para mostrarnos las manos de la recolectora, siempre raudas y precisas, en un plano de detalle. Las trabajadoras del campo tienen las manos rudas, pero, según los patrones, la delicadeza de los dedos y las palmas de las faenan bajo el mar de plásticos impiden que la fruta se malogre. El trabajo de las manos está inscrito en su apariencia, ese trabajo deja marcas donde podemos leer las memorias de las vidas. Y aunque las manos de las temporeras son manos encallecidas, duras, no son solo trabajo. También son manos que modelan el pan y la tierra. Son manos que acarician y cuidan, que se entrelazan y se levantan en un gesto de solidaridad y compromiso colectivo. Las jornaleras son la espina dorsal de la labor agrícola onubense. Las que doblan el lomo y trabajan duro, agachan la cabeza y obedecen las órdenes del patrón, del manijero, de la encargada. La jerarquía por encima de todo: «a mandar patrón». Servidumbre como en otros tiempos en los campos de Andalucía. Se las califica como mano de obra, una denominación genérica e impersonal que las invisibiliza. Las jornaleras de frutos rojos humedecen la tierra de los tajos con el sudor de su frente, amamantan el fresón, el arandano y la mora con su sangre, sostienen las cubiertas traslucidas de los invernaderos con sus huesos y maduran el oro rojo con su aliento. Las jornaleras pueden padecer «sed, hambre, malas palabras, dolores de espalda y de alma» (Mbomio, 2024: 95). Los esfuerzos físicos que la penetración de la tecnología puede ahorrar en los campos de fresas onunbeses, ya están implementados. Pero esos aperos no han afectado al discurso de género dominante, de manera que las tareas técnicas, se siguen reservado a los varones. «La representación asentada en tiempo de la dictadura de un tándem natural entre varones y manejo de maquinaría agrícola y tecnología» sigue vigente (Cabanas, 2024: 276). Para la recogida están las delicadas manos femeninas. **III.** **LO PROPIO Y LO IMPROPIO** La agricultura extensiva en grandes propiedades y el paro estacional de la mayor parte de los trabajadores, que no tienen o apenas poseen tierras, son la base económica, social y política del latifundismo. El jornalero, desposeído, está en el centro de los conflictos, y se enfrenta, de manera velada o virulenta, a los propietarios de grandes haciendas, cortijos y dehesas, los terratenientes, por las condiciones de trabajo y sueldo, y la reivindicación de la tierra. La tierra es la base de la estructura de clases. Durante la Guerra Civil, se lleva a cabo la realización práctica de la resolución del problema de la tierra a través del reparto y del colectivismo espontáneo de haciendas en Aragón, Catalunya, Valencia o Extremadura. Con la victoria franquista las tierras volveran a manos de los grandes propietarios. El régimen impone un Plan de Estabilización Económica que da paso al desarrollismo, y persigue modernizar la agricultura. La revolución verde trae consigo el extensionismo y la intensificafición de la producción con máquinas, que sustituyen a personas y animales, sistemas de riego y el uso profuso de pesticidas y fertilizantes. El campo se industrializa y de una producción variada se empieza a pasar a la especialización. Los pequeños campesinos abandonan unas tierras que no pueden capitalizar, el desempleo aumenta, sobran los brazos, y los jornaleros migran a la ciudad, que reclama mano de obra industrial. En cuanto a las mujeres, la asignación de tareas no remuneradas ni contabilizadas socialmente que las empujaba a abandonar el campo desde la crisis agraria finisecular y la modernidad urbanizadora, persiste. La degradación y marginación de las labores agrícolas que realizan, consideradas subsidiarias o complementarias de las de los varones, su ejecución de los trabajos menos mecanizados y más esforzados, y la enorme presión del trabajo doméstico y reproductivo, convierten la urbe en un polo de atracción para las jóvenes, que buscan actividades labores de verdad en el sector de servicios. En democracia, las movilizaciones de jornaleros cuajan en la ocupación de grandes fincas mal cultivadas y el despertar de la conciencia nacional sobre la situación del campo andaluz. Esa llama prende frente al paro, el humillante empleo comunitario, las esperas en la plaza del pueblo a ser contratados por el capataz y la ilusión de trabajo en una propia tierra. La reforma agraría andaluza, sin embargo, acaba en un nuevo subsidio agrario y un Plan de Empleo Rural. La entrada en la Unión Europea impone el monocultivo intensivo en la agricultura. El sistema fordista se agudiza en unos territorios con una clara tendencia a la desruralización poblacional, los tiempos de las cosechas se reducen al máximo, trabajando en cadena, empleando agroquímicos y tecnologías. Como a inicios de la centuria y durante el franquismo, las hijas de las jornaleras, sin reconocimiento social, con poco trabajo y, ahora, mayores niveles de formación, emprenden una huida a la ciudad. Donde también se reclaman brazos masculinos para la construcción. En el agronegocio industrial, la falta de personas trabajadoras locales, su suple con gente procedente del Sur global, que coaccionada por la ley de extranjería, se convierte en la principal fuerza de trabajo. El monocultivo naturaliza unas condiciones laborales basadas en la explotación que tienen su origen en nuestro pasado colonial: un laboratorio de apropiación del trabajo vivo y de los recursos extra-humanos. La actualización de esos viejos dispositivos de dominación se manifiestan hoy a través de las Contrataciones en origen por contingente, las Empresas de Trabajo Temporal o el empleo informal. En la agricultura industrial, se reproduce algo parecido a la encomienda, el sistema de trabajo forzado de inicios de la expansión colonial que los conquistadores practiran sobre la población musulmana del Al-Ándalus, y que servirá ensayo para lo que más tarde se aplicará en los pueblos originarios de las Américas ampliar. **IV.** **FLORES DE OTRO MUNDO** Érase una vez una fresa, la Fragaria chiloensis, que atravesó el océano Atlántico en el siglo XV desde la colonia, para cruzarse con otra fresa, la Fragaria virginiana, procedente del norte del mismo continente. Cuatro siglos después esa fresa grande, de color intenso y brillante, se llamó fresón, y se convirtió en el oro rojo de la zona costera onubense. «Las fresas son tan pequeñas y tan frágiles que no se arrancan, sino que se acarician y caen sobre la mano, una a una y sin peciolo. Su recogida requiere mucho tiempo, tanto \[…\] que los dueños de los invernaderos prefieren \[cultivar\] fresón, que tiene un mayor tamaño y se recolecta tronchando el pedúnculo» (Mbomio, 2024: 20). En Huelva no había frutos rojos hasta que en los años sesenta «el padre de las fresas», Antonio Medina Lama, siembra en Palos de la Frontera semillas traídas de California. Poco a poco se impone el monótono paisaje de invernaderos y el plasticultivo se especiliza en el fresón, al que se suman la mora, la frambuesa y el arándano. En pocas décadas el litoral occidental andaluz se convierte en uno de los principales productores y exportadores de fresones. El modelo del monocultivo onubense florece en otros lugares. En Europa, sin ir más lejos, se da en todo el sur. Ese modelo, el de la agricultura intensiva, genera importantes beneficios, pero no para el productor, que está en la parte ancha de un doble embudo; cuyos extremos ocupan biotecnológicas, comercializadoras y grandes distribuidores. El agricultor para mantener sus ganancias intenta producir más, explotando la tierra y los acuíferos, y reduce los costes, abarantando salarios y recurriendo a los cuerpos que trabajan más por menos, quejándose menos, aquellos cuerpos sobre los que operan las desigualdades ligadas a la raza, la nacionalidad, el género y la clase. El capitalismo pone un precio diferente a la fuerza de trabajo de cada cuerpo. Cuanto más se aleja de los paradigmas de blanquitud, occidentalidad y masculinidad menos valor tiene su fuerza de trabajo. Los trabajos menos reconocidos y peor retribuidos, los desempeñan cuerpos de mujeres, de personas no blancas que no habitan en occidente. Como los cuerpos que sostienen el sector de los frutos rojos, cuerpos racializados y femininizados que provienen del sur global. Cuerpos invisibilizados. ¿Basta para hacer aparecer a quienes son invisibles registrar su imagen? ¿Es preferible dar carne a aquellas que no la tienen mediante una repetición en escena de lo vivido? La encarnación produce una corporalidad y es un vehículo para personificar. Las personas filmadas se convierten en personajes, que expuestos a nuestra mirada adoptan la identidad de quienes son imperceptibles. ¿Pero cambia alguna cosa tomar su forma corporal? La imposibilidad de grabar a las mujeres en el tajo hace que la mirada en este vídeo navegue entre la dificil referencialidad y su escenificación. Las temporeras de frutos rojos procedían en el cambio de milenio de Europa del Este, pero con la incorporación de esos países a la Unión Europea, polacas, bulgaras y rumanas, tiene más poder de negociación. La patronal vuelve entonces su mirada a Marruecos, desde donde trae mujeres que con Contratos en origen por contingente, sinónimo de que se compromenten a volver a su país cuando la empresa deje de requerirlas. Los promotores del plan, introducen un elemento más entre los criterios de selección para evitar lo que llaman fugas y reducir las tasas de no retorno: tener hijos menores de 14 años a cargo. «Vinieron tres españoles con una traductora y empezamos a pasar una por una. Siempre es igual: nos revisan la cara y las manos y escogen a las que ven que están fuertes. A las que llevan gafas no las quieren, porque dicen que no ven bien, y a las que están gordas tampoco. Miran las manos para verificar si han trabajado en el campo: hay mujeres que se pasan varios días antes de la selección aplicándose cemento en las manos para que se les pongan duras…, cada una se busca la forma de pasar la selección. Nos tratan como si fuéramos mercancía» (Castro y Pinto, 2023: 87). Importar mujeres para exportar fresas se llama migración ordenada, un eufemismo parra decir que la migración está en relación con las necesidades del mercado laboral y no con las de las personas. **V.** **UN COBIJO EN EL MONTE** Las trabajadoras marroquíes venidas en contingente que no vuelven a Marruecos se convierten en las más vulnerabilizadas. «La falta de papeles las condena a los sectores informales y más invisibles de la economía: trabajo de hogar y cuidados, prostitución de supervivencia, comercio informal y, sí, también el campo» (Castro y Pinto, 2023: 90). Muchos negocios incorporan a sus cuadrillas personas sin papeles en los momentos álgidos de la campaña. Es ilegal, pero es una práctica habitual. En los poblados de chabolas se instalan hombres y mujeres provenientes de países del Sur gobal todavía no tienen papeles, pero también personas en situación regular a las que se niega el alojamiento por motivos raciales o que no pueden costearse una vivienda. Los pinares dan cobijo a personas «cuyo color de piel va desde el marrón arena hasta uno tan oscuro que vira al azul petróleo» (Mbomio, 2024:19). Ese ejercito de reversa se desplazan de un enclave estacional a otro a lo largo del año, siguiendo el rastro de migajas de las cosechas: de los frutos rojos en Huelva, a la fruta de hueso en Lleida, las uvas en Albacete y la Rioja, los cítricos en Valencia o la aceituna en Jaén. Una chabola no es una barraca, ni una cabaña, ni una choza, aunque comparta con ellas las escasas proporciones y la pobre construcción. Charlotte Worm dice que son todo aquello que se construye ilegalmente o en las zonas grises del derecho. Las onunbenses son cubículos, construidos con palés y plásticos, que se arraciman en asentamientos boscosos cerca de los campos Los asentamientos, sin acceso a agua potable, electricidad, inodoros, duchas, recogida de residuos ni otras infraestructuras básicas, son insalubres y segregan social y geográficamente a sus habitantes; unas personas a quienes negamos muchos derechos y que nos proporcionan la mayor rentabilidad al más bajo coste. Las mujeres que residen en los poblados chabolistas son sospechosas de fugarse, de prostituirse, de no contar con una estructura familiar convencional, de cuidar mal a sus hijos. No parece emancipador vivir en un asentamiento, pero las que los habitan pueden tener más oportunidades que retornando a sus pueblos. Las chabolas les permiten ahorrar el máximo dinero posible de lo que obtienen con su trabajo y tener más autonomía personal que aquellas que viven tras las cancelas, junto a los tajos. Quienes habitan en los poblados no denuncian sus condiciones frente a las cámaras porque los exponen, y cuando lo hacen, nada cambia para bien. «Lo que tiende a suceder es que aparecen las excavadoras y tiran sus hogares. Da la impresión de que el problema no es aquello que provoca que la gente no pueda disponer de un alojamiento digno, sino que las infraviviendas contaminen visualmente un paisaje que, en realidad, ya está estragado por el plástico de miles de invernaderos. Dado que no se abordan las causas sino las consecuencias, las máquinas se van, pero los problemas se mantienen. Otras veces, las llamas destruyen sus hogares, y vuelta a empezar» (Mbomio, 2024: 318) desde la nada, con la salvedad de que la reacción de las autoridades locales ante los incendios consiste en no permitir que las personas reconstruyan sus viviendas, obligándolas a crear asentamientos nuevos en otros lugares. // --- ### Image Cover: Julia Montilla, *Strawberry Fields,* (video still), 2025\. Courtesy of the artist *Julia Montilla holds a degree in Fine Arts from the University of Barcelona (UB), where she is currently an associate professor and doctoral student. She is participating in the R&D&I research project “Rhythms of Women's Work in the History of Art and Visual Culture” (Spain, 1936-2022). Montilla works with a wide range of media to analyze the role of images and the visual construction of everyday life. Over the last decade, she has focused on themes such as psychological distress, religious ecstasy, job insecurity, and social exclusion.* ### Loop Barcelona URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/loop-barcelona/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:45.000Z *On certain summer days in Barcelona, when heat and humidity warp the air, the horizon performs a quiet miracle: the skyline of the city appears mirrored upon the sea. Buildings float, boats rise into the sky. The phenomenon, known as “Fata Morgana”, turns the familiar into the spectral, a mirage of the real produced by the fever of the world itself.* *It is an image that could stand for the state of our collective perception. We live inside an atmosphere that is equally saturated—the more we see, the less we perceive. Every day, the world returns to us refracted through algorithms: through loops of videos, through feeds of endless faces and products. Relationships are built and sustained by images, by speculation and dopamine kicks, rather than by the physical sense of presence and proximity. In such conditions, the difference between intimacy and illusion becomes difficult to maintain.* *This is the terrain from which Filipa Ramos, the curator of this year’s Loop Festival in Barcelona, begins. Her chosen theme, “Mirages”, unfolds between the themes of ecology, perception, and image politics, posing the question of what it means to look, to believe, and to desire in a time when the real itself seems unstable. In the following conversation, we speak about “Fata Morgana” as both a natural and cultural symptom, about the exhaustion of an image-glutted world, about alienation as a form of knowing, and about the fragile line between representation and reality.* **Filipa, since the word “mirage” is so equivocal—used to describe both deception and revelation—I’d like to start by asking how you relate it to artworks. Do you see artworks as creating illusions, or as exposing what lies beyond them?** I was thinking of the mirage in relation to the times we live in. A mirage can emerge out of necessity or desire—like in cartoons, where someone lost in the desert envisions an oasis. It’s a desire born in desperate times, something that may be completely delusional. The idea of giving the title “Mirages” to this edition of the festival emerged, on one hand, from a direct connection between the phenomenon of a mirage and the production and presentation of moving images. Through projection, you create something that is not physically there. An image that can haunt you, that exists fleetingly and then disappears with the light. I think we live in a moment with an enormous production of mirages; illusions that can be complex and lead to drastic consequences. Politics today often operates through false hopes for things that are not possible. So, I wanted to think of this ambivalent term as a ghostly figure of deception that can lead us astray. And I wondered: what roles do cinema and the artist play in understanding that they participate in this mechanism of activating perceptive relationships? Does it also have a role in breaking or confronting other, more complex illusions that are being produced today? **And do you think that the practice of art itself has become delusional?** No. Art has this capacity to deceive, but also the capacity to make you dream, to make you want things, even to imagine change. Art has a huge potential to trigger a desire for transformation, in ways that don’t have to be illustrative. It doesn’t mean that art has to be about something, but it can touch you in unexpected ways. Art has this incredible potential, but it also operates within a system that can be highly corrupted. So it’s almost a call for artists to be aware of their immense potential as social agents. I feel that potential is a bit dormant at the moment. Not because artists aren’t engaging in important struggles, but because art itself seems to have been stripped of that capacity. **I agree. When thinking about mirage, were you reflecting on the etymology of the word itself while shaping the Loop’s program, or were you inspired by a specific artwork?** The main reference from the beginning—and one I keep returning to in my curatorial work—is Joan Jonas’s work Mirage from 1976, which she continued reworking over the years. It’s a piece where she was experimenting with connecting early video with performance. She performed both for a camera and for an audience, while incorporating sculptural elements like her chalk drawings on boards. Joan, who is now rightfully recognized as a superstar, was, for most of her life, not given much attention. Yet she was an incredible pioneer—in her use of video and performance, and in how she positioned herself politically. Not by making overtly political art, but through work that carried strong political positions: Lines in the Sand, for example, made during the U.S. invasion of Iraq, or her long-standing feminist stance, and, more recently, her environmental concerns. For me, she is a kind of mother figure, if she would allow that term—a model for thinking about how art, through poetry, fantasy, and strangeness, can address the times we live in. She shows us that there’s no real separation between a drawing, a song, a performance, a sculpture, or a video—they are all complementary expressive means. **Jonas’s *Mirage* is not only about reflections on film and art categories, but also about games. Not gaming in a capitalist sense, but joyful and playful timelessness. How do you see the relationship between the festival and this aspect of her work?** Joan’s playfulness manifests both in her live actions and in her structures. A game, after all, is a set of rules that activates relationships—between individuals, or between people and objects. You can play games with stones. Joan is extraordinary in creating dynamics where some rules are clear, and others are completely opaque or strange. She’s often associated with surrealism, and I think there’s a clear intention to engage with reality from a stranger, less direct, non-narrative perspective \[in her work\]; one closer to how life actually unfolds, which is rarely linear. Playfulness becomes a form of rehearsal, preparation, and relationship-building—and even a way to deal with conflict. Humor and play are among the best ways to prevent escalation. Joan’s playfulness is also multimedia: when she performs for the camera, she’s playing with herself, the camera, mirrors, and other elements. It creates a grammar of meanings—some legible, others opaque—which makes her work so compelling. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1-LunarDust_BillyRoisz2024.jpg) Fig.1 **Games can be competitive, communal, joyful, or strategic, and time is essential to their understanding, just like loops. How do you approach temporality in the exhibition?** The word “loop” alludes to an eternal return, a continuous cycle. I like it because it’s a round word—with two Os―that feels circular. It also pays tribute to how film and video installations don’t just play once; they exist in a kind of continuation. But more than a simple circle, I think of it as a spiral—each time you see something, you see it anew, slightly differently. Your memory recalls other things. No two people remember or narrate a time-based experience the same way, and that uniqueness of recall makes such media so special. In cinema, we call it cinephilia—the capacity to build communities around shared experiences and memories. These time-based experiences involve storytelling, memory, and individuality. I find this fascinating and largely unexplored in art. I’ve often thought it would be amazing to recreate some of Allan Kaprow’s early environments. In one, he noticed that participants—especially women—began to organize furniture, reflecting an almost epigenetic memory of social expectations. I would have loved to reenact these happenings—not the physical setup, but the act of remembering, of sharing experiences and emotions. There’s huge potential in understanding memory as a tool for community building, and for creating affect in time-based media. LOOP refers directly to this continuation and cyclicality: not just temporal or material loops, but loops of people, of community. **Loop Barcelona emerges as an economic and curatorial niche, different from many fairs and festivals around. I wonder if that cinephilia you mentioned gives you hope for a format that doesn’t necessarily rely on the categories of the art market or the white cube—however redundant or obsolete that might sound. Do you see it that way, or am I romanticizing things?** I think you said it all. Loop truly exists in a niche sense. It’s funny you mention this, because I do believe the art market is undergoing a massive transformation. We’re not going to see its end tomorrow—these shifts take time—but things are clearly changing. States are defunding cultural institutions, museums are closing. Public museums have less money; private ones are uneven and extremely vulnerable. A public institution has the duty to preserve the works it holds, but if the grandchild of a major collector is more interested in watches or flying cars than art, entire collections can simply vanish. There’s a huge vulnerability there. When I go to fairs like Art Basel, I sense a kind of geriatric West, while younger collectors—often from Asia—have a completely different relationship to artworks. People are much more mobile now; we live in transit. You don’t want to accumulate vast amounts of art when your life is in flux. Why would someone collect a videowork when they don’t know what format it will \[require\] in ten years, or how to store or project it? This doesn’t mean the end of initiatives like Loop. Rather, it will lead to their transformation. Perhaps the market aspect will diminish, while the community, support, and networking dimensions—like museum directors or curators co-commissioning works together—will grow. These collaborations might emerge as new forms of support. Yes, it’s something that’s gaining momentum—not only today but historically, since ephemeral and loop-based works have long provoked deep social and ecological reflections. If we look back to what Allan Kaprow and Joan Jonas did in the 1970s, we can see how their work helped us understand the structures that sustain our practices today, and how we engage with such formats despite their financial precarity. Earlier today I was listening to a podcast on the origins of the “degrowth” movement. They were discussing its weaknesses; how it often relies too much on individual, Westernized actions rather than collective ones, but also its valuable focus on changing not just production and consumption, but evaluation. They talked about recognizing the unnecessary elements of society—professions that produce waste, such as marketing, advertising, publicity. These are distractions from what truly matters. **How do you navigate this media-saturated world? How do you handle your curatorial responsibility without becoming complicit in the same redundancy you just described?** By pursuing, and not always managing, a kind of sobriety. A good example is Vroom, an online cinema I co-founded with my dear friend and former partner Andrea Lissoni, in collaboration with Mousse Magazine. Then COVID happened, and suddenly every gallery and museum wanted its own online cinema—its own video platform—to keep grabbing attention and inviting consumption. “We’re closed, but keep watching, keep consuming.” At some point, we reached a crisis. Vroom had started as a platform to give visibility to works that had taken years and much effort to make but which were shown briefly and then disappeared—to give them a second life. Suddenly, we found ourselves participating in a translation of the physical rat race into the digital \[realm\]. So we stopped. We needed to think about what we were doing and how to act as curators in relation to saturation. *Vroom* has been dormant since then. I still dream of reviving it, but that would require more time and money. Your question is one I constantly ask myself: how much energy do we spend thinking, discovering, engaging with what truly matters—and how much do we simply feed a circuit that moves too fast? **I think you’ve managed that balance quite well. It reminds me of several projects you’ve led that I’ve followed—Vroom, of course, but also last year’s exhibition by Carlos Casas in Venice. It explored non-human perception, the relationship with the camera, and spaces that exist independently of it. I wonder how you think about the mirage from the perspective of an animal or a machine?** Recently I was reading a book on the history of rainbows, and I learned something that might seem obvious but which struck me deeply: a rainbow doesn’t exist in itself. It only manifests through vision. The phenomenon happens in our eyes—in our retina. So it’s not that the sun and the rain automatically create a rainbow. If no one is there to see it, it doesn’t exist. The other day I was walking my dog and saw a beautiful rainbow, and I wondered: do you see it too? Because of course, animals perceive colors differently. A rainbow, like a mirage, is a fantastic thing—sudden, incredible, fleeting. Some of the works we’re presenting at Loop this year engage with precisely that—traditions of psychedelia and altered perception that distort reality, because sometimes reality itself must be distorted. One example is a work by the Mexican collective Los Ingrávidos, which emerged during intense demonstrations in Mexico. They refused to reveal their real names out of fear of reprisals. Their work combines footage from protests with images and sounds from non-urban environments—complex sonic landscapes showing how the psychedelic can be profoundly political. There’s a need to decolonize the gaze, to decolonize narratives, to show the deep entanglement between seeing and acting. Another is the Karrabing Film Collective, which we’re presenting at the Centre Excursionista de Catalunya. They use cell phone cameras not to document their indigeneity for a Western gaze, but in an opaque, nonlinear way that expresses the complexities of their lives; the entanglement between bureaucratic frustrations, their relationship with land, and the tidal zone where they live. “Karrabing” literally means “the moment of low tide”. For them, the political and the environmental are resolved through distorted vision and psychedelic imagery. Similarly, we’re showing a work by Ana Vaz, which connects sound, memory, and posthuman environments, creating links between humanistic and nonhuman dimensions through music and perception. **Do you also sharpen your own perception through psychedelic experiences?** I’ve done so more in the past than now. But I think we all need forms of alienation—whatever they may be: Tai chi, meditation, a glass of wine at the end of the day, running, micro- or macro-dosing... I think that in order to even know who we are, or what we want, we need to allow ourselves to be high in some way. **Yes—readers, please just get disconnected.** Yes, please. **I have this strong image in my mind from what you mentioned at the beginning: the mirage in the desert. It’s interesting to connect the fact that mirages emerge from environmental conditions—heat, drought, distance. I wonder if it also served as a metaphor for the ecological death we experience today, especially during the festival.** When we began discussing the image and identity of the whole festival with Anna and Alex, our incredible designers, they told me about something I hadn’t known: a real atmospheric phenomenon that happens in Barcelona. When it’s very hot and humid, images of the city appear projected onto the coast—buildings seem to float on the sea, or boats appear suspended in the sky. They thought I was referring to this when I proposed “Mirages” as the festival’s title. It’s a phenomenon known as “Fata Morgana”—this illusion of something that isn’t there, appearing on the horizon of the coast. **Wow. I wonder how you hold that ecological awareness—especially given that many works risk aestheticizing crisis.** I’m often more interested in works that are not about something. The last thing we need is another photograph or video of a seagull filled with plastic caps—images that make us feel guilty or responsible but change nothing. What matters to me is how art can engage with environmental action in a way that reveals something fundamental: that social and environmental justice are intertwined. Wars, occupations, and ecological disasters are all rooted in imperialism, regimes of extractivism, and unlawful appropriation of resources. Environmental and social action go hand in hand. Yet it’s difficult to hold on to this truth, because we live in a moment of such despair that it often feels as if, as individuals, we can’t make meaningful change. And within that, the question becomes: what can art do? **I think the work of Mar Reykjavik responds to that, revealing in her work how certain forms of knowledge are silenced. Could you tell me more about the work she will present during the festival?** Yes, it’s one of the festival’s new commissions. It’s a performance that already existed but which is being reactivated. My assistant curator, Eva Paià, has been closely working on it. Mar is performing in a very interesting space in Barcelona—a small Kunsthaus-type venue called Casa Elizalde. The work, titled To the Wind, includes both a video and a live performance component, very much in the spirit of Joan Jonas. She explores how abstraction and language can engage with translation—what can be said, what remains unsaid, what’s censored or cannot be spoken. The performance unfolds as a fragmented narrative where different performers engage with what is told, interrupted, or broken. It recreates systems of censorship and obstruction—structures that prevent messages from being transmitted. At the same time, it exposes what is often left untold and celebrates forms of embodied dissonance: when language fails, how do we use our bodies to transmit what cannot be spoken? We need to continue to pursue saying the unsayable. // --- ### Image Cover: Billy Roisz, *The Garden of Electric Delights*, 2025, ©Billy Roisz, courtesy sixpackfilm Fig.1 Bill yRoisz, *Lunar Dust*, 2024, © Billy Roisz *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Masked Balls and "Drecksarbeit" URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/masked-balls-and-drecksarbeit/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:42.000Z For decades, critics of the law have made it their mission to expose the fiction of legal neutrality. They, or perhaps I should say “we”, have revelled in exposing structural biases that permeate the law, and in pointing out the political motives underneath the carapace of legal arguments. This work—unmasking law’s pretensions—was only meaningful for as long as enough actors bothered to wear the legal mask in the first place. But today, that mask is slipping—or has been tossed aside altogether. Only a few actors still make the effort of putting it on. Neither Israel nor the US took the trouble of legally justifying their armed attack on Iran in June 2025\. Nor did the plain illegality of those acts prevent the German chancellor Friedrich Merz from condoning them as *Drecksarbeit*—“dirty work” that simply had to be done. There is precious little left to unmask. If masks no longer fool anyone, might critics of the law pivot from unmasking to reconstruction—or to forging new vocabularies of legitimacy altogether? Legal critique, it seems, has run out of targets.\[1\] Now what? This turn away from the law is not something most critics would have wished for. Quite to the contrary, most of them have been quite content with the steady continuance of legal masquerades, and, when it suited them, many joined in and employed the law as a means to *their* ends. *“*Far from being a simple ideological mask,” the sociologist Pierre Bourdieu once observed, “a rhetoric of autonomy, neutrality, and universality … may be the basis of a real autonomy … \[for\] the juridical field.”\[2\] And one towering critic of law even professed that “whatever historical baggage, including bad faith” is embedded in a culture of formal legal argument, “its ideals include those of accountability, equality, reciprocity and transparency, and it comes to us with an embedded vocabulary of (formal) rights.”\[3\] But what use is this culture of formal legal argument when nearly anything apparently can be dressed up in the mantle of the law? When Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022, it did offer a legal justification. Call it bogus, cynical, or bullshit, the point is that Russia *still bothered* with the legal charade. More than anything else, Russia did this as a mocking commentary on unconvincing legal justifications of the past—think of the US-led invasion of Iraq, its strikes in Libya, Syria, Somalia, Sudan, and elsewhere. Russia did not take the law seriously, but then again, who does? And what would that even mean? Anyone who wants to unmask legal arguments must appreciate the practice of putting on a mask in the first place. Unmasking, however, could itself never be the endgame of critique. The critical gesture, rather, has stood in the service of revealing *nasty* politics with the hope of changing them. That the hidden truth would be recognized as ugly was largely taken for granted. Many legal critiques have gone beyond the particular politics of any individual actor to expose structural biases and double standards. This is arguably where the essential, direct action lies. It also seems more closely in tune with the aims of those who turn to law in their struggles from the bottom up. I am reminded, here, of the words of the Palestinian human rights activist Issa Amro, who insists that international legal mechanisms are crucial to hold perpetrators to account. The brazen omission of any legal justification for the attack on Iran or the offhand attempts to couch the genocidal violence in Gaza in cloaks of legality reflect the relevant actors’ sense of certainty that they will not have to deal with the law’s consequences. Sure enough, shaped by the most powerful actors, the law is often weakest when it matters most. If nothing else, however, history teaches that nothing lasts forever. Those who discard the law’s vocabulary today may soon find themselves without the tools for legitimizing their actions tomorrow. They may soon look like fools. History is fickle enough. // --- ### Footnote \[1\] Twenty years ago, Bruno Latour argued similarly in “Why Has Critique Run out of Steam? From Matters of Fact to Matters of Concern,” Critical Inquiry 30 (2004): 225-248. \[2\] Pierre Bourdieu, “The Force of Law,” The Hastings Law Journal 38 (1987): 805-853. \[3\] Martti Koskenniemi, From Apology to Utopia (Cambridge University Press, 2005), 616. Image Cover: Nairy Baghramian, Misfits, 2021; walnut wood, varnished casted aluminium, marble; installation view Galleria d’Arte Moderna, Milan, Italy; photograph Nick Ash. Courtesy and copyright of the Winsing Art Foundation Taipei, Taiwan *Ingo Venzke is Professor of International Law and So- cial Justice, Director of the Amsterdam Center for In- ternational Law (ACIL), and Fellow at The New Institute, Hamburg.* ### The Limits of International Law URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-limits-of-international-law/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:41.000Z *More than half a century after the Club of Rome warned of the ecological limits to exponential growth, the global legal order continues to rest on premises that deny planetary finitude. While the Paris Agreement on climate change was hailed as a major diplomatic victory, it has proven insufficient in the face of rising emissions, extractive urbanism, and mass displacement. In this context, law risks becoming a language of delay—a structure that manages collapse rather than averting it.* *And yet, within—and against—the law, new imaginaries persist. Artists, jurists, and communities are drafting their own climate contracts, forms of municipal resistance, and poetic constitutions of the commons.* **AWC: A decade after the Paris Agreement, the planet is warmer, displacement is accelerating, and fossil fuel subsidies continue. What, in your view, did the Paris Agreement actually achieve—legally, symbolically, and/or strategically?** **Ingo Venzke (IV):** The greatest achievement of the Paris Agreement is the postulation of the concrete temperature target of limiting global warming to 1.5°C. This agreed target has been mobilized on the streets, in parliaments, and in courtrooms. It is a crucial anchor for progressive climate politics, a backbone premise that supports countless other claims. Take the leading climate case before the German Constitutional Court, for example. The court held that Germany’s climate law was unconstitutional because it delayed action for too long, leaving younger generations to shoulder an excessive burden later on. The court reached this conclusion by grounding its reasoning on the 1.5˚C target. For the International Court of Justice, the Paris Agreement and its temperature goal also played a pivotal role in its recent Advisory Opinion on Climate Change: the court read and clarified states’ obligations in light of that agreed target. **AWC: How can international law be an instrument of transformation under capitalism?** **Christina Eckes (CE):** The wheels of international law turn slowly. However, when properly implemented, international law provides several principles that could fundamentally change the current course of our economy. In July 2025, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights explained in its Advisory Opinion on the climate emergency that one of the most fundamental obligations of states is not to contribute to irreversible environmental harm. This should logically translate, at a minimum, into an obligation to stop subsidising fossil fuel consumption and granting licences for oil exploration. This opinion shows that while international law is rooted in imperial and capitalist histories, it contains emancipatory potential. By reinterpreting or contesting dominant legal norms, activists and scholars can expose contradictions in the capitalist global order and push for more just alternatives. **AWC: Isn’t it doomed to preserve the architecture of crisis management and market solutions?** **Margaretha Wewerinke-Singh (MW):** It is doomed if we leave that architecture intact, but the past few years have opened a different path. International courts have begun to say, in plain terms, that governments must stop causing harm, not merely manage the fallout. Christina already mentioned the Inter-American Court’s recognition of a fundamental duty not to inflict irreversible environmental damage, which sits uneasily with new oil licences and fossil fuel subsidies. This ruling did not come out of the blue, but reflects a much broader body of jurisprudence from courts around the world. Most recently, the International Court of Justice’s ruling, which Ingo highlighted, explicitly confirmed that fossil fuel production, licensing, and subsidizing can constitute a wrongful act under international law, triggering obligations of cessation—in other words, to stop causing harm—and reparation. Moves like these push us away from delay and toward immediate phase-out, prevention, and repair. These steps ultimately require a complete overhaul of the system. The title of Progressive International’s briefing following the ICJ’s ruling is telling: “Capitalism is illegal. A historic ICJ ruling confirms it: fossil-fuel capitalism violates international law”. To be sure, the judges did not use those exact words. But they did speak in terms of “reparations”, which gives activists and advocates much to work with. **AWC: How do you see the role of legal scholars and institutions in a world where ecological collapse is not a forecast but a condition of the present?** **CE:** The scale of the present emergency only increases the need for legal engagement. The problem lies primarily in short-sighted politics governed by immediate economic concerns. We need frameworks that allow us to think and act long-term, accounting for both present and future necessities. The KlimaSeniorinnen decision of the European Court of Human Rights underscored, more than any previous judgment, the need for national climate policy to be grounded in science. It is now for high-emitting European states to put this into practice, and for international, regional, and national institutions—as well as scholars—to follow this process and hold them accountable. Another crucial aspect to develop is how to account for the cost of inaction. At present, legal debates focus on responsibilities for past damage and future action. When future impacts are considered, the conversation usually centers on steep emission reduction measures and their restrictions on freedoms. What we need are ways to legally capture the costs of certain current and future climate impacts—economic as well as human—and weigh them in the legal balancing of interests. **IV:** I fully agree and would add one bit of nuance: as an academic, I see an additional role for myself in exposing the law as part of the problem, even if I don’t immediately know what to do about it. Anyone who operates within the legal system is, in one way or another, obliged to provide answers. That is different for academics, who have the freedom to research, think, and analyze without the immediate need for their research to be operational. That is part of their function in society—a crucial point to uphold, especially when times are so urgent. **AWC: What does “neutrality” mean in this context?** **MWS:** Neutrality cannot mean sitting on the fence while harm continues. If we are serious about evidence and basic rights, “neutrality” means telling the truth about what the science requires and who bears responsibility. Europe’s human rights court has already said, in its 2024 KlimaSeniorinnen v. Switzerland ruling, that governments must protect people from the serious risks of climate change. It faulted Switzerland for lacking a science-based plan. Being neutral between a proven risk and proven measures is not neutrality; it is abdication. Whether academics focus on diagnosis or solutions, a commitment to truth and integrity is essential. **AWC: Suppose artists, jurists, and citizens came together to write a radical law—rooted in ecological protection, anti-displacement, and historical reparations. What legal, political, and strategic limits would such a law face within the current legal order?** **IV:** Many grassroots activities struggle with issues of scale. What works well for a small community becomes shakier when it expands and becomes more institutionalized, even legalized. At some point, relationships with that strange animal called “the state” and its law must be arranged and negotiated. How much of state-based law can be co-opted, and how much must be kept at arm’s length? I say this against the background of a state-based legal order that is, in many ways, extractive—in both capitalist and ecological senses. The challenge for any radical legal rewrite is how far it will engage with state-based law. It is a classic dilemma in progressive struggle: how much do you give in? **AWC: Can cities such as Amsterdam claim climate and housing justice beyond their delegated powers?** **MWS:** Cities are not powerless. Within national frameworks, they can protect homes from speculation, require actual occupancy, and expand truly public housing. They can use public procurement to prefer builders and suppliers who respect human rights and cut emissions under EU rules—shifting markets without waiting for national reforms. And where higher law blocks fair outcomes, cities can litigate, legislate within their remit, and build coalitions with other municipalities to change the rules. This is already happening. The Dutch “nitrogen crisis” shows the stakes: the courts struck down a lax permitting system, but the answer cannot be to freeze social housing indefinitely; it must include cutting the largest sources of nitrogen pollution while prioritizing projects with clear public value. Law gives cities more room than they often claim; justice asks them to use it. **AWC: What tools—legal or otherwise—can be mobilized to decolonize space, reclaim housing, or abolish extractivist urban planning?** **MW:** Start by loosening property’s grip on everything. Community land trusts separate land from the market so homes remain affordable and under democratic control. They already work at scale \[as seen\] in cities like Brussels. Brazil’s City Statute gives cities tools—participatory planning, duties attached to property, and targeted taxes—to put use-value above speculation. In places shaped by settler colonialism, free, prior, and informed consent should be a baseline for any major project affecting Indigenous lands or ways of life. Scotland’s “community right to buy” shows how law can transfer strategic assets into community hands for restoration and housing. None of this is exotic. It is a practical toolkit for care, repair, and shared stewardship. **CE:** We need massive social housing investment based on public good, not market logic—ideally through public housing expansion and decommodification, with strong participation of local communities. This would likely also require building new homes. In the Dutch context, however, where building permits are scarce because construction worsens our massive nitrogen problem, investment in new social housing would have to go hand in hand with seriously reducing the animal farming industry—the greatest contributor to the nitrogen crisis. **IV:** Last year, we began a new research collaboration at the University of Amsterdam focused on “Decolonial Futures”. We explore the role of law across multiple fields: museums, archives, and cultural practices; migration, mobility, and borders; and ecology, sustainability, and climate change. There are many ways in which law can be mobilized to support struggles for redress and repair. But it is also important to see clearly how the law shields certain actors from such claims and may even perpetuate colonial injustices. I am sure we’ll return to that point. **AWC: Now that laws often protect polluters more than people, could fictional or performative legal texts become tools for civic education, resistance, or healing?** **IV:** Challenge accepted. We should cherish that part of our freedom in research and teaching much more. We sometimes do, but not enough. To rephrase a point I made earlier: how much distance do you take? Or do you give in—just a little, or more—to engage existing legal structures in an attempt to transform them? Reality has a strong pull. Fiction and performance—ecological utopias, for instance—can stabilize long-term horizons so that progressive struggles avoid the pitfalls of reformism. **CE:** In education, we have the freedom to engage with fictional legal texts, but we seldom use it. If we shifted communication toward the functions of law rather than the law itself, we could rely more strongly on fictional texts—e.g., mock constitutions, people’s tribunals—to expose how law creates realities, whom it serves, and what it suppresses. We could allow ourselves and others to playfully and critically deploy the legal form, to better understand how power structures are built and maintained, how legal language obscures violence or grants legitimacy, and what radically different alternatives may be possible. **AWC: What would it take for international legal education to make space for such radical imaginaries—where law is not merely interpreted or applied, but re-invented as a creative and collective act?** **CE:** As a starting point, this would require highlighting law’s role in shaping the world, not merely reflecting it. This challenges the traditional way of teaching law as a neutral, technical field. Instead, law must be understood as a site of struggle, imagination, and power. To some extent, this is already part of research and teaching in International and European Law at the University of Amsterdam—but it would need to extend into all fields, including tax, property, and company law. A further step would be to incorporate non-Western legal traditions, Indigenous jurisprudence, and Global South perspectives. **AWC: What legal strategies exist—or should exist—to hold climate criminals accountable, especially when they act through multinational anonymity and diplomatic immunity?** **IV:** Much of the destruction of the planet—through greenhouse gas emissions and otherwise—has not only been immensely lucrative, but also, at first glance, legal. This is especially the case for emissions from private actors. But states are under an obligation of due diligence in the context of the climate crisis. That means they must take measures to prevent harm to the climate system, including harm caused by private industry. It is crucial to foreground and uphold states’ obligations to make harmful activities—above all, fossil fuel extraction and production—illegal. There is also another legal strategy that turns to private law. For example, the German Higher Regional Court of Hamm upheld a lawsuit by a Peruvian farmer against the energy giant RWE. The court found that threats of damage to property caused by RWE’s contribution to global warming could render RWE liable, even if its emissions were, *per se*, legal. **AWC: Could there be a role for legal speech that does not demand enforcement but instead mobilizes memory—naming those responsible through rituals of public grief and rage?** **MWS:** Yes—because stories can move a public before statutes do. People’s tribunals and other civic forums don’t issue binding orders, but they create records, name patterns of harm, and keep memory alive. The Russell Tribunal on Vietnam did this in the 1960s. Today, Rights of Nature Tribunals gather testimony and draft judgments that can later feed litigation, policy, and divestment. These rituals don’t replace courts or formal proceedings. They prepare the ground for them—and for politics—by refusing erasure. In a system that too often shields polluters, this kind of speech is not a sideshow. It builds the moral and imaginative authority that law will eventually have to embody. **AWC: What would a “law of the commons” look like if it were written by those who live with the consequences of ecological injustice—rather than those who manage its profitability?** **CE:** A “law of the commons” would have to shift from a structure of individual rights to a structure of collective responsibilities—placing care for nature and for others at the center. It would remind us that nature is not here to serve our interests, but that we are part of nature, and that life is inseparable from it. Such a law would be grounded in the understanding that ethics are relational. It would have to account not only for those alive today, but also for future generations; not only for urban populations, but also for farmers; not only for preservation, but for the regeneration of nature itself, alongside hu§man interaction with nature and with one another. **IV:** Amen. I would add an emphasis on the strong asymmetry between those who have contributed most to the climate crisis and those who suffer most from it. These asymmetries map onto racial, gender, and class divides, as well as geographic ones. A law of the commons would have to undo such patterns of domination, and it would need to rest on some form of reparation and atonement. **MWS**: Fully agreed on all counts. Those most affected would set the terms: Indigenous peoples deciding on regeneration and repair of their lands; local communities co-governing energy, water, and housing; time measured in generations, not financial quarters. We already have parts of this in practice. Indigenous jurisprudence recognizes relationships, not just transactions; commons scholarship shows how communities can steward shared resources without market or state monopolies; and some constitutions now recognize the rights of nature itself, building on Indigenous practices. Recognizing the sovereignty and rights of these communities is a logical first step toward a “law of the commons”. \\\\ --- ### Image credits Cover: Nairy Baghramian, Beliebte Stellen, 2017; bronze, paint, zinc-coated steel, rubber; installation view Skulptur Projekte Münster 2017, Münster, Germany; photograph Benjamin Westoby. Courtesy and copyright of the artist. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Nairy Baghramian URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/nairy-baghramian/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:38.000Z Her long reflection on what sculpture is—when stripped of stability, produced under constraint, displacement, or lack—could be called choreographic. It doesn’t offer closure or unity. Instead, it moves through provisional structures, fragile materials, and historical fragments to pose the following question: how does an artwork survive its own conditions of emergence? Nairy Baghramian describes her upcoming exhibition project for WIELS, *Nameless*, as “light” in material terms but “heavy” in cognitive weight. There is an intentional emptiness, comprising walls leaning against columns, glass works that resemble neons but do not emit light through blown glass. This confluence of volumes might simply mean “a multitude of abstract selves— caught in passages, uncertain whether they are arriving or vanishing,” as she says—forms caught in transition, unsure if they are arriving or disappearing. The exhibition will also include wax portraits, hooks, and quirky curves that never settle into static installation. “It will be very much about niches,” she notes—about the absence of a stable place or point of access, about the condition of being suspended in-between: as if you are on the verge of entering a space, or already in the act of leaving it.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nairy-Baghramian-Scratching-the-Back-Drift-Pink-Ribbon-is-the-most-monumental-of-her-works-here-and-with-its-flood-of-red-the-most-ominous.Credit-Amir-Hamja_The-New-York-Times.jpg) Fig.1 Or maybe not. She leaves everything open until the end. Even the title of the exhibition, for instance, emerged years ago from her notes about and around not only sculptural histories around WWII—from the ways works were destroyed, remade, or displaced, to the shifting material and historical conditions that shaped them. The list is endless but to name few for example Katarzyna Kobro, who, during the war, was forced to burn her wooden constructions to heat her home, while her husband, the painter Władysław Strzemiński, refused to sacrifice his canvases—Kobro’s works were, after all, “just sculptures.” Another is Hans Arp, who, while fleeing Nazi Germany, made a small papier-mâché figure in transit and titled it *Stateless* (1939). For Baghramian, these instances are not isolated anecdotes but material evidence: “Sculpture is never transcendent—it alters itself under the force of circumstance.” There is no transcendence here, no romanticization that shields it from necessity, from adapting, crossing, or even disfiguring itself in relation to its time. Her insistence on material history—on the situatedness of form—runs through each of her previous epic scale exhibitions. A *virtuosa* in eschewing permanence, forging through materials an indescribable signature style, Baghramian explores what a body of work can be when it loses access to its own tools, spaces, or references. “You don’t have access almost to your own self,” she says. “The work is never fixed– it is always in motion, always in passage.” In *Nameless*, this transience takes the shape of works made of found neon, re-heated and bent again, mixed with newly blown glass. Nothing is stable. The light is off. The forms are fragile: “You have to carry them like eggs.” There is no press release yet, if you visit WIELS’ website for information. Baghramian resists affirmative interpretations and avoids defining what the exhibition means in advance. “Dirk \[Snauwaert, director and curator of the exhibition\] wanted to write a longer text, and I thought it’s too early to put the words in place.” Such resistance is political in nature: part of the refusal to fix the work into a narrative of success or legibility. It is, after all, *Nameless* and not *Untitled*—a word that does not resist identification. Instead of fixity, processuality remains the imperative: art working against its own production; works interrupting their own methods and legacy, becoming fragile rather than durable. This is not to say Baghramian is uninterested in large-scale solid structures. She is well known for them, often returning to old techniques, but re-conditioning them for the present: “There is no such thing as simply reaching for what lies next door—something ready at hand. Instead there is always the condition of what is absent, what must be re-made”. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ouverture-2024-castello-di-rivoli-turin-19-december-2024-18-december-2025.jpeg) Fig.2 When I ask if the exhibition is about traces of the current wars, Baghramian replies: “No—the wars did not begin today. But there are always difficult thresholds when you consider the life of a work: how does it endure, how does it shift, and how does it survive, and how does it adapt to the world?” The concern is with temporality, not heroism, with how materials respond to (social, political, physical) constraint. With the recurring necessity of making things that can’t—or shouldn’t—last. This attention to contingency links *Nameless* to earlier site-specific works, for example her exhibition in Sardinia’s Pratza e Duomo, where sculptures existed alongside civic infrastructure and the works of friends and artists including Oscar Murillo, and Mariantonia Urru, a weaver from Nivola. “You cannot live without neighbors,” she said of that project. *Nameless* works similarly. Not as a gesture of generosity, but as a material decision. The work doesn’t aim for autonomy. It’s dependent on space, bodies, and the surrounding conditions. For me it is unavoidable to think of Marx here, whether explicitly stated or not: artworks are shaped by the relations of production, by where and when they are made, by what is available. Baghramian returns again and again to the question of what sculpture becomes when there is no proper studio, when tools are missing, when materials are broken or unstable, pulling softly apart the illusion of artistic mastery. It points instead to the work of modification, survival. Even her neon works are structured by disappearance. In Turin, she observed neons mounted on buildings during daylight, with their lights off. After shops had closed, their neons remained. “The legacy of neon in the public sphere is gradually losing its meaning, as economic decisions increasingly push aside aesthetic considerations,” she said. “This prompted me to wonder about the role of neon in the streets today: which signs still glow, and which have fallen silent? What does their presence—or their absence—say about its shifting values” This question—what is off, what is on—runs through *Nameless* and through her broader sculptural language. Only one of Baghramian’s neons will be lit, the one reading *Nameless*, displayed in the silo at WIELS. It is the only illuminated gesture in the show. It does not offer clarity but reminds us that naming is a kind of placeholder—always too much, or never enough. It also reminds us that the building had a life before becoming an (off) white cube. Baghramian’s gouache and collage series *Side Leaps* operate through similar logics of dislocation and partiality. The series doesn’t aspire to the full presence of a sculpture in the round. The component works do not anchor themselves in anything specific. “*Side Leaps* don’t have a fixation on dates,” she says. They emerge out of gaps, residual gestures, marginal notes, and sculptural thoughts that don’t resolve into form. They are a politics of remainder—what survives not through durability but through not being central. This conceptual thread—of stability versus precarious ground—continues from earlier projects such as Stay Downers, where the works are defined less by physical stance than by their social position: always downplayed, never aspiring to rise. “They do not carry names but rather a description or an attitude”. This refusal to individualize or elevate the work mirrors the way Baghramian treats her practice—not as a linear progression or set of iconic objects, but as a series of responses to conditions. A sculptural body of work always conditioned by the environment and never resolved in itself. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Scratching-the-Back-Drift-Orange-Ribbon-2023-suggests-a-meeting-of-two-figures-separated-by-a-fence.Credit...Amir-Hamja_The-New-York-Times-1.jpg) Fig.3 In Chin Up, her exhibition in Mexico City, these ideas were translated to architectural scale. A large work, mounted high on the wall, was maybe drawn from an adult’s advice on how to carry oneself in classed spaces: “Be proud. Chin up. Do not look down.” The body enters the work here not as representation, but as instruction. The exhibition title becomes both posture and critique. It signals how the body learns to move through the world—how it performs resilience and vulnerability through gesture. Whether “chin up” or “stay down”, these verbal cues circulate between the social and the sculptural, framing how we look and how we are looked at. What links all of these works—*Side Leaps*, *Stay Downers*, *Chin Up*, and now *Nameless*—is a fundamental attention to how sculpture can be under pressure. Not pressure as a metaphor, but as actual historical and material constraint: war, exile, housing insecurity, lack of access to tools or studios, the loss of neighbors, or the over-presence of them. These are not biographical anecdotes; they are structural conditions. This is why Baghramian pushes against the idea of sculpture as a signature. The work doesn’t repeat itself. It doesn’t perform coherence. If it sometimes returns to familiar materials—glass, wax, aluminum—it does so with interruption. “Materials sometimes return,” she poses, “but just as often there is the impossibility that they are accessible to you at all” The work continues, but always under new terms. Sometimes there’s no studio. Sometimes the found neon is too fragile to be rewired. Sometimes it must be blown anew. Even the invitation to exhibit at WIELS, after seventeen years of conversations, came not as an act of career recognition but as a moment of shared timing. “Dirk tried to make my life easier by suggesting we bring a collection of existing works he had generously followed for many years”, she recalls. “But I knew I only wanted to pursue what I had been waiting so long to attempt”. The comfort and trust in that conversation allowed her to pursue *Nameless*, a project that might otherwise be considered too empty, too reduced, too unmonumental for a solo exhibition at such scale. Indeed, emptiness is central here. Not in the sense of absence, but as refusal to overproduce. “Anywhere else,” she reflects, “people would say: it’s not enough. Too little work, too much empty space, the scale too vast. But for me, those very qualities are essential to this body of work.” But Baghramian sees that refusal as part of the work itself. The exhibition is not a display of mastery, but a material investigation into what happens when conditions do not allow for more. This question—of how much space can be taken, and how much space even a sculpture should take—is not merely theoretical. It’s architectural, logistical, even ethical. “How much room can one claim?” with this question, she is not being rhetorical. “Sculpture demands this awareness: it unfolds in dialogue with the space and forms that surround. After all, no one should live entirely without neighbors”. Even if the neighbors are not the ones you would choose. Even if the space is not ideal. Even if the form cannot stand on its own. Nostalgia is nowhere to be seen. No attempt to redeem fragility through metaphor. It is fragility as such: glass, wax, absence, silence. Not lit neons, but neons that suggest their own past illumination. Not full rooms, but transitional spaces that require reading in the dark. “It’s joyful,” she smiles, “but it’s stressful because it’s not a comfort zone either.” What Baghramian offers in *Nameless* is a sculptural politics rooted in necessity. A refusal to monumentalize. A recognition that forms emerge conditionally—sometimes partially, sometimes not at all. That even the most ephemeral gesture—blown glass, leaning walls, unlit neon—can bear the full weight of historical pressure, and still remain unnamed. // *Nairy Baghramian,* Nameless*. October 25, 2025 - March 1, 2026* *WIELS Brussels* --- ### Images Cover: Nairy Baghramian, Beliebte Stellen, 2017; bronze, paint, zinc-coated steel, rubber; installation view Skulptur Projekte Münster 2017, Münster, Germany; photograph Benjamin Westoby. Courtesy and copyright of the artist Fig.1 Nairy Baghramian, Scratching the Back- Drift (Pink Ribbon), is the most monumental of her works here, and with its flood of red, the most ominous. Credit Amir Hamja: The New York Times Fig.2 Nairy Baghramian, Se ployant (soufre), 2024; cast aluminium, stainless steel, bronze; installation view Castello di Rivoli, Turin, Italy; photograph Ela Bialkowska. Courtesy and copyright of the artist. Fig.3 Nairy Baghramian, Scratching the Back- Drift (Orange Ribbon), 2023, suggests a meeting of two figures separated by a fence. Credit: Amir Hamja: The New York Times *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Guerrilla Frequencies URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/guerrilla-frequencies/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:33.000Z *Capeforce* is a shapeshifting opera and performance work rooted in the sonic provocations of composer Julius Eastman. His works—Evil Nigger, Crazy Nigger, and Gay Guerilla—offered me a structural and conceptual framework to think about “guerillaness” as both a sonic and embodied strategy. This work aims to test how speculative realities—emerging through sonic and physical interventions—might dramatize hauntological contradictions within today’s global society. My pursuit isn’t simply to stage a performance, but to break passive spectatorship by opening a space of friction, rupture, and recognition. Earlier stagings this year in Philadelphia and Brussels approached risk as both aesthetic and ethical terrain: confrontation, exposure, and danger were not ends in themselves, but portals to collective awareness. In Philadelphia, I rigged a 1993 Ford Thunderbird with an amplifier, a Roland sampler, and microphones. The audience followed me—an invitation and a test—to an undisclosed location nearby. When the headlights flashed and the car blocked a small intersection, Julius Eastman’s Prelude to The Holy Presence of Joan D’Arc surged through the speakers. Another performer emerged from the trunk, and our duet quickly drew hostility from neighbors above, who hurled racial and homophobic slurs before calling the police. In Brussels, the police arrived preemptively to shut us down. Yet in both cases, something unplanned occurred: audience members and bystanders formed a circle around us, a collective shield. Their stillness—protective, resolute—transformed tension into suspended observation. That spontaneous choreography of care dissolved the binary between performer and witness; risk became a medium of relation. In *capeforce iv*, made for Istanbul, these gestures evolved toward a more complex interrogation: how can performance not only provoke but accompany political struggle? How can the choreography of danger become a choreography of relation? The sonic and spatial provocations remain, but the stakes have shifted—from testing the limits of public disruption to cultivating networks of solidarity and mutual protection within environments of heightened surveillance and control. Yet what became clear was that the assumptions formed in earlier contexts could not translate neatly into Turkey. My position as a non-binary Black American encountered different modes of racialization and surveillance. The unpredictability of state authority demanded new tactics and new listening. This iteration confronted not only the choreography of danger but the limits of translatability itself—of identity, resistance, and care across shifting political terrains. In this textual account, I document the process of the coming about of this evolution. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2025-10-15-at-10.52.25.jpeg) Fig.1 ***June 2nd*** Today I arrived in Istanbul very early in the morning by an overnight flight from London. YC and KS greeted me early at 7:00 am with great warmth and spirit. I later learned that the flow of Istanbul ends at 6 am and wakes at noon. We talked over coffee in their apartment for a few hours before meeting a friend, a photojournalist named TB. Immediately, TB and I got right into it about the state of the Turkish government and the state and absurdity of the current administration in the US. I felt we became instant friends and comrades. I moved through most of the day with little sleep but rigorous ambition to get adjusted to the city. Later in the evening, YC and I met at one of their favorite bars to get to know each other since this was our first day meeting. We soon ran into other staple friends of theirs through the night and landed at this discreet bar with an empty pocket of light and rustic table at 2 am. Here were 5 of us, already a few drinks in, but very fiery. One of the friends is part of the “Pride committee”, a group of rotating queer and trans community members who dedicate 6 months to planning demonstrations for Pride month. I happen to be lucky, as the Pride demonstrations are to kick off at the end of this month. BB, one of the people at the table and a committee member, caught me up to speed: for the past 10 years and rapidly in the past 5, the capital city of Ankara, along with several governors around Turkey, have banned all LGBTQI+ related public events and discussions over the guise of “protecting peace and security”. Therefore, alongside queer and trans community, feminist groups are also targeted to the degree of receiving similar bans. This means they cannot occupy or take up space under the suspicion of organizing and planning, which also risks parties and gatherings that are always under threat of being disrupted and raided. Each year for the demonstration, the Pride community undergoes an intense planning, strategizing, and mapping to lead, confuse, and avoid authorities while taking up as much space alongside various parts of the city between Kadikoy and Karakoy. After much discussion, I saw the connection between these communities being at high risk, specifically in the US, UK, and across Europe, in this rising tide of fascist seductions. I proposed to enact in this context the IV iteration of *capeforce*, and if the organizers see any potential in it being at the service here alongside the demonstration. After many disagreements, discussions, and bouncing off ideas, pushbacks, etc, from all 5 of us around the table—BB was skeptical, but interested and convinced. Maybe *capeforce* can be incorporated as another diffusing method, distraction, or public spectacle aligned with their cause. BB proposed the performance to the rest of the organizing team, which is made up of volunteer lawyers, experienced organizers, and other trusted comrades. They responded with much enthusiasm, though they wanted to first situate a one-to-one call with me to discuss the risks involved with one of their own who has experience with international relations, especially with the US and French embassies. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2025-10-15-at-11.22.22.jpeg) Fig.2 **June 3rd** The next day, I spoke with TB over tea at his house. He has much experience dealing with Turkish police, being arrested and thrown into jail or prison several times, either the day of a protest as press, or sometimes in the middle of the night. TB believed that as an American, I should have some major protection, so much so that immediately, a lawyer would contact the American embassy if arrested, and within hours, I’d be released. ***June 4th*** Encouraged by TB’s experience, to further prep for my conversation with the organization team, I spoke to Valentina Desideri, whom I trust as someone to collaborate practically and conceptually with, addressing the political stakes at play. I was also increasingly frustrated at what was occurring in LA, as Trump decided to send the National Guard into the city in response to LA citizens protesting against ICE in protection of their immigrant communities. The brutality and illegality of the police and the guards were increasing by the moment worldwide. We understood that first and foremost, priorities are thinking through “exit strategies” and risk-reductions, then to clearly stage the visibility of the action as a performance or artistic work. I was not interested in this work being portrayed as a demonstration. A big role is played by the attention from bystanders and the audience, which protects the piece and also makes it significant. Attention shall be recalled via sound, for it to abruptly burst. This means that the sound element is most crucial for creating a protective orb, which signifies that this is a performance. The sound must initiate the performance and be obnoxious, or just too loud, or else it could be mistaken for car music. It may also fail at demanding the attention it needs. There can’t be a delay between the start of the performance and the performative staging, or else the police may intervene too early, where it is not clear that this is a performance. To signal the end of the performance, the sound should end first, followed by the car leaving and me disappearing into the crowd and/or nearby demonstration. This can offer me protection. To hyper-visibilize the work as performance or staging alongside the sound is to have a camera, or a couple, be present. It has to feel a bit out of the ordinary, and as an obvious “artwork”. It also acts as another protection between myself and hyper-visibilizing the response of Turkish authorities, especially once it's clear that I am American. Another added protection is with the New York Times press badge provided by YC, as another American element, and the illusion of additional media presence. Then we leaned into the performative qualities, such as costuming, which will act as masks from being surveilled and identified later by the additional 30,000 facial recognition devices around Istanbul, newly installed by the Turkish Government. This is especially important, since TB informed me that the secret police can come to arrest you days after the performance or demonstration. With all this in mind, I would keep my face visible as a grounding point, since I have the most protection as a non-Turkish citizen unattached to an address. The basic level of volunteers needed for this piece is a driver, a photographer, and a “cinematographer”. The driver, I think, has to be a Turkish lawyer who can mediate with questioning by authorities and our rights. The photographer can be YC, who can “represent” the New York Times. The friend of TB who can be the cinematographer/Turkish journalist on the scene. Additional volunteers that would serve a conceptual purpose could range from 2 or 3 people. I think the costuming here can signify queer, though the abnormality of it already does that. What is also necessary is communication between the organizers of the demonstration and our group to act as another coordinator. This is to ensure that the positioning, timing, and diffusion of the act are in place. I imagine for this performance action to be coordinated with the positions of the demonstration, so that I can be adjacent to, but not directly or explicitly attached to it, the timing works to help diffuse from another positioning of demonstrations. Another pop-up demonstration would occur to help diffuse the act and police interference, if this is already being imagined to happen by organizers. TB mentioned that a Palestinian flag can offer protection, while an LGBTQ flag will get me immediately detained. To approach this as an artwork, the work can associate these things without them. Additionally, I hope to establish a few trusted connections in France and in the US, who will be ready to help share and amplify from the outside, and increase awareness of the increasing level of governmental fascism globally. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2025-10-15-at-10.52.28.jpeg) Fig.3 ***June 5th*** After talking with CC (committee member) over the phone, after my conversation with Valentina, and with my preparation notes, there were many holes in the ideas we had thought through for the performance. Firstly, there is a tremendous risk with me being a non-Turkish citizen. If I am caught during the day of the demonstration, I will most definitely and immediately be detained, then tortured for days (maybe weeks), and potentially deported out of the country. There will be no excuses or hesitations by the police and secret police present during the day. There is definitely no way of driving or using a car in Istanbul during the day of the demonstrations, especially since most roads will be blocked off. There is a possible way to get around facial recognition technology. There are styles of wearing makeup over the face that distort the right forms and curvatures enough that each performer will be undetectable. This has been used and implemented in other forms of demonstrations and protests in previous years in Istanbul, and also adopted in other parts of the world. CC sent over an article describing ways, also this information is widely available online. Phone communication is not safe either. Most popular encrypted services with their venues based in Istanbul, were forced by police to illegally release all the communication information of individuals they wanted information on, even suspects. These companies would gladly assist. So even though these services are supposed to provide encryption and security protocols, they would do no good. This conversation with CC led me to the conclusion that no individual has protected rights here. Even as an American citizen, my assumption that I would have some kind of extra protection does not exist. I assumed that since the Turkish and American governments have deep political and economic ties with each other, even that the Turkish government would not want to cause difficulty with the American embassy. Though a few false assumptions were made present. The first being that Donald Trump, as he has demonstrated with the LA riots this past month and rising claims to deport “terrorists” and individuals who do not “uphold American values” (or even “endanger” them), I cannot rely on the American embassy to protect me overseas. I would be attacking the same kind of values that his administration is trying to implement. Secondly, CC informed me that even if the American embassy tries to have me released immediately, the Turkish government probably would just ignore them and defy their requests. Additionally, they told me that the last time the American embassy successfully retrieved a prisoner from Turkish imprisonment was in the last 8 years, and they were a pope. I am no pope, just a troublemaking instigative artist. During the next two weeks, I continued brainstorming alternative possibilities, including Valentina, TB, and encounters with friends in Istanbul along the process: a film screening of the performance, first performed and filmed in a discreet garage and later projected throughout multiple buildings and sites across Istanbul during the demonstration. Another was to collaborate with Noh Radio Bar to livestream an audio broadcast of the performance while protests occurred–whether this would be broadcast from a live performance staged in the adjacent street or pre-recorded was to be discussed. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2025-10-15-at-11.22.22-1.jpeg) Fig.4 ***June 15th*** With less than two weeks remaining, I spiraled into paranoia while YC and KS were away. For the past week, I became so wary about whom I could talk to about the pressure I was feeling. I was noticing surveillance cameras everywhere I went across the city, sometimes only feeling safe to send a text on the ferry across to Karaköy. I wasn’t sure if the police had the technology to hack phones by proximity. Once, I was on the phone with a friend when I noticed I was directly across from a police station as a group of police were staring at me (or so I supposed). There were occasional police interventions on the streets, where they’d spontaneously block in parades of people and ask for identification, letting no one from outside enter from either side. Usually stationed around the city were large groups of police and military personnel, posed around armored vehicles, watching and alert. I became interested in documenting and locating these stagings, as I have done in other cities around Europe I traveled to. Though this time I am hyper vigilant of their presence. When they returned, we began discussing the developments I’ve had towards *capeforce* and with the organizers over the past week. I told them about the concerns relayed, and YC was quite frustrated at first. They felt like we were all constantly taking risks. If we are to become scared and afraid to take them, then none of it is worth it. They should have more confidence in me deciding to do so. KS also agreed and added that he believes I would only be detained, maybe for a few hours. ***June 21st*** The Sunday before the larger general Pride demonstration was the march for Trans Pride. The atmosphere was quite intense–beginning the morning with breakfast between a few of us meant to attend. This was followed by a stream of concerning events. One of the organizers left our place to go home. On their way while riding the metro, they were abducted by undercover police dressed in plain clothes. The remaining small group anxiously went out to find a place to wait for the call. In a nearby cafe, three police officers entered and sat behind us. Of course, we waited, concerned we were their targets. We left and hid out in a hotel lobby until we were notified of the location to meet for the demonstration: an undisclosed location only a few lead organizers knew of for security measures. These moments were smeared with an expanded sense of time, yearning for action, fearful of early disruption. When we received the notification, we dropped all our things and began walking to the “spot”, until we came across a woman who warned us squads of undercover police were already there with a bus collecting and arresting people within minutes of the location being sent out. I left with another (as we were most at risk), and the two others (one a lawyer and the press) continued. After an hour or so of waiting, we found out all the lawyers and press present were beaten and arrested unlawfully–phones and cameras smashed. Our friend, who was with the press, managed to escape a fine, and we rejoined. As we recollected and debriefed, we soon learned that the state authorities managed to squeeze someone undercover amongst the organizing circles and leaked the information. Later that evening, 11 more queer and trans people were arrested by the Kadıköy center, simply based on how they were dressed, and more arrests were to be made over the next day or so. ***June 22nd*** I met with a few of the organizers and lawyers during a momentary celebration of the release of those who were detained for several days. This moment changed and moved me beyond the possibilities of revolutionary care between comrades. I was invited by a few members of the community, which made me more confident as an outsider, though I felt part of the family by this point. Everyone was gathered at a familiar bar. I haven’t seen YC since they were arrested the day prior. As I walked up with a friend who was my current flatmate, there was a tiredness and excitement flowing through this tiny street. Everyone gathered around a very long table, cheering, talking loudly, and hugging each other. Throughout the night, a new member joined who was recently released from jail, as there were ongoing trials still happening. With the sassiest walk and bold energy, each new comrade would strut down this alleyway screaming in joy, and everyone would run up to kiss them. It was stunning. One of the lawyers and I spoke about what was concluded from yesterday’s events in relation to planning *capeforce*. There were a Palestinian and a Nigerian detained part of the demonstration who were sent to an unknown prison. The lawyers still couldn’t locate them. After much back and forth (and even more resistance on my part,) we concluded that we were to cancel the *capeforce* addition to the demonstration. I pushed against this decision quite a bit, but I recognized that besides the risk I was willing to make myself, others would have been put under more duress. Regardless, I would leave (either by force or by my own will) while the others would have to continue their battle in the city. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WhatsApp-Image-2025-10-15-at-10.52.27.jpeg) Fig.5 ***Aftermaths*** When the day of the Pride demonstration came, Sunday, June 28, everyone warned me not to attend. This time, I listened, but stayed glued to CC’s and others’ Instagram stories, texting them when they had a chance to relay. Within minutes, every single person who was in attendance was detained before ever moving from a single spot. Local people from the nearby mosque also violently assisted in arresting and abducting protestors alongside the police and undercover agents. Regardless of the impossibility of enacting *capeforce*, the act of preparation—of holding the line between possibility and refusal—became its own kind of performance, revealing the political and social forces involved, even when unperformed. The counterforces that shaped and confronted *capeforce iv* were both material and legal: the advancing technologies of surveillance weaponized to regulate social agency and suppress freedom of expression; and the choreographic apparatus of the police and Turkish authorities, whose movements—bodies in formation, guns in hand—made visible the omnipresent reach of state power. The practice of trying to realize this performance could neither protect individuals nor materially alter the conditions of this landscape. But in exposing that insufficiency, it made visible the very contingencies, instruments, and agents—social, aesthetic, material, and legal—that shape the terrain of collective struggle today. It also opened the potential to choreograph a relational politics of witnessing—a spectatorship of solidarity in which bystanders could transform into active participants, forming a living barrier between performers and authorities, and collectively raising the stakes of accountability. As fascist structures continue to infiltrate everyday life, we are reminded that art operates within the same systems it seeks to challenge. Radical interventions cannot by themselves ensure safety or dismantle cycles of violence. This is not a failure of imagination, but an honest recognition of art’s limits. Perhaps the task, then, is to keep insisting on art’s potential as a site of exposure and inquiry: a way to trace the intersections between visibility, legality, and power, and to ask for whom and under what conditions art can truly work. In this sense, *capeforce* gestures toward a living methodology of refusal and being, a breathing politics of negotiation, manifesting both in the orchestration of collective practice and in the afterlife of its encounters. \* *I would like to extend my gratitude to the community and friends in Istanbul for their openness to consider* capeforce iv *as a form of action—one that could align with, and perhaps momentarily support, their ongoing efforts toward collective resistance. I also want to thank those who responded to the urgent call to gather, think, and rehearse together: to imagine what this performance could hold, and to test what forms of solidarity, care, and fugitivity might be practiced within it. The pseudonyms used in this text are to protect the safety of all the individuals still present and resisting in Istanbul.* --- ### Images Cover, Fig 1/3/5 Jordan Deal, Still from *capeforce ii* performance in Philadelphia, 2024 The performers present depending on image are Jordan Deal, Eden Lafayette, and Vernon Jordan III (in the golden jacket): Image of capeforce ii performance still. Jordan Deal and Eden Lafayette are engaged in a performance duet in the middle of the street, surrounded by an audience. Courtesy of the artist Fig 2/4 Jordan Deal, Still from *capeforce iii* performance in Brussels, 2024\. Courtesy of the artist *(they/them) work in the intersections of performance, sound, film, and installation, where the body becomes both instrument and interruption. Channeling what they call chaos force—a method of embodied subversion—Deal unravels the mythologies and socio-political systems that choreograph daily life. Their work has appeared at Café OTO (London), Radialsystem (Berlin, CTM Festival), Judson Memorial Church (NYC), and the Center for Performance Research (NYC). As a 2024 MAP Fund grantee, 2023–24 Artistic Fellow at the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Art, and a 2022 research fellow at the Amant Foundation, Deal continues to experiment with black queer futurity, worldbuilding, and the unruly poetics of love and resistance. www.jordandealart.com* ### Il tutto che suona ed ascolta URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/il-tutto-che-suona-ed-ascolta-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:30.000Z **Ciao Caterina, grazie per avermi incontrato nel pieno dell’organizzazione della Biennale Musica di Venezia come direttrice artistica. Da quanto tempo ci stai lavorando?** Sto lavorando alla Biennale da novembre 2024\. Ho ricevuto l’invito a dirigerla ad ottobre, proprio mentre stavo per partire per un tour in Asia. I tempi erano strettissimi - già a fine dicembre dovevo consegnare una prima proposta. **Il titolo è "La Stella Dentro", che adoro come immagine ed idea. Mi sembra molto orizzontale, che valorizzi la potenzialità poetica insita in ognuno di noi. Cosa ha influenzato questa scelta?** È una bella riflessione. La stella dentro è qualcosa che tutti noi possiamo vedere - è l'essenza del potere universale della musica di avvicinarci a qualcos'altro. Come quando guardiamo le stelle, abbiamo questo desiderio di infinito che ci accomuna come umanità. Il titolo è venuto la prima notte che sono andata a Venezia a incontrare il presidente della Biennale. Non riuscivo a dormire, il cervello era in fiamme per la gioia e la trepidazione. Mi sono alzata per vedere l'alba a San Marco e ho visto le ultime stelle sull'orizzonte al mattino. È apparsa questa immagine della musica come stella dentro. In quel periodo leggevo Clarice Lispector, che parla di questo tremolio della luce delle stelle come qualcosa che ricorda un fremere interiore, questa fiamma, questa scintilla. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/AVZ-00751.jpg) Fig.1 **La società contemporanea sembra oscillare tra esaustione e agitazione politica. Mi chiedo spesso quale sia la risorsa su cui dobbiamo fare affidamento per continuare a trasformarla e mi piace immaginare sia la scintilla di cui parli. La musica, con questa capacità trascendentale, può portarci in una dimensione più profonda della coscienza.** Risuono molto con questa riflessione. Il mio modo di incanalare una dimensione politica attraverso la Biennale è dare voce a certi artisti che riflettono e amplificano loro cultura, ma a livello più intimo la musica ha una dimensione politica nel riconnettersi con questa dimensione spirituale che ci connette all'altro. Il concerto è un momento di rito collettivo dove entriamo in connessione. La musica è un esercizio di empatia - significa tendere l'orecchio, ascoltare quello che ci circonda, entrare in connessione con ciò che non conosciamo. Mi sembra che questa dimensione spirituale sia stata persa di vista nel panorama musicale contemporaneo. Le edizioni passate della Biennale erano incentrate sull'idea del concerto statico - si entra, si ascolta passivamente. Ma in questa edizione, desidero portare la musica fuori da questo concetto e ridare al suono il valore di rito collettivo. **Mi sembra che tu voglia omaggiare e alterare il ritmo della città e dei suoi abitanti. Come crei una costellazione spirituale che si adatti alla città di Venezia? Come speri di sonorizzarla?** Venezia è una città incredibile se riesci a viverla oltre la facciata del turismo - è veramente viva nel movimento dei vari elementi: cielo, acqua, luce. Ho chiesto di stare a Venezia durante questi mesi, in un appartamento alla Giudecca a venti metri dall'acqua. Poter vedere la presenza del cielo così potente, questi cieli che si riflettono con movimento perpetuo - è una città che ti apre all'esperienza dell'infinito. È un linguaggio molto simile a quello della musica, questo movimento. L'evento di apertura sarà un corteo musicale d'acqua - una processione di barchini, quelli dei ragazzi veneziani con sound system personalizzati. Ho invitato l'artista Chuquimamani-Condori (Leone d'Argento della Biennale) a comporre per questi barchini. È interessante perché nella sua tradizione artistica, radicata nella comunità indigena Aymara, c'è questa cultura di bande di musicisti che suonano sulle barche con l'idea di invocazione dell'aurora, della prima stella. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/AVZ00077.JPG) Fig.2 Ci sarà anche la première di un nuovo lavoro di William Basinski per tre pianoforti e percussioni, con il rumore dei vaporetti integrati come bordone. Lui suonerà su questo vaporetto che si allontana - c'è questa idea di lavorare con la dimensione di caducità che Venezia evoca. Ci sarà anche un viaggio mistico musicale verso un'isola segreta. L'audience sarà trasportata su una barca senza sapere la destinazione e l'esperienza musicale sarà intimamente connessa a quella del viaggio. **Tutti coloro che ascolteranno Basinski interagire con il suono dei traghetti, potranno interagire con questi in modo diverso, attingendo a quella memoria. La musica è anche un modo per noi di entrare a far parte di un ritmo diverso del vivere. In che modo sei interessata a coreografare i corpi dell’audience?** Per me è importantissimo pensare e partire dal corpo. Il modo in cui mi sono appassionata alla musica elettronica è stato tramite l'esperienza della fisicità del suono, che apre alla connessione con la dimensione del corpo, del movimento, della danza. Per un mio concerto per esempio, Il setting ideale è quello in cui le persone possano essere in piedi, e possano esplorare una forma di fisicità attraverso la libertà del movimento. Anche per la Biennale, ho cercato di lavorare a setting in cui possano emergere modalità di ascolto immersive e liminali. Una delle innovazioni è l'LSD Center - "La Stella Dentro Center" - uno spazio ibrido, informale dentro l'Arsenale. Sarà un luogo gravitazionale con tappeti, installazioni audiovisive, bar, dove ci saranno listening session, talk, e le persone possono entrare, uscire, sognare. L'idea è che si mescoli il pubblico con gli artisti e lo staff, senza questa idea del concerto che inizia e finisce. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/AVZ-WILLIAM-BASINSKI-The-Garden-of-Brokeness-01670.jpg) Fig.3 **Mi viene in mente Fred Moten: "Il concerto non inizia quando inizia, inizia quando c'è il brusìo delle persone che aspettano che il musicista salga sul palco e finisce quando finiscono i battiti delle mani."** Esatto! Per me la musica è qualcosa che continua a vivere nel tempo come un organismo vivente. Non c'è il concerto che inizia e finisce, ma si attivano parti di un organismo che continua a evolvere nel tempo e nello spazio. Questa idea di generatività, che è centrale nella musica come mito cosmogonico, ritorna sempre ed è un tema centrale del Festival. **Ci hanno insegnato a parlare ma non ad ascoltare. L'ascolto collettivo presuppone il silenzio, quando invece ci hanno insegnato che la performance sociale è la parola. In che forma si potrebbe fare un attivismo sonico?** Penso che abbiamo perso l’abitudine all’ascolto, ma l'ascolto è una forma di meditazione. La musica insegna a stare nel presente. Stare anche solo un'ora in ascolto oggi non è scontato, ma questo esercizio di presenza è essenziale perché ci restituisce alla nostra umanità, connettendosi al contempo con qualcosa che trascende la nostra individualità e ci fa sentire parte di una dimensione più ampia che ci mette in comunicazione con il divino. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/AVZ-DEFORREST-BROWN-JR.-Speaker-Music-01936.jpg) Fig.4 **Hai una responsabilità - stai presentando una nuova generazione a un'istituzione importante.** È una responsabilità che ho colto come un impegno. Sono una musicista e vengo da un mondo di nicchia, in Italia questi mondi sono molto elitari e separati. Arrivare a un livello più mainstream è un'opportunità. Il team della Biennale è contento di avere un cambiamento. Sto trovando persone aperte e desiderose di cambiamento. È anche un invito per l'Italia a prestare ascolto lì dove non l’ha ancora fatto. // --- ### Image Cover: Caterina Barbieri. Photo: Andrea Avezzù Fig.1 Bendik Giske, Into the Blue Photo: Andrea Avezzú, Courtesy La Biennale di Venezia Fig.2 Chuquimamani-Condori, Cry of our guradian star, Photo: Andrea AvezzúCourtesy La Biennale di Venezia Fig.3 William Basinski, The Garden of Brokenness. Photo: Andrea Avezzú, Courtesy La Biennale di Venezia Fig.4 DeForrest Brown Jr, Speaker Music Photo: Andrea Avezzú, Courtesy La Biennale di Venezia *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### A Living Curriculum of Resistance URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-living-curriculum-of-resistance/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:29.000Z *A group of colorful tents, heralded by the Palestinian flag, finds space in front of the Bundestag in Berlin. It is the* Besetzung gegen Besatzung—BgB​​​​​​​ (Occupy Against Occupation)*, an encampment built by diverse activist groups and individuals to respond to the Palestinian genocide. The organization of the camp is based on mutual aid, material reciprocity, and education. Theresa Zwerschke​​​​​​​ and Dalia Maini​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ have been there in both of its iterations: the first in April 2024 and the second in July 2025, and they have observed that, despite the hardship of upkeep the camp in Germany, the collective drive to honor Palestinian culture is stronger than violence. The conversation below is the result of this interaction.* **​​​​​​​How did the encampment come into being? Were there existing models of encampment that inspired its organization?** The camp was initially a reaction to the urgency of responding to the genocide by a small number of people. Someone came up with the idea, and other people encouraged them not to think twice and go ahead. A few more people registered to set it up. Organizing an encampment under the brutal eye of the Berlin police and ruling class was a challenging endeavour for the group of activists, artists, and everyone involved. Soon, more supporters arrived and took on tasks to make the camp functional. Many of us in organizational roles quickly needed to confront our own egos and habits of control that were overridden by the sheer amount of work the camp required. We needed to learn how to work together effectively and fast. The first iteration borrowed the structure for the well-known student encampments against the genocide later that year. Previous encampments that served as inspiration are those that took place during the Arab Spring, such as the Tahrir Square camp structures in Egypt. Nevertheless, the BgB camp was driven by a spontaneity and don't-ask-for-permission attitude. If you see something that needs to be done, just do it. When a genocide needs to be stopped, do whatever you can to stop it. **What challenges did you face in the first days of the encampment—logistically, emotionally, or politically—and how did you address them collectively?** This camp was a new initiative, in ways that didn’t seem possible in Berlin at the time. Under all the repression, the camp in front of the Bundestag raised the Palestinian flag. A lot of people joined the camp to finally find an avenue to channel their emotions of anger, frustration, and grief outside of the ongoing protests. The support and energy everybody brought was overwhelmingly positive and a driving force for everyone at the camp. So, emotionally and politically, we were soaring. The other side of the coin was that the large number of people also brought logistical challenges. How do we find tents, sleeping bags, and sleeping posts? How do we provide food and water? How do we source other necessary materials—from lights to power banks? Some impromptu working groups were set up to tackle these challenges, and with the help of donations, we were able to react to a lot of the needs of camp life. A big push to get over the difficulties of setting up came from social media outreach. A Telegram channel and an Instagram page were set up to invite people to join, to share updates, and to report what was needed at the camp. It became a common routine that people drove to the camp with a van, bringing water bottles, chairs, tents, whiteboards, and all sorts of things. We would scramble to get to the road to help them carry stuff, while continuously trying to evade the constant bickering of police officers. Once, a camp member cheekily asked for cookies on the camp Telegram. Our pantry was overflowing with them for days. It was an incredibly loving present. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/educational_censored1.JPG) Fig.1 **How does self-education function within the context of the protest encampment?** After October 7th, the government’s response to the movement for Palestinian liberation revealed how the political apparatus in Germany is commandeered and corrupted by the neoliberal order, which supports and enables imperialism. ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​We view culture as deeply political in the way it infiltrates and shapes social habits and beliefs, and this conviction is reflected in the programming of the camp. We invite people to understand leftist principles and refocus on anti-imperialist and pro-Palestine fronts. Palestinian culture, and the general culture of resistance across borders focused on resilience and communal living, is marginalized and \[deprecated\] by the numbing atomization of capitalism. Cultural and political elites worldwide seek to reinforce ideologies and cultural structures that protect their position in society, such as obedience to authority, individualism, and white-washed “inclusivity”. Our cultural programming, taking shape through workshops, lectures, talks, movie nights, and communal meals, is part of this vision of resistance and crosses every aspect of society. In our fight for a free Palestine, we are also fighting against this dominant \[neoliberal\] culture. With the program, we spotlight how Palestinian narratives, and \[wider\] narratives of resistance, are historically and communally negotiated and culturally driven. Poetry, readings by people in Gaza, film screenings that discuss occupation and resistance, art as a radical tool for healing, and workshops in which participants can not only consume, but create and live the concept of Sumud (صمود)—which translates as “steadfast perseverance”. These formats enabled meetings between groups that otherwise would have never come into contact. It strengthened our political understanding and practices. Further, we should not underestimate the effects of organizing and laboring on the self. Through praxis, there is plenty of opportunity to learn and develop. For the camp to function smoothly, we have to communicate efficiently, balance finances, navigate transportation, and the managing of resources, set up security measures, among many other “banal” activities that make a living space function. All these activities have a political purpose that offers ample opportunity for self- and communal education. To facilitate this process of inclusion, we call on people to join open general assemblies at the camp, where the existing working groups give updates on operations and ask whether people want to be involved. People can join any working group they are interested in and take part in shaping the camp, from kitchen supplies to social media graphics. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/educational_censored5.JPG) Fig.2 **How did you decide on the programming of cultural and educational activities? Were there specific texts, artists, or movements that guided your choices?** The camp is not characterized by any single political identity, and this is reflected in the diversity of programming. Our \[role\] is not to set up our own workshops, but to open the camp to all people in Berlin in support of Palestinian liberation and resistance, to contribute. The programming team acts as administrators of scheduling and finding resources, such as microphones, whiteboards, and anything a workshop presenter needs to facilitate their work. We make open calls for people to give workshops on our social media channels and only perform minimal filtering to ensure the messaging promoted in the camp is reflected in the workshops. In the vast majority, the people who submit workshops are in alignment, but there have been cases where we first needed to discuss among ourselves whether the position of the presenter is aligned with our positions. **Do you see the camp as a space for collective learning? In what ways does it cultivate resistance or prefigurative practices?** Berlin’s society has been heavily divided through identity politics, geographical and economic gaps, the lack of open spaces, and racist structures, among many other reasons, which have led to communities becoming more and more disconnected from each other. The camp is inherently social and brings people from all backgrounds together: elders, children, adults, disabled people, all genders and religions. Through this process, the camp—as opposed to “official” education and political programming—offers a space where people can come together, exchange ideas, cultures, backgrounds, and politics. Interactions like impromptu picnics, singing circles, and coffee chats organically lead to the development of consciousness and connection \[in ways\] that no workshop can facilitate. It is also important to remember that the Western vision of well-being and self-care is shaped by society’s individualistic outlook. At the camp, we are aware that there can be no peace as long as our friends and our people are being killed. Healing can only emerge from total liberation. This is why we can put our differences and conflicts aside and focus on the work of the camp. Palestinians in refugee camps have been forced by the occupation to live in self-organized camps to survive. At BgB we try to show others how we can live in community voluntarily by building bridges. If we can build our own small society with nothing but each other and a piece of grass, we can do it with all our collective resources on a global scale. While at camp, people work together for a shared commons. We have no illusions about the impossibility of fulfilling lives under the current racial-capitalist system, but as long as the encampments continue, we can offer glimpses of a better future. These glimpses come in the form of unity across borders, ethnicities, and sexualities. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/educational_censored2.JPG) Fig.3 **What have been the hardest moments in your experience? How do you navigate internal tensions or disagreements within the camp?** The camp is not only a political and communal place, but also a place that is constantly surrounded and harassed by police. Tensions can run high, but we are continuously trying to keep the site as safe as possible so everybody can feel as welcome as the circumstances allow. Police raids, harassment, and constantly changing demands cause difficulties, but external pressure isn’t the hardest thing. Issues with the distribution of labor are often gendered, and burnout can suddenly leave the camp scrambling for resources. But the hardest issue is when internal differences of vision, as to purpose or how to organize, arise. These can be quite strong and aren’t always easily resolved. But admitting that the camp serves a specific urgent purpose and goal that we all agree on has often helped refocus on the work and move \[us\] past those issues. It’s not always smooth sailing. We often host workshops on conflict resolution, and we have an awareness team present. We hold space during general assemblies to discuss issues at camp. Despite internal conflicts, we repeatedly reorient ourselves towards the pressing goal of ending the genocide in Palestine by demanding the ending of German complicity and the stopping of weapons shipments.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ **Can you share a moment or encounter in the camp that changed your perspective or helped someone unlearn something that was deeply ingrained?** There have been many moments like this. What we find especially touching and important is interaction with passers-by and “outsiders”. Many of them are average white German workers who don’t fit the typical profile of the marginalized who make up most of the participants at pro-Palestine demos. One day, a demonstration for farmers’ rights was planned nearby. Many of the protesters came to our camp, and while at first we were a bit suspicious, we quickly found we had more in common than we thought, and the feeling was mutual. Conversations went on for a long time. We learned about their struggles, and they learned about how the German government is facilitating genocide in Palestine. After all, capitalism is our common enemy: the lives and bodies of agricultural workers are ruined \[through\] exploitation, while on the other side of the world, Palestinians are being ethnically cleansed for imperialist interests. All of us uniting against our common enemy is the only way to break our chains. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/educational_censored0.JPG) Fig.4 **Do you imagine the practices and relationships developed here continuing beyond the camp? If so, in what ways or forms?** We’re already on the third iteration of the camp, BgB 3.0, so the relationships do hold! The BgB camp packed up on Monday, July 28th, but we hope the momentum, connections, and structures developed during the camp can continue in the future. We plan to continue hosting events and gatherings, offering opportunities for political education and bringing people together. **Are there alliances or solidarities you’ve built at the camp that you hope will shape future actions or coalitions? How do you see this struggle connecting to others globally?** The Palestinian solidarity movement in Berlin is built as a loose network of connections. We are part of it and collaborate on actions and campaigns with other initiatives. While this allows the movement to provide a variety and diversity of action, it does not necessarily allow the movement to grow in focus and strength. For it to grow, we need to foster an organic connection to society, something that is not happening currently. For “outsiders”, it can be difficult to get involved, no matter how much you want to do it. Berlin operates on a “you need to know someone” basis, with very few open organisations that can spark and harvest the power of the people. BgB was one of the places that countered this—anyone could attend the camp—and for many people, BgB was their way into the movement. Specific groups attracted new members, new groups were founded, and connections between existing groups were established and strengthened. BgB also tapped into the global encampment movement. We connected with other camps nationally and internationally and passed on our practical experience of how to organize, from which working groups are needed to how to build a compost toilet! We function as a large connecting entity and practical asset pool for the Berlin movement, as we support other initiatives with tech, background work, and awareness. After packing up, we need to critically assess how we can continue this work of inviting new people into the movement and rallying under a unified banner. It is our job to continue building for power, connecting and enabling people to fight. Aiding the Palestinian liberation struggle requires global connection and activism. So far, Berlin has not stood up to the historical call. We need to set aside petty differences, identity politics, and ego, and start building a real anti-imperialist alternative. Follow and support the camp @[besetzunggegenbesatzung](https://www.instagram.com/besetzunggegenbesatzung/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and its new iteration coming soon. // --- ### Images: Cover: The camp Fig.1 Networking meeting for activists and allies Fig.2 Movie Night Fig.3 Talk on the Armenian Genocide Fig.4 Talk with Human Rights activist Yasemin Acar All image credits and courtesy Occupy Against Occupation Camp. *Theresa Zwerschke​​​​​​​ and Dalia Maini​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ are editors of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Adam Fearon URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/adam-fearon/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:29.000Z Chain-link fences are paradoxical structures: thin metal veils that divide and connect; they create boundaries while remaining porous. In Adam Fearon's hands, these everyday barriers become portals into Berlin’s fractured soul, transformed through paint into vibrant testimonies of resistance and memory. His latest series and installation, *Parade*, emerges from Berlin’s hyperstitious terrain, where past and present collide in a continuous struggle over power and belonging. Fearon works with the fence surrounding Tempelhofer Feld. The site, once a Prussian parade ground, a concentration camp for homosexuals, an airport, an American military base, a refugee camp, is now a contested development site. His large-scale paintings pulse with the site’s layered histories. He reveals the means by which power is embedded in mundane urban elements, how what recedes from our attention still orchestrates our movements, possibilities, and limits. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.-Adam-Fearon_PARADE_6731_JCLARK.jpg) Fig. 1 Evolving from intimate portraiture to expansive, spatial meditations, Fearon’s works focus on what he calls the “spaces between action”: the peripheral, the marginal, the unnoticed. This resonates with Sara Ahmed’s notion of queer phenomenology, which urges us to attend to the background, not as a passive setting, but as an active force shaping how bodies orient themselves in space. In *Parade*, the grid of the fence functions simultaneously as an architectural tool and carceral structure, shaping both physical environments and social relations. These chain-link forms, light, open, and symbolically divisive, reinforce the fiction of borders through their intricate metal weave. Fearon calls them “nets made for capture”, tools of separation and control. Yet his paintings also reveal their instability. The fence, despite its intent, allows the gaze to slip through, subtly destabilizing the divisions it enforces. Bent by climbing bodies or easily cut, these fences remain semi-permeable, separating without obscuring, containing without asserting total control. Fearon engages these structures at the micro-level of urban planning, where division technologies segregate neighborhoods and delineate zones of speculation. His practice becomes a form of cartography, urgent, critical, and affective. In *Parade*, his shift toward abstraction is not an escape from politics, but rather a deeper immersion. Repeating the fence pattern over weeks of painting, he reveals a tension between the idealised and the materialized. Human presence, a tremor in the hand, interrupts the grid’s perfection, transforming repetition into meditation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fig2-v2.jpg) Fig. 2 *Parade* is also a meditation on translation: on how three-dimensional barriers materialize ideological violence, and how the act of painting them becomes an attempt at integration rather than alienation. Through paint and metal, Fearon braids past and present into works alive with Berlin’s contradictions, making visible the ongoing struggles over space, belonging, movement, and the right to stay, to inhabit, and to reclaim land from occupying forces. \\\\ --- ### Image credits Cover: Photographer Franziska Von Stenglin (@franziska\_stenglin). Fig. 1: Adam Fearon, PARADE I +II (Feld), 2025\. Courtesy of the artist and Kinderhook & Caracas. Photo: Joe Clark; Fig. 2: Adam Fearon, PARADE III (Tor), 2025\. Courtesy of the artist and Kinderhook & Caracas. Photo: Joe Clark. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### What is the Role of Empathy? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/what-is-the-role-of-empathy/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:27.000Z Sally Abed is a Palestinian citizen of Israel, and Jess Bricker is a Jewish citizen of Israel. Together, they engage in a dialogue about questions and dilemmas around Israel-Palestine, grassroots activism, and possibilities for justice, peace and equality. Their conversation, recorded from a place of distance from the frontlines of ongoing violence, unfolds on the podcast [*The Long Answer*](https://open.spotify.com/show/33c36sw8rJvqCdKtxTy2Pp?si=a6faa28672404170&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). The experiences of Palestinians and Israelis are profoundly asymmetrical: Palestinians live under discrimination, military occupation and/or siege, with their lives heavily restricted and under the constant threat of violence, while most Jewish Israelis live under civil law in relative security. This conversation does not equate these realities. Instead, it explores questions of human pain, moral and political dilemmas, and the challenges of imagining a future in which safety, dignity, and civic rights are possible for everyone. As the destruction of Gaza continues, any framing that places the Hamas attacks on the same material scale as the ongoing annihilation of the Palestinian people risks obscuring the deeper enduring structures of power, occupation, and systematic dehumanization at work. This podcast cannot—and should not be expected to—serve as a token gesture or a dilution of collective trauma. It is, however, a conscious political choice: part of a strategic effort to imagine new forms of collective life grounded in shared public interests. Such imagination does not replace the urgent demand for liberation—it depends on it, and must emerge in its wake. Grief in Israel and Palestine is profoundly politicized. As assistant professor of history at the University of Chicago and the editor of[ *Dissent*](https://www.dissentmagazine.org/online%5Farticles/a-response-to-joshua-leifer/?fbclid=PAQ0xDSwNRw%5FtleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABp9rCIk5KmgpG0R-f-pnN96EtvGnHNdg%5FmcmSus4I6sJVlnQL0XyWeFhjE%5FOQ%5Faem%5FfNDDB9cd4YXLjFvb30WJaA&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) Gabriel Winant notes that Israel functions as a machine that converts Jewish grief into political power and military force, linking mourning to state legitimacy. Public expressions of grief over Israeli-Jewish deaths are inevitably entangled with the state’s use of violence, while Palestinian deaths remain largely invisible and uncommemorated. How to grieve, what meaning to give those tears, Winant insists, are cruelly political questions—whether one likes this fact or not. Publishing this conversation on October 7 requires careful contextualization. This date marks a memorial for Israeli victims, and it is crucial that the occupation and ongoing violence against Palestinians is not obscured or diminished. Editorial notes by the AWC team accompany this version in brackets. Edits have been made exclusively for the purpose of clarity and readability to the original transcript. [You can listen to the original conversation directly here.](https://open.spotify.com/show/33c36sw8rJvqCdKtxTy2Pp?si=0a12210a1da24cd1&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) It is likely too soon to let empathy prevail above all. However, this discussion is especially relevant for readers seeking to understand and reflect on these issues from a mediated or distanced perspective—far from the daily realities of destruction, displacement, and precarious survival. We would like to thank Nadav Golan from Standing Together—a grassroots movement uniting Jewish and Palestinian citizens of Israel in the pursuit of peace, social justice, and climate action—for connecting us and making the publication of this transcript possible. Some lessons take longer to learn than others. \* **Jess Bricker:** We’re recording this on a really difficult morning. We just woke up again to the news of intensive bombings last night in Gaza City—bombs that we actually could hear from Tel Aviv. That’s the reality we’re in. **Sally Abed:** A huge number of people who were already displaced are living in tents without shelter, with barely any food, and now they’re being displaced again. **JB:** On top of that daily reality, it’s been two years since October 7, which, for some people, is a memorial day marking that horrible attack. For others, it marks two years of genocide, two years of war, or two years of hostages in captivity. **SA:** For people in Gaza, it’s two years of unimaginable reality, without knowing when it will end. **JB:** For many people, both here and abroad, life has looked incredibly different since that day. I recently had a conversation abroad where I said we’ve been witnessing the worst thing we’ve ever seen through our phones for two years. At the end of the call, one participant challenged me, saying that, for them, the worst thing they’ve ever witnessed was October 7\. My first reaction was, how? Not to diminish the horrors of October 7—I’ve seen the images, read the stories, heard the testimonies, spoken to friends who lost loved ones—it was horrific, unimaginable. But every day since, I’ve woken up to videos of Palestinian babies killed, entire families wiped out, the systematic annihilation of a people. I couldn’t understand how anything from that day could be worse than the collective trauma of the past two years. Then I thought, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, as a Jew or as an Israeli, I’m supposed to perceive my people’s suffering as worse than that of others. Maybe I mixed up empathy and mourning. It speaks volumes about the different worlds we live in and how we can witness the same events yet tell ourselves very different stories. As we do in each episode, we ask each other a personal question related to these topics. I think about how it feels to live here, witnessing the worst that has happened to your people every day. Any time you talk about it, someone feels like you’re dismissing their pain. How do you see that? How do you grapple with it daily? **SA:** It’s exhausting. Israeli society expects me to prioritize its trauma over mine. I’ve actually lost a friend over this—maybe she’s listening. After October 7, I was traumatized. I went to funerals constantly, being present in the grief of others. It became clear she couldn’t reciprocate for me. She couldn’t empathize with Palestinian suffering in the same way she could with Jewish suffering. As a Palestinian, I provoke them by demanding empathy. I don’t want to demand it—I want it to be recognized without justification. In my role as a council member \[of Haifa Municipality Council\], these backlashes also appear in the media or during interviews. I rationalize it. I try to navigate it—it feels like part of the job. But the most impossible mission is the personal one. Living a personal life in a mixed city like Haifa is incredibly difficult. **JB:** Abroad, people often get told who to empathize with based on power structures. I remember the day after October 7, a friend posted an Instagram story about the Nova Festival attack, saying they had no empathy for the teenagers who were murdered there because they were near a concentration camp. These people abroad were young people who attended festivals, acknowledged their settler status, but somehow decided those victims didn’t deserve empathy because of identity or nationality. Since then, we see people choosing empathy based on who they think deserves it—who can use force, who can’t, who can be a victim of force, and who can’t. **SA:** Here, we’re looking at two sources of empathy: one from ideology and collective narrative, and one from human interaction and simply recognizing human suffering. These can conflict. Ideology sometimes prevents us from empathizing with human suffering. Social media often shows that ideological lens, which is predictable and synthetic. But personal interactions can be surprising—even when it doesn’t seem “rational” to empathize with your neighbor’s kid in Gaza. **JB:** As a soldier? **SA:** Yes, as a soldier. It’s irrational to perform empathy, not because I don’t feel it, but in the sense of shared survival, practical relationships, or because others demand it—even when my own soul is shattered and crushed with emotions. But that’s different than what I’m talking about: when I see a 19-year-old soldier killed in Gaza, my heart genuinely breaks for him, for his family, for his mom. It catches me by surprise. He shouldn’t die. That’s the irrational part of empathy. **JB:** If I were a Palestinian in the diaspora, I think I’d struggle with that: the fact that you feel emotional for an Israeli soldier who participated in Gaza. **SA:** Why is that hard to say? **JB:** I guess...because you’re seeing someone who did terrible things, yet you feel for them. How do you explain that? **SA:** I said it’s irrational. But I think of that soldier as a human being, even if they’re committing war crimes. They are real people who are a product of a very cruel society. I expect the same complexity of empathy for Palestinian youth in Hamas. It’s about holding space for humanity on both sides, even amid atrocity. **JB:** Many would find that comparison hard to hear. **SA:** Yes. We do not seek to justify, and context is everything. There’s no room for context in Israel, but there should be room for that abroad; we can create that space. In our movement, our activism, our culture of solidarity, we try to create that space. **JB:** A few months in, in December 2023, I argued with a friend about wanting a full ceasefire. He said he had friends fighting in Gaza. I said I have Palestinian friends. That tension—different groups we empathize with—stopped the conversation. How do you approach that? Should I find empathy for him? Convince him to find empathy for this group, or abandon that hope? **SA:** This big gap highlights the tension between empathy as human beings and empathy as a moral, political demand. Demanding empathy can be seen politically almost as moral lecturing, which often isn’t constructive in practice. As organizers, we focus on mobilizing people around shared interests. We should ask ourselves: should we have hundreds of thousands of people in Israel mobilize every week against this government and around the collective self-interest of the Israeli people—for the hostages, security, and economic concerns, \[but\] not necessarily all of them for us Palestinians? Or, would we rather put our efforts into invoking empathy for us, Palestinians, as a people who are hurting? **JB:** Why is a ceasefire and a hostage deal in Israeli self-interest? **SA:** This is exactly the point. Early after October 7, talking about a hostage deal and a ceasefire was explosive and very unpopular—0.1% support. Today, over 74% of Israeli society supports a hostage deal. Most of them aren’t there for the Palestinians, but this isn’t necessarily conflicted. A majority agrees now that this genocide needs to end, and we are closer today to our goal than if we demanded empathy in the first place. It’s not instrumental. We genuinely represent the interest of returning the hostages and ending the war. Mobilization works when framed as shared interest, not as moral demand. \[*Editorial note: By July 2025, support for a comprehensive hostage deal in Israel had reached 74%, with 12% opposed, according to the Jerusalem Post. A poll by the Israeli Democracy Institute in September 2025 found that 66% of Israelis believed the time had come to end the war in Gaza, up from 53% the previous year.*\] **JB:** Abroad, the self interest that influences people’s desire to join movements is sometimes more camouflaged. People join struggles out of a feeling of identification with the morality of the cause, but often there’s more to it. For example, [If Not Now](https://www.ifnotnowmovement.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and [Jewish Voice for Peace](https://www.jewishvoiceforpeace.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) garnered a lot of support through slogans like “not in my name”, and this in itself hits at people’s self interest—American Jews did not want to organize \[only\] because they were disgusted with Israel’s actions, they also had a clear interest in \[the violence\] not happening in their name; a desire to disconnect themselves from it. On the ground, for people in Gaza or Israel, self-interest is survival—being safe, putting food on the table, not being killed. All of these realities are drastically different. These are the things people here are thinking about. That is what we need to concentrate on if we wish to create change on the ground. **SA:** One is part of a larger story. **JB:** But the way people feel can’t be argued easily. That’s what they’re thinking about first and foremost. And that’s why we need to focus on self-interest when mobilizing and organizing people on the ground. **SA:** We talked about the limitations of empathy abroad—less interactive, less complex—but it has mobilized so many people. The Palestinian solidarity movement around the world is unprecedented in terms of prolonged engagement. Of course, it’s tied to the level of atrocities, but it’s also about what the conflict represents: the \[nexus\] of power, society, economics, the Middle East, the West, energy, weapons, colonization, imperialism, capitalism—they all intersect in this small piece of land. I do think, however, that a lot of the problems with toxic discourse abroad—the lack of empathy, the narrow lens—aren’t just about self-interest. Especially when you see a Palestinian from Israel abroad and try to boycott her on a campus. You’re a white girl with privilege, and you’re boycotting me for speaking about my self-interest while existing as a Palestinian in Israeli society. The lack of empathy is stark. We need a new story, one that allows us to feel human pain without weaponizing it or using suffering cynically to serve a narrative. **JB:** What is this new story we want to tell? As we approach this \[second year of genocide\], countless narratives and perspectives have been surmounted. What story do we want people to tell? What do we want our communities to learn? **SA:** I think it’s difficult. I think this is something we’ll explore throughout the season \[of podcasts\]. At its core, it’s about human pain and suffering—acknowledging it while also acknowledging history and context. Contextualizing without excusing. We’re approaching two years, and the Israeli government is cynically using \[their Jewish citizens’\] human pain while erasing Palestinians from public discourse and the land. On the other side, failing to empathize with Israeli hostages or the victims of October 7 feeds the dangerous narratives of extremist leaders and people in power. Leaning into that lack of empathy only strengthens these toxic, violent cycles. That’s extremely frightening. **JB:** It works both ways. A lack of empathy for Palestinians enables the government to act with impunity, while a lack of empathy for Israelis \[and Jews, abroad\] fuels fear, insecurity, and justification for violence. **SA:** It’s not even about feeling safe—just surviving. **JB:** Exactly. And whether the threat is immediate or perceived, it drives behavior and perpetuates dangerous cycles. **SA:** When we talk about empathy, we’re not suggesting moral equivalence between the two sides. Of course, the reality is more complex. There’s immense inequality, hegemony, and a monopoly over violence, but the moment we abandon empathy for human suffering while we contextualize it, we enter a dangerous space. **JB:** The \[days leading up\] to October 7 is so difficult to bear for so many people. You can feel it in the air and in conversations. I hope people feel space for their own grief, wherever it naturally lies, and that empathy can expand to include more and more people. There is room to feel empathy for all people simultaneously. May that grief and mourning push us toward an end to suffering, a political horizon that ensures safety, freedom, and equality for everyone. I want to acknowledge that we began with a personal question, and our conversation evolved into self-interest, activism, and societal change. Many sensitive topics came up. When we listen back, we may hear things we’d phrase differently, and I’m sure listeners will resonate with some parts and feel discomfort with others. This is an imperfect conversation—and that’s exactly what we want from this podcast. Please write to us. Give feedback. Ask questions. We want to bring you into this conversation and incorporate your perspective. DM us: [](mailto:info@standing-together.org) *The current socio-political reality in Israel-Palestine is unbearable. Decades of occupation have fueled cycles of violence, fear, and hatred between Israelis and Palestinians. Economic inequality is widening, poverty is deepening, and Israel’s Palestinian minority faces increasing discrimination.* *Women, Mizrahim, immigrants, the LGBTQ+ community, the elderly, and people with disabilities experience marginalization across social, economic, and political spheres. Working people face longer hours at stagnating wages while the cost of living continues to rise.* *Rather than addressing these problems, political leaders have relied on fear and racism to divide the population. Instead of providing genuine security solutions, they perpetuate endless wars. Rather than serving the majority, they protect the interests of the wealthy. Israeli society faces a deep crisis of governance, inequality, and social cohesion. Yet there is cause for hope. Many people aspire to live in a just and equal society, and the country is home to a flourishing array of initiatives—workers’ unions, anti-occupation campaigns, environmental movements, and more. These struggles inspire hope and catalyze political change, but their impact remains limited when disconnected. To achieve peace, equality, and social and climate justice, a mass movement is needed. Today, the Israeli left is dominated by professional NGOs, which, despite their important work, cannot serve as a political home for the masses. Meanwhile, leftist political parties struggle to mobilize broad sectors of the population. Many citizens support progressive change: peace and opposition to the occupation, equality and opposition to racism, social justice and opposition to wealth-based rule. They need a unifying movement to inspire action and transform solidarity into political power.* *Standing Together is this movement. It seeks to build a shared home for all citizens, honoring differences while fostering true partnerships based on shared interests.* *The movement envisions a society that serves everyone and treats every person with dignity—a society that chooses peace, justice, and independence for Israelis and Palestinians, Jews and Arabs alike. A society where all have access to real security, adequate housing, quality education, good healthcare, a liveable climate, fair wages, and the ability to age with dignity.* *Such a society is possible, and Standing Together is already building it.* ### Zärtlichkeit als Widerstand URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/zaertlichkeit-als-widerstand-2/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:23.000Z **AWC:** **Helga Paris wurde oft als Chronistin des ostdeutschen Alltags beschrieben, doch ihre Fotografien scheinen das Dokumentarische zu transzendieren. Wie interpretieren wir heute diese Spannung zwischen Bildern als historisches Zeugnis und als zeitloses Kunstwerk?** **Udo Kittelmann:** Jede Form von Bild kann mit einem Abstand zur aktuellen Gegenwart immer ein historisches Zeugnis sein. Das beantwortet eigentlich schon alles. Und es ist natürlich so, dass historische Bilder zu jeder Zeit, wenn sie die Kraft haben, sich zu aktualisieren, sowohl im Rückblick als auch im Vorblick wirken können. Das war sicherlich eine Kraft, die Helga Paris hatte, ohne dass sie das theoretisch formuliert hätte. **AWC:** **Es gibt aber einen Unterschied zwischen einem Bild, das für die Öffentlichkeit gemacht wurde, und einem Bild, das in der Intimität entsteht. Und das zeigt sich auch in der Arbeit oder im Blick von Helga Paris, insbesondere in ihren Porträts, wo Zärtlichkeit und schonungslose Klarheit des Geschehens auch in die Zeitlosigkeit hineinrutschen, sodass ein historischer Moment vielleicht dann doch verwascht.** **UK:** In dem Moment, in dem sie sich als Autorin entschieden hat, ihre Bilder in dieser Form öffentlich zu machen, sind sie öffentlich. Damit entzieht sie diesen Bildern schon einen großen Teil ihrer ursprünglichen Intimität. **AWC:** **How does Paris expand or complicate the canon of European photography, which has often privileged other gazes? How does Helga Paris come to terms \[with this legacy\], and how do you bring it into an exhibition for Fotografiska?** **Marina Paulenka:** She is the first German female photographer we’re finally showing. As a museum, Fotografiska has always been very sensitive to female voices—I also speak from my curatorial practice—Helga Paris, I would say, unsettles this canon by insisting on perspectives that have long been marginalised, for example, female, Eastern, and deeply embedded in everyday life. Her work resists heroic narratives or exoticised tropes often found in postwar European photography. Instead, she draws us into the intimacy of East German streets, homes, families, spaces, and communities, where empathy replaces spectacle. She also forces us to make space for quieter, more complex histories and observations. **AWC:** **Especially coming to Fotografiska—a place that has done impeccable curatorial work so far, yet exists amid the contradictions of building upon the ruins of another Berlin—a socialist one. There are tensions that no one can forget, especially in a rapidly changing Berlin, where nostalgia is increasing, and this void, this softness, has shifted so much. Marina, maybe you could be more concrete, or emphasize the critical, poetic voice you bring here as a deliberate engagement with the space in which it’s being shown.** **UK:** Als wir über kuratorische Arbeit sprachen, sagte ich sofort zu Marina: Ich würde so gerne eine Ausstellung mit Helga Paris machen. Und der Ort ist natürlich sehr entscheidend, genau in der Weise, wie du ihn gerade denkst. Es ist eine verlorene, vergangene Zeit. Sie steht für ein ganz anderes Berlin – und das ausgerechnet am Tacheles. Dass sie als erste DDR-Künstlerin und Fotografin dort erscheint und nicht an einem anderen historischen Ort in Berlin, hat natürlich Bedeutung. Aber die Interpretation des Ganzen obliegt wieder anderen. **AWC:** **Wo siehst du den Beitrag von Helga Paris zu diesen Narrativen, die vielleicht zu eng gestrickt sind? Was sind die Widersprüche und Lücken, die hier mitgetragen werden?** **UK:** Man muss die Dinge etwas getrennt betrachten. Sie wird an diesem historischen Ort gezeigt – jeder andere Ort könnte aber auch historisch sein. In unserem Wissen und in unserer Reflexion, aus deiner Generation und aus meiner Generation heraus, hat es vielleicht eine andere Bedeutung als für sie selbst. Ich glaube, die Wahl des Ortes kann sehr individualisiert gedacht werden. Aber klar ist: An diesem Ort erfährt man das Werk anders, als wenn es an einem anderen institutionellen Ort in Berlin gezeigt würde. Jeder Ort schafft seine eigene Reflexion auf ein Werk. Deswegen ist die Präsentation immer entscheidend für die Rezeption. **MP:** I think Paris’s photographs are acts of resistance carried out through tenderness. They inhabit this space between fragility and resilience, where looking itself becomes an ethical act. Vulnerability is not weakness but a form of strength. You mentioned gender—I don’t see it as a slogan. It lives in every gesture. You can see relationships, affections, and gazes that somehow reject objectification. **UK:** Ich möchte noch einen Unterschied zwischen der jüngeren Fotografiegeschichte West- und Ostdeutschlands hervorheben: In Westdeutschland erscheint Fotografie häufig sachlicher, eher objektiviert und weniger auf das Individuum bezogen. In Ostdeutschland hingegen überrascht das gezeigte Werk durch seine ausgeprägte Individualität. Das hängt sicherlich mit der Sozialisierung in einem anderen System zusammen – dem sozialistischen, marxistischen Modell –, das eigentlich das Gegenteil intendierte, aber dennoch diese persönliche Handschrift zuließ. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HELGA_AFFECTIONS_SERIES_3-Nachlass_Estate-Helga-Paris.jpeg) **AWC:** **There are many questions that arise from what you're saying, because our historical references, for example, make clear that figuration in the GDR had not only a form of experience, but also a form of resistance to norms. I wonder if you know of any political or cultural influences or GDR policies that shaped Helga Paris’s work—or was she looking elsewhere? Did you have the chance to talk to her about this before her passing?** **MP:** Unfortunately, she passed away before we could invite her personally. Our main challenge remains to preserve the historical specificity of her work without reducing it purely to aesthetic experience. As Udo often said, “Everything is so understandable when you look at it.” But I thought, maybe we need explanations or additional text, because the work carries social and political weight, as you said. In the exhibition, we included Helga Paris’s personal quotes and writings, which are also published in the accompanying book. The most interesting are those following her New York series, which were made in the early ’80s when she traveled to Canada to visit her sister. She was curious about what was happening both in the West and East. Without classic readings explaining each photo, you can still feel the emotion and understand through her words, the way she navigated through both \[of the dominant\] ideological orders of the world. That is how we approached the curation. **UK:** Was Menschen emotional berührt, sogar auf archetypische Weise, soll als solches zugänglich bleiben – ohne Theoretisierung, ohne es in einen Diskurs zu zwingen, sondern indem man die Bilder sprechen lässt, weil sie diese Kraft haben. Gerade jetzt empfinde ich das als besonders wichtig. Das Werk soll nicht polarisieren und genau das tut es auch nicht. Besonders deutlich wird das in den New-York-Fotografien, auf die Marina verwiesen hat: Sie sind zwar dokumentarisch, doch gleichzeitig voller Zuneigung und Nähe, etwa in der Art, wie Helga Paris jüdische und russische Emigrant\*innen porträtierte. In den Gesichtern, in den Gesten, sind Lebensgeschichten eingefroren. Und genau das macht das Werk so aktuell, gerade in einer Zeit, in der wir uns wieder sagen: „Lass uns mehr umarmen, alle zusammen.“ Wie Christa Wolf in *Der geteilte Himmel* schreibt: „Es gibt keinen geteilten Himmel. Wir sind alle unter einem Himmel.“ Das fasst vielleicht den Kosmos von Helga Paris’ Werk zusammen: Sie trennt nicht, sie verbindet. **AWC:** **I'm sure you had a very specific selection for this show. Nevertheless, I want to mention one image that touches me the most. Maybe it won’t be in the exhibition, but there is one called *Berliner Kneipen* from 1974, showing 25 years of the GDR. You see people listening to a speaker the viewer cannot see. Their expressions tell you so much—you would need historical knowledge to understand the historical weight and the artistic strength that allows for this utopian effect Udo mentioned.** **UK:** Diese Serie ist für mich entscheidend. Die *Berliner Kneipen* sprechen über einen kulturellen, gesellschaftlichen Ort, den es so nicht mehr gibt. Der Verlust dieser Orte geht einher mit der Transformation der Stadt und der Gesellschaft. In diesen Kneipen, proletarischen Treffpunkten, sieht man Frauen und Männer verschiedener Generationen versammelt. In Westdeutschland waren Kneipen reine Männerdomänen. Helga Paris erkannte, dass dies eine Form von Zusammenkunft ist, die wahrscheinlich verloren geht. **AWC:** **Helga Paris feels like a choreographer with her eyes, making visible what might have been obvious to an egalitarian socialist society. Can you guide me through how private and public space interact in the exhibition (since you spoke about traversing the city)?** **UK:** It’s not just Berlin. She photographed people everywhere—Italy, Eastern countries, New York—seeking the same expressions, regardless of origin. She wanted to \[pursue\] the humanistic idea of what it means to be human, to overcome political boundaries. *Du wirst sehen, dass Menschen unterschiedlich kulturell geprägt sind, aber sie bleiben Mensch.* **MP:** Sometimes she photographed people in the studio; sometimes on the street. She was shy, respectful, and present. In Rome, she approached *legionarios*, saying, “I’m Helga Paris, can I take a photo?”. She also photographed private spaces—family, close friends, artists. Those settings were intimate, collaborative. She captured spontaneous moments, \[she was\] never aggressive. People felt natural in front of her lens. *Sie suchte das Verbindende zwischen Menschen, nicht das Trennende. Ihr Werk ist nie spekulativ, daher auch der Titel “für uns”.* **AWC:** **I see what you mean—there’s a certain familiarity in how the images are taken. There’s also a form of nostalgia that comes with the rudimentary techniques of photography, something we don’t experience anymore because we’re mostly using our phones. And yet, our phones offer filters that connect us back to a time frozen in patina. There’s a kind of poppiness in Paris’s ’90s series. It’s already connected to a gaze that’s constantly shifting as the photographic device changes. I can see this happening across her series as well; you can track how the devices evolve. Can you tell what kind of cameras she used? Did that play a role in the work?** **MP:** She wasn’t particular about equipment or expensive film—sometimes she simply didn’t have access to them. She photographed with whatever was at hand: her 36mm camera or a 6×6 medium format camera, and later expanded to 6×9 format cameras, which gave her a different scale and detail. Occasionally, she would switch cameras, which led to slightly different formats. Most of her work is in black-and-white. I especially want to highlight her self-portraits. They offer a beautiful, intimate observation of herself: her face, her body, the way she changed over time, almost like a visual diary. At one point, she decided to stop photographing, feeling she had already captured everything she could. That was a period of considerable depression for her. In the last four or five years of her life, she largely stopped photographing. She did take a few color photographs—mostly portraits, shadows, and traces of the body on walls. Two of these are included in the exhibition. Though few, they are incredibly powerful. The exhibition itself has a calm, contemplative pace. We also put a lot of care into the publication, produced with Kader Felag, which includes a documentary about Helga and her family. We deliberately avoided creating any spectacle—it’s simply what it is. *Helga Paris. “für uns” at Fotografiska Berlin, runs until January 25, 2026.* --- ### Image credits Helga Paris, Affections Series, courtesy & © Nachlass\_Estate Helga Paris. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Buckling under the Weight of an Ongoing Past URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/buckling-under-the-weight-of-an-ongoing-past/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:26.000Z Freiheitsplatz, Graz: there’s a voice in my head. She says the statue towering above is Emperor Franz I of Austria. The square bore his name until November 12, 1918, when the Austrian Republic was proclaimed there, and it became Freiheitsplatz. That was only one of its many rebrandings: during the fascist era, it was changed back to Franzenplatz in 1934\. Then, after Germany’s annexation of Austria, the Nazis restored it to Freiheitsplatz in 1938\. These shifting historical tides set the stage for *Freiheitsplatz*, a participatory audio work by the performance collective LIGNA. Through headphones, a silken voice suggests the square had been co-opted for two conflicting ideas of freedom. For the Nazis, it meant being released from the tyranny of an invented enemy; for democrats, freedom was to be found in interdependence. True freedom, the voice insists, lies in our relationships with each other. This conceit felt at odds with the actual mechanics of the performance: sometimes awkwardly, sometimes artfully so. For the most part, I was free to look on as the other participants on the square obeyed an invisible Führer\*in’s orders to dance, raise fists, and chant “Freiheit! Freiheit! Freiheit!”. Only when she commanded them to seek out partners did I feel pinned down by the others’ gazes, shame compelling me to participate. Needless to say, I was relieved when the piece guided us into the adjacent theater, where dimmed lights reduced the audience to a sparkling sea of headphone LEDs. The historical tensions evoked by LIGNA’s performance were soon echoed in the opening address by steirischer herbst’s director, Ekaterina Degot. Chief among her concerns were the ways in which historical memory is increasingly being instrumentalized to justify contemporary atrocities—by Putin in Ukraine and Netanyahu in Palestine, though not only them. Meanwhile, the lessons learned in the aftermath of World War II seem to be quietly, but certainly, slipping away. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/sh25_Linga_1809_c_Johanna_Lamprecht_004.jpg) Fig.1 Degot’s address left many with a sense of looming catastrophe, so it was hardly surprising that visitors welcomed the comic relief of Ivo Dimchev’s *Hot Sotz* at the Helmut List Halle—the undeniable crowd favorite of the opening evening. Somewhere between concert and cabaret, he repeatedly interrupted his repertoire of bawdy songs with zany attempts to satisfy the curators’ alleged demand for more politics. These interventions often took the form of participatory stunts: from auctioning off his own drawings, to holding impromptu surveys—*Would you rather go to an orgy with the FPÖ or the AfD?*—to improvising lyrics out of whatever the audience wrote in the performance’s WhatsApp chat. As the evening drew on, it became clear that these interludes weren’t just a parody of participatory art, but also of democratic politics as well: the illusion of choice between similarly odious parties, demagogues pandering to whatever they think we want to hear. Dimchev’s jab at the festival’s political ambitions wasn’t entirely out of step with the self-awareness of the curators’ own approach. Throughout the main exhibition, held in a former distillery, one senses a deliberate effort to avoid the over-reliance on ethnographic novelty that has by now come to plague almost every politically-minded show: art that’s supposed to be interesting because it’s by interesting people from interesting places addressing interesting things. Not that there’s any shortage of that here, but the curatorial touch is refreshingly light. The wall texts are consistently concise, and all of the works—mostly new commissions—have been given enough space to speak for themselves. Moreover, there’s little in the way of conventional documentary approaches. Instead, fiction, absurdity, and the grotesque rule the day. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/sh25_Premiere_Ivo_Dimchev_1809_c_Johanna_Lamprecht_027.jpg) Fig.2 By their own account, the curators of the art section were particularly drawn to practices that open up ambivalent perspectives on recent history, ones that are more difficult to reconcile with official narratives. But, instead of imposing this premise on the artworks or their framing, they opted to flesh it out via the curatorial intervention Six Characters of Hotel W. At stations scattered throughout the main exhibition’s labyrinth of rooms, visitors encounter fictional biographies contributed by six commissioned authors. Each orbits around the years during and after WWII. We encounter a fugitive Nazi scientist who turns his taxonomic passions to Argentine insects; an allied officer musing on the practical impossibility of de-Nazification, “everyone’s responsible, and, thus, no one is”; even a Holocaust survivor who gets roped into a conspiracy against fellow Jews. By turns farcical and deadly earnest, each of the historically informed tales provides a rich sense of the messy moral dilemmas of life in wartime. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/sh25_EvaDurovec_by_MathiasVoelzke_006.jpg) Fig.3 The history of recent and ongoing conflicts was the thread connecting most of the works, though it wasn’t always explicit. Pedro Gómez-Egaña’s *Night at Dawn takes* its cue from Thomas Mann’s *The Magic Mountain*, in which a cast of well-to-do characters pass their days in a Swiss sanatorium during World War I. The set-like installation takes the form of a bourgeois study riven by accordion-like cuts in the fabric of space, seemingly made by more-than-human forces. Its sprawling size is contrasted elsewhere by Stephan Mörsch’s *Gaza Surf Club*, which presents a series of 1:10 scale models of beach facilities that once served a variety of social functions along the Gazan coast before the genocide. Though the wall text claims that the works originally set out to complicate the image of Gaza as an “open-air concentration camp,” they now exude an eerie sense of resignation, as if preemptively memorializing lives still in the process of being extinguished. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/sh25_morsch_4.jpeg) Fig.4 There were a number of welcome departures from the festival’s weightier themes. Pauline Curnier Jardin’s *Jeanet Film Adulte* follows a carnival in Aalst, Belgium, which was delisted as a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage site at the city’s own request. It focuses on the figure of “Vuil Jeanet” (dirty Jeanet), where cross-dressing men embody all the worst stereotypes of trans women, sex workers, and insatiable wives. The unsparing succession of close-ups zooms in on the smeared make-up and gaudy fabrics of the drunken lads, as plastic baby heads and dildos flop out from beneath their skirts. Downstairs, the absurdity takes a more comic turn in Angélique Aubrit and Ludovic Beillard’s *Besser ein gesunder Esel als ein krankes Pferd*, where a cast of oversized weasels banter about how to carry on after capitalism’s collapse. A personal highlight was *Grey Earth*, a film in progress by Dana Kavelina. Combining stop motion, hand-drawn animation, and crystalline 4K footage, it revolves around three prematurely terminated narratives. Among them, two young Ukrainian soldiers on the front fantasizing about life after the war, maybe starting a farm; an adorably helpless cow wandering the fields before getting sent off to the milk factory; and a former farmer turned soldier, or perhaps deserter, lamenting a life spent in servitude to the powers that be. The overriding ambience is one of exhaustion, and the tenderness of the rambling voices resembles nothing so much as the pillow talk of a tired lover after work. Eschewing both analysis and outcry, Kavelina leaves viewers haunted by the littleness of human lives and the indifference of the structures we’ve built for ourselves—a vision virtually irreconcilable with political clichés of heroism or national community. Within the larger context of the festival, her work seemed to come as a reminder of Walter Benjamin’s observation that the political tendency of a work can only be effective if it is also artistically adequate. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/sh25_Kavelina_01.jpg) Fig.4 Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of all the positions on offer. Though the exhibition as a whole succeeds in presenting alternative models for engaging with an ongoing past, it sometimes felt like individual artists struggled to find a compelling form for their concerns, buckling under the weight of their chosen themes. Moreover, several of the works seem to specifically suffer from being produced as commissions—managing to deliver clever proposals on time, but hardly much else. Often enough, I ended up admiring the intelligence of the curatorial decisions more than the art itself. After my third visit to the show, I couldn’t help but ask myself why I even expected that producing art in the context of a thematically driven exhibition such as this should be a job any different from selling shoes or filing copy. In the end, I guess it isn’t. And perhaps addressing that circumstance would have been one way to avoid the air of forced topicality exuded by some of the works. The burden of aboutness in art, as in life, is that it leaves little room for strangeness, let alone wonder. // --- ### Images: Cover: Design: Grupa Ee Fig.1 LIGNA, *Freiheitsplatz* (2025), performance, photo: steirischer herbst / Johanna Lamprecht Fig.2 Ivo Dimchev, *Hot Sotz* (2025), performance, photo: steirischer herbst / Johanna Lamprecht Fig.3 Eva Ďurovec, *Never Again Peace Now* (2025), installation view (detail), courtesy of the artist, photo: steirischer herbst / Mathias Völzke Fig.4 Stephan Mörsch, courtesy of the artist Fig.5 Dana Kavelina, courtesy of the artist *Lain Ocean is an entity emanating from the Rhineland.* ### Studies on Squats URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/studies-on-squats-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:24.000Z Studies on Squats *is a choreographic inquiry, a dance of the oppressed. Through the performative poetry of the “Asian Squat” (a deep, flat-footed squat commonly used for resting and daily activities in many Asian cultures), I collect memories, histories, myths, and records of daily life to create a new alphabet for respelling resistance.* **dance of the oppressed** **(1,** For people enduring oppressive conditions, resistance is a vital tool. But resistance by the oppressed requires artistry. When the very act of resisting oppression limits one’s possibilities in life or endangers one’s survival, what then is the nature of resistance? Could the threat itself mutate the possibilities of what it means to resist? Is resistance always a loud and visible disruption or could it also exist in a slow, obscure, quiet, strange, more fragile form? **the birthing body** **(3,** For a long time, women have squatted to bring life into the world, as the children in the wombs, in the earliest moments of becoming, have squatted too. The supine position came with the medicalization of childbirth in Western hospitals—not for the birthing body, but for the convenience of the male physician, whose hands took control of her. In the imagined futures of our resistance, the birthing body rises back to the squatting position. In the imagined futures of our resistance, birthing transcends the biological act. Everyone carries the responsibility and the potential to nurture the next generation of protesters. In the imagined futures of our resistance, birthing is an act of repair. The pelvis opens fully and gravity assists. **ball of energy** **(5,** frog squat low body compact legs bent decisively muscle hum under the skin then tighten coiling into a ball of energy feet press into damp soil distributing weight evenly knees angle out preparing for flight center of gravity shift downward compressing like a spring every joint in position for a strong push motion suspended stillness vibrate on the edge of release **falling into a squat** **(7,** i-can’t-walk-anymore words barely escape my lips before the spine takes over folding in protest find me collapsing when legs bend drawing me down from here, i can hear the quiet sounds of protest rising from the pavement take off your shoes and we dig our toes into soil let them sprout roots and touch the water when we sing together who decided to paint the horizon with a fucking single straight line the air is growing my bones knees giving way eyes gliding squatting deep into the earth daring the world to see that when the body says no it means she-can-not surrender, in defiance refuse to bear more the back continues to curl encasing the lungs balls of my feet anchored ready to rise **portrait of mothers II** **(10,** Umma returned home. Her new Korean apartment has a traditional floor heating system, ondol, but she can’t use it because she can no longer squat, rest, or sleep on the floor like she used to when she left home. Seeing her high bed, with its double soft mattress, and the giant couch occupying half of her living room makes me laugh, then cry. Fifty years of life in Germany and umma’s body experienced distortion. Her body is evidence of the many dehumanizing lives she endured, the remorseless intolerance of cultural clashes, and her persistence to survive in a place that deformed her. She unlearned the Asian squat to hold on to life. **dance outside my body** **(19,** I sit in the subway, folding and unfolding. The photo crinkles below my fingers, the paper stiff at first—cool and smooth. I press harder, bending it loosely, then sharply, moving the head next to my right foot. I smile because for the next fifteen minutes, from Spichernstrasse to Kottbusser Tor, I am dancing an impossible dance outside my body. With each fold, the legs soften. I slide along the creases, smoothing them, then push against them, changing the temperature—warm now. The strange body flaps around like a joyful eagle. What is the next move? The knee wants to disappear. I fold again—very slowly this time—a corner bends too far, the tension thickens, and I hear the loud crackle of the fibers. The paper fights back, but I keep going, pressing, twisting, folding. The edges scrape against my hands, rougher now. I keep bending, folding and unfolding. These poems were originally published in the book *Studies on Squats* (2024) // --- ### Image credits Unseating from an Uncomfortable Chair, 2025, 300 x 420 mm, Two color Risoprint, Edition of 100\. © and courtesy of the artist. *Yon Natalie Mik is a Berlin-based artist and dancer working with performance, writing, sound design, and still/moving images to create expanded choreographies and performance exhibitions.* ### What are we responsible for? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-hand-that-is-all-our-hands-combined-the-13rd-biennial-of-goeteborg/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:21.000Z Consoling yet oppressive, the *Adagio sostenuto* from Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” ushers visitors into the 13th Göteborg Biennial with an uneasy weight. You might know it well, so hum along. The low, restrained melody threads through Basma Al-Sharif’s *Old Masters*, wherein two young European men, Diego Marcon and Federico Chiari (Al-Sharif’s friends and artists), move through the halls of the Göteborg Museum of Art. Their footsteps converse in silence with the waves on screen at the shore of Gaza City and the interior of a house where a Black Muslim woman wanders; each frame of the film is charged with absence and presence. There is no romantic sweep; even the Nordic painters displayed on the walls of the gallery, their works depicting bucolic surroundings with horses and sunrises, seem unsettled by the fractures the film opens. *Old Masters*, commissioned by Christina Lehnert, curator of this year's Biennial, unfolds a conversation between European painting traditions and the history of colonial violence to which they belong. The ouroboros-like form of the canon—timeless, (self)venerated—is probed through the fragile gestures of Al-Sharif’s collaborators. Often silent, visibly (painfully) helpless, they embody the impossibility of fully speaking about the genocide in Gaza, while Beethoven’s music underscores the contradictions of a European heritage that, when confronted with contemporary dispossession, reveals its detachment and inadequacy. The work is less about representation than relational witnessing: an encounter in which artists and audience grapple together with the impossibilities of knowledge, speech, and ethical presence. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Basma-al-Sharif-Still-image-from-Old-Masters-2.jpg) Fig.1 The *Moonlight Sonata* reverberates across three further rooms in a subtle intervention within a heavily loaded painting collection of idealized, unbothered white lives. It sharpens the senses for a Biennial that is not interested in recreating the spectacle of others, but Gothenburg offers a necessary depth, and a necessary pace that is everything but busy. Its focus lies with those persecuted and displaced under the heading of the “Global War on Terror”, the US-coined term for the destabilisation of the Middle East, Central Asia, and North Africa, and the ongoing extraction of these countries’ resources. Instead of inflating this subject through curatorial ambition, the exhibition acknowledges its own limitations, reflecting on structural conditions while resisting the illusion of limitless relatability. It does so by grounding its narratives in the participants’ own histories of migration, labor, and extraction, where global violence is registered not as an abstract theme but as lived entanglement. Such entanglements are, of course, barely reflected in a city like Göteborg—a former imperial port caught in an identity crisis, haunted by its isolation and fantasies of greatness. To sustain a biennial here is to cling to one of the few remaining frameworks through which culture can still aspire to transformation. The Biennial’s title comes from Solmaz Sharif’s poem “Personal Effects”, which was read aloud during the opening before any of the official speeches: “a hand that is all our hands combined”. Appearing in Sharif’s 2016 collection *Look*, the poem grapples with war, displacement, and language as a site of conflict. It touches the remnants of identity amid loss—belongings, memories, traces of life persisting after violence. Through this choice, Christina Lehnert frames responsibility not as burden, but as possibility: something that can be shared and carried collectively. As humans have done, and still do. The title is evocative of a drawing by Cecilia Vicuña, where two red hands hold two blue hands, which themselves hold two yellow hands. Christina and I spoke about this image while she was unfolding her research for the Biennial. It became clear that the growing political pressures on artists, institutions, and cultural communities across Europe demanded the commensurate eloquence from her as from the artists she presents. Rather than withdraw into abstraction, Christina accepted the precarious frameworks of an underfunded institution possessed of a grassroots spirit and a renowned legacy, and shaped her exhibition through subtle resistance—an aesthetic, ethical, and material stance that worked by quietly insisting on situated forms of antifascist awareness. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-09-24-at-13.01.15.png) Fig.2 This positioning of solidarity above righteousness also echoed in the conversations that informed the Biennial. At the Central Library, Moshtari Hilal and Sinthujan Varatarajah presented their essay “Hierarchies of Solidarity”, distilling the refusal to excuse silence by hiding behind appeals to “complexity”: *There is this assumption that things are so complicated that we cannot speak about them. But complication is often used as an excuse—sometimes to excuse yourself, sometimes to silence others. Take Gaza: is that a genocide or not? Suddenly everyone wants to cite scholar X, Y, or Z. But some things are not that complicated. Between right and wrong, it’s not that complicated. Nor is the basic principle: treat others the way you want to be treated. \[…\] When we recognize that; we see how violence and its dynamics repeat across contexts and histories. \[…\] At the same time, the public sphere has been transformed by globalization and digital media. Social media platforms are not neutral—they are controlled by corporations that act like unelected states, interfering in political processes without accountability. \[...\] Still, despite these risks, the digital sphere remains crucial: it allows people displaced geographically to organize across borders. Fragile and contradictory, it nonetheless holds a potential for solidarity that we cannot dismiss.* Drawing from Hilal and Varatarajah’s reflection, what people who build biennials ultimately need to emphasize is that every artistic work can be a form of resistance to silencing. This is, however, only possible through solidarity among the practitioners. Take Jonelle Twum’s *I saw you when you watched me die*, a speculative radio broadcast played in a space of rest created by the artist and grounded in Black feminist thought. The work, made together with the Swedish Black Archives, embodies such possibility. Inside a small cabin in the work, two visitors can sit together and listen to the voices from the Black Panther Party, Audre Lorde, and Sadiya Hartmann as they reflect on idleness and refusal in the face of extractive logics of productivity. Twum insists on rest as resistance, a gesture that holds care and protest in the same breath, and proposes withdrawal from labor as a radical act, suggesting that solidarity can also be forged in stillness and in listening. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Moki-Cherry-overview-at-the-The-Gothenburg-Museum-of-Art_foto-Andrej-Lamut_PRESS-18.jpg) Fig.3 Moki Cherry’s vibrant textiles in the next room, surrounded by Vera Nilsson’s paintings of children and domestic intimacy, embodying her holistic philosophy of “home as stage, stage as home.” Through tapestry, costume, and immersive environments developed with the jazz legend Don Cherry for the Organic Music Theatre, she blurs the lines between the domestic and the performative. The textiles presented here center her feminist stance, her engagement with Buddhism, and her affinity with the narrative strategies of children’s literature. Cherry’s practice renders art inseparable from everyday life, where functional fabrics and symbolic imagery articulate nature, spirituality, and community. Her depictions of wombs, cells—equally regarded as of the body—at home in the living room and on stage, transform ordinary spaces into sites of shared creativity. At Röda Sten Konsthall, the Biennial’s motherboard, visitors are greeted by a more austere encounter: A documentation of Hans Haacke’s *Der Bevölkerung (To the Population)*, a work that distills the clarity and poetics which Haacke has long wielded, art as a tool of direct democracy and a demand for accountability. Twenty-five years ago, Haacke provoked the German parliament by proposing to supplement the Reichstag’s historic dedication “To the German People” (*Dem Deutschen Volke*) with an inscription of equal weight to be placed in the courtyard: “To the Population” (*Der Bevölkerung*). The ensuing debate exposed both the persistence of racist structures in German politics and the urgency of reimagining society’s future. Some critics decried the work as unconstitutional, even accusing Haacke of attempting “to take the Bundestag away from the German people”. Others, for example, Gert Weisskirchen of the SPD, defended the project, insisting that the dedications were not opposed but placed in dialogue: “They ask the question: what kind of society do we want to live in in the future? That is what the artist wants to tell us.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Hans-Haacke-DER-BEVOLKERUNGfoto-Andrej-Lamut_PRESS-19-3.jpg) Fig.4 Haacke’s installation consists of a large wooden trough in the Reichstag’s northern courtyard filled with soil brought by parliamentarians from their constituencies across Germany. From these deposits, an unpredictable ecosystem emerged: seeds, roots, and small plants carried in the soil mingled with airborne seeds from Berlin. The vegetation, left uncultivated, developed freely as a living image of diversity and transformation. Fly honeysuckle, musk mallow, apple trees, raspberry, hazel, small-leaved lime, rose, and grapevine—more than a hundred species of plants and animals have appeared over the years. The biotope, continuously observed and documented by webcam, renders visible the natural processes of growth and decay as a parallel to democratic discourse itself: rooted, diverse, and in constant flux. On the Konsthall’s second floor, Helena Uambembe’s installation features plastic flowers placed on soil and clay. The work resembles a cemetery. Drawing on her father’s history as a Black Angolan soldier conscripted into the South African Defence Force, she builds symbolic terrains of fences, sand, and grave-like forms. These materials evoke the normalization of violence across generations, exposing how cycles of oppression replicate themselves and entrench trauma within social structures. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Helena-Uambembe-I-saw-you-when-you-watched-me-die_foto-Andrej-Lamut_PRESS-141.jpg) Fig.5 Here the Biennial reveals some of its most intense connections, where artworks resonate beyond scale, material, or form. An undercurrent of longing binds Uambembe’s work to Georgia Sagri’s performance *Gone, Gone Beyond*. Sagri shifts the focus from borders to breath, from concrete poetry to abstraction. The work—comprising a pressure-device sculpture and a performance—traces how grief and rupture can recompose identity. The sculpture inhales and exhales like a living organism, turning air into something tactile and resonant. The performance, in dialogue with Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke’s poetry, enacts self-assembly after loss. Sagri’s embodiment of heartbreak is not staged as private grief, rather it is reflective of the death-drive imposed on countless innocent lives across the globe. She performs within an inflatable mass that recalls the prism in Albrecht Dürer’s *Melancolia I*, evoking melancholy as both a condition and a tool for an art that insists on its own relevance. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Installation-view_Roda-Sten-Konsthall_foto-Andrej-Lamut_PRESS-81-2.jpg) Fig.6 I look at her dance in sorrow, and I look at the swans in Rosalind Nashashibi’s paintings. They appear depicting empty pots, vibrating with color and movement that grows more anxious the longer you look. In the foreground, as in Renaissance painting, the acronym “UNRWA” anchors the image—referencing the United Nations Relief and Works Agency, founded in 1949 to register and support Palestinians born and living in displacement camps. The lettering connects these swans to horrifying images from Gaza, where children wait with empty pots in line at UNRWA stations as a result of Israel’s blocking of food supplies. The blockade and Israel’s expulsion of UNRWA from the territory have caused widespread starvation throughout 2025\. The aesthetic beauty of the painting confronts the starkness of human suffering, pressing viewers to reflect on the tension between witnessing genocide and occupying positions of safety and distance. *The Indifferent Man*, inspired by J.A. Watteau’s *L’Indifférent* (c.1716), reimagines the carefree Rococo figure in today’s world of urgent responsibility. The painting asks: can we afford the luxury of indifference? Later, images turn to old smartphones in Lydia Ourahmane’s *Haraga*, a work grounded in the testimonies of young Algerian migrants crossing the Mediterranean. Through phone videos sent by Houari, the artist shares moments suspended between hope and peril, as friends on a fragile boat speak of dreams and fears. Burning identity papers becomes both erasure and renewal—an embodied gamble for freedom. If Uambembe’s terrain reflects the perpetuation of militarized control, Ourahmane places us in the precarious crossings where lives of dispossession are risked at sea. Where Ourahmane foregrounds the vulnerability of collective journeys, Sagri situates fragility within the body, proposing breath itself as ground for survival and healing, and Noor Abed’s *A Night We Held Between* lets a folk piece become an anthem of life reassurance across the ancient landscapes and contemporary everyday life in Palestine. Stairs at the Konsthall lead upward towards a cross in the colors of the Trans Pride flag, one side of a historically dense installation by Puppies Puppies (Jade Guanaro Kuriki-Olivo), addressing the legacy of Japanese American citizens’ internment during World War II. Invoking the Soul Consoling Tower and the contested memory of Tule Lake, the artist situates grief and resistance within sites of state violence and historical erasure. Familiar objects—ashes in an urn, archival prints, burned flags—are charged with political intensity, insisting that the fragility of memory demands constant vigilance. From Sagri’s attention to breath in the presence of death, Puppies Puppies’ work extends remembrance into the political space, where mourning becomes inseparable from activism against the growing xenophobia in the US. This insistence on collective struggle reverberates in Raven Chacon’s *Silent Choir* which captures the Standing Rock protests of 2016–17\. The silent defiance of water protectors, led by Indigenous women staring down armed police, transforms silence into a resonant force. The sonic trace amplifies both presence and imagination, embodying solidarity as nonviolent resistance. If Puppies Puppies exposes the fragility of historical memory, Chacon reveals silence itself as a living archive of resistance, carried through prayer, sound, and strategic unity. Hanni Kamaly’s sculptures, *ALI BEN MOHAMED* and *MUSSARD YAHIA*, return the gaze to Europe’s racialized histories. Drawing on the Swedish physician and race “scientist” Herman Lundborg’s eugenicist catalogue *Swedish Racial Types* (1919), Kamaly abstracts figures once reduced to stereotypes, including “vagrant” or “criminal”, transforming these images into sculptural presences. The artist exposes how classification systems were weaponized to devalue human life—a violence latent in today’s politics of exclusion. Where Chacon reveals silence as a weapon, Kamaly confronts the violence embedded in archives and the persistence of structural racism. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Thuy-Han-Nguyen-Chi-Dalena-Tran-Andrew-Yong-Hoon-Lee-Theres-enough-light-to-drown-in-but-never-enough-to-enter-the-bones_foto-Andrej-Lamut_PRESS-191-2.jpg) Fig.6 My parcours at the Kunsthall culminates in sitting for a long time with *There’s enough light to drown in but never enough to enter the bones* by Thuy-Han Nguyen-Chi, Dalena Tran, and Andrew Yong Hoon Leo. Sound, film, and sculpture converge in the work into a sprawling installation where aerial imagery, archival footage, and digital renderings interweave with a deep blue sky. Anchored in the story of the mathematician Alexander Grothendieck’s presentation of clandestine lectures in Hanoi during the Vietnam War, the work reimagines knowledge as resistance against imperial domination. The lectures, relocated outside the city for safety, always took place from 6 to 10 a.m.—before bombings began at 11\. To dedicate oneself to the abstract beauty of mathematics in the midst of war, under the constant threat of destruction, is itself an act of resistance. Grothendieck’s practice of mathematics opened a space of infinity, a defiance of imperial and colonial time, connecting to timelessness amid devastation. In moving through these temporalities and geographies, I find myself less mapping connections than being carried by them—family and community bleeding into rest and refusal, militarization into choreography, mourning into affirmation of life. Nothing resolves; each work leaves me suspended, as if insisting that responsibility lies not in closure but in staying with what unsettles. Perhaps this is what it means to share “a hand that is all our hands combined”: to remain within reach. // *a hand that is all our hands combined* *Göteborg International Biennial for Contemporary Art #13* *On view throughout November 30, 2025* *Noor Abed, Basma al-Sharif, Patricia L. Boyd, Simnikiwe Buhlungu, Raven Chacon, Moki Cherry, Siri Derkert, Hans Haacke, Hanni Kamaly, Rosalind Nashashibi, Thuy-Han Nguyen-Chi & Dalena Tran & Andrew Yong Hoon Lee, Christian Nyampeta, Lydia Ourahmane, Olivia Plender, Puppies Puppies (Jade Guanaro Kuriki-Olivo), Lala Rukh, Georgia Sagri, Helena Uambembe, Jonelle Twum, and, at the invitation of Black Archives Sweden, Kiluanji Kia Henda, Tiago Mena Abrantes, and Pamela Z.* --- ### Images Cover Image. Noor Abed, Still image from A Night We Held Between, 2024 Fig. 1 Basma al Sharif, Still image from Old Masters Fig. 2 Kiluanji Kia Henda & Tiago Mena Abrantes, poster images from Work Wont Fix it for Black Archives Sweden Fig. 3 Moki Cherry, overview at The Gothenburg Museum of Art GIBCA 2025\. Photo: Andrej lamut Fig. 4 Hans Haacke DER BEVÖLKERUNG. Photo: Michael Arndt & Werkstatt Fig. 5 Kiluanji Kia Henda & Tiago Mena Abrantes, poster images from Work Wont Fix it Fig. 6 Installation view at Röda Sten Konsthall GIBCA 2025\. Rosalind Nashashibi, Swans and pots (four), Rosalind Nashashibi, The Indifferent Man, Georgia Sagri, Gone, Gone Beyond Photo: Andrej lamut Fig. 7 Thuy-Han Nguyen-Chi & Dalena Tran & Andrew Yong Hoon Lee, There’s enough light to drown in but never enough to enter the bones at Röda Sten Konsthall GIBCA 2025\. Photo: Andrej lamut All Images, Courtesy of the Götheborg Biennial for Contemporary Art, Copyright of the artists. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Reels of Erasure URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/reels-of-erasure/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:18.000Z A transition scene of dust clouds and thunder as an old building is demolished. Cut to the housing block that replaced it. A landscape shot of Plattenbau towers rising from ravaged terrain. The camera looks out from an inner-city apartment onto pre-war tenements, then, later, from an unfinished high-rise onto rows of new housing. These moving images come from the state-owned film studio of the German Democratic Republic, DEFA (Deutsche Film-Aktiengesellschaft), a vital archive exploring East Berlin’s past, its urban transformation, and fractured spatial relationships. Film, as a visual memory tool, preserves collective urban memory in a city like Berlin, where redevelopment feeds a cycle of erasure. As the GDR’s capital and a Cold War frontline, East Berlin was a showpiece for the socialist break from its capitalist-industrial past. Yet that past remained present as many still lived in decaying 19th-century workers’ barracks lacking proper plumbing, heating, and private toilets. Until 1961, two-thirds of the housing stock predated 1918\. This led to an ambitious housing plan to replace these dwellings with prefabricated housing. The process was accelerated by Honecker’s 1973 Housing Program, which aimed to provide modern housing for every citizen by 1990. This break from the past and rush for uniform modern housing was explored by Heiner Carow’s *Die Legende von Paul und Paula* (1973). Paula, a single mom who values autonomy and authenticity, falls for her opposite: Paul, a successful state worker in a loveless marriage living in a new housing block. Their affair unfolds in Paula’s old flat, a space of imagination and passion, contrasting Paul’s rigid, dutiful world. Real demolition footage is intercut throughout the film, mirroring the city’s transformation. The film uses images of the past and stark contrasts to symbolize a more organic way of life, reflecting growing disillusionment with the modern, imposed cityscape. Paula’s resistance to this overall transformation suggests that accepting life in the new housing blocks means conforming to a prescribed way of life and an identity shaped by the system. Another example could be Hermann Zschosche’s *Insel der Schwäne* (1982), where a young boy and his family move from his grandmother’s rural cottage to a new Plattenbau settlement in Marzahn. The cultural shift from the old to the new way of life—from natural to artificial surroundings, from fireplaces to radiators, outdoor play to play on the construction site—is highlighted in the film, as his parents accept the new way of life in exchange for modern housing. Urban planning is not neutral. It is a tool for enforcing power relations to shape collective experience and social behavior. As East Berlin was reshaped to be a model of socialism, today’s Berlin is reshaped to serve global capitalism. We see two periods of a transnational homogenization of urban aesthetics: the socialist block housing and the neutral, sleek design of the neoliberal global city. GDR architecture, driven in part by economic constraints, aimed to produce ideological conformity and a new identity, in the same way today’s minimalist futuristic designs do. These dynamics are seen in *Die Architekten* (1990, dir. Peter Kahane), in which an unfulfilled architect is finally tasked to design a cultural center, only to have his inspired, idealistic plans blocked by a system insisting on standardized structures. However, standardization and transformation today are not driven by a social need for affordable housing, but by the endless pursuit of profit through reinvestment, leaving the city and its people at the mercy of capital flows and economic shifts. The process of privatization and transformation that followed socialism’s subsumption is ever-present. Working-class displacement has accelerated, leading to demographic shifts and radically new cityscapes. Whether it be the new housing of “Die Macherei” at the foot of a high rise, or the RAW-Gelände, a former train repair station, now a nightlife and culture hub, or the luxury rentals at Gleisdreieck Park and Alexanderplatz, or the proposed housing on Tempelhofer Feld from firm Seilziehn, new developments follow a homogenized aesthetic: minimalistic, boxy buildings with artificial streetscapes, designated leisure areas, and centralized commercial amenities. Ironically, it shares similarities with the socialist housing once criticized by the capitalist West. These sanitized, artificial spaces, in both eras, displace the organically developed urban fabric, erasing cultural and historical specificity. Preserved historical sites are curated, as symbols of repression, the Wall and the Stasi HQ still stand, but much of GDR cultural life, such as the Palast der Republik and the SEZ, have been erased. Against this backdrop, Berlin’s history of grassroots resistance, from Kotti & Co.’s 2011 rent control victories to the 2017 Volksbühne occupation, and ongoing protests against the Amazon EDGE tower, communities’ slow redevelopment and reclaiming of the narrative. This echoes a longer line of cultural response to change, visible in films including Konrad Wolf’s *Solo Sunny* (1980). In creating the environment for the film, several years after the start of Honecker’s Housing Plan, the film largely avoids showing the Plattenbau high-rises. Instead, it lingers on the pre-GDR inner-city flats, streets, and shared courtyards, showing the dynamics of those left behind. In the film, we see the lives of those left behind by the Housing Plan, and the reluctance toward a changing city where old spaces dominate the built spatial environment—and where the emotional plot of the story is rooted. By showing how attachment to place can foster defiance to imposed urban transformation, the film itself becomes an act of resistance, stabilizing collective memory and interrupting cycles of erasure. DEFA archives reveal a layered urban history, capturing the nuances of a city rebuilt for the working class amidst ideological competition and how these nuances can be identified in today’s landscape. We can look to their memory to better understand the social fabrics we navigate daily, and the legacies of history and communities harshly erased to create a blank slate of space and memory, inducing an increasingly hostile urban environment that isn’t accessible to all. It is accountability that leads to resistance. \\\\ --- ### Image credits Alexandra Bachzetsis, Rush(es), 2025\. produced with c/o [bardi@care.of.bardi](mailto:bardiy@care.of.bardi). © and courtesy of the artist. Photography by Estelle Hanania. *Mia Ribeiro Alonso is a writer and collaborates with AWC as an editorial volunteer.* ### Alexandra Bachzetsis URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/alexandra-bachzetsis/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:17.000Z That back tells a story: from spine to dorsal muscles, a threshold where pre-social intensity collides with political structures. Swiss-Greek choreographer Alexandra Bachzetsis composes universes of gestures—visible and invisible—on the premise that bodies can be regarded without reducing them to objects. She makes you look into the grids of classification that infiltrate bodily memory, exposure, and gestures that predate commodification are nevertheless reshaped by its logics. Authenticity and fiction are not her adversaries but accomplices, folded into one another. Presence itself becomes choreographic: a repertoire of tacitly acquired gestures that structures everyday being. Bachzetsis occupies the liminal zones with choreography—entangling intimacy and spectacle, opacity and exposure, bleed into each other. Pop-cultural gestures—whether borrowed from fashion, social media, or music—are never ornamental to her choreography; they are integral archives of cultural codes, re-embodied and undone. Thus she often unfolds through what might be called *strategic submission*: a deliberate yielding to external frames—choreographic scores, musical rhythms, sartorial constraints—that paradoxically generate possibilities for resistance. In surrendering to imposed systems, new fissures of autonomy open up. By re-situating pop songs and fashion tropes, she exposes the power structures they reinforce, then inscribes a detached intentionality into their embodiment. In doing so, she shows how conscious emotion can revive an automation otherwise driven by power. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Rushes-2025-press-image-A.B.-photo-Piotr-Niepsuj-1.jpg) Fig. 1 Her solo *Rush(es)*, presented at the Grand Palais in Paris, and featured in this issue, exemplifies this approach: a meditation on autofiction, autoeroticism, and autodocumentation. The work probes how desire is simultaneously constructed and dismantled by the dancing body. Through intense physicality, performer and audience are drawn into a heightened state of awareness—where sensual experience excavates the rational, and thought is folded into flesh. The video work *Rehearsal (Ongoing)*, shown most recently at Piktogram in Warsaw, extends this inquiry into the micro-choreographies of the everyday. The piece stages two hands—face absent, body withheld—meticulously picking, shifting, and rearranging objects on a table. Each attempt at order collides with resistance: some actions remain suspended, others achieve fragile completion. The work dismantles the fantasy of seamless control, exposing instead the persistence of disorder and the embodied labor of repetition as a feminist practice of endurance. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fig2_ESTELLEHANANIA-v2.jpg) Fig. 2 Bachzetsis’s feminist legacy does not reside solely in the mesh of identity or sexuality but in her own methodology: in making visible the cultural and institutional forces that structure embodiment itself. In a world where identity and sexuality are exhausted by circulation and commodification, her work insists that transformation may still emerge through self-presentation enacted knowingly. Yet, every subject she stages remains alert to the conditions that make such enactment possible: access to platforms, visibility, and institutional recognition. In this light, each of her performances opens up as a critical cartography of who is permitted to move, who is compelled to remain still, and under what circumstances. The question she poses is no longer “what can the body do?” but “who is allowed to move as they could, and on whose terms?” --- ### Image credits Cover, Fig. 2: Alexandra Bachzetsis, Rush(es), 2025\. produced with c/o [bardi@care.of.bardi](mailto:bardiy@care.of.bardi). © and courtesy of the artist. Photography by Estelle Hanania. Fig. 1: Alexandra Bachzetsis, Rush(es), 2025, press image - A.B., photo Piotr Niepsuj. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### The Art of Cooking With Communist Dreams URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-art-of-cooking-with-communist-dreams/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:20.000Z **How to Make Saffron Rice That Five Aunts Would Disapprove Of** *Serves 12 3 hours* INGREDIENTS 6 boring guests that arrive two hours late 5 gossiping aunts Will to cook impressive saffron rice 1 aunt who has scared away 5 bandits Greet the guests politely even though they are very late and let them know you have the highest grade in every subject at school. Instead of falling asleep when the adults begin to converse, go to the kitchen and try convincing your aunts that you know how to cook saffron rice. Ignore their routine attempts at stopping you from accomplishing such a precious task and make yourself comfortable on the kitchen floor. Irrespective of the result, they will declare you are doing it wrong. Ignore. Eventually, your oldest aunt will argue that: “At least he’s making an effort. Your grandfather never cooked – he only cared about politics. One night when he was away at a secret meeting in Tehran, bandits climbed over the wall, and I pretended to have guests over so they wouldn’t think I was home alone. I put on music, danced, made tea, and served the imaginary guests.” Tell the guests the food is ready. FUN FACT! Saffron is more expensive than gold and must be hidden from all types of bandits: strangers, relatives, friends, and lovers. Hide it so well that you can barely find the little box of saffron yourself, and instead have to go through every little nook and cranny in the kitchen when you need it the most. \---- ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-09-29-at-15.02.43.png) Fig.1 **Zereshk Polo Ba Morgh or** **How to Cook Saffron Chicken Out of Communist Dreams** *Serves 7 3 hours and 5 minutes* INGREDIENTS 1 deceased communist grandfather who lived off of your grandmother’s fortune The last 2 chickens out of the 40 in your grandfather’s unintentionally non-profit chicken farm 90 kg of macho culture 1 grandmother who does not let you cook Zereshk Polo Ba Morgh (Barberry Rice with Saffron Chicken) Sneak up on your grandmother standing by the kitchen window next to a framed issue of Sedaye Zanjan. Carefully look out through the semi-transparent shutters. Promise her you will not tell anyone that she allows you to watch your cousin chop off the heads of the last chicken in your grandfather’s chicken farm at the back of her garden. Watch them wander headlessly in the yellow grass until they topple over. Laugh confusedly when your grandmother expresses: “Another communist dream died right there.” Fetch two headless chickens. Sit back on the broken kitchen chair while your grandmother prepares Zereshk Polo Ba Morgh. Try to help but get dismissed. When the food is ready, ask to help her again and get permission to serve the dish under her supervision. Tell your sisters that lunch is in ten minutes; repeat after another five. FUN FACT! In the middle of the 20th century, the editor Mohammad Taghi Malekian ran the left-wing newspaper Sedaye Zanjan. One issue includes an interview with revolutionary politician Mohammad Mosaddegh, who worked hard to nationalize the Iranian oil industry. NOTES… The Art of Cooking With Communist Dreams From Garlic to Onion \\\\ *(b. 1995) is an Iranian-Swedish artist based in Berlin and Stockholm, who creates performances and installations informed by processes of hybridization in migratory cultures. He is represented by Moderna Museet, the Public Art Agency Sweden, and the Arab Image Foundation Library. He has previously conducted artistic research at the Arab Image Foundation and was artist-in-residence at the Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris. His work has been exhibited at venues including the 10th Berlin Biennale, Sophiensaele, Moderna Museet, and Contemporary Art Center, Vilnius.* ### Distracted Attention URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/distracted-attention/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:15.000Z Rather than treating fragmentation solely as a symptom of crisis, the curators and artists engaged its contradictions and possibilities. Earlier this month, the sixteenth edition of *curated by* unfolded across Vienna, with 24 galleries testing how economic, political, and aesthetic forces splinter yet also reconfigure the ways we experience the present. This review follows their lead, not in a seamless account but through a series of fragments, each tracing a different encounter within the festival. Under the new direction of Attilia Fattori Franchini and Christina Linher, the format remained one of galleries inviting external curators to respond to a shared urgency. Since its founding in 2009 as a city-funded platform, the festival has foregrounded curating as both method and subject; this year it turned that lens toward fragmentation as the condition shaping contemporary subjectivity under late capitalism. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1-2-v2.jpg) Fig.1 **Fragment I: Navigation** Fragmentation is inscribed into the festival’s spatial format. With a network of 24 participating exhibition spaces dispersed across the city, it primes visitors through a rhythm of interruption. These interruptions not only condition my engagement with the exhibitions but also make the walks to the galleries explicitly become part of the experience of the festival. Navigating the routes from one show to another, the memory of previously seen artwork is punctuated by distractions on the streets, detours, and breaks; these disruptions are not merely incidental. They become part of how the event performs its theme, enacting modes of attention ascribed to the fragmented subject in navigating urban space. During the opening weekend, the festival offers artist- and curator-led tours, each with a distinct focus and route through selected galleries. These tours navigate the spatial fragmentation, suggesting possible narratives whereby walking becomes a mediating act through which the artworks of the festival are apprehended. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2-v2.png) Fig.2 **Fragment II: Desert as Allegory and Material Reality** Galerie Krinzinger Schottenfeld’s exhibition *The Desert Has No Shadow* mirrors this interplay of space and subjectivity by crystallising how fragmentation materially impacts the structuring of a landscape. *Curated by* Ute Meta Bauer and Wejdan Reda, the group show frames desert landscapes not only as physical spaces but as sites of memory, myth, loss, identity, and imagination deeply interwoven with histories of dispossession, colonialism, and ecological loss, but also utopian narratives are written into the work. Hind Nasser’s ink paintings *Petra I* and *Petra II* (1987) depict an uninhabited rocky desert landscape as silent yet dense with history. Nearby, *The Desert Was Beautiful* (2021), a video essay by Saphiya Abu Al-Maati, Aseel Alyaqoub, and Yousef Awaad Hussein, recalls the history of the desert of Kuwait, interlacing archival fragments and voiceover. As the narrating voice recounts, “The open desert was not fenced or divided. It was open. What increased, and more than anything, were sheep. Unregulated sheep roam the desert freely, consuming any vulnerable vegetation \[…\] this is how desertification began.”\[1\] The work situates ecological damage within a history of urban expansion, domestication, and modernization. Camille Zakharia’s A’ali Burial Mounds photographs frame fenced archaeological sites encroached upon by housing blocks, underscoring how mapping, divisions and territorialization fracture landscapes. The fragmented desert thereby becomes a geographical analogy to the psychic fragmentations Rohwetter describes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3-2-v3.jpg) Fig.3 **Fragment III: Performing Distraction** Drawing on Frederic Jameson’s conceptualization of the mediated experience of the self as suspended between attention and distraction, alienation and optical failure, Rohwetter reflects on the condition of contemporary subjectivity as a fracturing of attention.\[2\] Moving through *curated by*’s opening weekend is to embody precisely this oscillation. The crowded openings, with their convivial chaos of chatter and reunions, merge an engagement with the artworks with the social choreography that surrounds them. This distraction as a mode of sociability, which works against contemplative attention, mirrors the condition Rohwetter describes as an obvious characteristic of exhibition openings. What Irit Rogoff identifies as a deliberate act of Looking Away,\[3\] —opposing dominant modes of hierarchical attention in the perception of art—might be colliding with distraction as a necessity of participating in the cultural landscape. Attendance at the festival not only to see the art, but also to be seen by colleagues, curators, gallerists, and artists flown in for the occasion becomes reflective as a symptom of the current condition of the contemporary subject. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4-1.jpg) Fig.4 **Fragment IV: Excess** The joint exhibition by LAYR and City Gallery Wien, *Telepathy Curating presents: Teases and Synthesis; Empty Threads, Vienna Love and Anxiety Reality Paradoxes*, amplifies a fragmented zeitgeist between excess, distortion and alienation with their show taking place in both galleries which are located within walking distance of each other. With 66 participating artists, the show is by far the biggest group exhibition of the festival. The exhibition’s unwieldy title mirrors its heterogeneous contents: a peace-sign print assembled using words such as “psychosis”, “vomit”, and “terror” entitled *Life* (2023) by Bedros Yeretzian and Morag Keil; an abandoned mop and painted wet floor sign by Merlin Carpenter entitled *Birthday Card Against the Far Right In the Art World - Now Wash Your Hands* (2025), images of install workers on a still life painting by Birgit Megerle entitled *Altglas II* (2012). In its density of disparate positions the show alternates between oblique sincerity, dark humor, hollowed-out symbolism and a disenchanting absurdity of the present. Reflecting both an oversaturation of signs and a staging of alienation, the show seems to encapsulate what Peter Osbourne identifies as a model for *distracted attention*.\[4\] Cited by Rohwetter, his reflection on art as historically positioned as either a source of distraction, a demanding of focus, or as something that merges both, seems particularly palpable in this show which stages this ambivalence rather than trying to overcome it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/7-2.jpg) Fig.5 **Fragment V: Paper, Tape, Process** Shore’s exhibition September gathers drawings and collages by Jennifer Aldred, Eyrie Alzate, Ericka Beckman, Ada Friedman, Jack Salzar, and Julia Yerger. The show’s subtle formal language evokes a quietness and demands a different mode of attention. The curator, Otto Bonnen, described the show on the festival’s Instagram as an inquiry into the processes of art production. Eyrie Alzate’s Rover, *Inner Scar* (2024), a collage of stills of walking legs, rudimentarily fixed on painted cardboard with transparent tape, appears as if taken out of the studio during a fragile stage of drafting. Jack Salzar’s intricate black-and-white drawing *Untitled* (2024), placed beside the narrow spiral staircase leading to the second floor, requires the viewer to pause midway between floors, disrupting the flow of visitors walking up and down the stairs. The show seems to produce disruptions to the pace of viewing, demanding visitors to stop midway, to zoom into the detailed drawings, and to retrace the temporality of production processes through the lines on paper. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/8-2.jpg) Fig.6 **Fragment VI: Negation** At Exile S.M. van der Linden’s *The DEPRESSIVA Revolutions* confronts commodified images of the female body with acts of refusal. As a rejection of the promise of a fixed identity or solidity, van der Linden’s work complicates any longing for synthesis. While her *Depressiva Trilogy* (2010-2011) projected in the darkened gallery space, stages —what the curator Oliver Koerner von Gustorf calls — the after-effects of a narcissistic overdose. Late ‘90s animations with a soundtrack of Stereo Total on screens installed in the same space disrupt immersion into the scenes. By framing depression not as an individualized pathology but as a response to oppressive systems under capitalism’s “economy of narcissistic reward,” van der Linden’s refusals and disidentifications from the social inscriptions on her body align with Marina Vishmidt’s notion of negative speculation as an antagonistic strategy, cited in Rohwetter’s essay. Vishmidt describes negative speculation as withholding investment in capitalism’s horizon of value, using withdrawal or suspension to expose its limits and open space for alternatives. Seen this way, van der Linden’s gestures unsettle the reward economy, turning depression and embodied resistance into critiques of the infrastructures that shape and police subjectivity. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/10-1.jpg) Fig.7 **Fragment VII: Curatorial Gravity** Running beneath these encounters is a reflection on curation’s centrality. As already suggested by the festival’s name, *curated by* is invested in how exhibitions think through the assemblage of a curatorial concept. The emergence of the “curatorial turn”\[5\] in the early 2000s, framing curating as a site of cultural production and critical discursive inquiry, repositions the role of the curator and artist and situates artworks within broader conceptual frameworks rather than isolating them as self-sufficient. This emphasis invites scrutiny: what disappears when mediation becomes the main object of attention? How much of the artist’s work risks being absorbed by the discourse that surrounds it? The exhibition title *The Artists Alone Decide*—borrowed from Bradley Kronz’s 2015 show for the artist-run space CAN’s group show at Felix Gaudlitz can be read as a provocation toward the curatorial centrality of the festival, but also as a wry nod to the space’s own tension between pretension and ingratiation. In the gallery’s windows, the sound piece Innere Stadt (2019) by Simon Lässig and Vera Lutz plays from early-2000s computer speakers, their outmoded design conjuring anachronistic intimacy, alongside Flora M. Galwitz’s *fnsystems featurin Pen’s Bungalow (music for refreshing the Systems)* (1998), in which scenes of three women posing and dancing for the camera flicker in oversaturated colors. In correlation with works by Edward Dean & Matthew Linde, Bradley Kronz, Hans-Christian Lotz, Teak Ramos, Nora Schultz and Pol Summer, these works echo the show’s assertion that, despite the inevitable pull of context and audience, the artist’s relative freedom—however precarious or ironic—remains a vital stake in the encounter. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/11-v3.jpg) Fig.8 **Fragment VIII: Debating the Middleman** The debates surrounding the curatorial turn were echoed in a talk happening parallel to the festival at the independent art space Pech!, where Mohammad Salemy and Sean Tatol staged a talk provocatively entitled *Contemporary Art’s Need for History*. Under the premise of a lack of historicization of contemporary art post 9/11, they juxtaposed the alleged scarcity of art historians’ engagement with the recent past with a proliferation of curatorial and research-driven practices. In identifying these positions as middlemen, their critique stands in tension with Anna Kornbluh’s much-debated book *Immediacy*, in which she diagnoses the opposite condition: the cutting out of the middleman as mediator, a symptom of what she calls “too late capitalism”.\[6\] Where Salemy and Total purport to see too many mediators, Kornbluh sees their erasure for the sake of an alleged obsession with unmediated experience in contemporary culture. **Fragment IX: Distracted Attention** Placed against the backdrop of *curated by*, such conflicting perspectives might not resolve but rather complicate each other and add new paradoxes to the question of how curation intervenes, mediates, or takes precedence in conditions of fragmentation. If fragmented subjectivity is a symptom of the negativity emerging from capital’s ability to adapt, rather than its capacity to liberate, then art might offer a way to observe these forms of alienation, as Sophia Rohwetter suggests. If attention is an economy, shaped by visibility, market logics, and discourse, the artists' subjectivities appear as exemplars of fragmented subjectivities, not only thematically but structurally, as their work circulates within the festival’s networks. *Curated by* does not aim to resolve these kinds of tensions but stages them as a shared condition of subjectivity in the present. The festival fragments itself across the city, between spaces and networks, between attention and distraction. Yet it also opens the question of whether this mode enables fleeting structures that contest dispersal even while depending on it, temporary alliances that rather form in antagonistic negation or speculation. To write about *curated by* as a continuous narrative already risks smoothing over what it exposes: that fragmented subjectivity, like the exhibitions that articulate it, describes a field of interruptions, negotiations, alienation, and precarious coherences. Acknowledging this instability may thereby be an attempt at fidelity: patching together, however provisionally, the distracted attentions that *curated by* reflects and evokes. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Transcribed from: Saphiya Abu Al-Maati, Aseel Alyaqoub, Yousef Awaad Hussein, The Desert Was Beautiful, video, 2021, Galerie Krinzinger Schottenfeld. \[2\] Sophia Rohwetter, “Fragmented Subjectivity”, (curated by festival booklet, 2025) p.2. \[3\] Irit Rogoff, "Looking Away: Participations in Visual Culture”, in: Gavin Butt, ed., *After Criticism: New Responses to Art and Performance* (Blackwell, 2005). \[4\] Peter Osborne, *Anywhere or Not at All: Philosophy of Contemporary Art* (Verso, 2013). \[5\] Paul O’Neill. *The Curatorial Turn: From Practice to Discourse* (Open Editions, 2007). \[6\] Anna Kornbluh, *Immediacy, or the Style of Too Late Capitalism* (Verso, 2024). Images: Cover: Filmstill, S.M. van der Linden, *Depressiva (W + me)*, 2010, video, 08:01 min. © S.M van der Linden. Fig.1 Camille Zakharia, A’ali Burial Mounds, 2018, Installation View, The Desert has no Shadow, 2025, Galerie Krintzinger. © Tamara Rametsteiner. 2025. Fig.2 Filmstill, Saphiya Abu Al-Maati, Aseel Alyaqoub, Yousef Awaad Hussein, The Desert Was Beautiful, 2021\. © the artists. Fig.3 Hind Nasser, Petra I & Petra II, 1987, Installation View, The Desert has no Shadow, 2025, Galerie Krintzinger. © Tamara Rametsteiner. Fig.4 Eyrie Alzate, Rover, Inner Scar, 2024, Installation View, September, 2025, Shore Gallery, © Shore Gallery. Fig.5 Installation View, Telepathy Curating presents: Teases and Synthesis; Empty Threads, Vienna Love and Anxiety Reality Paradoxes, curated by Kristoffer Ceziando Karlsen, Josef Strau, City Gallery Wien and Layr, Vienna, 2025\. © Paul Makowsky. Fig.6 Birgit Megerle, Altglas II, 2012, Installation View, Telepathy Curating presents: Teases and Synthesis; Empty Threads, Vienna Love and Anxiety Reality Paradoxes, curated by Kristoffer Ceziando Karlsen, Josef Strau, City Gallery Wien and Layr, Vienna, 2025\. © Paul Makowsky. Fig.7 Pol Summer, I miss Brennesselsamen, 2025, Vera Lutz & Simon Lässig, Innere Stadt, 2019, Installation view, The Artists Alone Decide, curated by CAN, Galerie Felix Gaudlitz, 2025\. © the artists and FELIX GAUDLITZ, Vienna. Fig.8 Flora M. Galwitz’s fnsystems featurin Pen’s Bungalow (music for refreshing the Systems), 1998, Nora Schultz, Keil 2, 2025, Installation View, The Artists Alone Decide, curated by CAN, Galerie Felix Gaudlitz, 2025\. © the artists and FELIX GAUDLITZ, Vienna. *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### Quando il prendersi cura ha bisogno della pirateria URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/when-care-needs-piracy/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:14.000Z Facciamo parte di un collettivo e una rete – Pirate Care – il cui lavoro di ricerca si è concentrato su pratiche di cura disobbedienti. Nell’ultimo anno abbiamo visto il nostro lavoro diventare sempre più attuale dopo lo scoppio della pandemia Covid-19\. Mentre molti giornalisti, commentatori e ricercatori iniziavano a interrogarsi per la prima volta sull’impatto ad ampio raggio del virus e a riflettere sulle sue implicazioni per la vita sociale, siamo stati testimoni della rapida ascesa del concetto di “cura” – il fulcro della nostra ricerca – che ha assunto lo status di parola d'ordine nel discorso pubblico degli ultimi mesi. (Per essere più precisi, la cura era solo uno dei due punti focali della nostra inchiesta, l'altro era la pirateria.)\[1\] Questa parola è stata ripetuta all'infinito nei cicli di notizie ed evocata incessantemente nella pletora di dichiarazioni che proliferavano nel panorama mediatico. A preoccuparci è che questa esplosione della “cura” praticamente ovunque – incluso, con nostro sgomento, nei discorsi di manager e politicanti che esortano i lavoratori a “prendersi cura” di sé stessi per mantenere i normali livelli di produttività – possa portare a un esaurimento delle capacità critiche del termine e allo sviluppo di una “fatica della cura”, dato il tono performativo obbligatorio che così spesso comporta. Siamo anche preoccupati che essere a favore della cura sia poco più che una forma obbligatoria di “virtue signalling”, ovvero un modo per rendersi visibili come eticamente virtuosi in una società liberal ben educata ma molto distante dai luoghi e i corpi presso cui la crisi della cura si scatena con più ferocia. Questo ci ha spinto a rivisitare il nostro modo di comprendere questo concetto e a chiederci quale possa esserne il valore d’uso nella congiuntura attuale, per cercare di articolare meglio le ragioni del nostro istintivo accoppiamento della “cura” con il termine “pirata”, quando iniziammo la nostra ricerca nel 2018\. La posta in gioco, a nostro avviso, va più in là di una speculazione intellettuale sul vocabolario contemporaneo: si tratta piuttosto di determinare se esista o meno la possibilità di orientare l'azione politica (ovvero schierarsi, prendere posizioni operative e capaci di conseguenze) all'interno delle complessità di questa lunga pandemia attraverso una prospettiva centrata sulla cura; e se sì, a quali condizioni. **Cura, una nozione pacificante?** Il “prendersi cura” – una delle possibili approssimazioni in italiano del termine inglese care sul quale abbiamo lavorato – è un'idea estremamente capiente. Comprende lavoro, emozioni, conoscenze e risorse, nonché ragionamenti etici e morali. Può svolgersi come prestazione a pagamento o venir eseguita gratuitamente, come parte di una relazione di reciprocità o di asservimento. Il prendersi cura può essere un piacere, il compito più appagante, ma anche una fatica di Sisifo che non lascia scampo. Può descrivere un'attenzione riflessiva verso le pratiche del sé (quella cura di sé tracciata da Michel Foucault attraverso l’età classica \[2\] , per esempio) o può essere un agire diretto verso gli altri che ne delimita le condotte. Comprende la micropolitica delle interazioni quotidiane tanto quanto la vasta scala dei sistemi globali che le modellano. Tradizioni filosofiche diverse, che includono il *care ethics* inaugurato da Carol Gilligan o il femminismo marxista di Silvia Federici e altre compagne, se ne sono occupate. Definizioni date a questo termine vanno da “il lavoro che va ad accudire chi non può o non è incline a badare a se stesso” a “la creazione e riproduzione di legami sociali nella quotidianità e intergenerazionalmente”, recentemente adottato dal movimento dello sciopero femminista \[3\], passando per “le attività di manutenzione e riparazione del nostro mondo in modo che umani e non umani possano viverci nel miglior modo possibile” originariamente proposto da Joan Tronto e Berenice Fisher \[4\] e più recentemente aggiornato da Maria Puig de la Bellacasa \[5\]; fino ad arrivare a una definizione per noi particolarmente efficace e importante per la nostra riflessione politica, articolata da David Graeber, per cui care sostanzialmente corrisponderebbe a tutto quel “lavoro che mira a sostenere o aumentare la libertà degli altri” \[6\]. Ma è proprio la capienza del care – che abbraccia l’arco di significati semantici che vanno dal curare e al prendersi cura, fino al ‘prendere a cuore’ qualcosa per farla diventare importante – a rendere questo concetto incline a usi impropri e a veri e propri abusi, come quando inizia a circolare come parola chiave nelle attuali guerre politiche che stanno determinando il futuro ordine delle società mondiali, senza che questo comporti alcuna ridistribuzione di potere (un esempio di questo uso improprio del termine è il “Cura Italia”) . Inoltre, il termine *care* non è sempre gradito al femminismo materialista, ambito in cui si preferisce incentrare le riflessioni sull’idea di ‘riproduzione sociale’, termine che scarta l’inflessione sentimentale per concentrarsi sulle implicazioni che la cura comporta in termini di lavoro vivo. All'indomani della prima ondata di pandemia all’inizio del 2020, rileviamo che il *care* è invocato sempre più spesso per evitare dibattiti politici più urgenti e radicali. Invece di funzionare come perno per un ripensamento fondamentale delle istituzioni e delle infrastrutture, il linguaggio della cura rischia di confinare il dibattito a registri più morali, in cui i richiami alla solidarietà comportano poco più che atti simbolici. Il rituale del pubblico applauso per gli operatori sanitari, adottato in molti paesi all’inizio della pandemia, è uno dei principali esempi di questa tendenza. Mentre dottori e infermieri venivano celebrati come eroi altruisti, le loro condizioni lavorative continuavano a prevedere turni massacranti e scarse protezioni; essi diventavano perciò eroi, sì, ma sacrificali, messi a rischio di vita da politiche che sistematicamente rifiutavano di ripensare i meccanismi base delle prestazioni mediche. Nonostante quanto detto finora, non vogliamo ancora rinunciare al *care* per consegnarlo al populismo identitario. Una nozione che ha la capacità di esprimere contemporaneamente un orientamento etico, uno stato emotivo e una prassi concreta merita di trovare un miglior uso politico. Siamo convinti che la necessità di prendersi cura delle persone e dei loro ambienti di vita possa contribuire a un riorientamento delle priorità sociali e dei linguaggi. Recenti mobilitazioni politiche dal basso come il Care Income promossa dal movimento *Global Women Strike; le Essential Autonomous Struggles* portate avanti dal Transnational Social Strike Platform; o le lotte promosse attraverso l’hastag *#ProtectHomeCareWorkers* lanciato dall’UNI Global Union rivendicano un significato della cura che è militante e specifico insieme. A livello di elaborazione teorica, segnaliamo il recente *The Care Manifesto*, scritto da un collettivo inglese vicino a Jeremy Corbyn \[7\]. In Spagna, l’idea di una *Sociedad de los Cuidados* emerse già nel 2013 come proposta di una rete di città metropolitane guidate da Barcellona e Madrid \[8\]. Sempre in contesto ispanofono, espressioni quali “*cuidadocracia*” e “*cuidacracia*” rimandano a importanti discussioni portate avanti nel corso dell’ultimo ventennio. Con quest’ultimo termine si intende rivendicare una democrazia “*dove si contempla e si garantisce il diritto di prendersi cura, di non curarsi, di essere curata e di non essere curata*” \[10\](Colectivo Brujas y Diversas, 2015: 57). Durante il processo di ricerca e sperimentazione portato avanti durante *Pirate Care*, abbiamo voluto ancorare il valore d’uso del care come prassi politica radicale al contesto attivamente ostile in cui il lavoro di cura è obbligato a svolgersi, mettendo in evidenza la relazione, a nostro avviso sempre più inevitabile, tra cura, criminalizzazione e disobbedienza. Il *pirate care* è un modo di nominare la costruzione di conflitto che accade all’interno di processi di presa in carico che mirano allo smantellamento della proprietà privata, innanzitutto in settori chiave legati alla salute pubblica. Più precisamente, vogliamo mettere a tema la tendenza nella congiuntura attuale che fa convergere le attività di cura e accudimento con l’istituzione della pirateria, intesa come rifiuto della proprietà privata come forma primaria di relazione sociale. Ci pare infatti che sebbene la cura sia stata analizzata efficacemente in quanto lavoro vivo, attività, prestazione o prassi dai movimenti e documenti come quelli citati sopra, si sia dato finora meno rilievo alla problematica relazione della cura con l’organizzazione sociale della proprietà all’interno della *governance* neoliberista. Il primo ciclo di reazioni alla pandemia di Covid-19, che a un anno di distanza possiamo iniziare ad analizzare, pur con molta parzialità, offre un punto di partenza efficace per riflettere su tale nesso. Quest’anno sono nate una miriade di iniziative di solidarietà dal basso, mutuo aiuto auto-organizzato, in molti casi in piena autonomia perfino dal terzo settore; molteplici mobilitazioni che hanno portato aiuti essenziali ai più fragili e isolati, mentre la coscienza pubblica si dava conto dei gravi problemi legati allo stato dei servizi sanitari e di welfare. Il 2020 ha anche visto diversi governi varare misure di aiuto sociale senza precedenti, come la rinazionalizzazione temporanea degli ospedali (Spagna, Irlanda \[11\]) e la distribuzione di forme di reddito di base per i cittadini più colpiti finanziariamente (USA, Canada, Italia e molti altri paesi). Nonostante la potenzialità’ politica di tali nazionalizzazioni e elargizioni di reddito di base, anche se temporanee, in questo ultimo anno è mancata in Europa (ma anche in molti altri contesti) una chiara narrazione della pandemia “a sinistra” (intendendo con questo termine di per sé problematico un insieme di posizioni politiche che danno priorità all’uguaglianza sociale, all’internazionalismo e all’autodeterminazione delle persone). Detto diversamente, una formulazione chiara delle cause e delle possibili strategie di gestione delle molteplici e interconnesse “crisi della cura” \[12\] (Fraser, 2016) ha faticato a trovare spazio. Da un lato, all'interno delle pratiche mutualistiche comunitarie e di prossimità è mancato un chiaro posizionamento politico (con poche eccezioni, per esempio le Brigate a Milano). Sebbene le iniziative di solidarietà popolare siano state cruciali per soddisfare l'improvviso aumento della domanda di vari tipi di sostegno, domanda che gli stati e i mercati non erano né capaci né disposti a fornire adeguatamente, queste non sono sfociate in mobilitazioni politiche con domande di cambiamento sistemico. Ad esempio, le campagne per rendere pubblici i brevetti dei vaccini Covid-19 si sono largamente limitate a circolare come petizioni online \[13\] e non sono sfociate in conflitti più articolati, prevedibilmente incidendo solo marginalmente sulle decisioni prese a livello internazionale (fino al 2021 inoltrato non si è seriamente aperto un dibattito politico sulla questione). Contrariamente alle reazioni in altri momenti storici di grande crisi, sembra esserci stata una seria difficoltà a livello di movimenti sociali nel trovare modalità organizzative che fossero in grado di offrire risposte politiche all’altezza della complessità dei fenomeni di impoverimento durante la pandemia, un processo che potrebbe essere concepito come un vero e proprio processo di “pauperizzazione” \[14\], per dirla con Marx, ovvero, come un processo di riduzione di ogni aspetto della vita ad una condizione di miseria. Continuando a lavorare intorno al tema *pirate care* durante questo primo anno pandemico, ci è sembrato che questo focus di ricerca possa contribuire all’elaborazione di una politica della cura che colmi il vuoto tra la solidarietà popolare e di prossimità da un lato e gli interventi di governance dall'alto verso il basso dall’altro. Ad oggi, ci pare che uno dei nodi centrali rimanga ancora questo: non solo trovare modi per politicizzare il terreno della cura incorporando alle riflessioni sul lavoro vivo un’analisi dei regimi di proprietà, ma anche concepire pratiche che siano in grado di ridefinire i termini di ciò che conta come politico in primo luogo. Tali questioni sono state il punto di partenza per sviluppare il nostro approccio specifico al tema della cura, analizzandola attraverso la sua continuità con la pirateria. **Racconti pirata di cura e libertà** L’idea di pirateria ci permette di convocare nell’immaginario politico tutte quelle pratiche di sopravvivenza e solidarietà che disobbediscono a regole legali e sociali ingiuste in quanto difendono l'espansione della proprietà privata a scapito della vita. La figura del pirata è molto amata dalle sottoculture politiche di sinistra e libertarie perché evoca immediatamente un’immagine di sfida all'autorità e di allegra liberazione plebea. Nella sua incarnazione più popolare - un marinaio lacero con una benda nera su un occhio, una gamba di legno e un uncino a sostituire una mano mancante - la figura del pirata porta già inscritta sul suo corpo una storia di cure disobbedienti. Infatti, durante la cosiddetta età dell’oro della pirateria, tra il 1650 e il 1730, coloro che sceglievano di ammutinarsi per navigare insieme sotto la bandiera del Jolly Roger si davano regole precise per il risarcimento dei feriti in battaglia. A differenza di quanto accadeva nella marina o sulle navi commerciali, che si liberavano in fretta dei marinai di rango inferiore una volta che, feriti, non erano più utili a bordo, ai pirati infermi era permesso di rimanere con i loro equipaggi finché lo desideravano ed avevano diritto a ricevere assistenza sanitaria a bordo \[15\]. Pare infatti che lo stesso dottore e chirurgo di bordo, insieme alla sua preziosa cassetta dei medicinali, fossero uno dei trofei più ambiti durante gli arrembaggi \[16\]. D’altronde, erano proprio le terribili condizioni di vita e lavoro a bordo delle navi regolari, tra cui “l’arruolamento forzato, la rigida disciplina, le scarse provviste e condizioni igieniche, i lunghi periodi di reclusione a bordo e gli arretrati salariali” \[17\] a spingere migliaia di uomini a diventare pirati. Tuttavia, piuttosto che essere associata a pratiche di cura mutualistiche, la figura del pirata è stata più spesso vista come l'incarnazione di quelle forme di vita avventurose e conviviali che potrebbero diventare possibili una volta lasciato alle spalle lo squallido regime dell'Impero. Gli storici ci dicono che le fonti primarie di informazioni sulla vita dei pirati sono scarse e che quelle disponibili derivano principalmente da documenti processuali, dunque scritti da parti ostili. È quindi fatto degno di nota che le storie e le leggende dei pirati abbiano contribuito così tanto alla formazione del moderno concetto di libertà e all'immaginario politico dell’Età dei Lumi. Secondo l’antropologo David Graeber, la mitologia che i pirati misero in circolazione sul proprio conto, romanzando le proprie gesta e stili di vita – compreso le storie su Libertalia, la leggendaria patria dei pirati - può essere considerata 'la forma più importante di espressione poetica prodotta dal proletariato emergente del traffico marittimo nel Nord Atlantico, la cui modalità di sfruttamento aprì la strada alla rivoluzione industriale”. \[ 18\] La storia dell'imperialismo europeo e l'ascesa del capitale globale sono davvero vicende interlacciate e marittime. Insieme alla piantagione e alla miniera, la nave è infatti uno dei luoghi chiave in cui è nato il moderno sistema capitalista di accumulazione. Fu nel ventre della nave che furono attuati per la prima volta i moderni e implacabili regimi di disciplina del lavoro; mentre nuove forme di speculazione finanziaria sulle proprietà fungibili vennero introdotte per assicurare i suoi preziosi carichi. \[19\] Non c’è da stupirsi dunque se, a differenza del corsaro, che svolse un ruolo chiave nell'espansione imperiale e il cui diritto al saccheggio era sancito da ufficiali *Lettres des marques*, il pirata apparve sulla scena della storia come una figura intollerabile, che rappresentava una minaccia di rottura di questo nuovo ordine mondiale emergente. In un’epoca in cui gli imperi erano vicini ad estendere il loro dominio su tutte le terre e i popoli conosciuti sul pianeta, le navi pirata erano luoghi inammissibili, corpi estranei, esistenti oltre i confini di un progetto di capitalismo globale. Come sostenuto da Amedeo Policante, il concetto di Giurisdizione Universale Assoluta (il diritto degli Stati di rivendicare la giurisdizione su un imputato indipendentemente dalla sua nazionalità o dal luogo del presunto crimine) è stato introdotto per la prima volta dagli Stati europei nel XVIII secolo come misura eccezionale, specificamente progettata per processare gli equipaggi pirata che operavano al di fuori della giurisdizione di ogni singolo stato. Successivamente, questo provvedimento è stato esteso e si è sviluppato al punto di “*trasformare radicalmente la natura stessa del diritto internazionale*”. \[20\] Policante ha inoltre notato un altro elemento peculiare rispetto all’immaginario politico evocato dall’istituzione della pirateria, ovvero che le parole ‘impero’ e ‘pirata’ condividono la medesima etimologia: entrambi i termini sono derivati dal verbo *peiran* – che in greco antico significava tentare, rischiare, provare \[21\]. Dunque, la figura del pirata è intimamente legata all'espansione di quegli stessi imperi che la sua forma di vita andava a sfidare. La posta in gioco negli sforzi di entrambe le parti, e nei rischi che ciascuna di esse ha intrapreso, è la forma di governo del mondo stesso. Da un lato, c'era il tentativo di creare un sistema integrato di sfruttamento degli esseri umani e delle risorse naturali; dall'altra, un tentativo di sperimentare forme di democrazia diretta e decentralizzata - che alcune comunità di pirati sono riuscite persino a istituire sulla terraferma (Si veda a questo proposito il già citato libro di David Graeber). In altre parole, la posta in gioco era, da un lato, una concezione di libertà individuale basata sull'idea di proprietà privata; e, dall'altro, un'idea di liberazione basata sulla sua negazione, sulla messa in comune di risorse, saperi e destino. Queste contrastanti concezioni di libertà e proprietà sono il filo rosso che collega le battaglie dei pirati dell'età dell'oro con quelle portate avanti dalle loro controparti contemporanee che combattono contro le moderne leggi sulla proprietà intellettuale, la forma di proprietà privata meno visibile ma più determinante del nesso che unisce automatismi tecnologici, politici e psichici nel segno del capitale. La pirateria odierna è in gran parte associata alle battaglie sul valore d’uso delle tecnologie; sull’accesso ai saperi; sulla fruizione della cultura (bellezza e poesia come diritti fondamentali); sulle nuove frontiere d’accumulazione primaria inaugurate dalla biogenetica. Chi possiede il copyright, chi possiede il brevetto, chi possiede l’algoritmo, e in base a quali condizioni tali conoscenze – come per esempio ricerche scientifiche, dati, codici sorgenti, opere d’arte, sequenze di DNA, medicinali o sementi, solo per citare alcuni esempi – possono essere utilizzate e condivise, determina la gamma di azioni autonome a disposizione dei singoli, altamente interconnessi. Nuove e vecchie forme di privatizzazione hanno implicazioni immense per l’organizzazione della cura nelle società contemporanee. È questa la trama sulla quale si innervano moltissime delle gravi carenze che debilitano la cura vista come una tipologia di lavoro che necessita di saperi e strumenti, oltre che di risorse. Eppure il problema di chi possiede cosa e come spesso rimane sullo sfondo, invisibile come gli stessi proprietari senza volto di brevetti e software, mentre ci si è concentrate maggiormente sui problemi che investono la cura in quanto lavoro vivo, che ricade in grande maggioranza sulle spalle di corpi femminili, neri e migranti. Per questo ci sembra potente spostare il dibattito collettivo sulle questioni cruciali che rimangono in gioco nella lotta tra multinazionali e reti di esperti e professionisti di varia natura che sono determinati a ripoliticizzare la pirateria come atto di legittima sfida contro quelle leggi e norme sociali che antepongono la proprietà alla libertà, concepita come capacità di autonomia nell’interdipendenza. La gamma di pratiche che abbiamo incontrato nel processo di Pirate Care vanno in questa direzione, \[22\] sfidando quella che l’antropologa Annemarie Mol ha raccontato come la dicotomia più problematica del pensiero della cura occidentale: *Durante il ventesimo secolo si è sostenuto comunemente che la cura fosse altro rispetto alla tecnologia. La cura aveva a che fare con il calore e l'amore mentre la tecnologia, al contrario, era fredda e razionale. La cura era nutriente, la tecnologia era strumentale… Cura (e relazioni di cura) a casa, tecnologia (e relazioni strumentali) sul posto di lavoro. Un mondo di vita da una parte e un sistema dall’altra.* \[23\] (Mol et al., 2015) Proponendosi di instituire e sostenere spazi di detossificazione, resilienza, terapia e solidarietà – concepita come una ridistribuzione del rischio che il capitale pone sulla vita – le pratiche di *pirate care* non commettono l’errore di rifiutare i saperi tecnici e scientifici per via dei problematici rapporti di forza che questi sempre implicano. Piuttosto, la cura pirata sta delineando un orizzonte dove tecniche, tecnologie e strumenti vengono reclamati come infrastruttura comune e quindi soggetti a modifiche e scrutinio. In questo contesto, sarà dunque importante precisare che tipo di regime di proprietà privata questi pirati contemporanei si trovano ad affrontare. **Nel vuoto** Abbiamo accennato in precedenza come, nel corso dell'ultimo anno, ci siamo trovati a riflettere sempre più spesso su un vuoto politico sempre più percepibile che si stava aprendo tra da un lato, le iniziative di solidarietà organizzate autonomamente dal basso, iper-localizzate e impostate in gran parte su forme di volontariato civico più che di militanza politica, e dall’altro, i limitati e frammentari meccanismi di sostegno offerti da vari enti governativi in risposta alla crisi pandemica. L'implementazione dei tipi di riforma del welfare che sarebbero necessari su una scala rilevante per soddisfare i bisogni delle persone in una simile crisi avrebbe implicato, inevitabilmente, un cambio radicale degli attuali regimi fiscali, ovvero quegli stessi regimi internazionali che sono stati in continua evoluzione sin da quando furono concepiti per la prima volta per combattere i pirati e che oggi inquadrano la portata e la legittimità di tutte le transazioni finanziarie globali. Non sorprende perciò che un uso politico della pandemia in senso progressista (intendendo con questo termine vasto un’agenda che miri al miglioramento generale delle condizioni di vita) non si sia verificato. Invece, il vuoto che sussiste al di là di quanto fornito dalle iniziative civiche e dalle azioni governative è destinato ad essere riempito dal mercato. Anche prima che la pandemia accendesse l’attenzione collettiva, per un breve momento, sulle problematiche legate alla marchetizzazione della cura, questa è stata sempre più normalizzata e organizzata attraverso regimi di proprietà almeno a partire dagli anni Ottanta. Vogliamo descrivere qui tre tendenze nel mondo del grande capitale che stanno plasmando e beneficiando delle pratiche attraverso le quali viene organizzata la cura: un'accelerazione nella divisione del lavoro a piattaforme; un aumento della commercializzazione di segmenti mirati della fornitura di assistenza sanitaria; e il continuo furto di terre globalizzate che sta privando le persone dei loro mezzi di sostentamento e costringendole alla migrazione. Queste tre tendenze perimetrano quello che per noi rende urgente il ripensamento della cura in chiave pirata, ovvero alla luce di prassi che concepiscano la proprietà privata come loro terreno di scontro. **Un aumento della divisione del lavoro: l’insinuarsi delle piattaforme** L'accelerata digitalizzazione di tutti gli aspetti della vita nell'attuale congiuntura della pandemia ha portato a una significativa trasformazione delle condizioni di lavoro: chi può lavorare nella sicurezza della propria casa è arrivato a dipendere da piattaforme digitali non solo per il proprio lavoro e per la consegna di generi alimentari e / o medicinali, ma anche per il contatto con amici e famigliari. I bisogni e i desideri delle classi medie e alte sono sempre più soddisfatti da un esercito crescente di assistenti a basso salario, raccoglitori di magazzino e corrieri che anche durante la pandemia hanno continuato a muoversi lungo vettori logistici invisibilizzanti, mettendo a rischio di infezione loro stessi e le loro comunità. Il blocco di socialità innescato dalla pandemia ha portato a un rapido aumento della velocità con cui sia il telelavoro che le prestazioni di fornitura vengono riorganizzati secondo una logica che la sociologa Ursula Huws ha definito di “logged labour”\[24\], ovvero “lavoro registrato”, coordinato, quantificato e misurato in tempo reale tramite app e piattaforme dedicate. Processi simili hanno inoltre travolto gli ambiti della vita legati all'istruzione, alla cultura e al tempo libero. L'interazione tra soggetti cosiddetti “addomesticati / connessi” e “mobili / usa e getta” \[25\]– prendendo a prestito la suggestiva definizione di Ian Alan Paul - resi operativi attraverso il capitale in rete che fa dell'uno il supervisore digitale dell'altro, ha accelerato questo tipo di divisione del lavoro a piattaforme e ha approfondito la separazione tra le classi lavoratrici, impedendo di fatto una composizione di classe capace di convergere intorno a interessi condivisi. Le grandi aziende tecnologiche hanno prontamente abbracciato la loro nuova posizione centrale nel coordinamento della vita pandemica. Amazon, Deliveroo e una serie infinita di altri servizi di consegna si sono ampliati per soddisfare una domanda in forte espansione, accumulando incessantemente la pressione sul loro personale affinché lavori a ritmo vertiginoso. In un processo parallelo, le società che invece gestiscono principalmente strumenti tecnologici e dati, piuttosto che lavoro vivo, si sono mobilitate per incrementare il loro profilo pubblico. Google e Apple, per citare solo due tra i colossi principali, nell’ultimo anno hanno rivendicato per sé stessi il ruolo di sostenitori benevoli della salute pubblica, creando un protocollo di tracciamento dei contatti per preservare la privacy, rilasciando regolarmente rapporti sulla mobilità delle popolazioni e monitorando gli effetti delle misure di blocco. Nel frattempo Zoom, WhatsApp e altre piattaforme di comunicazione sono diventate sempre più determinanti della nostra capacità di lavorare, socializzare e organizzarci. A parte le differenze tra queste società, la nostra improvvisa dipendenza collettiva da tali piattaforme digitali private ha creato una manna per l'oligarchia tecno-capitalista, che Naomi Klein ha soprannominato “Screen New Deal”.\[26\] Da un lato, la maggior parte dei governi ha deciso di destinare preziose risorse pubbliche all’acquisto di prodotti digitali che promettono generici benefici di innovazione ed efficienza nell’erogazione di prestazioni di cura, sottraendo così denaro pubblico da altri tipi di investimenti strutturali diretti nei servizi di salute. Dall’altro, i mercati finanziari, inondati di denaro che non deve essere investito da nessuna parte durante la più grande contrazione economica globale dalla seconda guerra mondiale, hanno assicurato un fantastico aumento della ricchezza per piattaforme digitali. Pensando alla salute e alla riproduzione sociale come terreni di scontro politico, è importante dunque capire che tutte queste aziende usciranno dalla crisi attuale pronte a esercitare un impatto smisurato sulla futura direzione dello sviluppo sociale e a continuare la colonizzazione di gran parte dell'economia della cura. **Colpire con precisione: il futuro della sanità** La capacità sanitaria di far fronte all'aumento esponenziale di malati gravi di Covid è stata, e rimane tuttora, la preoccupazione centrale dal punto di vista della salute pubblica. Nel famoso grafico “*Flattening the Curve*” \[27\] (“appiattire la curva”) utilizzato dall'OMS e altri organi ufficiali per illustrare questa preoccupazione a livello divulgativo, tuttavia, la curva da modificare si riferisce unicamente al contenimento epidemiologico, ovvero ad un abbassamento della rapidità e del numero dei contagi. Invece la capacità sanitaria è mostrata solitamente come una linea orizzontale retta, invariata nel tempo. Lo svolgersi della pandemia ha dimostrato però che rappresentare questa capacità sociale di prendersi cura della salute collettiva come una linea piatta e continua è solo un’illusione ottica scollegata dalla realtà. I dati parlano chiaro. Nei paesi a basso reddito, la spesa per la salute pubblica è calata negli ultimi cinque anni dal 30% al 22%;\[28 \] il privato non ha interessi sufficienti ad occuparsi di un’ampia gamma di malattie e infermità che non riescono a produrre profitto per gli azionisti; e i sistemi basati sull’assicurazione privata finiscono per far lievitare i prezzi delle prestazioni ed escludere estesi segmenti di popolazione. Nel caso del Covid-19, inizialmente la capacità sanitaria è stata misurata in termini di capacità di soddisfare l'urgente necessità di più letti e ventilatori in terapia intensiva, ma le carenze nella fornitura di cure e assistenza relative ad altre patologie si sono man mano rivelate altrettanto problematiche. Con la pandemia, gli effetti paralizzanti delle privatizzazioni effettuate nei decenni precedenti sono deflagrati, rendendo il diritto alla salute – valore cardine nell’ordinamento degli stati liberali – di fatto non attuabile. Personale medico oberato di lavoro; assistenza sanitaria primaria a corto di risorse; l’abbandono di massa degli anziani nelle case di riposo; precarietà degli operatori sanitari; difficoltà di coordinamento territoriale sono solo alcuni dei problemi determinati dalla deliberata disaggregazione dei sistemi sanitari avvenuta in molti paesi, tra cui l’Italia. Lo schema è sempre lo stesso: i trattamenti di alto valore vengono privatizzati e le cliniche private sono autorizzate a ottenere profitti elevati, mentre i sistemi sanitari pubblici hanno il compito di fornire assistenza sanitaria di base e di farsi carico della prevenzione delle malattie, due aree di intervento che richiedono non tanto investimenti in strumentazioni tecnologiche di ultima generazione (proprietà privata), ma piuttosto in relazioni radicate e stabili tra personale sanitario e territori di riferimento (lavoro e saperi vivi). La diffusa contrazione della spesa sanitaria pubblica è probabilmente ancor più evidente nel campo dei medicinali di ultima generazione, dove il dominio delle grandi aziende farmaceutiche, insieme a un lento ma continuo processo di disinvestimento dalle infrastrutture pubbliche di ricerca e sviluppo, ha portato a una riduzione della capacità di produzione di farmaci che sono principalmente utilizzati per problemi di salute generale o che sono visti come “non rivali” (cioè, il cui consumo da parte di una persona non influisce sulla capacità di consumo di altri). I primi vaccini Covid-19 sono stati quindi sviluppati da *start-up* di ricerca private appoggiate da fondi di capitali di rischio (venture capital). Inoltre, si prevede che il nuovo approccio ai vaccini a consegna rapida sostenuto da BioNTech e Moderna si basa sull'RNA risulterà essenziale per terapie personalizzate per il cancro e le malattie cardiache. Anche questo ramo della ricerca medica è dominato da società private e brevetti. È quindi probabile che i futuri medicinali di precisione rimarranno anch'essi di proprietà privata, un modello di ricerca e sviluppo che rischia di sottrarre sempre più risorse dai sistemi sanitari pubblici. È importante sottolineare ancora una volta il ruolo giocato dalla proprietà privata in questo processo di produzione così essenziale. Queste aziende hanno ricevuto finanziamenti pubblici senza precedenti e beneficiato di ordini anticipati per i loro vaccini, ordini che sono anch’essi pubblici ed effettuati prima della finalizzazione dei vaccini stessi. I rischi finanziari legati allo sviluppo di questi nuovi rimedi sono stati quindi in larga parte socializzati e assorbiti dalla collettività. Tuttavia, le valutazioni di mercato, i profitti e i brevetti che ne derivano rimangono in mano a interessi privati.\[29\] Al netto di altre considerazioni sull’enorme impatto nocivo di tale approccio per l’avanzamento della ricerca scientifica, nell’immediato l’effetto di questa dipendenza dalla forma privata è una spiccata tendenza al monopolio che beneficia solo le aziende farmaceutiche e i loro azionisti. Mentre gli stati con più risorse si ritrovano a competere tra loro per accaparrarsi le forniture disponibili, riproducendo ancora una volta le note dinamiche geopolitiche che dividono il mondo in zone di interesse, periferie e centri, la parte meno ricca del mondo viene lasciata a sé stessa (a meno che i paesi con un forte orientamento alla sanità pubblica, come Cuba per esempio, producano i propri vaccini e li passino ai produttori di farmaci generici). Mentre i vaccini diventano disponibili solo lentamente e in modo iniquo in diverse parti del pianeta, virus come il Corona possono continuare a diffondersi e a evolversi in ceppi più resistenti, creando ulteriori rischi per la salute pubblica mondiale. **Terre recintate e vite migranti usa e getta** Il terzo e ultimo processo di privatizzazione del futuro che vogliamo qui evidenziare in relazione alla cura è il colossale land grab in atto di territori “vergini” nel sud globale, una corsa smodata all’accaparramento di aree coltivabili o altrimenti sfruttabili a vario titolo (miniere, infrastrutture, etc.). Questa pratica rappresenta una drammatica incursione negli habitat della fauna selvatica, che è la causa soggiacente a quei balzi zoonotici che sono i conduttori di epidemie come la SARS-Cov-2\. *Agritech e fintech* lavorano insieme per creare nuove frontiere dell'estrazione. Avviene così che nei sistemi di produzione agricola globalizzata, logisticamente interconnessi, istituzioni finanziarie con sede a New York promuovono il furto di terreni di sussistenza collettiva e lo sgombero delle foreste nel sud-est asiatico o nell'Africa subsahariana. La conseguente distruzione di habitat ancestrali, la corsa globale verso terre produttive e l'espansione dell'agricoltura industriale stanno espellendo le popolazioni indigene e rurali dai propri luoghi di vita, forzandole verso le baraccopoli urbane, e da lì, in cerca di sostentamento di base, attraverso deserti e mari, fino ad arrivare ai confini dei paesi ricchi. Qui, alle frontiere con il “mondo minoritario”\[30\], li aspetta un regime che criminalizza la migrazione per meglio assorbire la forza lavoro illegale sfruttabile. Seguendo l’amara logica delle catene di cura globale,\[31\] i migranti privi di documenti sono esattamente i soggetti più necessari per lo svolgimento del lavoro stagionale a bassa retribuzione in settori come l'agricoltura o il lavoro domestico. La privatizzazione di terre in corso a livello globale produce quindi popolazioni usa e getta: persone che finiscono paradossalmente per lavorare nei sistemi di prestazioni di cura, assistenza domestica e altre mansioni definite “essenziali” (come il lavoro stagionale di raccolta) nei paesi ad alto reddito. **Pirateria come cura: ovvero, contro i nuovi regimi di proprietà privata** Ciò che accomuna i tre processi appena discussi – il moltiplicarsi di servizi mediati da piattaforme; la commercializzazione crescente dei luoghi, strumenti e saperi legate alla salute; e l’espropriazione di terreni comuni - è una mutazione accelerata di risorse, infrastrutture e sistemi sociali in *asset*, ovvero, di un particolare forma di proprietà privata in cui i profitti derivano dall'aumento del valore della proprietà stessa, piuttosto che dalla produzione. Ciò fa parte della più ampia tendenza verso la finanziarizzazione di tutte le transazioni economiche e fornisce la base che permette al capitale finanziario di esercitare un ​​controllo capillare sullo sviluppo futuro di una vasta gamma di beni e servizi, senza necessariamente impossessarsene direttamente. Dimensioni di vita essenziali come la salute, l'assistenza agli anziani, l'alloggio, l'istruzione e così via, vengono sempre più convertite in *asset*. Allo stesso tempo, altre funzioni oggi indispensabili come le pensioni, l'assicurazione sanitaria e il risparmio di molte persone comuni sono arrivate ​​a dipendere dal reddito generato da questi stessi processi di assetizzazione. Tale assetizzazione sta quindi progressivamente incastrando un numero sempre maggiore di persone in una tendenza di sviluppo sociale che creerà società ancora più segregate, espropriandoci dalla nostra stessa capacità di plasmare il futuro. Cogliere il nesso tra proprietà privata e messa a profitto del futuro è un nodo cruciale per capire il vuoto politico e la difficoltà a concretizzare politicamente una società improntata alla cura, ovvero, a pratiche che si occupino, tra le altre cose, della relazione tra diverse generazioni di esseri, umani e non. La risposta politica alla pandemia ha già radicalizzato ulteriormente la viscerale divisione del lavoro di riproduzione sociale – i soggetti che se ne fanno carico sono oggi ancora più svantaggiati. L'ampio dettaglio statistico del rapporto 2018 dell'ILO sul lavoro di cura \[32\] dipinge un quadro molto chiaro: la maggior parte del lavoro di cura, retribuito e non, è svolto da persone di classe bassa, in maggioranza donne, migranti e persone di colore. Eppure, mentre esistono rivendicazioni importanti organizzate intorno a questioni di genere, di status lavorativo e di “razza”, la condizione di carer (persona con dipendenti a carico e/o responsabile di mansioni di riproduzione sociale essenziali e continue) non ha ancora dispiegato tutta la sua potenzialità politica. Durante la pandemia, la maggior parte dei carers non ha avuto altra scelta che continuare a lavorare, in condizioni rese più difficili dai blocchi e senza avere accesso ad ulteriori risorse, mettendo a rischio la propria salute e la salute delle proprie comunità. Come la letteratura femminista nera e decoloniale sottolinea con forza, il lavoro di cura sotto il capitalismo è strutturato attorno a questa asimmetria: i soggetti che prestano lavoro di cura sono tra coloro che meno avranno accesso a cure adeguate. \[33\] L'esplosione della solidarietà dal basso durante il primo anno di pandemia era orientata a colmare le lacune create nel panorama istituzionale da un'insufficiente capacità sanitaria, dalla negligenza burocratica e da una deliberata esclusione sociale. Tale risposta della società civile è tuttavia situata e localizzata, mentre i meccanismi che guidano le logiche della cura capitalista sono strutturali e globali. L'assetizzazione crea meccanismi di auto-rafforzamento che limitano in maniera preoccupante le future possibilità di trasformazione istituzionale e impediscono a priori qualsiasi cambiamento di governance che sia capace di sottrarre i servizi essenziali da una logica di accumulazione di capitale. Tale processo è sostenuto anche dal cambiamento tecnologico, che sta normalizzando e invisibilizzando le condizioni dei lavoratori a bassa retribuzione, e dalla proliferazione di strumenti legali che rendono “legittimo” il loro sfruttamento. Nel nostro lavoro su Pirate Care, ci siamo concentrati su pratiche che non solo si auto-organizzano intorno alla cura in modi nuovi, ma lo fanno disobbedendo apertamente a leggi, ordini esecutivi e accordi istituzionali, ogni volta che questi ostacolano la libertà e la solidarietà. Le persone impegnate in queste pratiche spesso articolano le loro azioni disobbedienti come richieste politiche, contestando la normalizzazione dei regimi di esclusione. Questo è il motivo per cui li abbiamo chiamati "pirati". Quello che fanno spesso comporta dei rischi: vengono arrestati e perseguiti per salvare le persone dall'annegamento nel Mediterraneo; per lasciare taniche d’acqua ai migranti che attraversano il deserto; per aiutare donne ad abortire; per fornire riparo ai senzatetto; per scaricare articoli scientifici. La nostra ricerca è allo stesso tempo una mappatura e un appello. Ci è sembrato importante dare un nome al fil rouge che unisce pratiche diverse, che si preoccupano di far fronte a problemi sociali molto eterogenei, ma che lo fanno condividendo una comune etica dell’azione di cura come intervento non risolutivo, ma necessario, ostinato e disobbediente. La temporalità che occupano è quella del “nel frattempo”: mentre ci si organizza per trovare soluzioni politiche alle ingiustizie in atto, i pirati della cura strappano più vite possibili alla disperazione, in alcuni casi alla morte, a cui l’incuria del capitale le avrebbe consegnate. All'inizio della pandemia, gran parte dell'opinione pubblica si aspettava che i governi agissero razionalmente e prendessero decisioni in nome di un bene comune. Ben presto tuttavia, la questione fondamentale si è rivelata essere non tanto la misura in cui i singoli governi siano stati in grado di soddisfare questa aspettativa - per quanto importante fosse; piuttosto, sono le strutture sistemiche all'interno delle quali questi governi funzionano a determinare la nostra capacità di cura, intesa come lavoro vivo che si interfaccia quotidianamente con strumenti, saperi e tecnologie private. I governi agiscono in un ambiente che è già dipendente dal mercato e, come tale, prospera sulla scarsità e sull'esclusione. In queste condizioni, l'incapacità di cogliere la pandemia come un'opportunità per trasformare in meglio le politiche e i valori alla base della salute pubblica (così come altre aree di assistenza sociale) è stata del tutto prevedibile. Per questo tali condizioni devono essere poste al centro del nostro orizzonte politico: devono essere politicizzate affinché qualsiasi discorso sul futuro della cura possa trovare un senso che non si limiti a mobilitazioni emergenziali di solidarietà. Crediamo che l'immaginario della pirateria ci permetta di mettere in primo piano la necessità pressante di espandere la gamma delle risposte immaginabili alla crisi - e di un'azione coordinata che mette in discussione la normalizzazione della proprietà imperiale e i suoi infami regimi di lavoro. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Per ulteriori informazioni sul progetto Pirate Care, si rimanda al sito [https://pirate.care/](https://pirate.care/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[2\]Foucault, Michel. La cura di sé. Vol. 3\. Feltrinelli Editore, 1985. \[3\] Camille Barbagallo, The Impossibility of the International Women’s Strike is Exactly Why It’s So Necessary, Novara Media, 6 marzo 2017. \[4\] Joan Tronto and Berenice Fisher, Fisher, Berenice, and Joan Tronto. “Toward a feminist theory of caring.” Circles of care: Work and identity in women’s lives (1990): 35-62. \[5\] de La Bellacasa, Maria Puig. Matters of care: Speculative ethics in more than human worlds. Vol. 41\. University of Minnesota Press, 2017. \[6\] David Graeber, personal tweet. \[7\] The Care Collective, The Care Manifesto: The Politics of Interdependence (Verso Books, 2020).\[8\] http://entreparentesis.org/la-sociedad-los-cuidados/ \[9\] Gonzalez, Horacio. “La Inmovilizacion”. Lobo Suelto, 25 marzo 2020\. [http://lobosuelto.com/la-inmovilizacion-horacio-gonzalez/.](http://lobosuelto.com/la-inmovilizacion-horacio-gonzalez/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[10\] Colectivo Brujas y Diversas (2015). Juntas y diversas: Compartiendo propuestas: Mujeres migradas en Euskal Herria. http://mujeresdelmundobabel.org/files/2011/12/juntas-y-diversas-color.pdf \[11\] [https://publicservices.international/resources/news/spain-nationalises-all-private-hospitals-uk-rents-hospital-beds?id=10645&lang=en](https://publicservices.international/resources/news/spain-nationalises-all-private-hospitals-uk-rents-hospital-beds?id=10645&lang=en&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ; [https://www.thejournal.ie/private-hospitals-ireland-coronavirus-5056334-Mar2020/](https://www.thejournal.ie/private-hospitals-ireland-coronavirus-5056334-Mar2020/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[12\] Fraser, Nancy. “Contradictions of capital and care.” New left review 100.99 (2016): 117.\[13\] Per esempio: https://www.vaccinecommongood.org/ \[14\] Marx, K.; and F. Engels (1976). Select Works. Vol. I. Moscow: Progress, p. 81. \[15\] Angus Konstam, The History of Pirates (Lyons Press, 1999). \[16\] Gabriel Kuhn, Life Under the Jolly Roger: Reflections on Golden Age Piracy (PM Press, 2010), chap. 4\. Mark C. Kehoe. “John Woodall's Medicine Chest Ingredients”, p. 1\. The Pirate Surgeon’s Journal. Tools and Procedures. \[17\] Peter Linebaugh and Marcus Rediker, The Many-Headed Hydra: Sailors, Slaves, Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic (Verso, 2000), 160. \[18\] David Graeber, Les Pirates des Lumières ou la véritable histoire de Libertalia (Libertalia, 2019), e-book. Nostra traduzione. \[19\] Ian Baucom, Specters of the Atlantic: Finance Capital, Slavery, and the Philosophy of History (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005); Roscoe, Philip. ‘How the Shadow of Slavery Still Hangs over Global Finance’. The Conversation, 21 agosto 2020\. http://theconversation.com/how-the-shadow-of-slavery-still-hangs-over-global-finance-144826.\[20\] Amedeo Policante, ‘The Return of the Pirate: Post-Colonial Trajectories in the History of International Law’, Política Común 5 (2014). \[21\] Amedeo Policante, The Pirate Myth: Genealogies of an Imperial Concept (Routledge, 2015).\[22\] Per un approfondimento, si rimanda al sito: https://pirate.care. \[23\] Annemarie Mol, et al. 2015\. Care in practice: On tinkering in clinics, homes and farms, p.14.\[24\] Ursula Huws, ‘Logged Labour: A New Paradigm of Work Organisation?’ Work Organisation, Labour and Globalisation 10, no. 1 (2016): 7–26. \[25\] Ian Alan Paul, ‘The Corona Reboot’, March 2020, [https://www.ianalanpaul.com/the-corona-reboot/](https://www.ianalanpaul.com/the-corona-reboot/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org).\[26\] Klein, N. (2020) ‘The Screen New Deal’, The Intercept. 8 maggio. https://theintercept.com/2020/05/08/andrew-cuomo-eric-schmidt-coronavirus-tech-shock-doctrine/\[27\] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flattening\_the\_curve\[28\] World Health Organization, New Perspectives on Global Health Spending for Universal Health Coverage, 2018\. https://apps.who.int/iris/bitstream/handle/10665/259632/WHO-HIS-HGF-HFWorkingPaper-17.10-eng.pdf\[29\] La stesura di questo testo è stata ultimate prima della decisione del Presidente statunitense Biden di supportare una temporanea sospensione dei brevetti in seno alla Organizzazione Mondiale della Sanità. Al momento di andare in stampa tale misura sembra essere confinata tuttavia al solo trattamento del Covid-19, pertanto l’argomentazione centrale che affrontiamo qui, ovvero la connessione tra crisi della cura non solo come questione legata alla iniqua distribuzione del lavoro vivo ma anche ad un rafforzamento enorme negli ultimi decenni della proprietà privata, rimane sostanzialmente attuale. \[30\] Alessandra Mezzadri, ‘On the value of social reproduction Informal labour, the majority world and the need for inclusive theories and politics’, Radical Philosophy, 2.04, Spring 2019. \[31\] Hochschild, Arlie R. 2000\. Global care chains and emotional surplus value. In On the edge. Living with global capitalism, Hrsg. Anthony Giddens und Will Hutton, 130–146\. London: Jonathan Cape. Parreñas, Rhacel S. 2001\. Servants of globalization. Women, migration and domestic work. Stanford: Stanford University Press.\[32\] Laura Addati et al., Care Work and Care Jobs for the Future of Decent Work (Geneva: ILO, 2018). \[33\] Per approfondire: Evelyn Nakano Glenn, ‘From Servitude to Service Work: Historical Continuities in the Racial Division of Paid Reproductive Labor’, Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 18, no. 1 (1992): 1–43; Tamara Beauboeuf-Lafontant, ‘You Have to Show Strength: An Exploration of Gender, Race, and Depression’, Gender & Society 21, no. 1 (2007): 28–51; Alessandra Mezzadri, ‘On the Value of Social Reproduction: Informal Labour, the Majority World and the Need for Inclusive Theories and Politics’, Radical Philosophy, no. 204 (2019): 33–41; Natalia Quiroga Diaz, ‘Economía Del Cuidado. Reflexiones Para Un Feminismo Decolonial’, Revista Feminista Casa de La Mujer 20, no. 2 (2011): 97–116; Françoise Vergès, Un féminisme décolonial (La fabrique éditions, 2019). *Valeria Graziano è una teorica e docente che attualmente lavora presso il Centre for Postdigital Cultures dell'Università di Coventry. Nel corso degli anni ha partecipato a numerose iniziative di analisi istituzionale e pedagogia collettiva nel settore culturale e nei movimenti sociali.* *Marcell Mars è ricercatore presso il Centre for Postdigital Cultures. È uno dei fondatori del Multimedia Institute/MAMA di Zagabria. Insieme a Tomislav Medak ha fondato Memory of the World/Public Library, per il quale sviluppa e gestisce l'infrastruttura software.* *Tomislav Medak è dottorando presso il Centre for Postdigital Cultures. È membro del team di teoria e pubblicazione del Multimedia Institute/MAMA di Zagabria, nonché bibliotecario dilettante per il progetto Memory of the World/Public Library. . Tutti e tre gli autori sono coordinatori di Pirate Care (https://pirate.care), un processo di ricerca translocale incentrato sull'apprendimento collettivo e sulle risposte disobbedienti all'attuale crisi dell'assistenza sanitaria.* ### Memórias do corpo URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/memorias-do-corpo/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:12.000Z A diáspora é como as águas: fluida e móvel. O movimento é o âmago dos corpos em diáspora, que, pelo devir histórico, se agitaram na sedição onírica de cruzar subjetivamente as margens do oceano Atlântico. Experimentamos compreender a diáspora como um fluxo social que dispõe de mecanismos culturais e políticos em que o corpo guarda a memória, não como raízes de um território, mas como afluentes transculturais capazes de repactuar os sentidos além das fronteiras nacionais. A migração forçada impõe outros sentidos ao permitir que a desterritorialização seja vista, também, como possibilidade de criação artística e política, ainda que completamente atravessada pela necropolítica. A natureza dinâmica da diáspora do Atlântico foi experienciada tanto pelos corpos que resistiam quanto por quem colonizou. A colonização impôs de forma violenta a propagação de novos territórios, categorias de pessoas e, principalmente, da produção de imaginários culturais diferentes. A noção imaculada de dominação colonial é desmontada quando constatamos que a ocupação do espaço foi realizada não como Estado-nação, mas sim como ecossistema interativo, que dependia de dinâmicas intercambiantes a cada fase de desenvolvimento do imperialismo. Ao produzir subjetividade negra, nossos corpos transmutam a qualificação como objeto/mercadoria imposta pelo capitalismo, e abrimos fissuras incapturáveis pelo sistema colonial. A violência não encerra o abismo dessa experiência, na medida em que tais corpos **se** tornam protagonistas de suas histórias a partir da imaginação como possibilidade de criação da sua própria vida/existência. Foi a capacidade de imaginar a liberdade que moveu os corpos negros no espaço-tempo. Na diáspora, o corpo é o próprio território e feracidade do impossível. Este corpo-memória-território deve ser analisado acolhendo a contradição e o poder diante da correlação de forças interativas presentes na diáspora. Este poder é incapaz de ser definido, capturado ou representado, pois se apresenta na vida coletiva ao gerar as bases culturais do Atlântico Sul. ***Defendo gestos de coragem como toda fissura estética e subjetiva incapturável.*** Um dos gestos de coragem mais significativos no entendimento de corpo-memória-território é a capoeira. A capoeira é a própria elaboração criativa do corpo diaspórico explorando suas potencialidades e sentidos: música, história, movimentos, rituais, hierarquias e, especialmente antissistêmico para mim, um novo nome. \[1\] Um novo nome é ao mesmo tempo uma forma cambiante de se proteger, pois este nome só seria reconhecido entre seus pares capoeiristas, e também uma enunciação autônoma da sua existência. A possibilidade de redefinir-se, enunciar-se enquanto corpo-memória-território, talvez seja o horizonte mais próximo do devaneio pela emancipação. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Fig.-.jpeg) Fig. 1 ***A dúvida se a capoeira é dança ou luta é a fissura incapturável.*** Uma vida urgente é toda aquela que tem um alvo apontado para seu corpo. Se não é possível estabelecer uma origem para capoeira a partir dos referenciais da historiografia colonizada, é porque essa história só pode ser contada a partir dos fundamentos que a constituem: o corpo e sua escrevivência. É preciso interromper as formulações do que é documento histórico a fim de que outras narrativas saiam dos silêncios históricos que a violência reduziu o corpo diaspórico. Uma vida urgente só pode se preservar na ação do agora. ***O único tempo possível para os corpos negros é o presente.*** ***a vida é agora*** ***a saúde é agora*** ***o planeta é agora*** ***ancestralidade é agora*** ***amor é agora.*** Convoco a entender a ancestralidade não como origem, ideal ou passado, mas como poder de atualização diante do devir histórico. O passado é um acúmulo de presentes. Essa capacidade de preservar os gestos nos presentes é a que chamo de ancestralidade. A esse corpo-memória-território, denomino como fronteiras ancestrais. Ancestrais, porque sua ação é anterior à própria existência e porque os corpos se reconhecem nos gestos de memórias adormecidas ou co-criadas. O corpo dispersado pela diáspora tece memórias a partir de uma associação empática capaz e necessária para sobreviver à dominação colonial. O corpo co-cria espaços de memórias a partir de gestos como a música, a capoeira, a dança e o candomblé. ***A grandiosidade das populações negras é criar na adversidade.*** A dramaturgia da recordação que separa a genealogia da geografia no ato de lidar com o pertencer na diáspora possibilitou ao Atlântico Sul uma transcultura negra, no qual a unidade de pertencimento se dá pelo muito mais por uma dinâmica-sentimento coletivo de pertencer, partilhar e sobretudo se reconhecer como corpo-subjetivo e não se perder na qualificação de objeto definida pelo colonialismo, do que necessariamente uma busca por uma origem. No Brasil seu contínuo contato com a África, possibilitou a fabulação de pertencimentos que não estão presos às limites geográficos, mas sim a uma vontade coletiva do corpo-memória-território estabelecer suas fronteiras ancestrais. ***Criar arte para produzir vida.*** Quando observamos os gêneros musicais qualificados como nacionais ou identitários do continente Atlântico, constatamos como o elemento negro formatou a música desses países. Percorrendo a cultura dessas nações, percebemos que o ritmo forjado pelo corpo negro é o fundamento musical de tais gestos. O samba no Brasil, o reggae na Jamaica, a salsa em Cuba, o Jazz nos Estados Unidos ou o tango Argentino não existiriam sem a tecnologia social dos ritmos elaborada por estes corpos-memórias-territórios. ***O domínio do ritmo é o corpo.*** ***A memória do ritmo é o corpo.*** ***A estética do ritmo é o corpo.*** ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Fig.-2.jpeg) Fig. 2 A diáspora musical foi responsável por estabelecer contradições nas conjunturas sociais de diferentes épocas. Imagine que no auge das Leis de Jim Crow, negros estadunidenses se tornariam professores universitários através do jazz nos cursos de música. Ou que, nos anos mais autoritários da Ditadura Militar brasileira, a partir do carnaval de 1974, os Blocos Afros em Salvador de Bahia ocupariam as ruas reivindicando sua existência e a libertação das nações africanas. Nada disso foi capaz de barrar o projeto genocida contra os corpos negros, mas esses fatos, fabulados a partir do protagonismo do ritmo, permitiram que esses corpos-memórias-territórios se autorreferenciassem a partir de sua ação artística. A cidade mais negra fora da África, Salvador, Bahia, Brasil, é também um importante experimento de negritude, onde o ritmo salvaguardou as tecnologias ancestrais na música e na história. À complexa cambiante cognição coletiva tecida pelas memórias musicais abrigadas no corpo das populações transatlânticas chamarei de DNA rítmico. Em Salvador de Bahia, outros gestos criados no corpo como a capoeira, o candomblé, a dança afro e o pagode também são mecanismos políticos voláteis incapturáveis do ritmo. Essa capacidade cognitiva de enunciar-se enquanto coletivo a partir dos ritmos é uma verdadeira artimanha do poder intangível aos sistemas de controle e que, para mim, norteiam a musicalidade-negritude dessa cidade. ***Como produzir uma historiografia sobre essa cidade sem absorver o corpo como documento e sujeito histórico?*** Ao pesquisar as formas de transmissão deste DNA rítmico em Salvador de Bahia experimentei o espaço doméstico, o terreiro de candomblé e as ruas como locais onde tais tecnologias do corpo desafiam a trama do tempo. As *levadas de rua* \[2\] transmitidas através da oralidade, produzem fissuras na ordem social do racismo ao protagonizarem narrativas criadas a partir do DNA rítmico com o samba reggae, groove arrastado, samba duro, tamanquinha e todo universo percussivo baiano. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Fig-v4.-1.png) Fig. 3 Durante as aulas da disciplina História da Música na Diáspora Negra \[3\], realizo o exercício prático, no qual, por meio da anamnese, recordamos situações de aprendizado musical. Esse lugar comum que compartilhamos da iniciação musical feita por pessoas próximas ilustra bem essa relação do DNA rítmico como gestos de uma comunicação com o corpo. A oralidade é o corpo. A precariedade dos sistemas de ensino brasileiro torna praticamente inacessível a iniciação musical em instituições formais de ensino. A nossa música é criada e transmitida sem a gerência do Estado e através da historiografia do tambor. Nos últimos dez anos, constatei nessas turmas que o despertar musical acontecia na maioria das vezes através de amigos, parentes ou dentro das igrejas Evangélicas e Terreiros de Candomblé. A pesquisa apontou como o projeto neopentecostal no Brasil possibilitou que milhares de pessoas negras periféricas tivessem acesso a instrumentos musicais; sobretudo os de harmonia, que são de modo geral caros. A comunidade gospel brasileira viabilizou a educação musical dentro de bairros de Salvador nos quais anteriormente não havia nenhuma escola de música. Todavia, na percussão, a antropologia é diferente. É muito comum na Bahia famílias de percussionistas transmitirem técnicas íntimas daquela linhagem sanguínea por gerações, como é o caso do Terreiro do Bogum, de Mônica Millet no terreiro do Gantois ou da família Oliveira, com a sua banda de baile no recôncavo baiano. Me recordo que no auge da Timbalada, nos anos 1990, a cidade de Salvador referenciava a Tamanquinha como toque do Candeal. \[4\] O DNA rítmico é herança acumulada por gerações. Essas famílias geradas pelo ritmo podem ser sanguíneas, espirituais ou até mesmo apadrinhadas. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Fig-v2.-2.jpg) Fig. 4 A obra musical do Aguidavi do Jêje é anterior a sua produção fonográfica. O DNA rítmico desses corpo-memórias-territórios é transmutado por séculos de existência do Zoogodô Bogum Malê Rundó. A música do Aguidavi do Jêje é mergulhada numa profunda fabulação que se realiza ao atualizar a ancestralidade do Jêje Mahin. A música é um gesto familiar, religioso e educativo. Essa transcultura negra, vivida por séculos pelas pessoas do Bogum, é uma manifestação das fronteiras ancestrais que permitiram salvaguardar vidas do período escravista até os dias atuais. Uma sensível a ambivalência das relações jaz também na instrumentação musical. Nenhum instrumento musical foi trazido dentro dos navios negreiros. Toda percussão é fabulação. Todo tambor criado nas águas diaspóricas é resultante da contingente comunicação dos corpos dispersados por empatia do pertencimento e produção da vida. Os modos de fazer o instrumento e suas sonoridades é a escrevivência de uma historiografia do impossível baseada na ancestralidade. A maneira pela qual o Aguidavi do Jêje toca o violão, que, apesar de não ser um instrumento percussivo, soa/age como tal em suas canções, é tão genuína que, quando escutamos, conseguimos nos autorreferenciar: **"Uma macumba, macumbegê!** **Ouvir um som de viola** **Um som que soava berimbau** **Ouvir um som de viola** **Um som que soava berimbau** **Ouvir um som de viola** **Um som que soava berimbau** **Ouvir um som de viola** **Um som que soava berimbau"** **(Violão de cabaça, Aguidavi do Jêje)** A origem dos toques dentro do espaço religioso tem relevância muito mais bem definida do que nas *Levadas de rua*, e a grande artimanha do poder desses corpos-memórias-territórios é que eles estão completamente aptos para reconhecer essas nuances do DNA rítmico. Ao mergulhar no universo dos ritmos afro-brasileiros, deparamo-nos com o *Ijexá* \[5\] e sua generosidade de encaixar-se em diferentes gêneros e arquétipos musicais. Quando pesquisamos o uso do *Ijexá* na música brasileira de modo geral, percebemos como esse toque performa bem a noção de ancestralidade a partir da diáspora musical. Com o *Ijexá*, diferentes nações, deidades, músicas e pessoas conseguem reconhecer-se na cosmogênese do ritmo no corpo. Uma das performances que mais me cativa nessa ambivalência das relações diaspóricas é o Baiana System e seu fazer artístico enquanto discurso transatlântico. A maneira como a clave do *Ijexá* está na música Lucro (Descomprimindo) presentifica a ancestralidade e a potência criativa da diáspora do Atlântico Sul. Uma escuta atenta dessa música pode mover pela imaginação o *Ijexá* através das sonoridades que abrigamos no corpo como DNA rítmico. Nutrir gestos de coragem através do fazer musical como formas de nos enunciar também perpassa as maneiras pelas quais resistimos ao projeto necropolítico e à nulidade da vida negra. Ao usar o Jêje como nome artístico, aquelas pessoas estão emancipando suas narrativas. As culturas do Atlântico Sul Negro também se desenvolveram como mecanismos políticos voláteis capazes de criar e operar veículos de consolação através da mediação estética. Cada grupo de pagode baiano em uma periferia é uma possibilidade de futuro cultivada no presente como artimanha do poder. O corpo violado pelo racismo é o mesmo que guarda os fundamentos dessa música diaspórica. Como disse Larissa Luz, "O corpo que dança é o mesmo corpo que pensa." A subjetividade incapturável dança como as marés no devir da vida, e o corpo é o documento histórico desta narrativa. *This contribution belongs to “Unión Textiles Semillas.” Created within the framework of 99 Questions, Stiftung Humboldt Forum im Berliner Schloss.* // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] A capoeira é uma atividade esportiva que tem hierarquias divididas por graduações (títulos). As graduações são obtidas ao longo dos anos em uma cerimônia denominada batismo, no qual a pessoa graduada recebe uma corda da cor representada pelo título que vai receber e um novo nome de identificação entre os capoeiristas. \[2\] Levadas de ruas são os chamados os toques percussivos criados pela transmissão oral no espaço público e que são presentes na música baiana. \[3\] Disciplina criada por mim em 2013 e ministrada nas turmas do Rumpilezzinho e Centro de Formação em Artes da Funceb. \[4\] O Candeal é um bairro de Salvador onde surgiu o grupo percussivo Timbalada, criado pelo maestro Carlinhos Brown e que até hoje preserva uma técnica muito específica de tocar o Timbal. \[5\] O Ijexá pode identificar um ritmo, um toque, uma nação ou dança. Image credits Cover: biarritzzz, El Sueño del Telar que durmió por la tarde, 2024\. Digital rendering of the work, inspired by the weaving practices of Unión Textiles Semillas. Created within the framework of 99 Questions, Stiftung Humboldt Forum im Berliner Schloss. Fig. 1, 2: Scenes from an event as part of *South-to-South: A Meeting on African and Afro-diasporic Technologies* in Salvador de Bahia, a research node of *99 Questions* at the Humboldt Forum, Berlin, in collaboration with Pivô Salvador. © Ricardo Prado. Fig. 3: Aula do Laboratório Musical Rumpilezzinho com a autora Anne Rodrigues durante a disciplina "História da Música na Diáspora Negra do Atlântico", 2016\. © Anne Rodrigues. Fig. 4: Capa do primeiro disco do Aguidavi do Jêje , composto por membros do Terreiro Zoogodô Bogum Malê Rundó criado pelo mestre Luizinho do Jêje, 2023.Photo © Diego Bresani. *Anne Rodrigues is a historian, artistic director, performer, and curator from Salvador, Brazil. Her work connects music, politics, and Afro-diasporic practices, drawing on her experiences with groups such as Ilê Aiyê, Filhos de Gandhy, and Laboratório Rumpilezzinho. In her essay for the South-to-South project at the Humboldt Forum, she reflects on the Black Atlantic body as an archive of memory and resistance, capable of preserving intangible knowledge and power struggles through embodied strategies of survival and creation.* ### Syrigana URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/syrigana/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:11.000Z Syrigana is marked by historical erasure and political fragmentation. On the occasion of the 25th anniversary of the end of the war in Kosovo, the National Philharmonic also celebrates its first quarter-century. Petrit Halilaj’s first opera brings together professional artists, villagers, musicians, folkloric traditions, and contemporary art in a temporary collective project that asserts the relevance of culture in peripheral places. The project extends Halilaj’s engagement with the House of Culture in Runik—a site for Albanian-language cultural life in the 1960s, later shuttered and destroyed in the war. Syrigana, still in ruins, continues this process of reconstruction, not as nostalgia, but as rehearsal for future forms of common life. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2025_Syrigana-performance-3-ph-Arben-Llapashtica.jpg) Fig.1 Staged with the Kosovo Philharmonic, *Syrigana* is the institution’s first commissioned opera. Performed on tractor-trailers on a rocky plateau below Gjyteti, the site of a Bronze Age settlement, the work evokes 1970s traveling theater troupes. The scenography, partly developed during Halilaj’s residency at the Paris Opera, remains grounded in his sculptural practice and features bird costumes, flags, and masks left in the landscape. Written with Doruntina Basha, Robert Schulz, and Amy Zion, and composed by Lugh O’Neill with contributions by Nina Guo, the opera unfolds as a queer allegory of love and community. Fox and Rooster arrive in Syrigana seeking a place to live and wed. The libretto—shifting between Albanian, English, and an invented bird language—draws on local myths, including one in which Adam and Eve, expelled from Eden, come to Syrigana only to find it already inhabited. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2025_Syrigana-performance-10-ph-Arben-Llapashtica.JPG) Fig.2 Although theatrical, the work remains strongly tied to the political and historical realities of a village where Albanian and Serbian communities coexist side by side without direct interaction. The opera does not propose reconciliation through fiction, but stages the contradictions and aspirations of a fragmented collective subjectivity. The archaeological site—partially excavated in 2022—bears traces of 3,500 years of human activity. Enjoying only temporary protection, it is threatened by looting and quarrying. Halilaj’s opera calls for preservation not through appeal, but through use and presence. Personal memory grounds the work: Halilaj’s mother was born in Syrigana, and he spent his school years there with relatives. He recalls kanagjegjs (bachelorette parties) where women sang laments—a formative encounter with performance and the roots of theatre. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2025_Syrigana-performance-9-ph-Arben-Llapashtica.JPG) Fig.3 Premiering in May during the region’s elderflower bloom, the opera began with a gathering at the çajtore (teahouse) between the village’s two communities. A nightfall procession led the audience uphill, tambourines and golden flags guiding the way. The acts unfold: the arrival of Fox and Rooster; a brief moment in paradise, then a fall; nuptial plans and then an unraveling; lastly, a final affirmation of staying together. *Syrigana* will be reprised at Hamburger Bahnhof in Berlin, in a spatial installation curated by Catherine Nichols. The scenographic elements and recorded opera remain open to visitors, recapturing the distant village on a summer night. *Syrigana* asks how cultural memory forms in the absence of institutions, and how art can inhabit ruins not as an act of mourning, but as an impetus for potential. *Petrit Halilaj.* An Opera Out of Time*. September 11, 2025 – May 31, 2026* *Hamburger Bahnhof – Nationalgalerie der Gegenwart, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin* // --- ### Images Cover, Fig.1/2/3: Syrigana: An Opera in Five Acts, conceived and directed by Petrit Halilaj, performed in Syrigana, Kosovo, June 29, 2025\. Image courtesy the artist. Photo by Arben Llapashtica *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### A New Age of Idolatry Arrives URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-new-age-of-idolatry-arrives-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:08.000Z *This interview makes clear that any parcours during Berlin Art Week must begin with Christelle Oyiri’s “Dead God Flow” at LAS Art Foundation, presenting at CANK in Neukölln. Here, darkness draws one closer to the divine, the ghosts of the city manifest, and music becomes a vessel of philosophical renewal. Opening simultaneously with “Heaven’s worth, Hell on earth” at Galerie Buchholz, Oyiri creates immersive spaces where neon light and sound become conduits for reflection on the city’s own heavy fate.* **I biked to CANK here in Neukölln, thinking of your show at MMK in Frankfurt. It was just so soaked in presence. The way you use materials, the way you stage darkness, and at the same time allow light to enter through color. I was also reminded of that show when I saw some of the surfaces that appeared in the films here and in CEL’s project, how rainbows emerge from this thickness, from this density. Something you said, or something that was said here—that you come closer to God in darkness, I wondered: how Nietzschean, versus how Oyirian, is this?** I feel like it’s a bit of both. If I have to speak materially, I’m very familiar with dark spaces for the simple fact that much of my background is in nightlife. So, a lot of my relationship with light, sound, and darkness stems from the fact that every weekend, this is where I am. My way of treating space might not be the same as, let’s say, a painter, where you absolutely need light. I share my studio with a painter, and we barely cross paths because she’s there when the sun is high and I’m there whenever it gets darker. For me, nightlife is one aspect, but darkness is also where you can regroup with yourself. When you close your eyes, you don’t see nothingness; you see darkness. There’s a real sense of sitting with your feelings and with yourself that I appreciate about working in the dark—there’s less distraction. Somehow, the work pops up here and there, and it becomes very focused. I really like that about dark spaces. As for Nietzsche, what interests me about him—as I told a previous journalist—is that he was a witness of his time. Every philosopher is, to some degree, but I feel he explained his time in a way that makes the most sense. In French, we say l’ère du soupçon—the era of suspicion. When we speak of Nietzsche, we use that. Many philosophers refer to that time as suspicious, because reality itself, and what you see, you always interrogate. You always question the dynamics at play. I think there’s something deeply poetic about his philosophy that responds both to the desire to make sense of things—the rational aspect—and, at the same time, to the poetic, almost mythological aspect. When you read *Thus Spoke Zarathustra*, for instance, much of it is rooted in mythology. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LAS-Art-Foundation-or-Christelle-Oyiri-Hauntology-of-an-OG-or-1.jpg) Fig.1 **Let’s get into philosophy later. You said you belong to the club—that you have a very specific relationship to Berlin through club culture. The club economy and the art world economy—the so-called “art world”—operate with different logics, even if they constantly bleed into each other. How do you navigate those overlapping realities?** I think they have nothing to do with each other. **The economy of the club is, let’s say, less exclusive and more community-driven. Ironically, the art world isn’t, or is still struggling to become something like that. How do you deal with the fact that these economic dynamics play such a strong role, especially since you inhabit different roles and create both spaces?** My life is divided between different chapels of, let’s say, economic logic. Entering the gallery world is just entering a commercial space, if I can be honest. Because I already have a job—as a DJ and music producer—I wasn’t rushing to fit in that space. I made it a point to take my time with it, to really dive deep into research and into my work on institutional shows. Because once money gets involved—when you have people in your ear, when you have galleries and people you need to satisfy—the logic, and sometimes even the quality of the work, can get… **Unfocused?** It can shift widely. So for me, I try to approach it in a multifactorial way. For my economy and my well-being, I need to conjugate all of this together. I cannot solely rely on “community”, because then I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent. And I know it’s a buzzword now—people use “community” even in brand briefs. You open a brand brief that has nothing to do with it—they’re trying to sell you sneakers—and they talk about community. So I try to find a balance, to conjugate and find solace in different aspects. In the community-driven space of DJing—where a lot of promoters are DJs themselves, often from marginalized communities—I find solace because I find true, genuine connections. Connections through frequencies, through music. Unspoken connections. That really goes beyond voice. When I DJ, I don’t talk. I barely interact with people. **I guess this is the actual misunderstanding: the way “community” gets used as a discourse-driven word. In the club, the economy is clear—everyone gets a fee according to their actions.** Community needs to be driven by action. That doesn’t mean you evacuate dialogue, but it means: what do you actually do for it? How do you sustain it? How do you water it? Because, in my opinion, community is a living thing. It’s not an inanimate object—it’s something you need to water, feed, and foster. And there are aspects of my practice where the two worlds—community and art—have overlapped. At the MMK show, they collided. The work was rooted in community, because I shot the video at Les Fauvettes, a community in the north of Paris. In full transparency, when MMK acquired the work, I gave part of the money from the acquisition to that community. Because \[community\] can’t just be a buzzword. You have to show you mean it: if you sell an artwork based on a community, give back to that community. If you don’t have money, give resources. What I did was give them resources, and I also found additional funding to bring kids from Les Fauvettes to Germany—to Frankfurt—so they could actually go to a museum and experience a culture different from their own. Some of them took a plane for the first time. It was really powerful to bring ten kids with us, walk through the city, and go to the museum. For many, it was their first encounter with contemporary art. A lot of very interesting discussions came out of that—bringing the two worlds together, not in an artificial way, but genuinely. **Thank you for bringing us out of the idealization of community, back to its lived reality.** Yeah—show your check! I’m getting tired of this idealization of community. If you know you’re getting 10K from something, what does it cost to give 2,500 to someone you know will make good use of it? Or give half? Just do it. Just do it. For me, one of the issues I’ve had sometimes with the Paris creative scene is that I’m not there often. So people start building narratives about who you are—because now you’re in the art world, and so on. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LAS-Art-Foundation-or-Christelle-Oyiri-Hauntology-of-an-OG-or-2.png) Fig.2 **That alienation is tempting, like making everything public, like you say in *Hyperfate*. It also brings me to the mythologization of capitalism, and how people get lost in it. You deliberately engage with that myth-making when you reference rappers, or reflect on fandom. How did you come to this idea? The juxtaposition between you and Tupac is so bold—the fact that you share the same birthday, and that you put that right at the start of *Hyperfate*. It’s just lit.** I like the fact that we share a date—that’s low-key why I used it. **So, how do you hold critique and learning together? It’s so strong—just the juxtaposition, your voice, and you’re holding this critique while capitalism profits from the afterlife of rappers.** I wish I did it more with *Hyperfate*. My work evolves a lot—friends have seen it in earlier forms, like Collective Amnesia, and there’s always another version, a director’s cut. I keep reworking things. With *Hyperfate*, what I originally wanted to add was exactly this “afterlife effect” you mention. Because for a lot of rappers, even in France—we had this rapper, the most prolific of the past three years, who sold more records than anyone else—he died in June. He was 28 or 29\. He was hospitalized and then mysteriously died. Nobody knows how. There was huge controversy in France: some of his family members wanted all his music withdrawn from streaming platforms. Fans disagreed. It became a debate in mainstream media and on social media, and also a spiritual one, because he was Muslim. Some argued that by keeping his music online, he would continue “accumulating sins” after death. But others pointed out that removing his music meant his family wouldn’t receive anything from it. So there’s both a spiritual aspect and a capitalist one: the family being cut off from revenue. And then, another phenomenon: when rappers die, streaming skyrockets. We saw it with Juice WRLD three years ago, when he died of an overdose. He’s not in my film because, for me, it was a different story, but his death raised suspicions. People started saying that record labels now take out insurance contracts on rappers. That’s actually the second part I’d like to work on: labels contracting insurance on rappers. There’s this label, Empire—many of their rappers have died in recent years. People started asking: *Let’s see the paperwork. What did you make them sign?* Because think about it: if you go to the South Side of Chicago, find an 18-year-old who dropped out of school at 14, and hand them a contract they can’t really read—you’re exploiting administrative illiteracy. That exploitation of Black artists is deeply rooted in American history. And not just America. It’s the same in France—labels go to extremely marginalized communities, tell kids they’re talented, that they’ll take care of their family, and give them an advance. But then they take out insurance, knowing these kids are in gangs. They don’t guide them. They encourage beefs with other rappers, because that raises streams, raises stakes, raises media attention. And when violence escalates and someone dies, the label cashes in the insurance, recoups the advance, and moves on. It’s so bad. That’s the real shit I also want to talk about. But I needed to mourn first. I needed to look inward, to do this flickering editing, to circle back to my own personal history—my brothers, where I grew up—in order to channel and understand what was at play. And grief has stages: first, you cry, then you get angry. Who knows? Maybe I’ll make that next part, maybe not. Sorry, that was long—but it’s really important. **No, I’m with you. And I can’t wait to see the *Hauntology of the OG*, Part II! I’m also thinking of Walter Benjamin, since he was mentioned earlier today. He stated every document of civilization is also a document of barbarism. I see this monument you just built and relate it to that haunting tension he spoke of.** There’s a controversial idea in *Hyperfate*: many of the rappers who appear in it died from gunshots fired by people who looked just like them. People often call this “Black-on-Black crime”, which is a very controversial idea, because what does that even mean? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LAS-Art-Foundation-or-Christelle-Oyiri-Hauntology-of-an-OG-or-3.jpg) Fig.3 **When it’s about struggling for survival within the same infrastructures of oppression?** Exactly. If you look at white people, the ones killing them most are white people, too. So you could just as easily say “white-on-white crime”. For me, highlighting rappers whose destinies were cut short by gun violence was also about exposing the systemic violence of America itself. Violence takes many forms. When you OD, like Juice WRLD, that’s tied to opiates, which is a whole subject in the US, too. But in *Hyperfate* I really wanted to show the envy rappers generate. **And envy is intertwined with crowning and chaining—both words that describe positions within a hierarchy: the condensation of power. But at the same time, in Western Christian iconography, the crowning of Jesus is through absolute punishment. And chaining is unavoidably connected to slavery.** The “chaining day” has a lot in common with knighting, when a bigger rapper—maybe an A&R or label founder—gives you a chain as a token of appreciation. I was listening to this Clipse album *\[Let God Sort Em Out\]*, they have a song called “Chains & Whips”. A “whip” is slang for a car, and a “chain” is jewelry—a diamond VVS chain. But then they play on words: “chains and whips.” There’s a double entendre there. Rap as a subculture is full of tension and contradiction. That tension isn’t coming from me—it’s in the culture itself. Hip hop is built on the rags-to-riches narrative. And I’d even go as far as to say that hip hop saved modern capitalism. **How so?** Because if you look at Black communities in America and Africa of the 1970s, there was a strong appeal to communism and dismantling capitalism. You had \[Kwame\] Nkrumah, \[Thomas\] Sankara, \[Aimé\] Césaire, \[Frantz\] Fanon. Césaire was in the Communist Party. In Africa, you had anarchist traditions, especially in Nigeria. In the US, the Black Panther Party wasn’t just about guns and “fuck the pigs”. It was about dismantling capitalism, building structure, believing in community—like their breakfast programs—going to the root. But in the ’80s, with Reagan, everything shifted. Even in Africa, suddenly it was all about money. Rap emerges at that time, and with it the rise of the drug-dealer rapper. Jay-Z is the epitome of that figure—the drug dealer rapper crowned king. Then he crowns Kanye. I love Jay’s music, I won’t lie. But he’s also become the closest thing Black people have to a Rockefeller, a Rothschild. He’s a modern-day Black Rothschild. He’s just the avatar of that role. People put their animosity on him, but really, he was just trying to get out of the hood. He didn’t invent the system—he embodies it. The rags-to-riches narrative, the whip, the chain, the money—it’s bigger than him. And, yes, jewelry also comes from West African traditions of adornment, but here it’s about the accumulation of wealth. Being a mogul. Being like Diddy. If you don’t have money as a rapper today, you’re not considered a rapper. Have you ever seen a modest rapper? You have to wear designer clothes. I was born in Paris, so I see this firsthand when rappers come for fashion. They want the wealthiest, whitest spaces. They don’t want to connect with poor Black French communities or experience a more authentic Paris. They want to stay at the Bristol, go to the Louis Vuitton runway show. That tells you everything. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LAS-Art-Foundation-or-Christelle-Oyiri-Hauntology-of-an-OG-or-4.png) Fig.4 **You said, “You’re not a rapper if you don’t have money.” But then you deliberately enter this liminal space of criticism, like when someone says, I have more money than all those rappers here, and then someone else replies, is that the goal?** In today’s society, you open social media and… We’re all guilty of it. I don’t know anyone who says they’re not, and if they do, they’re lying. We all hate it, but we all do it. Scrolling. When I should be working, I’m scrolling. And I realized we’re consuming more than we create. We get sucked into other people’s perceptions, enslaved by validation, endlessly sharing opinions with no substance. I’m present online because I’m native to the internet. I love it—I love the culture, immersing myself in subcultures. But I also think the next generation must step back. Take a week off social media. Enjoy the silence. **Notions of hauntology don’t go back to Nietzsche, but to Marx. Marx spoke of the specter haunting Europe, and this is what later comes back as hauntology. Thinking of hauntology as carrying a utopian potential, I wonder—how did you come to this idea, especially in a city like Berlin, which is also living with its mouth full of ghosts?** There’s a massive ghost. I feel like when you are Black, there’s an inherent affinity for that kind of thing. Whenever you want to separate yourself from your past, people tend to bring the past back to you, or push you into a kind of time machine. And when it comes from you—when you want to interrogate the past—people say: *You’re dwelling. Why talk about slavery again? It was 400 years ago.* I feel like anyone who has gone through severe acculturation, oppression, deportation, and enslavement always has to be in dialogue with that past. Always. Whether it’s a glorious one or, more often, a tragic one. In a city like Berlin, it’s easy for me to lean into that because, first of all, Germany has very strong philosophers—France, too—but Germany definitely has a deep philosophical corpus. It’s easy here to read and really let myself think. And, of course, this is a place that, unfortunately, is also tied to something very dark. **It’s interesting to listen to you while looking at this eclipse turned black hole on the screen, slowly being covered by these two Raphael-esque hands, as they let light come through.** There’s definitely a yin–yang aspect to my work. We’re talking about darkness, but as you saw in the MMK show, there’s this *clair-obscur*. It’s not just obscurity—it’s darkness and light together. And I think, low-key, when we think about Nietzsche, we also have to remember how much he was inspired by Eastern philosophies. Compared to Marx or Freud, I think he was the one most connected to precolonial spirituality and Eastern religions. **There’s also the presence of the Pyramid of Giza in your film.** Exactly. That’s so on brand for that philosopher. And for me, as someone of African and Caribbean descent who grew up in the Western world—I was born in France—I always move in and out of these two worlds. I studied philosophy, so I have a bunch of white men in my head— **Haunting you.** Haunting me. And, at the same time, I have my ancestors, to whom I owe everything. So it’s this eternal dialogue. And I wouldn’t say one is inherently dark and the other inherently light. It’s more a shimmering, an exchange between the two. I think that’s what really characterizes my work. **You’ve also brought up Nietzsche’s notion of eternal return in our conversation. Thinking of the canonization of dead philosophers and dead rappers—echoing the making of new saints—I wonder: is fandom inventing a new religion, or just repeating the failures of old ones in contemporary form?** Both. We live in the age of idolatry. The age of the star. It’s pretty clear. There’s something deep and peculiar about how people form parasocial relationships with celebrities. I think celebrities have replaced saints. And I’d say the real shift happened in the ’90s. Michael Jackson is probably the one who redefined the whole thing. **Hauntology is also a term from the ’90s.** Yes. And people need something to believe in. They’ve been fed tabloids. They’ve been fed the death of Princess Diana, which, in my opinion, is one of the last truly historical events we’ll still read about in books. And people talked about it far more than the death of Queen Elizabeth. So yes, there is a newborn religion. I don’t know if it has a name, but I would call our present the age of micro-celebrity. The mainstream is collapsing. People like us—CO and I are late Millennials—still go to Beyoncé concerts, sure, but in a few years, she won’t be able to perform at that scale anymore. That’s why she’s sending her daughter to carry it on. She’s the last of a particular kind of celebrity, one rooted in talent. Whether you like her or not, the artistry and dedication—the singing and dancing together—that’s rare. It barely exists anymore. Today, celebrity is rooted in relatability. That’s why a lot of Gen Z don’t connect with Beyoncé. They go to her concerts because they saw it on TikTok and want to dress in gold, but they don’t fully grasp what’s at play. Now celebrities are influencers. People will go to war for a YouTuber or a podcaster. They know what they ate in the morning, what they did at night—they’re with them. Before, we had pop stars, but we knew very little about them. When I was a kid, it was Britney Spears. There’s still so much I don’t know about her. Same with Beyoncé—I don’t even know where she lives. That sense of mystery is gone. Now people need to know what you’re doing at all times. You constantly have to document your life. We’re always entering a new age of idolatry. And honestly, I love watching it unfold. // *Christelle Oyiri: Dead God Flow is on view at LAS Art Foundation, presenting at CANK in Neukölln throughout October 18, 2025* *Free admission with ID or registration certificate with the postal codes 12043 or 12053.* --- ### Images: Cover: LAS Art Foundation, Christelle Oyiri, Portrait Fig.1/2/3/4 Christelle Oyiri and Neva Wireko, *Hauntology of an OG*, video still, 2025\. Courtesy the artists, LAS Art Foundation, Amant, and Pinault Collection. © Christelle Oyiri and Neva Wireko. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Uncommon Appetites URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/uncommon-appetites-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:09.000Z *With the project “Connected Ecosystems. Museum and Post-varietal Communities”, promoted by the Directorate-General for Contemporary Creativity of the Ministry of Culture, curated by Maria Rosa Sossai, the duo Aterraterra (Fabio Aranzulla and Luca Cinquemani) invites us to rethink our relationship with food and cultivated plants. They challenge the established structures and regulatory assumptions of the agri-food industry through practices of uncontrolled and unpredictable hybridization that destabilize notions of “purity” and “authenticity”, making explicit the anthropic role in the construction of cultivated species in an era dominated by an imperative to defend “naturalness” and tradition. In the contemporary necrocapitalist society, food operates as an ideological device, contributing to the consolidation and normalization of forms of exclusion and exploitation, both environmental and human. In Italy, the rhetoric of Made in Italy, alongside the multiplication of certifications (e.g., DOC, DOCG, IGP), has turned into a kind of national mythology; a narrative built more on collective imagination than on actual production conditions. Words such as “excellence”, “tradition”, and “genuineness” fuel a perceptual system founded on a retrospective genealogy that looks to the Roman Empire and the Renaissance to mask the country’s structural crisis. If the future slips away, the past must be hyperproduced. This is not merely a set of commercial mechanisms, but spaces of symbolic and material accumulation where genetic, aesthetic, and narrative control practices intertwine. Culinary tradition thus transforms into a surrogate for industrial policy, a tool of consent that conceals labor precariousness and numbs social conflict. Working with foods deeply rooted in the Italian imagination and identity, Aterraterra intervenes to break dominant narratives, opening a space for critical and collective reflection on the cultural, economic, and symbolic foundations sustaining the contemporary agri-food system. Their work takes the form of a radical critique of the agroindustry’s standardization and homogenization logics, but also as a poetic gesture that goes beyond intellectual speculation or ephemeral action to experiment with forms of (non)intervention over the long term. These aim to generate other ways of relating to nature and food, redefining concepts like edibility, cultivation, and time, and giving rise to devices capable of challenging cultural hierarchies and economic structures.* *Starting from the* Connected Ecosystems *project, in this conversation, Fabio and Luca guide us into the heart of their work, narrating not only the project itself but also the visions, concepts, and possibilities that drive their artistic practice to challenge deeply rooted beliefs about agriculture, food, nature, and identity.* **Fabiola FIocco: You often refer to “post-varietal communities” and “post-agricultural perspectives” as central ideas in your practice. Could you unpack what these terms mean to you, and how they come to life both in your overall artistic approach and more specifically in the project “San Marzano 2”?** **Aterraterra:** Post-varietal communities are not just a concept but also a practice we have arrived at through a series of critical reflections on the ideas of “naturalness” and varietal purity in cultivated plants. These ideas reinforce a view of the food crop varieties we eat every day as fixed and natural entities, concealing the fact that agricultural plants are the result of a process of domestication, selection, and genetic disciplining guided by humans. In concrete terms, with post-varietal communities, rather than maintaining separate single varieties, we grow many different varieties of a species—for example, tomatoes— all together so that they hybridize randomly, without human control. The crossings that result from this process give rise, in the second generation, to plants with unpredictable traits and forms, always different and no longer traceable to the original agricultural varieties. Post-varietal communities are, therefore, a critical concept, and an “anti-agricultural” artistic experiment in genetic destabilization and deconstruction of the long process of disciplining that led to the creation of the original varieties. The breaking of this presumed purity challenges the idea of “varietal fixity” and shows how, when human control is removed, the plant forms we believed to be natural and immutable change. This shows that these forms are not at all a natural given, but rather the outcome of a set of practices of genetic and morphological control over plants. It is important to contextualize the background from which the concept of post-varietal community arose in our work. We work extensively with seeds, and when we first began engaging with them, we often heard phrases like: “we must protect seed biodiversity”; “we must save these ancient varieties”; expressions that reveal romantic ideas about nature and the past. We wanted to show how all these expressions are, in fact, myths. Many of the seeds we consider ancient are not truly so, and often these expressions imply a broader idea of what is natural and what is not, even at the genetic level. This issue gives us a bit of a chill, because it easily connects with discourses that often circulate when it comes to humans, for instance, when defining a person's gender. These are very powerful and problematic narratives, which many people no longer question, accepting them as absolute truths. These observations led to the first post-varietal community in 2022\. We did not yet call it that at the time, although it already was one in practice. It was an installation at ZACentrale of the Fondazione Merz, as part of the exhibition “Ordo naturalis Ordo artificialis”, curated by Agata Polizzi and Beatrice Merz. The installation, entitled *Somebody told us a story about nature and purity*, consisted of an indoor cultivation consisting of a two-meter by two-meter tank, in which several varieties of wheat were growing under artificial lights installed to allow for photosynthesis. We had mixed around eight so-called “ancient” varieties of wheat, sowing them entirely at random and allowing them to grow and hybridize freely. These grains are described, especially in commercial communications, as “ancient varieties”. In reality, if we look more closely, many so-called ancient grains are not ancient at all but were selected and developed by geneticists during the fascist period in Italy, with the explicit aim of ensuring national self-sufficiency in wheat production. Today, we continue to carry this legacy with us, forgetting its historical origins and presenting it as something “pure” and “natural”. With that project, we wanted to break this narrative, challenge it, or at least highlight it, by creating a mixture in which it was no longer possible to distinguish which form belonged to which variety. The use of artificial lighting in that first post-varietal community surprised many people who, thinking of wheat, expected something romantic, poetic, “natural”, and instead found themselves faced with a cold, laboratory-like setting dominated by artificial lighting. We intentionally worked on this meta-level in formal terms to show the extreme degree of construction of “naturalness” and the imagery created around it. In some ways, this was the first device through which we developed the idea of post-varietal communities on both a conceptual and practical level. Since then, we have continued the experimentation by initiating post-varietal communities at MUSE, the Science Museum of Trento (2023), and at the Design Museum in London (in collaboration with Eliza Collin) (2024 – ongoing). This brings us to the project we are currently working on: *Connected Ecosystems. Museum and Post-Varietal Communities.* In this case, we have deepened our research on tomatoes by planting twenty-five different varieties together in an area adjacent to the museum’s walls. Some are domesticated varieties, while others are wild species—the ancestors of the tomatoes we use today. We collaborated with the architect Elena Catalano to create structures that enhance the possibility of cross-pollination and allow the plants to climb together. This creates an environment of maximum proximity between flowers of different varieties, encouraging cross-varietal hybridization by pollinating insects. Tomato flower pollination, in fact, occurs primarily thanks to the actions of these insects, which carry the pollen and facilitate the crossings. The area where the tomatoes grow is also shaded during the early morning and late afternoon, which attracts many of these insects as well as small animals. These life forms will play a crucial role in the genetic mixing that will characterize the post-varietal community and how it will evolve year after year and adapt to that location. The aim is to maximize the possibility of uncontrolled cross-pollination, and, thus, destabilize, deconstruct, and undo the original varieties. In this case, there is also an additional element because we have introduced wild species that predate human domestication and which still exist in South America. They produce small, edible currant-like fruits. Introducing these genetics, so distant from the domesticated gene pool, means that by the second generation, we will already see traits emerging that differ significantly from those of the original varieties. Furthermore, these wild species have resistance characteristics, as in the case of Solanum pimpinellifolium, showing, for example, a greater ability to survive in conditions of drought and high temperatures. This may lead to the diffusion of such traits within the post-varietal community, precisely thanks to hybridization and the interspecies relationships that will take shape between the tomatoes and the other life forms present. Here, we would like to add that when we talk about a lack of human control in post-varietal communities, this is not entirely true. We are obviously part of this choice. We are the ones who decide which varieties to include and who create the conditions for this hybridization. Through art, we experiment with attempts to remove human control, which are destined to fail in an absolute sense, but which are, at the same time, very effective in showing how pervasive, invisible, and under-analysed this control is in the interspecies relationship between humans and cultivated plants. Concerning the theme of post-varietal communities, one last thing to highlight is how this idea shifts the focus from individual varieties to a community of plants. It therefore presupposes the idea that we no longer cultivate, for example, the San Marzano variety, but a community of tomatoes with ever-changing and unpredictable shapes that will adapt and transform themselves to a specific location. Obviously, this vision stands in contrast not only to the monocultures of industrial agriculture but also to many small-scale farms, where one often still finds a strict division by variety or species. If we look closely, even those who cultivate a small community garden can reproduce, on a smaller scale, the same patterns of control and separation that we find in industrial agriculture. We do not mean to say that this is wrong, nor do we propose a definitive solution. Rather, we intend to stimulate reflection and to show how certain cultivation patterns are repeated and recur even where we might least expect them. Finally, if we shift our attention to the consumption side, post-varietal communities break with and disregard our expectations regarding the varieties of vegetables we are used to eating, making these new plants completely incompatible with the logic of the market, where standardization is essential. This means that imagining post-varietal cultivation not only radically challenges the practice of growing by individual variety, but also makes the harvest unpredictable in terms of shape, taste, and more, thus forcing us to rethink the way we cook and eat. As for the post-agricultural question, it represents for us a theoretical and methodological focal point that we have been developing for a long time, and it lies at the foundation of our artistic practice. Post-varietal communities are one part of this. Post-agriculture, in our understanding, is a way of rethinking the relationship between humans and cultivated plants through a process of deep and multi-level analysis. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_p.jpeg) Fig. 1 **FF: With the title *San Marzano 2*, you refer to the history of a tomato variety artificially created after the original San Marzano type was removed from the National Register of Vegetable Varieties following a virus outbreak in 1991\. With this choice, your work challenges the very idea of “naturalness”, revealing how what we define as “natural” is, in fact, a social and ideological construct, often instrumentalized to support reactionary worldviews or to justify forms of oppression and exploitation. Furthermore, the tomato holds an almost sacred place in Italian culinary culture. It features prominently in traditional dishes and is reproduced on souvenirs intended both for tourists and locals, becoming a symbol of collective identity—an embodiment of what Simone Cinotto has termed “gastrofascism”. Before seeing your billboard, I had a very specific image of the tomato in mind, but what I found was something disorienting, raw, and unexpectedly intimate. In what ways does this work challenge the preconceived idea of nature, exposing the ideological superstructures behind our desire for purity, authenticity, and tradition?** **A:** I \[Fabio Aranzulla, ed.\] grew up in Germany, but my parents are Sicilian. So, I was raised within an identity crisis that wasn’t so much mine as my parents’. A kind of hyper-identification with “being Italian”, which was passed on to me very strongly. Then, during adolescence, all this collapsed because I realized that it was a very problematic construct. Both in Italy and abroad, the image of the perfect red tomato, so full of juice that it looks ready to burst, is a very powerful symbol of Italian culture, a source of pride for many people. Yet, as we know, the tomato is not originally from Italy. Its arrival in Europe is linked to colonial dynamics, and its use is relatively recent, carrying with it a history of colonization, racism, and oppression. We want to problematize the feelings people have towards this perfect image, inviting them to reflect on how these emotional ties are based on narratives that omit or simplify an important part of history. First of all, the tomato that we think of as natural or spontaneous does not exist but is the result of processes of domestication, hybridization, and selection, and, therefore, of practices of genetic discipline and human design of the vegetable. Moreover, as mentioned earlier, there are major issues associated with its large-scale cultivation in Italy, which requires vast expanses of land, raising serious concerns about the exploitation of human labor, other forms of life, and the territories themselves. We cannot help but think here about the concept of the plantation, a model based on the violent simplification of ecosystems, and the control and disciplining not only of plants, but also of human bodies and other life forms. A model from which colonial and exploitative logics still survive today in different forms. In the narrative construction of the “myth” of the Italian tomato, a kind of editing takes place, cutting away all the problematic parts, both those concerning the interspecies relationship between tomatoes and humans and those involving social relations between humans past and present. What remains, in the end, is only the image of the Italian tomato presented as something natural, even a source of national pride, erasing all complexity and conflict. But let's move on to *San Marzano 2*: when we think of San Marzano—but this applies to tomatoes in general—we immediately think of the advertising image with the bright, glossy red fruit, perhaps with a few drops of dew to make it look even fresher and more appealing. On nearly every bottle of sauce, we also find the Italian flag, suggesting not only that the product was grown in Italy, but also evoking a sense of pride and national belonging. This happens not just in advertising, but across many domains where a similar representation appears. We then asked ourselves how we could invite people to reflect on and deconstruct this narrative, and we started experimenting with the image of the tomato, trying to create moments of extreme closeness and intimacy in which to see what is normally concealed in this symbol of national mythology, such as its juicy texture, the different internal consistencies, and seeds. In some way, we wanted to show its most unpleasant and unexpected parts, those that often provoke a sense of repulsion or disgust in many people. We wanted to create a kind of tension that is often difficult to put into words: what is this thing we are looking at? To this image, we added the inscription *San Marzano 2*. We are all familiar with San Marzano, a variety that is well known both in Italy and abroad. However, we wanted to add the number 2 to prompt people to learn more about its history and the human labor of selection and genetic disciplining that lies behind the creation of this commercial variety, which has replaced the so-called “original” one. On this idea of an “original”, it was important for us to emphasize that both the historical San Marzano variety and the current replacement varieties, such as San Marzano 2, are equally the result of a process of domestication, selection, and discipline. The work debunks both the romantic idea of the cultivated variety as a fixed entity and the notion of “original” varieties as somehow less artificial or purer, as there is no “origin” to recover, no purity to protect, but a continuous series of transformations, narratives, and artificial selections guided by humans. **FF: And what does it mean to initiate a process of varietal deconstruction starting from a food so laden with political and cultural connotations? What kind of reactions have you received from the public so far?** **A:** Let’s start with an example that doesn’t directly concern tomatoes but which speaks about national identity and its relationship with plants, particularly those considered “invasive” or “native.” We were invited to Biel, Switzerland, to perform a food performance, a format we often use because we find it very accessible. For us, it’s important not to speak only to a small circle of people, and food, the act of eating, connects us all. There is no need, for instance, for academic training, as it is something very much tied to experience. Precisely for this reason, our food performances are a very open and inclusive format. During the performance in Switzerland, we only fed the audience plants considered “invasive”. This was because, when we arrived in Biel, we noticed that they had installed large containers in one of the city's main squares, planting “invasive” species inside, accompanied by signs telling people: “these are the plants to be eliminated!”; “if you see them, uproot them!”. This operation reminded us of the persecution of witches and, more generally, of certain other groups of humans or animals. It was a use of language aimed at pointing out a collective enemy to be eliminated, displaying it unequivocally and emphatically through the creation of a visual device. Growing up in a place where the concepts of “invasive” or “exotic” are so deeply ingrained, it’s very difficult to detach oneself from these definitions. It was important for us to try to question these concepts together with the people of Biel. So we decided to invite them to eat these plants while we shared the stories and narratives connected to them. It was a wonderful experience because suddenly the plant that someone had learned to hate entered into a previously unthinkable relationship: through ingestion, a gustatory relationship was born—sometimes pleasant, sometimes very unpleasant. But it is precisely there, through taste and the body, that a kind of rupture occurs, a crack in the pattern, something that initiates an unexpected relationship with the plant. During the food performance, a sort of common metabolic act was generated, in which we ate together while listening to and reconsidering taken-for-granted narratives and definitions. This has a very direct effect on people because the plant is no longer just a symbol or a story. These projects, like those on tomatoes, do not aim to provide answers but rather to open a space for conversation and reflection, to try to observe and deconstruct narratives that are often assumed to be neutral and natural. As far as tomatoes are concerned, the process of varietal deconstruction that we propose is often received as an interesting experiment, but we suspect that not everyone fully grasps its significance. For instance, we have the impression that, at least in Sicily, there are many prejudices and mistaken expectations about artists working on themes similar to ours, and that this creates a barrier preventing people from grasping the radical nature of our perspective. We notice this, for example, in some media coverage that reduces the complexity of our project to “art and sustainability” or uses problematic, pre-packaged phrases like “green transition”. We believe there is still a great deal of work to be done. The naïve idea of an artist working with plants searching for something like “a lost naturalness”, or dedicating their research to diluted and exhausted concepts like “sustainability,” is the furthest thing from our approach. For us, the concept of “nature” is the ultimate artifice, the most dangerous narrative of all when referring to plants, and cultivated plants in particular. **The concept of nature is the perfect mask for hiding interspecies power relations, identity constructions, and forms of oppression and exploitation of bodies, which is precisely what happens with tomatoes. We try to show the deep structures beneath this surface.** Not everyone is ready to accept this disturbing complexity. **FF: You often work around the notion of edibility. In this project, how is “edibility” reimagined or expanded? How do you conceive of the space between cultivation and consumption? Who is invited to sit around the table? Which bodies enter this space and which leave?** **A:** We reflect a lot on the theme of edibility, because here, too, we are operating within the realm of narratives. The definition of what is “edible,” “toxic”, or “inedible” is always historically and culturally determined. It is a very subtle boundary, constantly shifting, and for us it is important to work on this boundary, on the narratives that uphold it. For instance, the question of the edibility of wild plants is not, for us, tied to a romantic idea of recovering the use of wild herbs from the past. Rather, it is an opportunity to shift the boundary of edibility, expanding the concept to include more and more potentially edible plant foods that do not come from agricultural cultivation. The possibility of experimenting with the cultural limit of what is edible concerns not only areas far from cities but also fully involves urban areas as well as cultural institutions, including museums, which often have an interesting edible aspect that goes unconsidered. In this regard, we think of *The Edible Institute*, a project we have been developing for two years at the Swiss Institute in Rome. In this case, the entire Institute is considered as a complex organism with its own metabolic structure, where human and non-human trophisms intertwine. Within this context, we introduced “edible zones,” areas with cultivated edible plants that extend the edibility already present in the Institute's garden, not only linked to wild plants, but also to those traditionally considered purely ornamental, but which are often edible as well. On multiple occasions, we have created discursive moments, public occasions for discussion through food and collective eating, where the entire Institute became, in some sense, edible. The project stems in part from the idea of wanting to “eat cultural institutions”, both metaphorically and materially. What would happen if we could eat the walls and paintings of the Institute? Whether they are digestible or harmful is another matter. Fundamentally, we are interested in looking at physical matter and its chemical composition, even in a radical way, and asking ourselves the question: What does it mean to be edible? We ourselves are edible, with continuous processes inside us digesting ourselves through bacteria and other forms of life. So, edibility does not just mean going to a restaurant and eating a plate of pasta. It is a much more fluid, complex, and collective process, and this ties in very well with the question of who is invited to the table. This question alone reveals a great deal: we ask ourselves who we invite to the table, but in reality—whether we like it or not—there are already many forms of life present at, above, inside, and around that table. The real question then is: who do we look at? Who do we accept as such? To whom do we narrate? We try to maintain control, but this completely escapes us, and so we cling to the narrative of presumed control. I might think I am my body and my brain, but in reality, I am many forms of life. Without bacteria, for example, I would be dead. The very fact that we ask who we invite and who we exclude is a profoundly human thought because it presupposes an otherness and discreteness of life forms that, in fact, do not exist. We think that an interesting approach might be to accept the fact that we are central to our perception, and that verbal language is aligned in this sense, but that, despite this, we must strive to experiment, to find new ways of looking at so-called “other forms of life” not as other forms but as lives that pass through us, that coexist, that transform and that are related—mainly through food—not only to us, but also to each other. This reasoning also gave rise to the idea we have been working on lately, that of “common appetite”, the idea of questioning the centrality of human appetite, of the human mouth as the reference point for the entire food system, when in reality there are several appetites, an enormity of forms of life already present that we do not take into account. For example, plants have something like mouths on their lower surfaces called stomata (from the Greek “stoma”, meaning mouth) through which they exchange substances and absorb carbon, for instance. Bacteria also phagocytize and eat. There is a whole “common appetite” that we do not take into account, centering human hunger and trophic needs, and this reflects across all relationships, translating into definitions of what is useful, what is edible, what is important for humans, and what is not. In this sense, an entire metabolic and biological dimension is totally eclipsed, remaining invisible or only partially narrated because it is not pertinent to the centrality of the human appetite. This also applies to currently popular topics such as fermentation or the gut microbiota, where bacteria or yeasts are described as generic transforming agents serving humans by producing food products beneficial to our health. Here, too, a similar pattern to plant cultivation is repeated, consisting of control, extractive relationships, and it is oriented towards the production of food and profit for humans. We would like to imagine other forms of food, of art, of the collective—in which we can not only retell but also experiment with new relationships, overturning the centrality of human appetite. However, as mentioned above, the limitations of verbal language remain. The *Manifesto for a Multispecies Collective* (2020) is exemplary in this regard. It is a project born out of our attempt to create a collective that would include non-human life forms and that would not focus on human decision-making, power, or control. Of course, it quickly became clear just how difficult it is to apply a concept like “multispecies collective”, or the very idea of shared decision-making with other forms of life: ideas that exist only in human verbal language. And yet, a few years on, we can say that, paradoxically, it was precisely this failure that proved to be the most significant and generative aspect of the project. From that experience, which could not be realized in practice but could be conceptualized through language, we drew many ideas that have since led to further research. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/03_p.jpeg) Fig. 2 **FF: In the billboard, you have consciously chosen to remove any human trace, even though human labour remains conceptually central to the work. At the same time, the tomato pulp itself becomes strangely corporeal, almost flesh-like. Could you speak about this decision to visually exclude the human element? And how might you imagine reintroducing or reimagining it in future iterations of the project?** **AA:** Why is there no human presence? The tomato already tells the whole story: its genetic manipulation, its exploitation, and the human narratives it carries. We deliberately chose not to include, for example, a hand picking the tomato, because we didn’t want to fall into the trap of voyeurism, or feed it, nor did we want to reproduce an act of revictimization of racialized and marginalized bodies in tomato cultivation, especially considering the position of the speaker and the viewer. We need not feed into that kind of practice, which only leads to further exploitation or reinforces existing narratives and assumptions. To challenge the notion of the “perfect tomato”, of the “Italian tomato”, already makes the human presence felt, along with all the contradictions and violence that come with it. We spoke with several people from South America, and it’s important to acknowledge that what may be a difficult heritage for us is, for them, a direct and ongoing violence. The tomato is something beautiful, tied to home, and yet at the same time, painful. We believe these themes must be addressed without instrumentalizing exploited bodies. It’s a challenge, but it’s the only direction we’re willing to take. Our focus is on the genetic work done on the tomato, and on the many layers of historical, cultural, and economic meaning it holds. The project will certainly continue. There will be another exhibition where we will continue to develop these themes, but we don’t plan to include human bodies. Furthermore, our work is very relational and does not end with the moment a work enters public space or is exhibited, but often develops through workshops, discussions, and collective reflection. An interesting example is Frankfurt. We held a workshop as part of the exhibition *There is no there there* at the MMK MUSEUM FÜR MODERNE KUNST in Frankfurt, an exhibition that addressed the role of migrant workers, known in German as *Gastarbeiter\*innen*—literally “guest workers”—a term rooted in the idea that they were expected to stay just one year and then return to their countries of origin. In that context, we proposed a workshop dedicated to narratives related to words such as “exotic” and “invasive”, which we carried out with a small group of about ten people. Several participants shared personal experiences, discussing what it means for them to feel perceived as exotic and how this label impacts their identity and daily life. Among them was a white man, approximately sixty years old, heterosexual, and middle-class. When asked what came to mind with the word “exotic”, he initially responded with very positive adjectives: something beautiful, very good, very rich. But as we began to question that term and its meaning, we saw his face stiffen, and he grew silent. We tried to gently draw him back into the discussion, and little by little, he opened up, though with some caution. We later learned that a few days after the workshop, he called the museum to thank them. He said the session had pushed him to reflect critically on himself in a way he never had before. These moments are important to us because they create a space where we can share experiences and ideas and develop them together. But we also feel a responsibility to engage people who may feel distant from these conversations, and to invite them to reflect on their position. **FF: How does operating in Sicily, a region already struggling with climate change, influence your approach and push you to imagine strategies that go beyond emergency responses towards long-term ecological visions?** **AA:** Going back to the first question, the post-varietal community is not only about opening up and building new layers of narrative around ideas of purity or naturalness, but also about creating a community capable of slowly adapting to the specific conditions of a place. This perspective is closely tied to the climate crisis. Sicily, and, therefore, Castelbuono, where the project is underway, have been severely affected in recent years by extreme droughts, desertification, and long periods without rain that are punctuated by highly localized and violent storms. These conditions are accelerating transformations within ecosystems. Added to this is the recurring problem of major wildfires that devastate the territory every year, putting the least anthropized areas at particular risk. We are facing increasingly extreme weather events, prolonged heatwaves, or highly localized phenomena, such as destructive flash floods in confined areas. This compels us to think in terms of micro-ecosystems. If we continue to apply models of cultivation and food production designed for stable ecosystems, we risk hitting a wall, which, in fact, is exactly what we are doing. The post-varietal community, in a post-agricultural sense, seeks to open itself to the idea of a community in which certain traits or certain plants will prove more resilient, more capable of adapting to hyper-specific conditions, of forming relationships with the life forms present, and of persisting in some way. I’m not sure we should talk about adapting to climate change, which by now has become a condition we must learn to live with. Here I refer back to two points that emerged during this conversation. The first concerns the reason why the so-called “original” San Marzano tomato disappeared: a virus. This is closely connected to epidemics and the inherent fragility of varieties selected through industrial agriculture. Monoculture, in fact, creates vast expanses of a single, genetically uniform variety: an enormous banquet for viruses, insects, fungi, and other life forms, all of which can feed on a large number of tomato plants with similar characteristics. Under such conditions, these organisms can proliferate uncontrollably, leading to the decimation of entire crops; something that does not happen, for example, in an uncultivated environment where greater biodiversity tends to maintain a balance between predators and prey. Industrial agriculture has always responded to epidemics with warfare: the heavy use of pesticides, and militarized narratives against “pathogens” and “diseases” to be “eradicated”, or “weeds to be destroyed”. This is where the concept of common appetite, which we discussed earlier, becomes relevant. In the cultivated field, where all forms of life considered foreign must be demonized and eliminated—except for the monoculture that will produce food for humans—it is precisely these excluded and marginalized mouths (bacteria, fungi, viruses, protozoa, etc.) that may at some point reappear with extreme vitality and virulence, “eating” and devastating the human monoculture. A second point concerns the idea of linearity in relation to climate change. We often imagine that rising temperatures simply mean it will get increasingly hotter, but this rise can also manifest through storms or extreme cold. In South America, for example, we are currently witnessing exceptional cold waves, a consequence of the disruption of climatic patterns, which can also result in sudden and deadly drops in temperature. Extreme cold is an indirect manifestation of global warming, producing effects that may seem contrary to the overall trend but which are actually part of the same climate destabilisation, bringing with it increasingly unpredictable atmospheric phenomena. Sicily, for example, is not particularly vast. It takes about three and a half hours to drive from Palermo to Syracuse, yet the microclimates across the island are remarkably diverse. In the area around Syracuse, for instance, the European record for the highest temperature was recorded in August 2021 (48.8°C). In such a context, a post-varietal community could gradually develop specific adaptive traits, guided by human intervention, such as by collecting seeds from the fruits that proved most resilient. This would help promote characteristics like drought-resistance. The approach we want to take, and on which we are conducting our research, does not consist of applying preconceived cultivation models from the outside onto ecosystems that cannot sustain them. Rather, it is about proceeding in tune with the life forms already present. Nor is it a question of offering better techniques for cultivation, but of interrupting dominant, hegemonic, and anthropocentric narratives and practices, of pausing, even briefly, to collectively reflect on our position and the direction we are heading. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4_p.jpg) Fig. 3 **FF: The billboard is part of *Ecosistemi Connessi*, at the Civic Museum of Castelbuono. Could you walk us through the process that led to this project? How do you see the relationship between your work and the museum as an institutional, metabolic, and infrastructural ecosystem? What responsibilities or potential transformations do you see for institutional spaces in hosting such radical ecologies?** **AA:** We have been working, talking, and discussing with the project curator, Maria Rosa Sossai, as well as with the museum director, Laura Barreca, and Valentina Bruschi, co-curator of the public program, for many years. When they invited us to collaborate and develop a project for the museum, the very first thing we did was to spend a few days closely observing the area where the institution is located. The museum is housed in a large, ancient castle perched on a hill. We immediately realized that this enormous stone structure was already a complex ecosystem, inhabited and nourished by a multitude of life forms. There are several communities of birds, countless ants, molds, reptiles, small trees growing in the cracks in the walls, and so on. As humans, we tend to see this place as sterile, a symbol of history, conservation, display, and production of culture, a place where—as with many other ancient buildings—there is a constant battle against mold, water infiltration, and birds whose droppings stain and corrode the surfaces of the ancient stones. It’s a castle that houses a museum but where the majority of life forms are not human: wild fig trees whose roots penetrate and break down the architecture by absorbing its minerals; molds and algae growing in the humidity trapped in the foundational stones; cliff swallows using the museum walls as if they were a rocky escarpment; multiple species of ants building vast nests in the invisible cavities inside the walls. We intended to begin a process grounded in this complexity. Mindful of *The Edible Institute* project, we looked at the cultural institution, its complex physical shell, its geological continuation underground as a heterogeneous metabolic substrate that not only hosts but is composed of dense, multispecies relational networks. The Museum welcomed this approach with great openness, and we sensed real enthusiasm from its leadership and curatorship. The post-varietal tomato community inserts itself—grafts itself—into this web of relations, and is, in turn, transformed by them. The uncontrolled cross-hybridization process and its direction (whose outcomes will become visible over the coming years) will largely depend on the interspecies relationships that emerge between the tomatoes and the local life forms, starting, of course, with insects, but also including radical forms of symbiosis, the invisible relationships with fungi, and the bacterial presence in that space, all of which deeply influence plant life. Birds will also play an important role. In this regard, we asked ourselves: what would happen if birds eat the tomatoes from the post-varietal community and disperse the seeds of a first generation? Will we, in a few years, see tomatoes growing a hundred meters away in a green area next to the museum? Let’s imagine a bird eating a tomato in July, depositing the seed through its droppings, and then, with the autumn rains in September, the seed germinates, the plant grows, and perhaps even tries to bear fruit in November or December. It would seem a trivial and plausible fact, but it is actually unusual, as tomatoes, though perennial in their native regions, are cultivated as annuals in the Mediterranean and, more generally, in so-called “temperate” and “subtropical” zones, with a spring–summer growth cycle; certainly not a summer–autumn one. As a result, tomato plants grown here in Sicily are left to die with the first autumn chills. In recent years, due to rising temperatures linked to climate change and increasingly mild winters, we’ve observed tomato plants here in Sicily bearing fruit even in December. These tomatoes are, therefore, able to survive the winter, becoming perennial. This opens up a consideration that challenges our idea of seasonality and how we cultivate and discipline food plants. Within the cracks opened by climate crisis, unexpected possibilities emerge. But this does not mean we are pleased about climate change. Rather, it means we must learn to live with these new conditions, remaining fully aware that they are, nonetheless, a trap. One final consideration concerns the way in which cultural institutions are changing. At the Swiss Institute in Rome, where we created edible zones, there is someone specifically in charge of caring for the food plants included in these areas, but members of the production and curatorial teams also take care of them. This has significantly changed their relationship with the institution. For example, someone who works at the Institute’s café and who is originally from South America told us they feel deeply connected to the plants we’ve planted, such as certain varieties of corn. It is interesting to note how even non-human life forms have quickly responded to the presence of vegetables grown in the Institute’s garden. For instance, many peacocks began flying over from Villa Medici to visit the garden of Villa Maraini (home of the Swiss Institute)—something that had never happened before—to taste the vegetables in the edible zones and linger beside them. Introducing cultivated areas with edible plants into cultural institutions is neither superficial nor simple; nor is it a purely theoretical gesture of embracing radical ecologies. On the contrary, it can lead us to confront very practical issues, such as the fact that edible zones require care, or may force us to imagine new forms of human nourishment within the institution. In the case of the edible zones, some of the vegetables grown are intended to be used in the café, to feed both staff and residents at the Swiss Institute, thus becoming part of the institution’s human metabolic circuit. This leads to a reconsideration of our relationship with the garden, with food plants, with the idea of edibility and ornamentality, and with the circuits of food distribution. And this, of course, triggers a major change, the extent of which we do not yet know, but which we are very interested in experimenting with. It means rethinking roles, practices, and modes of engagement. A central aspect is that institutions should rethink themselves not only as human communities, but as broader communities that also include other forms of life. This carries consequences not only in terms of care but also in terms of positioning and the assumption of responsibility, especially in a context where the effects of climate change are increasingly evident and alarming. **EPILOGUE** As noted in the introduction and throughout the course of the interview, the project has developed within a dense network of collaborations and connections, which underpin not only its realisation but also the vision that animates it. It is following this very trajectory, and in continuity with the reflections on the role and accountability of the institutions that choose to embrace this path of transformation, that I addressed these last questions also to Laura Barreca, Director of the Civic Museum. LB: The billboard represents a form of reclaiming spaces traditionally assigned to advertising messages. However, while conveying an artistic message through a visually appealing image, the action draws attention to ecological issues, which are not usually discussed in such spaces. This action is also part of the processual approach implemented within the project Ecosistemi Connessi, which builds upon and continues a trajectory undertaken by the Civic Museum since 2020, when we established the “Garden of Art,” a garden adjacent to the Ventimiglia Castle, home of the Museum. A small plot of land cultivated with the collaboration of a civic association and a recovery community for people with vulnerabilities, which has become a regenerated public green space, dedicated to meetings and educational workshops, a natural extension of the indoor exhibition spaces, continuing the path of knowledge that envisions the museum as part of a broader ecosystem connected to the public realm. The idea of the “metabolic museum” evokes the thought of art critic and anthropologist Cleméntine Deliss, who defines it as a space open to interdisciplinarity, connection, and relationships, capable of welcoming diverse audiences, not only temporary visitors but also students, museum friends, and a population received in a “foyer d’expérience” (M. Foucault). In line with this orientation, we believe that true museum innovation lies in the ability to grasp the transformative nature of cultural heritage in relation to contemporary concerns, extending to disciplinary fields and broader contexts connected to people’s lives, and maintaining a precise reference to pressing issues such as climate change and social inequalities in a synthesis that constructs meaning through an alternative, radical and perhaps utopian narrative based on community participation and the contribution that the museum can make in terms of the sustainable development of social wellbeing. In this open space, conceived as an instrument for the dissemination of the “museal thought,” the possibility of emancipating the very concept of cultural production in an ecological function was tested together with Aterraterra. In this sense, the structure created as part of the project is not included in the permanent collection of the museum as a fetishised object, but as a toolkit, a growth device, a producer of small ecosystems. The challenge is to implement a maintenance process that is necessary for its future durability. The project is an ecological manifesto that expresses the reciprocal relationships within the heritage: a grafting between museum, people, territory, and contemporary creativity. // --- ### Image credits Cover: Aterraterra, Installation View, San Marzano 2, 2025, Typography Carla Selva & Paul Zech, Photo Robert Goodman Photo& Video. Courtesy of the artists and Museo Civico di Castelbuono. Fig. 1, 3: Aterraterra, Foodscapes 5, 2024, in How like a leaf I am, Alexandra Baumgartner’s exhibition curated by Amelie Schüle, Photoforum Pasquart, Biel-Bienne. Photo: Daria Somoylova. Courtesy of the artists and Photoforum Pasquart. Fig. 2: Aterraterra, San Marzano 2, Tomato Study, 2025, Photo Aterraterra. Courtesy of the artists. *Fabiola Fiocco is a curator, facilitator and researcher. She holds a Ph.D. from Edinburgh College of Art, where she investigated feminist materialist approaches to socially engaged art processes. Her work focuses on the intersection of art and activism, the representation of (post-)work in contemporary art, infrastructural critique, and the influence of feminist epistemologies on art histories and theories. She has collaborated with independent art spaces, museums and foundations—including Van Abbemuseum (Eindhoven), L’Internationale, Castro Projects (Rome), and UNIDEE Cittadellarte—Fondazione Pistoletto (Biella)—and academic institutions. She has been involved in various research clusters and has presented her research at international conferences. Her writings have been published in academic journals and magazines, such as ARCH+, Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, roots&routes, and NERO Editions.* ### Rave, Relic, Reel URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/rave-relic-reel-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:06.000Z *Between apparition and archive, ecstasy and extraction, Mark Leckey’s work vibrates at the boundaries of the visible and the invisible, the sacred and the everyday. In “As Above, So Below” (2025), his exhibition first shown at Lafayette Anticipations in Paris and his next one, “Enter Thru Medieval Wounds,” opening in Berlin this September at the Julia Stoschek Foundation, Leckey conjures a cosmology in which highway lights flicker with spiritual intent and glittery pop music becomes a passageway to the divine.* *Long before algorithms mapped our dreams, mystics believed that what happened above—the stars, the spirits, the divine—mirrored what happened below. Leckey refracts this maxim through social media samplings and medieval metaphysics, soft toys and surveillance. His works draw on the porousness of video, the ritual of rave, and the instability of memory. María Inés Plaza Lazo spoke to Leckey about the practice of glitching, of surrendering to saturation, and of testing the limits of masculinity.* **María Inés Plaza Lazo: The title “As Above, So Below” is ancient and esoteric, yet uncannily contemporary. Helena Blavatsky reintroduced this phrase to 19th-century mysticism; you refract it through club culture and Christian iconography. In your hands, it resonates less as metaphysical truth than as method: flattening hierarchies, collapsing the sacred and mundane, the visible and the invisible, pop music and highway lights. What’s the cosmology at work here?** Mark Leckey: What you’re pointing to is how I’m trying to approach things from two directions: from being completely embedded in pop culture—that's my background—but also from a place of growing interest, maybe even awakening, to spiritualism and medieval metaphysics. That’s really where this show comes from. Like you said, it’s a line between stations of the visible and invisible, and that’s exactly what I’m dwelling in right now. There’s a contradiction, though—or maybe a dialectic—that I can’t resolve. A kind of spiritual or metaphysical pull, grounded in a historical materialist base: where I come from, how I grew up, the conditions and influences that shaped me politically and otherwise. I’m trying to work through that contradiction. The visible and the invisible. I really like that formulation. And the body—the human body—is the connective tissue between those two realms. As for “As Above, So Below,” it’s not just about theosophy. That phrase is everywhere now; it's basically a pop-cultural term. But my interest in it goes back further—to the alchemists, to Hermes Trismegistus. There’s a whole cosmology there, a belief in the interconnectedness of everything in the universe. I suppose what I’m trying to do is to resolve spiritual and material concerns that exist simultaneously in me. **If the body is the connective tissue between the visible and the invisible, how do you shape the spaces where memory, affect, and magic can actually take hold?** I think it really started to come together at Haus der Kunst, though I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time. When you’re using so much moving image and sound, you can’t just drop it into a black box—it never felt alive in that context. I realized I had to transform the space itself, make it part of the work, so that what you’re seeing and hearing could really land, really hold your attention. That’s when I started thinking more environmentally—not to seduce the viewer exactly, but to pull them into something more like a dream. I hesitate to say “immersive” because it’s become a buzzword, but I wanted to create something closer to a psychedelic experience. Affect, memory, magic—they’re not content, they’re modes of perception. You’re taken out of yourself. In a successful psychedelic experience, you’re lifted out of reason, out of rational circumstances, and placed into something more like a dream. And a dream carries the potential for magic. Once you leave the bounds of the known, you're already in the realm of the magical. I’m trying to create something closer to the condition of music than to cinema or traditional art exhibitions. Music makes space for the supernatural—for the paranormal. Whereas art often prescribes those things, or is suspicious of them. I came across something after making the show that really stuck with me. I can’t remember where I read it, but it said, “all pop culture is paranormal.” That struck a chord. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_9674.jpg) FIg.1 **In your video work *Carry Me into the Wilderness* (2022), we hear your voice collapse under the weight of sensation—sunlight, sound, space. But you’re not on a pilgrimage. You’re in Alexandra Park, in a northern suburb of London. Yet the experience was not only paranormal, it became sacramental. Were you documenting the sublime, or did this just happen to you?** I had a sublime experience—and in the moment of that experience, I tried to record it. I thought I was capturing it as an artist: “This thing is happening to me; I need to document it so I can make use of it.” But when I actually started working with the material, I realized I wasn’t acting as an artist so much as being contemporary. Just responding in the way we all do now: transforming every experience into information. So yes, even in this very profound moment, I was still trying to extract value from it. There’s a suspicion baked into that. Even suspicion about whether I actually had a spiritual experience. I come from a grounded, materialist background—and yet here I am, having these unexpected sacramental or sacred moments. I don’t really know how to reconcile those two realities. So I tried to make the work feel both: exalted and skeptical. **Was that feeling of being absolutely contemporary—almost as ecstasy—a refusal of productivity?** I think I confused the artistic impulse with contemporary production. I had my phone in my pocket, thinking of it as an artistic tool—but really, it's an extraction device. The best example of this is how people behave at concerts. Holding up their phones constantly, recording. It’s not really about the experience itself, but about the information the experience can generate. We’re always translating or producing things for circulation and distribution. And artists aren’t exempt from that. We’re not standing above it. But ecstasy itself—well, a lot of these realizations come after the work is made. I usually follow a hunch or impulse, and then reflect or read afterwards. I read about the etymology of “ecstasy”: it means to be taken outside of the place where you stand. It’s about being pulled out of what you know—your surroundings, even yourself. It’s both an exalted moment and a moment of horror, of fear. The world we live in now—yes, there’s doomscrolling and all of that—but it’s also a kind of ecstasy. A constant state of being pulled out of where you are. It’s thrilling and exciting, but also terrifying and alienating. **Doomscrolling can be both: Absolute saturation—your brain literally overwhelmed. People talk about brain rot as a side effect. You also seem to reach for a kind of temporal intensity—the moment where the world arrives all at once. Could we call this a politics of the moment? A refusal of progress in favor of the saturated now?** I’m saturated. I can’t deal with it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Mark-Leckey-Dream-English-Kid-1964-1999-AD-2015.-Production-still.-Courtesy-the-artist-and-Cabinet-London.-Photo_-Mark-Blower..jpg) FIg.2 **All of us are.** I just look at the difference in how I worked in 1999, when I made Fiorucci Made Me Hardcore. I was dealing with a limited archive, with limited access. Now—only 25 years later—what’s available is oceanic. It’s transformed everything. We literally can’t work without the internet anymore. I probably would have kept making archival collage work, but that method was voided by the sheer availability of imagery and sound we have now. ***Fiorucci Made Me Hardcore* now feels like a secular icon—an object of reverence, even grief. You once called it a ghost. Has nostalgia become one of your materials?** I mean, that’s part of why I turned to medieval metaphysics—because it becomes so unknowable. I needed to find some kind of analogy between the understanding of God and the understanding of life under capitalism. I don’t mean that in a spiritual sense necessarily, but in terms of trying to fathom the unfathomable. The tools I’d been given just didn’t seem to work anymore. Something shifted so suddenly. The conditions changed in a way that felt abrupt. To go from Fiorucci at the turn of the century to where we are now—it just feels completely disorienting. I became interested in the idea of negative theology—the notion that God is fundamentally unknowable, un-circumscribable. You can’t picture him, can’t really know him in any definitive way. He exists beyond all human knowledge and sense. So, the only way to approach God is obliquely, through a kind of negative path. **You’ve said before how images now function less as documents, more as performances or hallucinations. Is video the ideal form because it embraces that instability?** Video is not a true medium in any traditional sense. It lends itself to circulation and transformation. It’s very mutable. It’s kind of the opposite of something like painting or sculpture. I change it constantly. Every time I do a show, the video changes—I adapt the work. But I do worry: is this still the right kind of medium? There’s so much video now. And if all you consume is video, can you even see it anymore? One of the most upsetting things I heard recently was an interview with a 16-year-old who said, “I don’t listen to music anymore. I’m just bored of it.” I thought, “yeah, of course.” It’s just there, all the time. Like water. But I don’t think that means we should retreat to older forms like painting and sculpture—that feels reactionary. I’m not interested in that. And that’s the point where I sometimes think: maybe I shouldn’t make art at all. That’s where that line of thinking goes. **I’d like to ask about the masculine lineage in the figures you invoke: the hermit in the cave, the raver in the dark, the father with a phone during lockdown. But there’s also instability, surrender, even genderlessness in these states of ecstasy. Is your work a way of making masculinity porous, mystical, overwhelmed?** I sometimes look at the work and think: there’s a lot of masculine energy there. There’s a kind of violence that creeps in. But also… it might entirely be the wrong thing to say, but I think that art is queer. It queers you. And the more I make art, the queerer I get in how I understand the world. It changes the way I approach things. And I’ve allowed that to happen. The artists I admired were all gay. They influenced me. I never resisted it. That’s what I’d hope the work does. I think my work is about being a man. A lot of it is about trying to understand what it means to be a man now. But I hope that men are changing. That they’re transmuting. I want to be transmuted. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/FLF_2025_Mark_Leckey_The-sculpture-is-a-scaled-up-version-of-a-small-figurine-in-Londons-Wellcome-Collection-thought-to-depict-Job..jpg) Fig.3 **That is a wonderful, utopian thought.** I think it ties into what you said earlier about mysticism and transcendentalism. The promise of the digital is fluidity—it dissolves boundaries. That’s its nature. **But what’s interesting is that you create glitches while embracing that fluidity. You constantly interrupt it.** I’m trying to glitch myself. I do have a strong streak of romanticism, and I think I try to put obstacles in the way of that. I’m not repelled by my romanticism, but I see its dangers. Its ineffectiveness, maybe. So, if there are glitches, it’s to get in the way of that. Because if I didn’t, I’d just succumb. **You seem to share this drive to glitch with other artists who metabolize the world in hybrid, polyphonic ways—such as, Christelle Oyiri or Arthur Jafa. Could you speak to the conversations or resonances you’ve had with them?** The main resonance is music. I want art to expand toward music, or the space of music, because that’s where I feel more at home. That’s what I grew up with. To come into the art world—if you’re from a background like mine—is to find yourself in a completely different world. You have to acclimatize, adjust, change yourself. But now it feels like art is more porous. It’s more fluid. Its boundaries are less secure. Music allows for that. It’s not just democratic—it’s graspable. Anyone can engage with it. I reached out to Christelle because I like what she does musically. I want to be in the same space she’s in. I want more people like her around. My interest in art and music—this might be a very 20th-century idea—but I believe in form. I believe in formal experimentation. **Like in *Nobodaddy* (2018), where you literally give voice to absence through technology. A bronze figure with holes in the entire body is inhabited by sound; a speaker-body that speaks absence and dematerialization, transcending the physical.** Immanence, I think, is the word. Not transcendence—but immanence. Yes. I want to evoke and amplify being alive. It’s as simple as that. Christelle makes me feel more alive. AJ makes me feel more alive. All these things—they amplify that feeling of presence. Of being here. Imminently here. **What does “authenticity” mean to you today—especially when your own biography becomes raw material?** I think I’m still drawn to authenticity—but I’m not quite sure how to put that into words. There’s always a danger in trying to be “authentically working class,” and maybe even more so in trying to make “authentically working-class art.” I don’t think either of those things necessarily serve the working class in any real or meaningful way. So, I’m very suspicious of authenticity when it comes to class. At the same time, someone’s background does matter to me. I still feel a bit disappointed when I find out that someone I admired went to public school and had all the privileges that come with that. I suppose I do still have a nose for some kind of authenticity—or maybe for a kind of groundedness, or reality. But I also know it’s a trap. I think authenticity is something of a dance. You have to move in and out of it. // *Originally published in July 2025 on 032c.* *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Abaseh Mirvali in conversation URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/abaseh-mirvali-on-viennacontemporary/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:05.000Z *Few critical minds in the art market possess the audacity and agility of Abaseh Mirvali. Known for reshaping institutions rather than merely running them, she brings to* viennacontemporary *a reputation for risk-taking and a refusal to let art fairs become predictable marketplaces. Long renowned as a meeting point between East and West, the fair now embraces Mirvali’s challenge of rewiring it for a future where commerce, community, and critique must coexist. In this conversation, she speaks about risk and responsibility, the absurdities of the art world, and why* viennacontemporary *should be less deferential to tradition and more a ground for experimentation.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/54320620953_f44992a64c_b-v2.jpg) Fig.1 **You’ve just taken the helm at *viennacontemporary*. Are you here to burnish its tradition, or to blow it up?** I am not here to dismantle tradition, but to reinterpret and expand it. *viennacontemporary* sits at the crossroads of rich history and contemporary innovation. I see myself creating a bridge between past and present, honoring the legacy of the city and the region while encouraging new ideas, approaches, and voices. It’s about fostering an environment where experimentation and dialogue can thrive alongside established practices. **What’s the one big thing the art fair model still gets wrong?** Art fairs often prioritize immediacy over sustained engagement. While the short-term thrill of a four-day event is undeniable, fairs sometimes fail to nurture ongoing relationships between artists, galleries, institutions, and audiences. They can inadvertently reinforce transactional dynamics rather than fostering long-term cultural networks. My focus is on extending the fair’s influence beyond the calendar and on strategic partnerships and programs that build a year-round ecosystem of support and dialogue. **Art fairs often claim to be about discovery, yet they’re driven by sales. As an Artistic Director with a fresh start, how do you reconcile visibility for artists with the commercial realities of the fair?** It’s a balancing act. Visibility is a currency in itself. We work with galleries to highlight emerging voices while also creating spaces for collectors to engage meaningfully with their work. By structuring programming that celebrates discovery—through talks, curated sections, and off-site projects—we generate attention and context that strengthens both artistic and commercial outcomes. The two are not mutually exclusive. When done thoughtfully, one reinforces the other. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/54743902478_0dd5007754_b.jpg) Fig.2 **Vienna: the city of Freud, Klimt, and cake. How do you keep the fair from becoming too comfortable?** Cake is central to me, as someone with a fondness for all forms of sweetness. Living in one of the world’s best cities for café and Kuchen culture, I’ve intentionally brought that energy into the fair. We’re highlighting it throughout the programming, including a co-branded coffee with Ototo, so the cake becomes a playful thread that invites interaction and enjoyment. Vienna is a city steeped in cultural icons, and I embrace them. At the same time, highlighting the actors who are reinterpreting notions of iconicity is my priority, consciously cultivating programming that encourages unexpected encounters. This is all about fostering a sense of tension and play, allowing the city’s traditions to converse with contemporary urgencies, and creating experiences that surprise even seasoned visitors. Beyond that, having lived and worked across many geographies, I naturally approach the fair as a space to connect diverse ideas, cultures, and perspectives. It’s about creating encounters that are intellectually stimulating, culturally layered, and sensorially engaging—a fair that feels alive, surprising, and deeply human. **Vienna’s art history weighs heavily on any new endeavor. How do you plan to make *viennacontemporary* feel less like a mirror of its past, and more like a laboratory for the present?** I approach the fair as a platform for experimenting with formats that engage audiences beyond conventional exhibition layouts or perspectives. While history informs our context, it should not dictate our direction. This means embracing projects that might not fit the conventional canon. This year, we collaborated with Antonia Lia Orsi, the founder of City Gallery in Vienna, on a section called “VC Vault” which focuses on emerging galleries that are her peers. The energy she brought was not only invaluable, but it has yielded an incredibly diverse international representation. Working with her helped me understand her needs as a young gallerist to make participation and—we hope—success more tangible. **viennacontemporary has a reputation for connecting Eastern and Western European art scenes. How do you see your role, as a caretaker of that binary, or as someone intent on disrupting it?** Both. This binary remains crucial, but its limitations need to be challenged. The contemporary art landscape is increasingly global, and the binary of “East” versus “West” can feel outdated. The Austrian audience is ready for new geographical, conceptual, and aesthetic conversations. For me personally, these conversations are also an opportunity to learn, to listen, and to start understanding the diverse cultural ecosystems across Central and Eastern Europe. I see immense value in studying how cultural systems are growing and transforming in these contexts, and, equally, in supporting a multiplicity of scenes by amplifying their differences while also facilitating reciprocal exchange. In this way, my approach seeks to position *viennacontemporary* as a space that reflects the complexity and interconnectivity of today’s art world. **Does geography still matter, or is the “East-West” divide just art-fair nostalgia?** The distinctions are no longer absolute, but the histories, infrastructures, and networks that shaped artistic development remain relevant. Recognizing those contexts enriches our understanding and allows us to situate artists and galleries within both historical and contemporary frameworks. I don’t believe geography can be dismissed, but I do think the old “East-West” divide increasingly belongs to the past. As someone who is a US-American of Iranian heritage and who has spent nearly two decades working within the cultural landscapes of Latin America, I’ve learned firsthand that the most exciting conversations in contemporary art emerge when we step outside of inherited frameworks and open ourselves to multiple vantage points. Vienna’s historical position between “East” and “West” has been vital to the fair’s identity, and I \[do\] honor that legacy. Rather than reinforcing divisions, *viennacontemporary* can act as a meeting point—a space where multiple geographies, histories, and perspectives intersect, challenging and reshaping how we think about art and culture today. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/54699256494_2223708769_b.jpg) Fig.3 **Do you plan to expand this focus, or sharpen it in light of current geopolitical tensions?** Strategic selection and programming allow us to include artists and galleries from regions that may face challenges in terms of visibility or mobility, fostering dialogue and exchange without oversimplification or tokenism. **What’s riskier in an art fair: showing something unsellable, or showing something too easy to sell?** Showing something too easy to sell is often the greater risk. While unsellable work can generate critical attention and provoke discussion, overly familiar or commercially safe works risk rendering the fair predictable, dull, and ultimately forgettable. **Be honest: what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve seen at an art fair?** I must be diplomatic, so I edit myself: oversized installations that are spectacular but entirely unrelated to context or curatorial rationale. It’s amusing for a moment, but ultimately distracting. Context and intention matter as much as scale or spectacle. **You’re known for taking risks as a curator. Within the highly commercial setting of an art fair, what kinds of risks still feel necessary (and possible)?** Risk is essential when it reframes the familiar. This might involve highlighting underrepresented regions, commissioning ambitious installations, or experimenting with cross-disciplinary projects that merge art, performance, and social engagement. Even in a commercial environment, these risks are possible when thoughtfully integrated by clear curatorial rationale and communication with galleries and partners. **Do you want collectors to leave the fair satisfied, or unsettled? Don’t say both.** Satisfied. Satisfaction is not about confirming taste or expectations, but about encountering work that resonates, challenges, and inspires. Collectors come to engage deeply with art and ideas. When collectors leave feeling informed, connected, and motivated, the fair has succeeded on multiple levels—intellectually, socially, and commercially. **Beyond sales and emotions, what sort of intellectual reckoning do you want visitors to take away from this year’s fair?** I want visitors to see the interplay of global perspectives, regional nuance, and experimental practices, and to recognize the value of sustained engagement with the cultural ecosystem. The fair needs to insist on its role as a catalyst for reflection, dialogue, and critical thinking. **What are the first lessons you learn in Vienna’s art world?** Collaboration is essential. **Looking ahead, how do you want *viennacontemporary* to be remembered under your direction—in Vienna, but also internationally?** I want it to reintroduce it as a platform where artists, galleries, and audiences connect meaningfully; where the city is not positioned as a museum of its past, but as a laboratory for contemporary art dialogue across the region and beyond. And, equally, I want it to be remembered as a place of joy—where the experience of art feels alive, generous, and shared. I have only been in this role for five months. This edition marks the beginning of a new chapter. **viennacontemporary in three words for 2025?** Inclusive. Connective. Meaningful. // viennacontemporary, 11–14 September | Messe Wien Halle D. For more info, visit www.viennacontemporary.at --- ### Footnotes Cover: Lukas Thaler, seating variations (bench #1, bench #2), engraved limestone, 2025\. Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Elisabeth & Klaus Thoman; Fig.1 Abaseh Mirvali, 2025\. Photo by Ana Hop. Courtesy of *viennacontemporary*Fig.2 Hermann Nitsch HN/M 277 „Schüttbild mit Malhemd“, oil and blood on canvas, 1995\. Courtesy of viennacontemporary Fig.3 Huda Takriti, Act Two. Courtesy of the artist *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Choreography URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/choreography/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:08:05.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-38-choreography](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-38-choreography?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- To move is to think, and to orient our bodies differently is to think otherwise. Since our political leaders put the Books of Laws at the service of the profit of a power-thirsty minority, ideology is now easily choreographed into propaganda. Acknowledging one’s position of dissent as an innate opposition to fascism becomes the first gesture toward opening spaces of possibility. We adapt Antonio Gramsci’s maxim—“pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will”—into: “the pessimism of the model, the optimism of the street,” invoking forms of collectivity that refuse definition within hegemonic social scores, and of course, modes of redistribution of wealth to which we have remained committed since 2018. *Issue 38: Choreography* inquires into how memories, histories, and rituals transform individuals into groups, words into policies, threads into textures, notes into dances, gestures into positions. Today, choreography thrives not only on stage but through social media, where short videos compress movement into consumable poses—endlessly repeated and algorithmically rewarded. Here the body mirrors Mark Fisher’s architecture of *capitalist realism*: gestures circulate even as they are emptied of meaning, as if there were no alternative but to keep performing. It is a dance of reflexive impotence, where participation feels inevitable and refusal unimaginable. Homogenizing forces remain powerful. Histories flatten differences. Memories are standardized. Laws enforce conformity. Habits reproduce the same gestures. Power maintains its choreography by repetition, making us forget other ways of moving. In contrast, we turn to particular, historical, and material forms of choreopoetics—their capacity to fracture inevitability, to make meaning in other ways, constellations that meander or pause, strategies that resist capture. The body is the site where we free one another, however briefly, from the script of inevitability. Artists induce these moments of exception. Alexandra Bachzetsis unsettles the pleasure of belonging, repeating gestures until power reveals itself beneath the skin. Nairy Baghramian’s fractured forms for her upcoming show at WIELS, *Nameless*, embody precarity as resistance, fragments that refuse the smoothness of a world wherein “there is no alternative”. Petrit Halilaj’s *Syrigana* assembles opera, folk traditions, and gathers community into a polyphony that disrupts homogenization. Mark Leckey’s turn toward spirituality stages a hauntological choreography, summoning the invisible that capitalism insists cannot return. Adam Fearon’s Parade confronts fragility not as weakness but as a mode of possibility: chains at the point of breaking, gestures poised for release. Elsewhere, *Commonplace* gathers us in domestic rituals—ORSHI’s doubt-resolving circles, Afrang Malekian’s convivial meals. The *Community Summer School* imagines neighborhood knowledge as a collective rehearsal for another future. *Specialists* from the Amsterdam School of Law expose law’s intrinsic contradictions; it is slow and compromised, yet still capable of emancipatory turns. For *Phenomena*, Yon Natalie Mik composes the act of squatting as rhythmic critique, while Caterina Barbieri invokes music’s democratic relief from quotidian alienation. Our poster, realized with the Humboldt Forum, honors ancient weaving technologies across the Global South, knots of solidarity reclaiming cosmologies flattened by colonial choreographies. The Model pessimistically reproduces repetition. The street optimistically makes a turn. This is our invitation: to find distinction in the universal, curiosity in the deviant, and strength in the body that refuses its assigned choreography. Together with Architects for Tempelhofer Feld, we extend this inquiry into urban space: toward practices that reclaim the city for the many, against the planning choreographed by the few. **What does an open field represent in the collective imagination? How do we choreograph its life together?** Architecture operates as a contested battlefield, a structured field where practitioners compete for capital while navigating entrenched power systems. The very professional dynamics that shape architects also determine the fate of public spaces like Tempelhofer Feld. When architectural incumbents prioritize prestigious commissions and conventional success metrics, they enable the financial logic that threatens to concrete over Berlin's largest open space. When insurgent practitioners challenge these norms, they simultaneously fight for both professional transformation and spatial preservation. This issue, sparked by a joint call between Architects4THF and *AWC*, uses Tempelhofer Feld as a lens to explore how professional field dynamics directly influence urban space destinies. The struggle over who gets to define architectural success is inseparable from the struggle over which spaces survive, thrive, or disappear under pressure from development logic. The selected contributions are offered to a wide audience in an attempt to open doors for the shaping of urban space. To bring the public in to participate can also be seen as part of a wider project: the need to make architecture into a tool for social movements who struggle for more democratic and ecological values in planning. Indeed, this may be what is necessary in order to bring the practice of architecture into line with the urgent environmental imperatives which demand a different kind of urban development. *The Next Transformation* starts with an examination of previous waves of changes to Berlin's urban fabric, in order to better analyze the forces which are currently posed to bring yet another transformation.. Thilo Folkerts excavates how cultural capital around green space intersects with professional power structures. Mia Ribeiro Alonso shows how architectural memory-making influences which spaces get preserved or erased. Leonie Hartung exposes how the profession's acceptance of compensation logic enables ecological destruction. When architects normalize point-system thinking, they legitimize the very frameworks that could justify building over Tempelhofer Feld. The financialization of nature isn't a neutral process; it steers ecosystems towards dystopian futures that are at odds with the proclaimed values of the profession. *Discourses Within Architecture* exposes the direct link between professional ethics and spatial outcomes. When architects lack moral accountability, as Charlotte Malterre-Barthes describes, they become complicit in destroying places such as Tempelhofer Feld through projects that prioritize profit over public good. Moritz Constantin Gamerdinger traces how architectural education shapes practitioners who must decide to either resist or enable spatial commodification. Arita Dreshaj’'s grammatical metaphor reveals how professional language itself—the way architects talk about building versus not-building, determines whether spaces survive or get developed. *Collective Practices, Collective Land* demonstrates how insurgent professional models and collective forms of ownership generate new spatial possibilities. Barbara Herschel and Justus Schweer show how alternative architectural practice creates space for human-nonhuman coexistence, and professional transformation enabling spatial transformation. Sabine Horlitz of Stadtbodenstiftung provides an example of how people are organizing to remove land from speculative markets, changing how urban space gets treated far into the future. The worker-owned cooperative FWD explains how their ownership structure enables more collaborative relationships between professionals and communities, drawing a connection between struggles for better work conditions in architecture and community initiatives for the reclaiming of urban space. This issue maps a field in transition, where stable arrangements are giving way to new forms of struggle over the appropriation of capital, not merely economic, but cultural, social, and increasingly, ecological as well. The question that emerges is whether these insurgent practices can successfully reshape architecture's field dynamics. The battle for Tempelhofer Feld is ultimately a collective mobilization for reclaiming the architectural profession itself, and eventually making it interdependent with people's participation in shaping their urban environments. Imprint: **Founders / Publishers / Directors** María Inés Plaza Lazo (Verantwortliche i.S.d. §18 Abs. 2 MStV) Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Guest Editors** Architects for Tempelhofer Feld Martina Guasco, Jolene Lee, Josh Peterson, Malte Wilms **Artistic Project Development & Distribution** Theresa Zwerschke **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph & Hannah Lu Verse **Proofreading** William KherbekLisa Schmidt-Herzog Léa d’Albronn Allexandre **Translations**Lisa Schmidt-Herzog Filipe Lippe **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Layout / Design Issue no. 38**Thomas Spallek Studio **We thank our volunteers:** Teresa Mayr, Nanna Kaiser, Cora Pagano, Nicole Yildirim **Druck** Die Rheinpfalz Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Schillerpromenade 10, 12049 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org Arts of the Working Class can be read digitally, too. Please find our vendors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digitally buy a copy together with the respective STREAD issue. Donate via Paypal: p@artsoftheworkingclass.org ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/cover2.jpg) --- ## In this issue - [Uncommon Appetites](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/uncommon-appetites-1/) - [Syrigana](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/syrigana/) - [Memórias do corpo](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/memorias-do-corpo/) - [Alexandra Bachzetsis](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/alexandra-bachzetsis/) - [Reels of Erasure](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/reels-of-erasure/) - [The Art of Cooking With Communist Dreams](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-art-of-cooking-with-communist-dreams/) - [Zärtlichkeit als Widerstand](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/zaertlichkeit-als-widerstand-2/) - [Studies on Squats](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/studies-on-squats-1/) - [Adam Fearon](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/adam-fearon/) - [Il tutto che suona ed ascolta](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/il-tutto-che-suona-ed-ascolta-1/) - [Nairy Baghramian](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/nairy-baghramian/) - [The Limits of International Law](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-limits-of-international-law/) - [Masked Balls and "Drecksarbeit"](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/masked-balls-and-drecksarbeit/) - [Wellbeing in the 21st Century](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/wellbeing-in-the-21st-century-1/) - [Motherhood at the Edge of a Collapsing World](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/motherhood-at-the-edge-of-a-collapsing-world/) ### AWC Guided Tours | Berlin Art Week 2025 URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/awc-tours-berlin-art-week-2025/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:03.000Z Berlin pulses between contradictions, from Mitte's institutional circuits to Kreuzberg's spontaneous interruptions, from archives that hold fractured histories to the fragile solidarities emerging in its streets. This September 11–14, Arts of the Working Class invites you into a four-day journey through the city's tensions and possibilities. Across four tours, "Pessimism of the Model, Optimism of the Street," "The City is Not for Sale," "Fractured Authorities," and "Coming to Terms with Today's Berlin", we'll walk the spaces where power and resistance meet. [RSVP required via e-mail](mailto:mi@artsoftheworkingclass.org?subject=RSVP%20Tour%20no.). | Donation-based participation. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **Day 1 | Pessimism of the Model, Optimism of the Street** Thursday 11 September, 12.00–22.00h We gather at **Bar Internationale** for lunch and introduction (13.00h), before setting out on a 10-hour-arc that reaches from Mitte through Charlottenburg to Kreuzberg, and comes full circle in Schöneberg. To engage so intensely with this Gallery Night is to deconstruct a model: the repetitiveness of openings, profit staged as inevitability. To walk it together is to encounter the street’s interruptions, where gestures challenge conformity and claim their own rhythm. We begin in North Mitte, where the model feels most codified, and where it immediately meets its mirror. Andrea Fraser at Nagel Draxler turns the institution into the subject. Matti Braun at BQ threads quiet materials into expansive, cross-cultural worlds. Daniel Hölzl at Dittrich & Schlechtriem exposes the armature of the display itself. At **neugerriemschneider**, Thilo Heinzmann, Michel Majerus, and Ho Tzu Nyen move between gestures to archive to cinematic myth. Ulrike Theusner and Allistair Walter at **Eigen+Art** push figuration to the limits of intensity. Louis Fratino at Neu stages intimacy as insistence. Andrea Zittel at **Sprüth Magers** molds life into a workable place, sketching the system’s promise and its exclusions. Next, we cross into **Wedding**, a district marked by both displacement and reinvention: Mischa Leinkauf at **Alexander Levy** intervenes in the city’s flows, along with André Masson at Levy Galerie, where psychic terrains redraw national maps. Arhun Aksakal at Ebensperger splices narrative and rupture. In Charlottenburg, scale and canon carry weight but remain contested. New in town, long in the biz: We visit the show for **Max Mayer**’s very first Berliner opening with **Ei Arakawa**, who turns performance into a volatile grammar of relation. A group show at Société multiplies the present. **A.R. Penck** at **Michael Werner** sharpens a language of signs. A group show at **Société** multiplies the present. **Katharina Grosse** and **Grace Weaver** at **Max Hetzler** saturate surface and stance. **Robert Colescott** and **Christelle Oyir**i at **Buchholz** pit satire against memory-work. Passing through South **Mitte**, **Julia Irlinger** and **Dan Walsh** at **Thomas Schulte** stretch abstraction into spatial grammar. **Scherben** invites you to *Lesbian Legacies #2 – Archive Affections*, a duo exhibition by **Tiona Nekkia McClodden** and **Millie Wilson**, and the second chapter of the three-part project Lesbian Legacies curated by Scherben and Birgit Bosold. **Thomas Zipp** and **Carrie Mae Weems** at **Barbara Thumm** bind psychiatry, race, and history in a charged dialogue. **Tanja Wagner** convenes a group show centering care as method and resistance as form. In **Kreuzberg**, the street’s optimism remains audible: a group show at **Heidi** as a fleeting chorus; **Jesse Darling** at **Molitor** with precarious infrastructures; **Adam Pendleton** at **Pace** voicing subtle poetics; and **Monsieur Zohore** at **KOW** turns humor into leverage. We make a break at **ChertLüdde** for shows outside of the official Berlin Art Week program with **Tyra Tingleff** and **Sandra Paulson**. We land in the works of **Pieter Schoolwerth** at **Kraupa-Tuskany Zeidler**, where figuration fractures the system and its residues, and Carolyn Lazard at Trautwein Herleth, where she reframes what may be considered as shared resources. Through these passages, three urgencies recur: Displacement through speculation; the invisibility of labor; the struggle over ownership—of space, memory, and the future. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bildschirmfoto-2025-09-01-um-10.31.54.png) Fig.1 **Day 2 | The City is Not for Sale** Friday 12 September, 17.00–2.00h AWe gather first at **Café Tiergarten** for orientation, tea, and cake (17.00h)—a pause to exchange perspectives and map the city as a network of encounters. We interview neighbors, artists, and curators, reflecting on the night ahead: what does it mean to inhabit a city under pressure, and how can artistic gestures trace survival, solidarity, and speculation? As the collective of activists and scholars who comprise **Architects for Tempelhofer Field** remind us: scarcity cannot destroy solidarity, repetition can become possibility, and dialogue reveals our innate anti-capitalist soul as it shines through our consumerist habits. **Featured Night** unfolds between the remnants of yesterday and the fantasies of tomorrow. It stages a dance of ruins—not the sterile choreography of the model, but the improvisation of the street, where excess and scarcity collide, and survival itself becomes movement. First stop:**Galli**’s *Pazienza* at **Grotto**. Here, fragility is treated as a source of strength. Visitors engage with the artist in a dialogue about patience and the poetics of slow gestures, while residents recount local histories of decay and renewal, and curators reflect on ephemeral interventions that resist permanence. We move forward to **Pickle Bar** (18.00h) for **Selin Davasse**’s *Corpus Iuris Artis: III. The Appeals*. The performance transforms choreography into law. At **n.b.k.** (19.00h), the exhibitions of **Margarethe von Trotta**, **Nora Turato**, **Stephan Crasneanscki**, and **Patti Smith** interrogate authority across media. Film, text, and performance scatter narratives, reminding us that archives and institutional memory are never neutral—they are contested terrains. We hop on bikes or take an Uber to **Between Bridges** (20.00h Uhr), **Sofía Reyes** opens a portal of *hallucinations (Alucinación)*, while **Wisrah C. V. da R. Celestino** turns the residency into a rehearsal for queer resilience. Conversations explore urban imaginaries and strategies of care and survival, as neighbors recount instances of community solidarity and curators observe intersections of ritual, resilience, and performance. Around the corner, **Refuge Worldwide** presents **Humans in Transit**, giving voice to stories that are often silenced—from Libya to the central Mediterranean—while inviting guests into conversations about the layers of migration and the ethics of representation. The 36-headed exhibition **Polyphonic Views**, part of this year’s **Spatial Festival** at **Funkhaus Berlin**, explores performance beyond physical acts, using space and sound to dissolve boundaries between artwork and audience. Finally, at **Flutgraben | Fortuna**, *The Deluge* (curated by **Lee Plested** in collaboration with **Matthias Krause Hamrin**) conjures water as ruin and renewal. Conversations explore its symbolic and material presence, before the afterparty with from-disco-to-disco legend **Eric D. Clark** and **DJ Puddle**. Improvisation and reflection let the evening ripple outward. Through these passages, three urgencies recur: Ecological crisis: made visible in debris, exhaustion, and the afterlife of materials; artistic precarity: rehearsed in gestures of fragility and persistence; collective imagination: necessary to navigate futures beyond the logics of exclusivity. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bildschirmfoto-2025-09-01-um-10.32.18.png) Fig.2 #### Day 3 | Fractured Authorities: Institutions, Archives, and the Private Gaze Saturday 13 September, 12.00–22.00h Institutions promise safety, yet their silences are often louder than their proclamations. They rather curate authority and control through their structures, collections, and acquisitions. This itinerary traces how Berlin’s cultural landscape stages power—through museums, foundations, and private spaces—and how artists fracture those claims of inevitability. To walk this route is to practice another way of reading institutions: not as monuments of authority but as terrains of contradiction, where memory becomes rehearsal, interruption, and refusal. We begin at the **Julia Stoschek Foundation** (12.00h), where the sweeping survey of **Mark Leckey**, E*nter Thru Medieval Wounds*, traces pop culture, youth, and media across two decades. Leckey draws us into these mediated experiences, revealing how perception and memory are shaped—and unsettled—by technology, quietly undermining the authority of the institutional frame while opening space for alternative narratives. We visit **kennedy+swan**’s exhibition at the **Schering Stiftung** for an in-house tour (13.00h) examining who defines value and visibility. Across media, their work exposes the subtle operations of control embedded in institutional and social frameworks. Lunch at **Hamburger Bahnhof** (14.00h) is followed by a talk with **Petrit Halilaj** (15.00h), whose fabulistic display of European ruins transforms history into a fragile and imaginative record. The body, thus, becomes both archive and refusal, a site where memory and imagination collide. At **Galerie Wedding** (16.30h), **Pınar Öğrenci**’s *Cemetery of the Nameless* confronts erasure and anonymity, insisting on stories marked by migration, struggle, and survival. Interventions by **Cana Bilir-Meier** and **Nnenna Onuoha** at **Sinema Transtopia** dismantle the purported objectivity of archives, revealing the partiality and politics embedded in institutional knowledge. At **C/O Berlin** (18.30h), a conversation with **Julian Rosefeldt** situates performative gestures within institutional frameworks, examining how art negotiates authority, narrative, and historical expectation. The evening closes with a tour through **Private Collections** (20.00h), where the act of collecting itself becomes contested ground, revealing how intimacy and possession can unsettle institutional authority and rehearse other genealogies. Through these passages, three urgencies recur: The ways institutions capture history yet remain haunted by what they cannot contain; the performativity of archives, where power and memory are continuously negotiated; the necessity of embodied resistance, where gestures, stories, and performances refuse to be subsumed under institutional authority. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bildschirmfoto-2025-09-01-um-10.32.56.png) Fig.3 #### Day 4 | Coming to Terms with Today’s Berlin Sunday 14 September, 11.00–21.00h The last of four marathonic parcours traces Berlin’s contested spaces—sites of history, memory, and power—and their entanglement with contemporary artistic production. From monumental institutions to intimate studios, the tour foregrounds the tensions that shape the city today: the fluctuation between remembrance and reinvention, visibility and exclusion, provocation and reflection. To come to terms with Berlin is to confront its histories, to inhabit its contradictions, and to explore how art, memory, and embodied experience intertwine in shaping the present. To walk this route is to practice another kind of remembering: gestures that pause, meander, and refuse to conform. Here, memory itself becomes choreo-poetic, creating fleeting solidarities in the cracks of institutional walls. We begin with brunch at the **Humboldt Forum** (11.00h), where, together with curator **Michael Dieminger**, we look at colonial legacies and the ethics of representation, and their project *‘South-to-South: A Meeting on African and Afro-diasporic Technologies’*. Outside of the BAW program, **Helga Paris**’ intimate portraits at **Fotografiska** (12.00h) widen perspectives on urban life, capturing the subtle textures of everyday experience. An **Open House** at the **Boros Collection** (13.00h) highlights the intersection of private and public. On the site of a former bunker, we raise questions about space, secrecy, and access. **Haus der Kulturen der Welt** (14.00h) presents *Global Fascisms*, reflecting on the circulation of authoritarian ideologies locally and globally. A brief snack at **Weltwirtschaft** (15.00h) allows participants to exchange impressions before moving on to engage with performance and participatory works. At 16.45h, **Yoko Ono**’s *Bells for Peace* marks the city with sound, ritual, and collective listening. Across Berlin, visits to **Stiftung St. Matthäus**: *Licht aus Licht*, **Gisela Getty**: *Ashes to Rishikesh* at **Ryan Mendoza Studios** (18.00h), and **Luiza Prado**: *Send Nudes (The Fall of Cyrene)* at **Neun Kelche** explore memory, intimacy, and corporeal politics. The day concludes at **haubrok foundation** (19.30h), where light, furniture, and monumental works by **Carol Bove, Martin Boyce, Christoph Büchel, Hans-Peter Feldmann, Douglas Gordon, Stefan Kern, Carolyn Lazard, Ghislaine Leung, Tobias Madison, Jonathan Monk, Philippe Parreno, Markus Schinwald, Florian Slotawa, Franz West, Johannes Wohnseife**r, and **Heimo Zobernig** invite reflection on accumulation, display, and aesthetic negotiation. Here, the exhibition itself stages the tension between preservation and transformation—asking how today’s Berlin can acknowledge its residues while rehearsing other futures. Through these passages, three urgencies recur: Colonial residues embedded in Berlin’s cultural memory; archives captured as tools of authority rather than of emancipation; the necessity of embodied resistance, where protest choreographs memory beyond official scripts. *For more information, visit* [*berlinartweek.de/guided-tours/*](http://berlinartweek.de/guided-tours/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*//* --- ### Images: Cover: Adam Fearon, *PARADE I +II (Feld),* 2025, Courtesy of the artist and Kinderhook & Caracas. Photo: Joe Clark; Fig.1 Adam Fearon, *PARADE III (Gelb),* 2025, Courtesy of the artist and Kinderhook & Caracas. Photo: Joe Clark; Fig.2 Adam Fearon, *PARADE IV (Band),* 2025, Courtesy of the artist and Kinderhook & Caracas. Photo: Joe Clark; Fig.3 Adam Fearon, *PARADE III (Tor),* 2025, Courtesy of the artist and Kinderhook & Caracas. Photo: Joe Clark. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### An exercise in discernment URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/an-exercise-in-discernment/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:01.000Z The 2025 edition of *the Independent Space Index* (ISI) took place from May 29 to June 1, opening 59 independent art spaces to the public, with an impressive total of 61 exhibitions and 76 special events. Much like adjusting to life in Vienna—with its overwhelming abundance of cultural options—the festival became, for me, an exercise in discernment: the ability to choose, to prioritize, and to understand the parameters of what one notices and takes into consideration. Over the course of the festival, I visited 41 spaces; nearly half of those featured in ISI’s ever-growing directory. Coming from a smaller and more contained art scene in Kosovo, the access to and plurality of expressions were both new and invigorating. My path to the spaces was informed by several interests: mapping trends and cultural specificities across the scene; comparative analysis of independent space models across regions; and documenting how *"independence"* is defined and performed. I was especially drawn to spaces that defied the white cube format, used language playfully, operated as collectives, and communicated their values directly, without obfuscation or over-reliance on theoretical jargon. What intrigued me most were the questions of resistance and positioning: are these off-spaces proposing new value systems for art? Or do they, despite their intentions, echo institutional norms? This text reflects on aspects of independence, language, and intention in relation to the festival experience, focusing on a selection of spaces and shows, grouped into categories that I found to be thematically overarching. ### **Independence in context: Reflections on language, legibility and framing** Having spent the past six months across Kosovo, Serbia, Slovenia, Hungary, and Austria, I noticed clear distinctions in how *“independence”* is understood. Towards the south, it signals survival outside of state structures. Moving northward, reliance on state funding and institutional support for experimental practices increases, and *“independence”* often means negotiating freedoms within it. For the Viennese independent scene reliance on public funding does not necessarily contradict autonomy, but instead shifts toward questions about freedom of programming, curatorial intent, or the refusal to conform to commodified art logics. This is a discourse less focused on resistance and more on negotiation, in comparison to Kosovo where support for alternative practices, outlying models of organization and a plurality of cultural expression is minimal, and constantly demands one “prove oneself”. What becomes visible is that independence is not only financial but discursive: artists and organizers retain the freedom to (re)invent language around their practice and frame it with intention. In Vienna, this seems often to translate into artists becoming self-curators, curating text about their work to ensure novelty or legibility within funding systems, audiences, and curatorial networks. This layering of autonomy—both material and linguistic—reveals why definitions of *“independence”* among the spaces' managers were so varied: for some it meant deciding their own timelines; for others it was the freedom to act within state-supported contexts; and for others it meant resisting simplification and embracing ambiguity. ### **Community-based spaces** Spaces such as Viktoria and Improper Walls dwell deeply in practices of community embeddedness. **Viktoria** centers on social design, neighborhood culture, sustainable living, and artistic engagement. Though I wasn’t able to document their programming in depth, I find such hybrid spaces more generative than conventional gallery formats. Martha Beauchamp’s *“Light Injuries”* offers a poetic invitation to attune to space through the lens of chronobiology, how bodily rhythms mirror environmental ones. Tubes, plants, cyanotype prints, wax, and paper pulp sculptures are scattered throughout the space and activated by cello and a microphone. Her work explores the dual nature of being both sound and object, rooted in a transmediation practice that translates neuroscience into visual and performative formats. With the parameters being growth, inhibition, injury, and regeneration, the show explores how “a body cannot adjust to any conditions” once its variables have been set, relocating or trying to make a shapeshift reveals information that must be handled with great attunement. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1_Viktoria_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2025.jpg) Fig.1 **Improper Walls**, on the other hand, regularly depicts migrant perspectives, collaborations with artists from the Balkans and Baltics, bridging personal experiences of mental health issues, memory, and dislocation within broader political realities such as displacement or systemic precarity. The walls of the gallery remain black, a visual refusal to overwrite the weight of personal and collective pasts. The space is committed to building community care structures through socially engaged projects, such as crochet workshops for people affected by racism. The exhibition *“Fragile Foundations”,* echoes themes of home, labor, and mobility, and includes calls to collective action, reminding us of the complex processes of rebuilding identity when in transit. The project Strike imagines a “fictive yet legitimate” protest against future housing instability, evoking how the anxious mind replays past experiences as if they are bound to recur. In this way, the work feels both distant and strangely immediate: projected forward, yet rooted in a familiar tension, rendering one unable to act. ### **Raw, rugged, and intentional** ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3_ada_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2025.jpg) Fig.2 **ada** (artistic dynamic association) operates as a spatial transgression, part living room, part bar, part exhibition site. Layered, rugged, and intentionally unpolished, it resists the sterility of gentrification and the aesthetics of institutional display. The exhibition *“ada is… Under Pressure 2”* animated the space through a dynamic dialogue between the different prints featured and the multi-patterned, carpeted walls left intact from previous use. This was a textured visual experience that blurred lines between domestic, social, and artistic environments. For me, few shows offered such space to craft one’s own understanding of what’s being viewed as this one. **Van**, by contrast, takes the white cube to absurd ends, exaggerating and ridiculing its conventions by mobilizing it as a nomadic showroom. **ES49** likewise subverts the exhibition space, slipping away from the pompous intentionality we ascribe to white cubes. Their group exhibition *“Fini la comédie”* oscillated between satire and melancholy, a collective display where mockery, laughter, and irony served as aesthetic strategy and emotional release. Here, oppositionality doesn't simply resist; it also entertains, producing moments of pleasure in critique and defiance—for example, the installation on the wall stating *“I no longer respect your authority”*, which seemed to have been rearranged in a feverish act, using objects from an Eastern grandmother's home. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1_es49_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2025.jpg) Fig.3 #### Art in Unusual Places *How do these spaces qualify and quantify art? Do they propose new terms and methodologies for the onset, positioning, and realization of contemporary art pieces?* **Museum in Progress** is a decades-long initiative that brings artistic interventions into unexpected public contexts: e.g., riverside signage, museum curtains, mountaintops, and newspaper inserts. Now in its third year of the Raising Flags project, the initiative has produced 70 flags in collaboration with 37 artists. For this edition, Jonathan Monk contributed four new designs, installed on the Studenbrücke during the festival. At first glance, seen in isolation and without contextual mediation, the flags may appear minimal or even underwhelming. But they gain complexity when situated within the project’s long lineage of artistic reinterpretations of the flag. A seemingly simple medium becomes a layered signifier, tapping into the flag’s powerful role in our collective unconscious, not merely a tool for visibility and identity, but a site of symbolic residue and political tensions. Over the years, Museum in Progress has realized over 300 billboard projects and 1,500 newspaper-based works, framing these interventions as “art collectibles” and advocating for broader access to art ownership. While this democratizing impulse is commendable, it also opens up necessary questions about how we assign value to artwork and how distribution models shift perception. ### **Collectives & Feminist Modes** **Im\_flieger** is a space dedicated to dance, performance, and transmedia art, operating along the porous boundaries between process and product. It consciously positions itself outside of art’s consumable logic, prioritizing works-in-progress over polished outcomes and favoring open, evolving formats over fixed aesthetics. As a collective with a flat hierarchy, Im\_flieger fosters transgenerational knowledge-sharing and artistic exchange. As part of Index, they hosted for the third time *Embodied Perspectives*, a public program of shared practices addressing embodied perception and participation, led by performers and choreographers who are part of their network. **The Queer Museum** is an initiative that actively queers the museum format - both in its curatorial approach and physical placement. Housed in the Otto Wagner Areal, a former psychiatric ward reported to have experimental treatments done on autistic children and queer women throughout the 20th century. It was decommissioned only two years ago. Against this backdrop, *Gaps, Fractures and Leaks: Queer Temporalities* offered a grounded and accessible entry point into both localized and global forms of queer resistance and representation, articulated through painting, textiles, video, poetry, and immersive media. **Mz Baltazar’s Laboratory\*** is a feminist hacker space redefining the intersection of art and technology through participatory formats, critical language, and the politics of visibility. I was particularly struck by the work of Ingrid Cogne, whose exhibition was on view during the festival. Cogne’s practice is rigorous and deeply intentional; her works act like tendons, structures that bind and animate, creating constructed situations which channel from what’s taken for granted in the everyday. Her attention to language and life is both precise and poetic, making visible mechanisms of power and presence that usually remain invisible. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1_Mz_BaltazarsLaboratory_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2025.jpg) Fig.4 ### **On technology as practice, tool, and method** At **Kunstraum am Schauplatz**, the double exhibition of Andy Guhl and Olga Titus simulates digital and virtual wanderings through now-obsolete technologies. Titus’s paillette-based digital prints and Guhl’s analogue electronic systems—crafted from salvaged, broken everyday objects—form a curious interplay of glitter and glitch. Together, they seem to reconstruct a sense of virtuality grounded in the physical, offering a materialized reflection on how digital perception once felt. At first glance, the work of Cezary Poniatowski and Zuza Golińska at **WAF Galerie** evokes a dystopian landscape of retro-futurist doom. Beyond that initial impression, their pieces establish a compelling visual dialogue. The constructions, composed of leather, metal, carpet, and paint, are unlikely architectures, *“worlds within worlds”.* While the materials recall post-communist industrial decay, they seem to me to suggest speculative reconfigurations. It’s not merely affirmation of destruction that they offer, but improvised potentialities stitched from ruins. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_NODEMediaLab_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2025.jpg) Fig.5 **NODE Media Lab**, situated in the ORF Funkhaus building, centers on new media practices, with a particular focus on AI and AR. The group show *“Deep Skin”* doesn’t dwell on medium or process; instead, it steers thought toward the embodied consequences of mediated life. What struck me in particular was how the works invoked the body, not as a stable form, but as a site of trauma. Here, trauma becomes both a wound and a catalyst for becoming. Rather than framing technology as alienation, the exhibition gestures toward a more generous reading: that technological rupture might not simply divide, but also offer means to reconcile contradiction, and to reimagine the self. ### **On wording practice** **Salon für Kunstbuch** is a 30,000-book installation that treats printed matter as art object and as spatial language. Its creator, Bernhard Cella, is a meta-narrator within the space—present and performative—often introducing a moment of rupture for visitors by declaring: *“This is not a bookstore.”* Cella operates in tandem with the “cellular consciousness” of the books, which are constantly restructured in thematic, color-coded arrangements. The display is never static. His curatorial hand is visible, precise, and unapologetically partial. As he puts it: *“The act is exclusion… only nothing is neutral.”* Here, selection becomes gesture, and gesture becomes philosophy. **Prosopopoeia** features text- and language-based works. The show *“tout va bien”* explores the presence and violence of language. Ethan Assouline’s pieces are renditions of children’s educational materials and elemental classroom objects: books, clocks, and doors. They are presented as familiar objects hollowed out and reconfigured. What remains is not their function, but their structure, shells animated by a new interior logic. The show opens a space for exploring silence and negation, not as voids, but as committed, constructive positions. In doing so, it gestures toward a deep awareness: language can wound; thus, the ability to redefine, reshape, and create new forms must be retained by all: an active pursuit of personal agency, though hushed and reticent. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_SalonFuerKunstbuch_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2025.jpg) Fig.6 ### Disillusionment, affect, and everyday fictions **Flat1**, formerly a concierge room, has evolved into a space for international collaboration. This year’s theme touches upon collective anxieties, fears, and the intimacy of insecurity. It prompted a turn toward collectivity as a response to increasingly privatized forms of handling distress. In this context, Mahony Collective presented installations, sculptures, and prints exploring magic and disillusionment. Rendered in blue and white hues, the works unfold subtly, revealing, for the attentive viewer, both the emotional rupture and the need for validation that comes with being deceived and recognizing it. At **20 20**, Christian Egger constructs a philosophical labyrinth through language and form. His voice, at once disarmed and lucid, poses elliptical provocations: *“One hears, one does not take, one takes, one does not ask who is giving.”* Through this layered phrasing, Egger probes the limits of choice, the structures of conditioning, and the poetics of absence. His work invites us to walk the tightrope between autonomy and influence, between asking and receiving, between word and wound. *Independent Space Index* is more of a cultural cartography: relational, situational, and sometimes contradictory. What becomes apparent here is a shared disposition: these initiatives resist the slow homogeneity creeping into artistic production through gentrified urban zones, institutional formalism, and market logic. Yet, as much as these spaces operate with urgency and sincerity, one question lingers: where does intention end and effect begin? Many of these initiatives gather loyal publics and operate with deeply personal stakes, sometimes running the risk of becoming self-referential, addressing the needs of the initiators more than those of a wider public. But perhaps that is part of their function: to carve out spaces of autonomy and idiosyncratic vision in a landscape already saturated with finality, spectacle, and expectation. Luckily, the Viennese art scene is large and textured enough not to demand every space justify itself through legibility or accessibility. It acts not as a centralized stage but as a polyphonic terrain, populated by fractions of practice, style, and arguing for the potential of art to exist otherwise in the very act of creating new metrics and assigning one’s own meanings. // --- ### Image: Cover: © Lukas Meixner Fig.1 Viktoria © Flavio Palasciano Fig.2 Ada © Janine Schranz Fig.3 ES49 © Janine Schranz Fig.4 Mz Baltazar’s Laboratory © Janine Schranz Fig.5 NODE Media Lab © Janine Schranz Fig.6 Salon für Kunstbuch © Flavio Palasciano *Diona Kusari is a multidisciplinary artist, writer, researcher, cultural and arts mediator based in Kosovo. Her work spans performance, video and sound art, installations, short films and participatory events. Her artistic work is concerned with illustrating the “unseen” in terms of ideology, faith, and folk practices, and challenging the apparent dichotomies and delineations of private and public space. She is a member of the transdisciplinary collective Potpuri, whose work focuses on experimental research and print practices, and decentralized knowledge production. She is currently researching the independent and alternative scenes in the South, East, and Central European regions.* ### The City as a Mouth URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-city-as-a-mouth/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:21:00.000Z “For the way the city thinks, dare we darn without permission. Let us raise the questions about agency, about capacity, or imagine that the city is a mouth,”\[1\] writes the poet Rhona Warwick Paterson. Printed in red ink on bright orange paper, her words catch my eye on the front page of a newspaper entitled *Remnants: How to reassemble a city*, the second issue of a newspaper conceived by Voices of Experience and Panel on the occasion of this year’s Edinburgh Art Festival. Put together by the research collective Voices of Experience, which consists of the architects Suzanne Ewing, Jude Barber, and Nicola McLachlan, the newspaper gathers lived memories to ask how the city of Edinburgh might be read, re-stitched, and reimagined through its built environment. *Remnants* echoes the central proposition of this year’s Edinburgh Art Festival: to treat the city itself as an archive where an assemblage of voices and memories resists flattering representational logics of hegemonic historical accounts. From 7 to 24 August 2025, the UK’s largest annual art festival invited its audience into a wide-ranging programme of exhibitions, performances, and events that explored how art can articulate experiences of political upheaval, social struggle, and environmental change. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.-Remnants.jpg) Fig.1 The Festival brought together works shaped by, and reflecting upon, vastly different historical, geopolitical, cultural, and material conditions that all proved compelling, the ways in which different methodological impulses can-interpret and re-enact history in ways that move beyond dominating structures of remembrance. This convergence lent the Festival a critical coherence, positioning it not as a collection of isolated artistic gestures but as an active field that negotiates the construction of counter-archives, an unsettling of the centralization of authorized heritage, and the opening of new possibilities for historical imagination. Assembled across tables and vitrines in the entrance hall of the EAF Pavilion, Ellis Jackson Kroese presented material from the ongoing research project *Trans Masc Studies*, an investigation into the often-overlooked histories of trans masculine lives in Scotland. Pride buttons sit alongside pulp novels and newspaper clippings, next to letters and records recounting the life of Walter Sholto Douglas in the early nineteenth century. An annotated rehearsal draft of Frances Poet’s play *Adam* anchors more recent cultural memory. Under the title *Memory is a Museum*, Kroese’s installation insists on the archival presence of queer lives in a past that is too often narrated as though they had never existed. By placing these traces in dialogue, the work unsettles the fiction of absence and demonstrates how acts of collecting and display can intervene in dominant modes of historical erasure. Equipped with the red-ink *Remnants* newspaper and a folded festival map, I make my way on a sunny August weekend from the pavilion through the flood of tourists surging towards Edinburgh’s Old Town. The streets pulse with spectacle: street performers and musicians compete for attention at every corner, flyers for stand-up shows and cabaret are pressed insistently into my hands. Temporary stages emerge among historic sites and squares; performers’ amplified voices add a dense sonic layer surrounding the Fringe Festival, the city's unjuried theatre and performance program stretching across every conceivable surface of public life. In the midst of this spectacle of simultaneity, where sounds, masses, and commerce pull you into an overwhelming dramaturgy of saturation, Edinburgh Art Festival insists on another mode of attention. With its twenty-first edition, it redirects the visitor from the spectacle of the city towards more subtle details, gestures of listening, recollection, and encounter. Rather than adding to the sheer volume of Edinburgh’s festival season, it builds on quiet infrastructures: spaces where oral histories and counter-histories can emerge, and where the city is not consumed as a stage set but inhabited as an archive. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4..-Trans-Masc-Studies.jpg) Fig.2 One such site is the People’s Story Museum, which is housed in the historic Canongate Tolbooth, once an administrative and judicial building on the edge of Edinburgh’s Old Town. Dedicated to narrating the history of the city’s working class from the early eighteenth century to the present, the museum also holds the UK’s largest collection of early reform flags and banners. On my quest for Hamish Halley’s newly commissioned video work, I find myself distracted by the museum’s displays which vary from informative to obscure demonstrations of trade union histories to documentations of early working-class life in Scotland. Life-sized puppets—arranged in dimly lit dioramas that attempt to depict authentic representations of workers—produce an almost uncanny atmosphere that wavers between historical education and stagecraft. Halley’s video work *please keep* (2025), screened in the attic of the museum, brings together intimate footage from the clearing out his grandparents’ house after their passing with archival material from Perth Museum, filmed before its collection was relocated to a new site. Installed in a space where remnants of earlier exhibitions lie stacked beside the projection, the work establishes a dialogue between authorised and personal archives. In doing so, it raises the question of what forms of knowledge, memory, and intention are embedded in the ways we conserve, store, and display objects, and how they shape the epistemologies connected to them. As much as the museum impacts the viewing experience of please keep, Halley’s work may resonate in the way I read the museum itself. It speaks to the difficulty of freezing lived experience in representation and emphasizes the fragile continuity between spaces of labor, family, and protest. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1-v2.-please-keep.jpg) Fig.3 At Talbot Rice Gallery, a partner institution of the Edinburgh Art Festival, Wael Shawky’s *Cabaret Crusade* (2010-2014) series is shown alongside his most recent work, *Drama 1882* (2024). The works are complemented by drawings, sculptural works, and archival documents from the University of Edinburgh. Renowned for his multilayered retellings of history, in which myth, memory, and historical record are treated as unstable, shifting registers, Shawky’s works function as re-enactments of contested pasts. In the *Cabaret Crusade* trilogy, the European invasion of Western Asia, initially under a papal mandate to liberate Jerusalem from Muslim rule, which took place between 1095 to the fall of the last Crusader Kingdom in 1291, is staged using handmade marionettes whose exaggerated features deliberately steer the narration away from visual realism. Shawky’s scripts animate both Christian and Muslim characters with the lyricism of classical Arabic. His own musical scores carry the stories, moving seamlessly between the realms of mythology and historical recounting. In *Drama 1882* (2024), Shawky shifts to human actors, yet their gestures remain almost puppet-like, choreographed in a highly stylised, musical-cinematic tableau that situates a café scene in Alexandria within the broader context of British occupation of Egypt and geopolitical conflicts around the control of the Suez Canal. His performances destabilize the notion of a single authoritative history, revealing how archives, memory, and storytelling are inherently selective, partial, and contested. By blending meticulously researched detail with surreal puppetry and choreographed fiction, Shawky foregrounds the gaps, silences, and contradictions that conventional historical narratives obscure. The works compel the viewer to navigate multiple temporalities and perspectives simultaneously, raising questions not only about which versions of the past are privileged, but also about how the act of retelling itself (re)shapes understanding. Shawky’s patterns of historical storytelling remain with me later that evening as I listen to the dense vocal layerings of Roxanne Tataei at Jupiter Rising Festival, staged as part of the Edinburgh Art Festival. Set on the grounds of Jupiter Artland, a sculpture park outside of the city, the night brought together poets, performers, and musicians to celebrate queer histories against the backdrop of the sculpture park’s scenery. On an open-air stage, Tataei built her performance through the looping of her own voice, thickening the sound with each added layer and harmonizing with echoes of her voice, which felt simultaneously intimate and monumental: a choral body conjured by a single performer. Drawing on Scottish Gaelic psalm singing, a tradition with which Tataei has previously engaged, the work unfolds entirely on the resonant interplay of her breath, vocal tone, and repetition, all without the presence of any other instruments. In her layering of past and present, and singular and collective voices, Tataei’s performance not only gestured toward older, folkloric traditions. Her voice became an instrument of temporal folding, wherein echoes are not mere technical effects but become metaphors for history’s reverberations, thus enacting the core of EAF’s annual focus. Here, stillness and repetition do not signal stasis but rather the persistence of memory as it returns, shifts, and actualizes itself in the present. The way Tataei embodies histories with her voice resonates with how the festival approaches Edinburgh’s urban fabric—layered as it is with traces of labor struggles, and cultural and social resistance—as a living palimpsest, being constantly rewritten as time proceeds. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Rhona Warwick Paterson, “How you Re-assemble a City,” in Voice of Experience, (Edinburgh Arts Festival, 2025), 1. Images: Cover: Wael Shawky, *Cabaret Crusades III: The Secrets of Karbala*, 2015, film still © Wael Shawky. Fig. Remnants, Voices of Experience, 2025 © Theresa Zwerschke. Fig.2 Ellis Jackson Kroese, Trans Masc Studies: Memory is a Museum, 2025, installation view © Theresa Zwerschke. Fig.3 Hamish Halley, please keep, 2025, film still © Hamish Halley. *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### Somersaults of Negation URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/somersaults-of-negation/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:58.000Z September 14, 1986\. Nancy and Ronald Reagan sit stiffly on a beige couch with a delicate floral pattern in a living room in the residential quarters of the White House. Legs crossed, Nancy’s wearing a red suit. Ronald sits somewhat slouched, legs parallel above the beige carpet. Her left hand rests on his. He draws a shallow breath to speak, hesitates, then the moment passes. He closes his mouth again. They exchange glances. She squeezes his hand encouragingly. He swallows and begins an address to the nation \[1\]. The interaction stages a deep charitable Christian concern that weighs heavily on both of them—because, as Ronald explains, the state of America is bleak. To convey the scale of the threat, he and his wife deploy the full figurative arsenal of biopolitical, religious, and militaristic metaphors: the “cancer” of drugs has taken hold of the nation. To fight the “uncontrollable fire” of marijuana, heroin, and crack cocaine, they call for nothing less than a “national crusade” begun from their beige living room, a total “mobilization” of each and every single member of “the American family” similar in scale and moral urgency to that deployed in World War II. As Ronald’s administration expanded the prison-industrial complex, escalated the militarization of the police, and, in the name of the so-called “War on Drugs”, targeted low-income and Black communities, as well as crushing leftist uprisings around the world, his wife Nancy turned her attention to the nation’s still innocent youth: what should they do if they are offered drugs? It’s easy: “Just Say No”. Her anti-drug campaign using this slogan was rooted in a prohibitive moralism dressed as patriotism, linking abstinence with moral rectitude and family values, all while nurturing an affective climate of gloating indifference to the repercussions of oppressive state violence. At its antisocial ideological core was the idea that addiction is the result of personal choice; an individual failure to refuse to get high. Hence, the campaign's affective strategy operated via the dull repetition of the call to reject, aiming to make refusal an automatized (and atomized) act. Upon entering Liz Craft’s exhibition *Just Say Nein* at Grotto in Berlin, one is confronted with a gesture of rejection. At the center of the exhibition space, located in the Hansaviertel district and founded by Leonie Herweg and Simon Freud, a gilded miniature bronze statue is raised on a pyramidal white pedestal. The statue’s head has the shape of a typical cartoon alien head. It was originally a souvenir ceramic bell brought from Area 51, a military base in Nevada that has become a focal point for science fiction pop culture and modern urban mythologies surrounding UFO sightings and suspected covert otherworldly operations by the US military. The figure’s humanoid feminine nude body, contrasting with the alien head, is posed in a classical contrapposto, resting one hand casually on her hip. The other hand is extended toward the viewer in a gesture bearing an unmistakable semiotic charge: *No*. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1.-LC_GROTTO_1_s.jpg) Fig.1 It is a proposal for a giant gilded public sculpture, Craft tells me over email. If an enlarged version of the gilded refusing alien-woman were erected in front of Grotto, it would face another golden female statue nearby: the 8.3-meter-high bronze figure of Victoria, the deified Roman personification of victory, which stands atop the *Siegessäule* in the Tiergarten. Originally erected to celebrate Prussia’s victories in the so-called “unification wars”—a foundational event in the construction of the modern German nation-state—the “Goldelse” (“Golden Lizzy”, as the monument is known in Berlin vernacular) was relocated to its current location by Albert Speer, Hitler’s chief architect, to mark the East-West axis of the planned world capital known as “Germania”. The oversized white pedestal in the shape of a pyramid on which Craft’s sculpture is enthroned is adorned with circular reliefs of animal faces. Craft made these casts on-site from decorative bronze ornaments embedded in the cast-iron railing of Köthener Brücke, a bridge over the Landwehrkanal near her former Berlin studio, which she has crossed daily when she was living in Berlin. The Art Nouveau ornaments, protective and gatekeeping symbols on the bridge, are here transformed into cryptic, talismanic, mythical avatars, chiming with the otherworldliness of the figure’s alien head. Since leaving Berlin, the artist has returned to her hometown of Los Angeles, where she studied at UCLA. She has remained deeply engaged with West Coast artistic and subcultural scenes ever since. Behind the golden sculpture, a series of wall-based works is installed: 1–9, an arrangement of silver metal pyramidal objects, echoing the shape of the sculpture’s pedestal. The objects are arranged in geometrical groups, forming pixelated compositions reminiscent of early arcade games such as *Tetris*, their components growing in number incrementally in accordance with the titles. They appear as perfectly geometric objects from afar, but upon closer inspection, are revealed to be textured by auspicious imperfections. Oversized metal rivets come to mind viewing the works, adorning white walls instead of worn leather clothes. Throughout the 1980s, the slogan “Just Say No” entered the American vernacular. Not in the way Nancy intended, however. A truism of armchair pop psychoanalysis is that prohibition and taboo foment curiosity and desire in their wake. If negating (saying no) is the requirement, a risible primary negation can become a double negation (saying no to saying no), which, in the vicissitudes of the negating trajectory, somersaults eventually into affirmation. “Anti” or, in this case, “anti-anti” unfolded new registers of cultural production and modes of (often drug-affirmative) sociality in the many punk and DIY countercultures from the 1980s through 1990s across the US, which pushed against the currents of institutional frameworks. These countercultures shaped visual languages that are sedimented in Craft’s artistic vocabulary—the enlarged rivets on the wall in *Just Say Nein* are just one example of the many relics of punk imagery and of vanished rock music subcultures that often run through her works. Craft’s interest in countercultural urban mythologies and cults—exemplified at Grotto by the souvenir alien-head, the pyramidal structures, the animal reliefs, and a crystal gemstone on a windowsill—taps into a persistent imaginary of L.A. as a city suspended between glossy spectacle and chaotic, murky undercurrents of New Age mysticism, vernacular symbolism, and aesthetics of kitsch. These aesthetic codes and adjacent materialities here are folded into an attention to major (e.g. Victoria) and marginal (animal ornaments on the bridge Craft crossed daily) iconographies from the surrounding urban topology of Berlin, channelled through her own personal quotidian urban trajectories during her time living in Germany. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4.-LC_GROTTO_5_s.jpg) Fig.2 In the fiction of Germanness and its socio-historical, infrastructural, and bureaucratic iterations, an automatized and atomized “Nein” is probably much more heavily implied than “Ja”: *Nein, you cannot have this license. Nein, you cannot get this permission. Nein, you cannot get an Anmeldung. Nein, you cannot get an Aufenthaltsstatus*. Craft has made a series of green badges reminiscent of those of Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No“ campaign, a limited edition of which visitors may buy and take home (or to their next appointment at the Bürgeramt or the Ausländerbehörde). As Hannah Arendt argues, “secondary virtues”, such as obedience, discipline, punctuality, and a sense of order—as sedimented in these types of restrictive “Nein”—arise from a fusion of pietistic morality and a military ethos, that she regards most paradigmatically developed in Prussian society, whose victories are monumentalized just around the corner by the “Goldelse”. In his early writings, Ernst Bloch analyzes this Prussian morality as an anti-utopia: obedience, duty, and asceticism here stand for a “no” to the fullness of life, a negation of human possibilities and potential. He sees in this the very opposite of the revolutionary hope he champions. Hope, he says, can be nurtured in a different form of negation: A “concrete” negation of the existing “no“, opening up space of everything that could be, but which remains “not-yet”. It’s sunny when I leave Grotto and stroll through Tiergarten wearing a “Just Say Nein” badge on my jacket. The glistening Prussian “Golden Lizzy” flashes between the leaves of a treetop. I squint, dazzled, and I see her peeling herself out of her tunic. The insignia of Prussian victory she’s holding—a laurel wreath in her right hand, a field standard with the Iron Cross in her left—slip from her grasp. She stretches out one of her hands, transforming into Craft’s golden dissenter. A monument for refusalists. “History is full of people who just didn’t,”\[2\] begins Anne Boyer's text “No”. The past is cramped with people who said “no” in a way opposed to the simple “just” of Nancy Reagan’s “no” and the Prussian “no” to the fullness of life monumentalized by the “Golden Lizzy”. Saying “no” to these “noes” (e.g., in the Blochian sense) is actually not that easy. Many double negations—not just those of the once fringe “anti-anti” American countercultures cited in Craft’s work—have lost their edge over time and have been seamlessly adapted by that which they once tried to negate. Neoliberal cultural and institutional programmatics swallow attempts at saying “no” in the form of an avant-garde impulse to transgress. Given these conditions, negating negation proves challenging, but not impossible. There are many alternative lineages of “no”, which can be found in practices of refusal, opting out, fugitivity, turning away, or halting production from within; in the practices of those who, in their refusals, “reshape desire, reorient hope, reimagine possibility”\[3\]. There are really endless ways of saying “no”. Unruly, excessive, and humorous “noes”, as well as obedient, oppressive, and destructive ones are stalling, echoing, and glitching on the outstretched palm of Craft’s statue. The negation of negation is brimming with potential. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\]Ronald Reagan and Nancy Reagan, "President Reagan’s and Nancy Reagan’s Address to the Nation on Drug Abuse from the Residence," September 14, 1986, Master Tape #701, courtesy Ronald Reagan Presidential Library, Address\_to\_the\_Nation\_on\_Drug\_Abuse\_Campaign,\_September\_14,\_1986.webm, accessed June 7, 2025. \[2\]Anne Boyer: ‘No’. In: The Poetry Foundation. 2017 https://www.poetryfoundation.org/featured-blogger/77342/no \[3\]Jack Halberstam: ‘The Wild Beyond: With and for the Undercommons’, in: Moten, Fred and Harney, Stefano: The Undercommons. Fugitive Planning & Black Study. New York: Minor Compositions 2013. Images Cover: Liz Craft, Just Say Nein, button, 2025, GROTTO. Courtesy the artist and GROTTO, Berlin. Photo: Leonie Herweg. Fig.1: Liz Craft, Just Say Nein, exhibition view, 2025, GROTTO. Courtesy the artist and GROTTO, Berlin. Photo: Nick Ash. Fig.2: Liz Craft, Just Say Nein, 1-9 (detail), 2025, GROTTO. Courtesy the artist and GROTTO, Berlin. Photo: Nick Ash. *Jo Pistorius works at the intersection of theory, curating, and text production. They studied philosophy and comparative literature in Berlin and Paris and are currently enrolled in the MA Contemporary Art Theory at Goldsmiths, University of London.* ### Fury hunts URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/fury-hunts/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:57.000Z Outside of my affinity for video games as liminal spaces for reimagining one’s body, dogs—specifically hunting dogs—were the first form of in-betweenness I had access to. Queerness and transitioning bodies were never visible or legible in my surroundings. Instead, I first encountered fluidity in these creatures, whose roles blurred the boundaries between nature and culture. I write not from theory alone, but from lived experience. I came into awareness of my queerness and shapeshifting nature through the eyes of hunting dogs—beings cast into scripted roles, made to perform within someone else’s (hunting) game. A game that traps them between Being (nature) and Becoming (culture; hunting ritual). Over time, I learned to understand the hunting dog as a kind of NPC \[1\] (non-play- able character): instrumentalized yet vital, shaped by someone else’s desire, and still capable of engaging in fluid, naturalcultural dances \[2\] that dissolve this binary. This was a dance I intuitively participated in from an early age—a relational way of being, though I only became fully aware of it later. Hunting dogs modeled, within hunting spaces, forms of presence throughdissociative methods, externalization, and relationality; techniques that disidentify from fixed selfhood to embody another’s desire. To survive within a culturally oppressive script, the dog exter- nalizes its own identity and adopts shapeshifting as a survival method—an implicit strategy found among many oppressed bodies and in-between identities. These performances—acts of LARPing (LARP - live action role-playing), of self-induced possession—overtake one’s identity within a meticulously choreographed space. Like any social performance, hunting depends on the dog’s social education. In the hunt, the hunter is not merely a provider but a figure of toxic authority—a social father who trains the dog in the logics of violence, hierarchy, and control without allowing it to transcend the category of “animal”. While being confined to preliminary readings of nature, dogs are also brought into the domestic space of the nuclear family, turned into symbols of cultural status, and asked to embody human desires that suppress instinct. The dog’s performance as an extension of the man’s cultural body—as a prosthetic of his desire—closely mirrors the shapeshifting demands of queer subjects who must navigate, survive, and resist within binary constructs. In these shapeshifting performances, hunters LARP into hypermasculine supermen, staging dominance in a tightly controlled drama. Dogs, meanwhile, are made to become (hunting) dogs, performing themselves into tools: hyper-functional, enraged, and attuned. Yet doing so requires a sensitivity that is specifically non-human, a somatic awareness of proximity and distance in relation to the hunt, the hunted, love, and the hunter’s figure \[3\]. In this way, the hunting scene becomes a triangulated framework—composed of hunter, dog, and spectator—each positioned differ- ently but co-implicated in the performative structure. The dog’s participation in this structure intensifies experiences of possession and desire that exceed its agency. This is a desire that consumes the dog as an animal, only to mask the deeper necessity of performing cultur- ally-driven roles as a means of survival. Dogs are woven into this triangular framework, transcending their animality by assuming companionship, while also laboring through their embodied animal capacities. Their inclusion in hunting rituals amplifies human prowess, granting access to nature’s organizational and strategic codes. Yet this relationship also exposes the extractive logics of hunting—a microcosm of broader colonial projects that objectify and exploit proximity to animality. Through first-hand involvement, my understanding of hunting as a form of cultural becoming is of a space where initiating the chase becomes an act of resistance. What I’ve always found particularly compelling about the dog’s position in this choreography is its capacity to navigate transformation, rather than to produce a static identity. That ability—to shift between Being and Becoming—closely mirrors how queerness is lived: as continual adaptation rather than a resolution. In this liminality, hunting dogs be- came not just tools of possession but figures through whom queerness could emerge, survive, and be recognized. To be a hunter, for a dog, is to survive. For hunters, the field is an enclosure: a curated totality where dominance is enacted upon those deemed killable. For dogs, this structure is inverted. Rather than exert dominance, they mediate these terrains through continuous becomings, without ever surrendering their animality. While dogs may appear to replicate the hunter’s chase, their pursuit holds potential for resistance. As beings who can embody human desire while remaining irreducibly animal, hunting dogs model an alternative kind of survival. This is not a failure to escape animality, but a conscious alignment with the naturalcultur- al dance—a survival strategy rooted in relationality, empathy, and attunement. To dismiss this as passive is to overlook the transformative potential of sensitivity as agency. Hunting, then, is a stage where becoming the cultural is performed rather than embodied. While the hunter seeks to replace or transcend the human, the hunting dog embodies a different possibility: the rationalization of survival through shapeshifting. A way of navigating, rather than overcoming, the violent terrains of fear and control. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] “NPC” as in, a body that gestures agency through dissociated modes of participation. One that pushes away from physicality to access alternative forms of presence within cultural spectacles. \[2\] Donna J. Haraway, "When Species Meet" (London: University of Minnesota Press, 2008). \[3\] G. W. F. Hegel, "Phenomenology of Spirit", trans. A. V. Miller (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979). Image: Taiz by Meii Soh. Photo: Eliska Klimesová. © and courtesy of the artist *Meii Soh is a performer, writer, and researcher working at the intersection of queer identity, non-human narratives, and speculative storytelling. Their practice examines shapeshifting as a survival strategy, tracing how identity—particularly in its fluid, trans\*, and dissociative states—can glitch, dissolve, and reassemble through interspecies entanglements and tech- nological interfaces.* ### Falasarna Whispers URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/falasarna-whispers/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:56.000Z There are places in the world that don’t simply "exist". They anchor. For me, this is one of those places. Its turquoise waters and wide, windswept sands formed more than the backdrop of my childhood summers; they helped script the narrative of who I have become. I remember sunny afternoons diving off rocks, salty fingers clutching chunks of watermelon, and the hush of dusk when only cicadas dared speak. A Hellenistic harbor on the western edge of Crete, [Falasarna](https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phalasarna?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) has long been described as magnificent, exotic, spectacular, stunning. But none of these words capture the quiet dignity of the land as I knew it, or the violence of its recent transformation. Renowned for its crystalline waters and sandy beaches, Falasarna emerged as a paradigm of natural beauty and historical significance. Now, it sits on the frontline of a climate and developmental reality far removed from the land I remember. Crete—once wild, uneven, and fiercely unpolished—has turned into a vast theme park. Marked by rapid tourism encroachment, it’s no wonder drones and AI are now deployed to identify "underutilized" public land in coastal areas [for subsequent sale and exploitation](https://www.tovima.com/finance/drones-and-ai-to-detect-encroachment-of-public-land-in-greece/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). The implementation of such a legislative framework in Greece is already in progress, with Crete in the spotlight for many years. Under current law, a new electronic platform facilitates the auctioning of “underutilized” coastal land to investors waiting, algorithmically and silently, to devour it. This is how memory is bulldozed. This is how the land becomes currency. Communities that for decades inhabited the island are now confronted with an alien, heavily privatized landscape. After the 2008 economic crisis, neoliberal policies in Greece gained strength—privatization, deregulation, and the commodification of space became not only normalized but celebrated. What began with austerity has metastasized into full-scale dispossession. Infrastructure megaprojects such as rampant wind farm installations, the imminent threat of oil and gas drilling across a 40,000-square-kilometer area by ExxonMobil, and [an unrelenting tide of luxury resorts signal not progress but extraction](https://www.ekathimerini.com/economy/1201793/drilling-for-gas-in-crete-to-start-earlier/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org#:~:text=ExxonMobil%20plans%20to%20start%20exploratory,Swift%2C%20from%20Norwegian%20firm%20PGS). When I see construction sites in Crete, I think of my grandmother’s stories—how she once walked barefoot through olive groves now fenced off for resort developments and luxury hotels. It feels as though the more sacred a place is, the faster it’s sold. As land and resources once shared by communities become appropriated and commercialized, spaces of rich biodiversity are transformed into destinations for the elite few. Agricultural rights diminish. Noise, pollution, erosion grow. Social discord deepens. The late archival theorist Jeanette Bastian wrote eloquently about how landscapes preserve memory (1). In her words, when a landscape changes, so does our ability to remember. The land, she said, is not just a surface but an archive—composed of paths, ruins, plants, and rituals. For me, the smell of thyme and dittany in the summer wind is as much an archive as any official record. It carries the pulse of countless footsteps—human and more-than-human—who crossed this land long before us, leaving traces of belonging behind. Such processes of change and disruption imprint their influence on every land. They leave deep scars. And yet, as I write this text at my mother’s house in Crete, I find myself caught again between resignation and wonder. I doubt things can be different—and still, it’s in these stolen moments, watching the sun dip behind the sea, that hope returns in fragments. Mark Fisher once wrote about the impossibility of imagining alternatives under capitalism. But even amid despair, imagination remains revolutionary. A radical act. To dream together is to resist. And we are not yet stripped of that right—we still hold the power to dissent, to assemble, to listen, to speak, to disrupt the narratives imposed on us. In the aftermath of a coastline bill proposed by Greece’s Finance Ministry—designed to enable commercial construction at the water’s edge—Falasarna faced a new blow: the approval of an 850-bed hotel complex. The once-quiet cove where I swam with family and friends is now dominated by beach bars, vast parking lots, recreational drones hovering over the shoreline, and pending luxury hotels for the very few. Nearly 80% of the beach is already occupied by umbrellas and chaise lounges, with prices ranging from €15 to €300\. This commodification has spiraled into a sand-based catering industry, colloquially called “the pigs”—electric 4x4 motorbikes delivering food and drinks directly to beachgoers—bringing noise, pollution, and erosion in their wake. Meanwhile, no visible measures exist to protect the nesting grounds of the endangered *Caretta caretta* turtle, a symbol of fragile coexistence between nature and culture. Bulldozers may not have arrived yet, but they loom. In response, a coalition named "[Save Falasarna](https://www.facebook.com/groups/savefalasarna/)" has formed—neighbors, activists, ecologists, locals, and concerned international visitors. Their resistance is rooted not in nostalgia but in survival. They refuse the conversion of authenticity into currency—the idea that everything pure must be stripped, branded, and monetized. And this isn’t isolated. This isn’t just about Falasarna. South of here, in the pristine stretch of Triopetra, another storm brews. A massive private development—spanning over 1.6 million square meters—plans to build a high-end residential and leisure resort. Framed as "harmonious with nature," it is anything but. Phase A envisions the beachfront transformed into a luxury enclave, while Phase B imagines an "upscale village" carved into untouched hills. Backed by foreign and Greek firms, the Triopetra project mirrors Falasarna’s fate. The same logic, the same violence—just dressed in different marketing gloss. In the face of these transformations, it is critical to reclaim imagination—not just as escape but as a way of envisioning our lives tomorrow. As Arjun Appadurai reminds us, imagination is a social practice, a space for building new futures (2). The archive—real or metaphorical—is one such space. It allows us to remember differently, to grieve, and to dream anew. I sometimes browse through old family photographs taken at Falasarna. In them, we look like time travelers—inhabiting a coastline that no longer exists. The indifference of state institutions makes it clear: we cannot wait for top-down restitution. Change must be community-led—through protests, petitions, actions, storytelling, sharing, listening, planting, refusing. We need archives that breathe. We need histories that resist erasure. We need a politics that acknowledges human suffering and the suffering of the land itself. To confront the intertwined crises of ecological destruction and social injustice, we must reimagine our narratives. We must decenter the human and embrace the entanglement of all life—past, present, and future. Guattari, writing against the backdrop of liberal individualism, called for transversality—a mode of thinking that transcends traditional boundaries, allowing for the crossing and connection of environmental, social, and mental ecologies. In his words, “Now more than ever, nature cannot be separated from culture; to comprehend the interactions between ecosystems, we must learn to think transversally.”(3) The Cretan coastline is not simply under siege—it is teaching us how to think differently. Only through transversal thinking can stories of loss, belonging, and resistance fight their way against the forces of power and oblivion. Let’s not silence them. I do not write this only to grieve. I write to remember. To insist that this land—every land—still speaks. And that we must listen. --- ### Footnotes (1) Jeanette Bastian. (2014, p46).“Records, Memory and Space: Locating Archives in the Landscape,” Public History Review 21 (2) Appadurai, A. (1996). Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. (3) Guattari, F. (2000). The Three Ecologies. *Katerina Gnafaki is an art worker with a strong academic background and extensive experience in curating, coordinating, and managing interdisciplinary exhibitions and festivals. Her work bridges art, technology, and society, with a focus on sound and contemporary digital practices.* ### The shape of a community. URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-shape-of-a-community/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:54.000Z Of late, conversations surrounding community and “togetherness” feel difficult, if not outright performative in the worst cases. Perhaps the point we’re all missing is that we aren’t alone on this planet, and we never were. Grief defines our current landscape; as we scramble to find the answers to cope, many conversations begin to emerge concerning nature and the other life forms with whom we share our earth. Previously predictable cycles, be it those of seasons or of life itself, are collapsing and changing, disrupted by human intervention. How does care, and even love, find its place in the transitional landscape in which we find ourselves? At the end of May, we gathered at E-WERK Luckenwalde to tackle the many questions surrounding love and lament in the sixth rendition of *The Shape of a Circle in the Mind of a Fish*. A symposium festival curated by Lucia Pietroiusti and Filipa Ramos in collaboration with Schering Stiftung, its title explores sand “drawings” created by pufferfish. Perfectly geometric, the phenomenon represents a puzzling pattern that has sparked exploration of perspectives on renewal and forms of togetherness starting six years ago. This edition’s participants include Claudia Rankine, Antoine Bertin, and Staci Bu Shea, among others. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fish-symposium-festival-x-EW_Laila-Kaletta_85.JPG) Fig.1 It is almost three in the afternoon as we are herded over to the dome-like structure in the tall grass on E-WERK’s grounds, called the FLUXDOME, created by the architecture collective umschichten. Under the soft heat of the dome, Antoine Bertin awaits his audience. As we settle onto the blankets that are laid out, some lie down, some sit upright, the experience begins: a guided listening session of recordings and live inputs from the artist. Bertin is a multidisciplinary artist creating field recordings, installations, sculptures, and works that connect the scientific to the artistic through the medium of sound. The meditative nature of Bertin’s work feels incredibly intimate, separating those within the dome from those by the garden stage, the shape of a circle encompasses the audience. Sounds trickle, coo and vibrate under the structure, the audience surrenders itself to the abstract and unexpected. A short moment of balmy serenity settles over us. In his studios in Paris, as well as on the small island of Alicudi off the coast of Italy, Bertin focuses on sound research and production, intending for his works to contribute to the protection of our environment. Powered by Wendel’s Kunststrom, the sound of trickling water and the clicking squeaks of echolocating bats emanate from the speakers in the FLUXDOME, forming an artistic collaboration with a similar environmentalist approach. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fish-symposium-festival-x-EW_Laila-Kaletta_80.JPG) Fig. 2 In the sporadic breaks separating the lectures and contributions, some played cards on a picnic blanket, others engaged in conversation. Some soaked in the sun. The group dissipates and reforms at the garden stage. The weather is cooperating with the predominantly outdoor programme today. Stood in line for a coffee, I hear Staci Bu Shea grace the stage, serenely, as they explain their line of work and the concept of “death doulas”. Writer, curator, educator and consultant, Bu Shea provides holistic grief and death care to clients, acting as an organiser, caregiver, and community member to those grieving. In their debut book *Solution 305: Dying Livingly*, published in January of this year, Bu Shea presents a collection of short essays on living life guided by death, considering death a part of life rather than its antithesis. While the doula has become a recognized role as a non-medical caregiver during birth and pregnancy, Bu Shea sheds light on the benefits of involving a similar figure for what they refer to as “the end of life process”. The passion of grief, the act of lamenting, is often discussed in the context of one individual grieving another individual. How do we apply Bu Shea’s concept to an inconceivable loss on a cultural or global scale? If circumstantially and financially possible, a death doula can provide the interpersonal connection that defines our humanity by way of community, creating space for grief as a part of life. Their reflections on their recent publication could have opened up a conversation that, in light of the ongoing genocide in Palestine and Sudan, among other devastating conflicts, would bear a new weight. While there was no clear discussion mentioning the violence, discussing death and lament in Brandenburg carries certain unique structural difficulties at present. Few answers, no solutions, but an attempt at forging a common understanding. Wrapping up, Bu Shea referenced deaths being “pulled from the future into the present”, a recognition of lives and natural cycles being disrupted and desecrated that stuck with me. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fish-symposium-festival-x-EW_Laila-Kaletta_105.JPG) Fig. 3 Bu Shea is met on stage by Claudia Rankine, and they engage in a beautifully reverent conversation alongside the event’s curators Lucia Pietroiusti and Filipa Ramos, but not before we are introduced to Rankine's forthcoming work, “Triage”. As the poet and essayist makes her way onto the garden stage, she clutches a large envelope overflowing with pages and covered in sticky notes. She pulls a few pages from within the makeshift folder and addresses her audience. Created post-pandemic and due for release next year, “Triage”’s two protagonists, the narrator and the “theorist”, collapse at the sight of one another—a game they play as friends, as well as a freighted reflection of our times. At this point in the programme, we have settled into our role as the audience and into the tempo of the last few contributions. Reading from and reflecting on her manuscript, Rankine proffers the audience questions rather than answers. It begins to sit with me that while I came here with questions unanswered, I will leave as I came. This is not to say that there were no inputs that inspired and provoked action and thought, but rather that the concrete understanding I was seeking was not provided. And it was not the point. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fish-symposium-festival-x-EW_Laila-Kaletta_13.JPG) Fig. 4 The turbine hall hosts the rest of the programme, featuring a reading of *Morris Water Temple* by Jenna Sutela and Jovana Maksić, a screening of *Daughter of Dog* by Revital Cohen and Tuur van Balen, as well as a last-minute relocation of Elizabeth A. Povinelli’s lecture performance to the garden stage. Povinelli, with her infectious energy, presented her ideas on “collapsology” and settler-colonialism through storytelling. Her presentation was engaging, yet I approached Povinelli later to share my appreciation for her lecture performance, admitting I had no idea what she was talking about at times. There was a subtle, yet notable, shift in energy after Povinelli left the garden stage; not a reprieve from honest, uncomfortable feelings, but rather an uptick in tempo. Flashing imagery and a ticking bassline filled the Turbine Hall as *Daughter of Dog* played, posing more questions than answers (again), but also signalling the beginning of the end of our day at E-WERK. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fish-symposium-festival-x-EW_Laila-Kaletta_63.JPG) Fig. 5 E-WERK was a bubble, a charmed circle in the mind of the guests attending the symposium that day. I didn't leave the grounds until dark. When I did, it felt like the gates of E-WERK were an emotional barrier. Carrying the day home with me on the train ride back I reflected on a packed but diverse programme. As much as grief and collapse define our era, so do friendship and kinship, and these were in abundance that day. While Rankine, or any other guest at E-WERK that Saturday, does not have the answers for the questions posed by the present crises, a moment to ponder them together, to sit and lament, and to celebrate, is what keeps our commitment to community afloat. // --- ### All Images: The Shape of a Circle in the Mind of a Fish. Courtesy E-WERK Luckenwalde, photo: Laila Kaletta. *(b. 2001) is an artist and writer based in Berlin. Informed by pop culture phenomena, kitsch and her Balkan heritage, her work navigates identity and objecthood.* ### Getting the lie of the land URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/getting-the-lie-of-the-land/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:53.000Z Arriving in Folkestone in the morning of July 17, to visit the Folkestone Triennial 2025 curated by Sorcha Carey under the title *How lies the land?*, my first act of engagement with the south-eastern English town consists of typing the location of the press tour meeting point in my maps app for directions. Still a bit bleary from the early morning train, there’s a sense of relief in outsourcing my orientation to an interface that abstracts and mediates my relation to the place. Following the familiar blue dot through the coastal town’s streets, the flattening of my experience of the place into coordinates and directions might be somewhat emblematic of this year’s focus of the Triennial: the relations between people and land. My reliance on the map as a digital orientation tool encapsulates a seemingly mundane but historically loaded way of relating to land, a structuring and abstracting practice of making sense of space through rendering it measurable. As curator Sorcha Carey notes in the accompanying publication, the phrase “getting the lie of the land” commonly serves as a shorthand for orientation, as a way of taking stock, locating oneself, and deciding how to proceed. Regarding this phrase in relation to modern orientation practices’ structuring of land, one could describe it as being shaped along two historical paradigms: a vertical axis, which structures acts of extraction and excavation, and a horizontal axis operating by means of mapping, surveillance, and territorialisation. Each enacting their forms of epistemic and material violence, and each grounded in practices of domination. While the vertical axis justifies claims of possession to the land’s resources and a declaration of historical legitimacy, ownership, and authority, the horizontal axis renders land legible, divisible, and governable, abstracting it through borders, grids, and lines of cartographies. Both of these paradigms rely on the map not simply as a tool for orientation, but also as a technology of power. The map organizes perception, directs action, and authorizes interventions, indicating where to go, where to dig, where to settle, and where to anchor meaning. Cartography, then, is never a neutral practice, or “a transparent window on the world; it is a way of seeing, a construction of power, of cultural memory, and of identity.” Rather than reaffirming a cartography manifesting along those axes of orientation, this year’s Folkestone Triennale seeks to trouble them. With 18 new commissions by artists from 15 countries, the festival dismantles cartographic certainty in favour of disorientation, speculation, and experiences of encounter through which the seemingly linear axes of orientation get exposed in their constructedness. By shifting attention away from dominant systems of spatial order, troubling timelines, and exposing political and economic conditions of the place, the Folkestone Triennial enables an encounter with land not as a solid surface or passive backdrop, but one marked by friction, memories, and transformation. Dispersed throughout the town, the artworks lead visitors away from familiar landmarks and tourist routes to off-site locations, previously inaccessible sites, overlooked thresholds, and historically layered terrain. Diverting from the map’s directive logic of where to go, what to see, and what to claim, the Triennial invites a more fragmented relation to place. One that resists the impulse to map, fix, or possess the land, and instead listens to its silences, slippages, and interruptions. An example of such an unsettling of cartographic logic is J. Maizlish Mole’s site-specific work Folkestone in Ruins. Evoking the Situationist notion of *psychogeography* his scaled-up map is installed on a wall of the town’s disused coastal railway station. Based on a 1906 Ordnance Survey map and archival research into Folkestone’s geography from 1900 to 1925, the year the archaeologist S.E. Winbolt published his findings on the Roman villa in Folkestone’s East Wear Bay, which has drawn external attention to the town and boosted its tourism economy, Mole spent five weeks walking 215 miles through the town, layering his own impressions, encounters, and observations onto the historical cartography. Mole’s work seems to challenge fixed modes of orientation as it does not lead toward forms of historical or geographic accuracy but into an affective, fragmentary navigation through memories and movements. In doing so, it unsettles dominant narratives of place, proposing instead a felt, layered understanding of the town’s shifting terrain. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.-FT-2025-Laure-Prouvost-Thierry-Bal-1.jpg) Fig.1 Further down the dock on a concrete post where ferries to France once docked, Laure Prouvost’s surreal sculpture *Above Front Tears, Oui Connect,* greets visitors at the edge of the pier. Her three-headed, three-breasted bird with a plug for a tail blends folk symbolism and technological debris into a narrative that draws ties between land and sea. The desire for reconnecting that which has been divided through myth and memory, inscription and excavation, seems of a recurring motif in this year’s Triennial. Across several commissions, artists return to the concept of deep time and to local folklore, invoking mythical creatures, fossils, and ancient forms of habitation. This aesthetic turn toward temporal abstraction carries with it a form of nostalgia that gestures to a romanticized past seemingly untouched by extraction, modern infrastructure, and industrialisation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4.-FT-2025-Sara-Trillo-Thierry-Bal-1-1.jpg) Fig.2 Jennifer Tee’s *Ocean Tree of Life* takes the form of a large seaweed-shaped ornament embedded in the cliff-top plateau above Folkestone Warren. Made of custom bricks, each one imprinted with a different species of kelp, the piece draws attention to the interconnectedness of marine and terrestrial life. On the hill above it, Sara Trillo’s *Urn Field* is a reconstructed interpretation of an Iron Age burial site, where small vessels, traditionally used to bury the dead, are scaled up and formed from chalk cob, a material that will gradually erode back into the landscape. Both works seem to imagine a slower, cyclical, and purposeful relation to the land. One that echoes an Arcadian desire to reconnect with distant histories that, in their abstraction, may feel more stable and rooted, somehow outside of the ruptures of the accelerated, extractive temporality of the present. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3.-FT-2025-Jennifer-Tee-Thierry-Bal-4.jpg) Fig.3 Ironically, situated in proximity to these two installations is an active excavation site of the East Wear Bay Archaeological Project, following the early 20th-century findings of archaeologist S.E. Winbolt, who uncovered evidence of the Roman villa. Regarded in the context of the festival, the excavation becomes an almost performative representation of a vertical orientation towards historical legitimacy, in which the recovery of proof of cultural continuity becomes not only a scientific practice, but also a cultural and political one entangled with questions of heritage, identity, and belonging. Close by on Folkestone’s East Cliff, one can visit Katie Paterson’s *Afterlife*, installed in the Martello Tower, which was opened to the public for the first time in more than 10 years. Arranged on a circular wooden display are almost 200 replicas of amulets and talismans 3D printed using materials drawn from sites of ecological collapse and threatened ecosystems, including plastic from the Great Pacific Garbage Patch and glacial melt rocks. Reenacting the display of a European Renaissance Wunderkammer, the objects are arranged in categories such as “Extraction”, “Mining”, “War Pollution”, and “Biosphere”. An accompanying catalogue lists each object’s original location, date, and size alongside the material used to reproduce it. While the work seeks to draw attention to the ongoing ecological destruction of different ecosystems and biospheres, a subplot emerges in tracing the culturally and spiritually significant artifacts presented in the installation, many of which still remain in the collections of major cultural institutions, including the British Museum. The objects are detached from their origins for the sake of the European project of modern advancement and scientific progress. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5.-FT-2025-Katie-Paterson-Thierry-Bal-3-1.jpg) Fig.4 Another form of counter-mapping emerges in Cooking Sections’ *Ministry of Sewers*, which documents the degradation of local water systems. For the duration of the festival, the collective transforms Folkestone Harbour’s old Customs House into a fictional civic office where visitors can file complaints about sewage spills, water pollution, and their effects on the inhabitants’ daily life and health. Open daily, the space encourages people to engage with these issues by filling out forms, booking appointments with the Sewer Ministers, and issuing complaints. Covering the Ministry’s walls is a dense map of timelines, informational material, and research that trace the consequences of the UK’s water privatisation under Margaret Thatcher’s 1989 “Water Act”, which turned public utilities over to private companies. As one of the last major privatisations of her government, it marked a shift in the management of public resources, leaving a legacy in the region of widespread water contamination and failing infrastructure. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/6.-FT-2025-Cooking-Sections-Thierry-Bal-1.jpg) Fig. 5 Drawing on the work of grassroots activist groups such as Surfers Against Sewage, the project makes visible the submerged link between neoliberal policy and environmental harm. Opposed to other commissions of the festival, which trace far back into ancient history, the *Ministry of Sewers* is rooted in the recent past, not as nostalgia, but as a forensic investigation in which local complaints become testimonies to map a submerged infrastructure of harm and resistance. In doing so, the project proposes an orientation that demands accountability for the ecological repercussions of the privatisation of public infrastructures. Though Folkestone’s economy has largely been shaped by tourism, mobility, and military infrastructure, it is not immune to the environmental repercussions of Kent’s industrialisation. Once known as “The Garden of England” for its agricultural richness, particularly the northern parts of Kent, became heavily industrialised. This post-industrial legacy is especially present in Dungeness, where two now inactive nuclear power reactors were built in the 1980s. Often described as England’s only desert, the area is a tableau of ecological depletion. It was here that the artist, filmmaker, and activist Derek Jarman established his Prospect Cottage in 1986, which became his home and film set. Against the hostile ground, Jarman started growing a garden around his cottage, which became a symbolically charged act of resilience against the societal hostility to queer life in the late 20th century and state negligence in addressing the AIDS crisis. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/7.FT-2025-Sarah-Wood-Thierry-Bal-guide-2.jpg) Fig.4 Sarah Wood responds to this legacy in her film *Prospect* (2022), produced during a residency at the cottage and shown during the Folkestone Triennial in a small black shed behind the Quarterhouse. Formulated as a letter to Jarman, the film weaves archival footage, outtakes of Jarman’s film The Garden (1990), and Wood’s reflections into an intimate meditation on care, resilience, and the politics of place-making. “But here we are in a new century, up against the pushback of ideological conservatism all over again. What can Jarman’s archive tell us about how to resist and survive right now?” she writes in the accompanying publication. Her sensitive reconstruction of Jarman’s material becomes a tender retracing of his legacy into the present. After a full day walking through Folkestone, I find myself at the seafront, where Emeka Ogboh’s *Ode to the Channel* merges with the tide. Installed beneath the bridge in an underpass leading to the water, three speakers emit a haunting choral composition blending with the incoming waves as they flood the stairs below. Composed with Rachel Gerrard and performed by a local choir named Sirens, the piece gestures toward the mythological figures who lured ancient sailors off course, and, similarly, offers an immersion that disorients while letting one dwell in the view of the sea. Inspired by the geologist Sanjeev Gupta’s use of sonar technology to map the underwater terrain beneath the English Channel, Ogboh’s Ode to the Channel harks back to the ancient floods that first carved the geological divide between Britain and Europe. Drifting away in the uncharted sonic space, merging voices and sea, Ogboh’s work creates a relationship to the Channel rooted in dissonance and immersion where orientation falters with the tide. *Ode to the Channel* is also audible to travellers passing through the Eurotunnel, where the advancements of mobility condition a listening experience that fundamentally differs from my position by the sea. This contrast might be perhaps a fitting example of how a desire for connectivity between land and sea, people and place, is not so much actualized through the escape from current infrastructural conditions or by a retreat into deep time, but rather happens within the tension between poetic detachment and confrontation with material constraints that mediate our relation to land. It suggests that such a connection emerges in confronting the fractured present, a thread that runs through many works in the Triennial. // --- ### Images Cover: J. Maizlish Mole, *Folkestone in Ruins*, commissioned for Creative Folkestone Triennial 2025\. Photo by Thierry Bal Fig.1 Laure Prouvost, *Above Front Tears, Oui Connect*, commissioned for Creative Folkestone Triennial 2025\. Photo by Thierry Bal Fig.2 Sarah Trillo, *Urn Field*, commissioned for Creative Folkestone Triennial 2025\. Photo by Thierry Bal Fi.3 Jennifer Tee, *Oceans Tree of Life, Oui Connect*, commissioned for Creative Folkestone Triennial 2025\. Photo by Thierry Bal Fig.4 Katie Paterson, *Afterlife*, commissioned for Creative Folkestone Triennial 2025\. Photo by Thierry Bal Fig.5 Cooking Sections, *Ministry of Sewers*, commissioned for Creative Folkestone Triennial 2025\. Photo by Thierry Bal Fig.6 Sarah Wood, *Prospect*, commissioned for Creative Folkestone Triennial 2025\. Photo by Thierry Bal *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### Living labor and ghostly contaminations URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/living-labor-and-ghostly-contaminations/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:51.000Z **In The Capital of Accumulation (2010), an ideological homage to Rosa Luxemburg, the magmatic flow of working bodies and restless revolutionaries sets the tempo for global capital. In late-stage capitalism, what subjectivities emerge when labor is disembodied before its own autopsy—when the body of work becomes spectral even before it is mourned?** Unidentified, unmourned spectral bodies pose a central question to any narrative that tries to construct a narrative of “Capital as Progress”. And that is, “What is the human cost of the accumulation of capital?” In *The Accumulation of Capital*, Rosa Luxemburg argued that on a planet overtaken by capital, there is no “outside” left: no more “pre-capitalist” societies, nothing “outside” capital. Capital then begins to erode the ground on which it stands, and, in doing so, the residue of capital is excavated. We could say that it’s like digging mass graves to build new cemeteries. This leads to an accumulation of unidentified bodies, a heap of the residues of capital’s histories - or, as you say, “labor disembodied before its autopsy”. *The Capital of Accumulation* has an unidentified body in its heart, Rosa Luxemburg’s body. Dr. Michael Tsokos, the forensic pathologist at Berlin’s Charité Hospital, had come to believe that the headless torso kept as a “teaching specimen” by the hospital was a relic of Rosa Luxemburg, and the film talks to Tsokos and others about their attempts to prove this. If this were indeed the case, then Rosa’s haunting presence is like an allegory that anchors her argument about the limits of capitalist extraction. The remainder refuses to be resolved. On the facade of the Palace of Culture and Science, built in 1955 in Warsaw, we came across the larger than life-size sculpture of a sari-clad Indian woman. This is the figure we make a claim to as being, for us, Rosa Luxemburg’s alter ego: Luxme Sorabgur—an anagram of Rosa Luxemburg. The name has an Indian ring to it, with Luxme as a passable version of “Lakshmi”—deified as the goddess of wealth in Indic mythologies. Since all wealth, and most capital, is living labor, we found it interesting to think of Rosa Luxemburg’s imagined Indian alter ego as a woman called Luxme. Carrying, in her name, the ambivalent sense of being the living labor that congeals into capital, dead labor. In *The Capital of Accumulation*, Luxme is an interlocutor, asking us, the audience, and Rosa Luxemburg all sorts of questions. She reads the long history of industrial capital in the twentieth century through the prisms of Bombay, Berlin, and Warsaw, and, by doing so, she narrates not the dead weight of times past, but the seeds of possibilities. **Your moving images act as solvents of time, dissolving the hardened layers of colonial history embedded in the present. Through what could be called a “spectral montage,” scenes of conquest, displacement, and mourning coexist rather than remain buried. How does this ghostly manipulation of the image become a form of epistemic disobedience, resisting the linear, developmental logic that drives capitalist accumulation?** Towards the end of the work, as a preface to a sequence illuminated by rosy flamingoes on a marsh in Bombay, we offer up a Möbius Strip-like conceptual figuration: “the inside is now the outside”. Meaning that the space of capital (the city) has grown to the extent that what was once the edge is now the centre. The voice questions itself, speaks of a “getaway car”, almost as if a question could provide the “getaway car” for its answer. A sonic Möbius strip made up of the twisting of the spoken onto the unspoken: words, and silences between words, dissolving congealed space-time. Just as the figure of the Möbius strip displaces a linear understanding of space to yield to a more “folded” image, so too, time gets folded in the narrative of the film. This makes it impossible to posit an alien, external future—a consequence of the everlasting deferral produced by the logic of “progress”. This is where what you are referring to as the “epistemic disobedience” that does not assent to the linear, developmental logic that drives capitalist accumulation is located. Instead of complying with this linear logic, the film insists on a contamination of one time by other times. This is done using voices that play with tenses, and by introducing polyphonic timelines that gesture to the simultaneous consideration of different times. This is what turns Rosa Luxemburg and Luxe Sorabgur into contemporaries. **The meandering nature of your work pursues dialectical image juxtaposition. I want to evoke one striking scene: a close-up of a *New York Times* article on colonial extraction in India that blurs into unreadability, followed by an image of dried leaves. Here, accumulation is not about growth or expansion, but about what remains—affect, ruin, memory, breath, and natural detritus. What kinds of value emerge from this residual, unmeasurable ground—this compost of exhausted light?** *The Capital of Accumulation* begins with a voice talking about leaves fallen on the forest floor. The voice says, “When I saw you walk the city’s streets, I heard you listen to the voice of fallen leaves on the forest floor.” And then it says, “This too was an accumulation, this heap of leaves, this gathering of open veins, a compost of dreams, exhausted from harvesting the light of a bleak sun.” This stages the entire work as a collage of acts of reading things that have fallen—leaves, a body, an uprising, an episode in history—and yet, the accumulation of these “things that have fallen” in the course of the accumulation of capital are not seen as detritus, nor the remains that remain in the wake of defeats. Rather, they—like a heap of fallen leaves on forest floors—are compost, fertile and generative. Their impact on time and on the organic growth of life-processes in time, is beyond measure. That is why, the image of the close-up of a fragment of a page of the *New York Times* for January 15, 1922 is accompanied by a voice that says: “*The New York Times* puts trade figures between Germany and India and the curious fate of the thoughts of Rosa Luxemburg on the same page. Sometimes a newspaper can be read like a tarot card.” This invocation of the act of reading a newspaper—the first draft of history—as if it were a set of tarot cards is an insistence on valuing what can’t be simply quantified. Again, like the heap of leaves, how different events and processes rub up against each other in the same period cannot simply be measured as quantity. They add up to qualities, a compost of dreams. // Raqs Media Collective (\*1992) is composed by Jeebesh Bagchi, Monica Narula and Shuddhabrata Sengupta) The word “raqs”, in several languages, denotes an intensification of awareness and presence attained by being in a state of revolution. Raqs take this sense to mean “kinetic contemplation” and a restless and energetic entanglement with the world and with time. Raqs have shown at Documenta, the Venice, São Paulo, Istanbul, and Sydney Biennales. They have had solo shows at the National Gallery of Modern Art, Delhi; K-21, Düsseldorf; Whitworth Gallery Manchester; MUAC, Mexico City; Mathaf Museum of Modern Art, Doha; and at Proa, Buenos Aires, amongst other locations. They have curated editions of Manifesta, the Shanghai Biennale, and the Yokohama Triennale. Most recently, Raqs were finalists for the design competition for the 22nd July National Memorial in Oslo, Norway. --- ### Images: Raqs Media Collective, *The Capital of Accumulation* (2020), video still. Copyrights and courtesy Raqs Media Collective. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Die Stadt als Plantage URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cosima-von-bonin/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:50.000Z Mit *7000 Palmen* bringt Cosima von Bonin ein scheinbar harmloses Bild in die Stadt: Die Palme, Symbol für Sehnsucht, Ferne, Sommer. Doch genau diese Imagination wird von der Künstlerin dekonstruiert. Die Silhouetten, als Wimpelketten über der ganzen Kasseler Innenstadt gespannt, wirken auf den ersten Blick wie Festschmuck, ein Beitrag zur kollektiven Freude im Stadtraum. Doch in ihrer massenhaften Aneinanderreihung verweisen sie nicht an die artenreichen Palmenwälder des Mittelmeerraums, sondern an die Monokultur der Plantage. Für die Kasseler\*innen ist der Titel eine klare Reminiszenz an die Arbeit Joseph Beuys’ *7000 Eichen – Stadtverwaldung statt Stadtverwaltung* (1982), schließlich sind sie unübersehbar von den 7000 Bäumen umgeben, denen als Kennzeichnung eine Basaltstele zur Seite gestellt wurde. Viel weniger monumental, ja flüchtig und flatternd richtet Bonin ihre Kritik dabei nicht nur an eine künstliche, beliebige und bürgerliche Stadtverwaltung, wie sie Beuys einst karikierte, sondern an tief verwurzelte koloniale Blickregime, die Natur romantisieren, Geographien exotisieren und Machtverhältnisse zementieren. Die Beuys’sche “soziale Plastik", die Vorstellung, dass jeder Mensch Künstler\*in ist und an sozialer Transformation beteiligt sein kann, wird durch das im Wind flatternde Ornament in Frage gestellt - oder temporär und finanziell begrenzt. Die Palmen-Ketten wurden kostenfrei an Kasseler\*innen verteilt und werden in Programmen mit Schulen und anderen Kooperationspartner\*innen aufgegriffen und angebracht. *7000 Palmen* steht exemplarisch für das kuratorische Programm von Moritz Wesseler am Fridericianum, der nicht auf Repräsentation zielt, sondern auf synästhetische Verschiebungen. Ausstellungen wie Martine Syms’ Dekonstruktion medialer Schwarzer Repräsentation, Lee Kits melancholische Displays aus Licht, Text und Konsumresten oder Mario García Torres’ Recherchen zu gescheiterten Utopien und kultureller Erinnerung zeigen eine klare Linie: ein Interesse an Strategien, die Zeitgeschichte mit Alltag verzahnen, übersehenes Wissen sichtbar machen und dem Banalen neue Tiefe verleihen. Ulla Wiggens Pupillen-Gemälde untersuchen das Innenleben von Körper und Museum, Adam Harrison spielt mit dem Rhythmus des öffentlichen Raums, Kerstin Brätsch mit der Zersetzung malerischer Tradition. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4_Fridericianum_CvB_Wimpelkette_Probe_photo_Nicolas_Wefers_004_.jpg) Fig.1 In diesem Kontext ist von Bonins Arbeit eine zugespitzte Verdichtung: kein warmer Humor, sondern ein harter, oft zynischer Ton, der gerade durch seine Kälte erkenntniskritische Öffnungen erzeugt. Sie erzählt nicht von einem versöhnlichen Miteinander, sondern von einer Realität, in der migrantische Gruppen weiterhin tokenisiert, Lebensrealitäten exotisiert und Pflanzen zum Schmuck europäischer Sehnsüchte degradiert werden. Die Palme, einst ein europäisches Zeichen der Aneignung oder eine Subjektivierung des „Orients“, wird in postkolonialer Karikatur einer einer Omnipotenzfantasie – eine dekorative Geste, die über die Leerstellen der deutschen Gegenwart hinwegtrösten soll. Die Hommage an Beuys und Buren steht dabei im Zentrum des Werks und zugleich quer zu ihm. Während Beuys’ *7000 Eichen* den Stadtorganismus mit Langsamkeit und Wachstum herausforderte, reagiert von Bonin mit kapitulierender Beschleunigung: Ein Wegwerfprodukt mobil, ephemer, Merchandise, das man\* auch im Museumsshop kaufen kann. Anders als Beuys’ basaltbegleitete Setzungen hinterlassen die Palmen kaum langfristige Spuren, sondern wehen durch die Stadt, als wolle sie die Idee der Nachhaltigkeit selbst zur Disposition stellen. Auch der Bezug zu Daniel Buren – dessen gestreifte Ghirlandes 1982 zur documenta 7 den Friedrichsplatz bespielten – wird in *7000 Palmen* unterlaufen: Während Buren geometrisch-streng über die Struktur der Fläche nachdachte, geht es bei von Bonin um symbolische Entgrenzung, um die Travestie des Motivs. Ihre Palmen-Girlanden tragen Festlichkeit in sich, eher als Echo aus Werbung, Clubkultur und kolonialer Imagination denn als soziale Erhabenheit. Die „Hommage“ ist eine doppelte Geste: respektvoll und entlarvend zugleich – ein Tribut an eine vergangene Idee von Kunst im öffentlichen Raum und eine sarkastische Bestandsaufnahme ihrer heutigen Komplizenschaft mit romantisierter Unterwerfung. // --- ### Images: Cover: Cosima von Bonin: 7000 Palmen, 2025 (Installationsansicht / Installation view Fridericianum, Kassel) Foto / Photo: Nicolas Wefers, © Cosima von Bonin, documenta und Museum Fridericianum gGmbH Fig.1 Cosima von Bonin: 7000 Palmen, 2025\. (Installationsansicht / Installation view Fridericianum, Kassel) Foto / Photo: Nicolas Wefers © Cosima von Bonin, documenta und Museum Fridericianum gGmbH *Octavia Abril ist eine chilenische Schriftsteller\*in, die sensibel auf den Lauf der Jahreszeiten reagiert. Ihre Werke gedeihen, beeinträchtigt durch ihre immer wieder neuen Allergien, die sie aufgrund des Klimawandels und industriell verarbeiteter Lebensmittel erleidet, in den Grenzbereichen zwischen Institutionen und Weinbergen. Mit dieser körperlichen Verfassung beschloss sie, Welten und Worte in gefährlichen Küssen zu schaffen. Sie boykottiert Werbung Plakate, ist aber immer für gute Gespräche zu haben.* ### Colonial Afterlives, Local Convergences URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/colonial-afterlives-local-convergences/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:48.000Z *In her ongoing engagement with the architectures of domination and resistance, Samia Henni maps the psychic and material afterlives of colonialism through exhibitions, writing, and pedagogy. One of her most recent projects,* Psycho-Colonial Spaces*, unfolds at* [*Ar/Ge Kuns*](https://argekunst.it/it/programma?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[*t*](https://argekunst.it/it/programma?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *in Bolzano as a process of listening, translating, and reassembling collective memory. The following conversation took place during the closing days of the exhibition, echoing its initial questions: How can we approach colonial spatial violence—not through static narratives, but through forms that remain porous, embodied, and insistently local? Henni shares with us what emerged.* **Do you see yourself as an academic?** I wear many hats. I use whatever role I need—whatever gets me where I need to go, depending on the context I'm in—so I can do the work I believe in. If I need to be an academic, I’m an academic. Sometimes I’m an architect, sometimes an artist. People call me all sorts of things, and I’m fine with any title—as long as it respects the work I do. **How would you define that work?** I try to expose the histories of what has been built, destroyed, and imagined. I don’t call it “architecture.” I think of it more as a way to engage with the traces of what humans have done on this planet: we build, we destroy, and we imagine. The imagination is a form of liberation. But the destruction—especially when tied to colonial and military practices—is a form of domination. Construction and destruction are often two sides of the same imperial coin. I work through writing, exhibitions, teaching, and conversations. I speak with people, I connect their experiences. I try to understand and share what different communities go through. I’m lucky to speak several languages—Arabic, French, Italian, English, and some German—which helps me reach across different contexts. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ-Installation-View-SAMIA-HENNI-PSYCHOCOLONIAL-SPACES-ACT-1-Tiberio-Sorvillo_63A7092.jpg) Fig.1 **When did you begin to understand your work as holding so much responsibility?** It’s always shifting. The process evolves, depending on the urgency of the moment. Right now, the world feels upside down. Fascist regimes are rising and there’s no accountability. My work has to respond to that. I can’t keep repeating the same gestures or rehearsing what I already know. I’m in a kind of crisis, honestly. Maybe I can express it clearly here, but it isn’t so clear in reality, because the moment it becomes fixed, it can be captured and neutralized. It has to remain fluid, subversive. A disobedient practice. **Urgency is such a defining word today—used constantly, and often misused. I wonder how you navigate that saturation. Your work with language, research, and space demands presence and reflection. I’m thinking especially of your engagement with someone like Frantz Fanon, who had rare clarity about what has been urgent for centuries.** I can’t allow myself the luxury of saturation. I’m in a privileged position—I have passports that allow me to move, have a job, and a salary. So I can’t just sit back and say, what can I do? For me, saturation implies exhaustion, but also stagnation. We’re confronted with so much urgency that it becomes immobilizing. But I try to resist that. In the exhibition, for instance, you may not see the movement—but it’s there. The scale of stagnation obscures it. That’s also part of the strategy of colonial and capitalist power: to camouflage the movement, to make us think nothing is changing. I’m thinking explicitly about Gaza and the global complicity in genocide—the erasure of international law, the psychological warfare, the surveillance of social media, the censorship by institutions and even academic donors. It’s a massive machinery of repression. But we must not stop. We must not dare to stop. Even in our exhaustion, we resist. Because we know what the machinery wants: our despair, our paralysis, our stagnation. That’s how colonialism has operated for centuries. So refusing that paralysis, insisting on solidarity—this is crucial. We must see the movement, insist it exists, and show it to others. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LQ-Installation-View-SAMIA-HENNI-PSYCHOCOLONIAL-SPACES-ACT-1-Tiberio-Sorvillo_63A7111.jpg) Fig.2 **That brings me to a striking contrast in the exhibition. On one side, there’s movement—research, conversation, cartography. On the other hand, there are the black canvases showing the suspended maps of former monarchies and empires. How did this form emerge?** Let me explain how I work. For example, there's a project called *Performing Colonial Toxicity* that was inaugurated in 2023 at Framer Framed in Amsterdam, and which is currently part of a collective exhibition at Kunstraum Kreuzberg in Berlin. That project is based on years of research. It visualizes the French nuclear weapons program in the Sahara using interviews, private documents, and site-specific materials. Other exhibitions, like *Archive: Secret Défense?* and *Discreet Violence*, also dealt with colonial and military archives. But *Psychocolonial Spaces* is different. When Francesca Verga invited me to Ar/Ge Kunst in Bolzano, I didn’t want to simply show finished work. The space is small, and I wanted to use it as a platform to create knowledge with the local inhabitants. We formed discussion groups, bringing people who didn’t know each other into long, four-hour conversations around the concept of psychocolonial space. Some were hesitant, even anxious. But these turned into deep sessions where people reflected on the spaces of their own city, their bodies, their languages, and their histories. One person spoke about a relative who had served in Ethiopia. Others talked about churches, streets, and colonial memories. It was important to avoid parachuting in external content. We stayed with their experiences. We recorded these conversations from above to maintain anonymity, and we visually documented them—printing images of the places, monuments, books, even the moments we couldn’t visually confirm. Sometimes we printed placeholders—images that resembled but didn’t fully capture what was named. It was an experimental process. I listened to the recordings over and over, and began to understand the layers: temporalities, geographies, and empires. The Roman Empire came up repeatedly—how children in Bolzano are taught to take pride in it, how it reappears in fascist narratives. So we mapped that, starting with the Roman Empire, then the Italian fascist colonial empire in Africa. Bolzano was once Austrian, then it became Italian. The maps reflect how borders shift, how empires redraw space, how lives are disrupted. But the cartographies are fragile. They're drawn on a black, chalk-like surface—they’re erasable. Like the real-world violence of border-making they’re indifferent to geography, religion, or language. **Did that form—the fragility, the black surface—come from the conversations?** Yes. The recordings were made in February 2025, and after that, I disappeared to think about how to expose these exchanges. Even Francesca was probably worried or curious, often asking—Are you ok?! (laughs). But I needed time. I listened to every conversation again and again. I had moderated them, asked questions like *where is your psychocolonial space? How is it embodied?* Eventually, I edited each recording into a 12-minute video. The first half of the discussions focuses on the self. The second half asks what message the participants want to send to visitors. The final curatorial decisions emerged from that tension. The maps, the voices, the visuals—all grew from what people shared. It was the first time I worked like this. But it made sense: to generate knowledge collectively, not just to represent it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LQ-Installation-View-SAMIA-HENNI-PSYCHOCOLONIAL-SPACES-ACT-1-Tiberio-Sorvillo_63A7148.jpg) Fig.3 **Two questions in one. First: how did you select the people who came together for these conversations? And, second: did they share a connection to, or draw on, Fanon’s ideas—especially his notions of the Manichean world and/or colonial psychiatry—to engage with the spatial violence you were addressing?** Honestly, I didn’t know anyone in Bolzano beforehand except Francesca Verga (the co-curator), Verena Rastner (the executive director), and a few architects. I worked closely with Francesca and Verena. Because of the scale and nature of the space, I wanted to work with small groups of participants. Each group shared a commonality—either in terms of profession or background. We had one group composed of psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists. Another was made up of architects, planners, and sociologists—those who work closely with the city. A third group included activists and journalists, many of whom are engaged in information work, media, and the rights of refugees and unhoused people. A fourth group consisted of young students, aged between 19 and 23, all studying in Bolzano, as well as historians, artists, and curators. Among these participants, a few were familiar with Fanon. For example, a sociologist in the architecture and planning group. A historian in another group had read his work. But Fanon’s theories weren’t a required reference point. What mattered to me was that each group shared a language of experience so our conversations could remain grounded. I asked Francesca and Verena to suggest people in Bolzano who might fit each group—whether or not they knew them personally. We then worked to ensure the final selection was diverse and balanced, bringing in multiple experiences and perspectives. **So there wasn’t a direct or required link to Fanon?** No, but I did send participants a text about Fanon I published in 2024 in [Mousse Magazine](https://www.moussemagazine.it/magazine/frantz-omar-fanon-samia-henni-2024/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). It was more of an invitation than a prerequisite: if they had time to read it, great. If not, that was okay too. I also sent them a list of open-ended questions—questions that couldn’t be answered individually or definitively, like “What is a psycho-colonial space?” or “How does it function?”. These questions were not meant to be answered right away but to set the tone. I made it clear that there were no fixed definitions. We’d think together. We might agree, we might not. And that was part of the point. I didn’t know at that stage what form the exhibition would take. I just knew we would document the process—with sound, photography, and video—and then shape the exhibition through post-production. We also translated the final edited pieces into German and English, so the transcriptions and audio exist in three languages. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LQ-Installation-View-SAMIA-HENNI-PSYCHOCOLONIAL-SPACES-ACT-1-Tiberio-Sorvillo_63A7163.jpg) Fig.4 **What insights emerged from these local conversations and experiences?** One dominant theme was language. In Bolzano, where Italian and German languages coexist, some participants described this duality as Italianization. Others called it colonization. That tension—between cultural imposition and erasure efforts—came up repeatedly. I hadn’t expected this to be the main focus. I thought people would speak more about Italy’s colonial legacy—Libya, Eritrea, Ethiopia—the fascist regime and its afterlives. It did come up, especially among the historians and activist groups. One participant said, “It’s impossible we’re still stuck talking about ourselves through this binary—Italophones vs. Germanophones—when we should be addressing the wider colonial condition.” There was a sense that this binary distracted from broader realities and solidarities. I do understand it, and it was good to speak about it openly because it is a daily reality. **Were there any proposals that emerged—concrete or symbolic—for spatial justice or repair? For example, changing street names, creating spaces for care, or rethinking public space as a site for collective healing?** SH These ideas surfaced in different ways, depending on the group. With the students, the conversations centered around education—how the curriculum focuses on the Nazi regime but largely omits other forms of oppression, especially Italian fascism. In the German-speaking part, these histories are taught more clearly, but not so much about the colonial history and legacy of Italy. Some participants pointed to specific injustices—like a vaccination center named after the infamous Battle of Amba Alagi, a colonial battleground. One person said, “It’s a disgrace that this name still exists in a public space. It must be changed or clearly contextualized.” Others brought up how unhoused people and refugees are treated—how the city placed concrete blocks under bridges to prevent their use as shelter. These examples were very precise, and some participants did propose alternatives—ways to care differently, to repair. In the group of care workers and psychologists, many spoke about the exploitation of women from Eastern Europe who are employed as caregivers. There was a lot of awareness, and a real desire to claim rights and imagine better ways to address these injustices. **Will this exhibition travel, or is it always tied to a specific local context?** It would be wonderful if it could travel, especially to other parts of Italy or Austria. But if it does, my intention is not to show the same exhibition elsewhere. Rather, each iteration should be site-specific—recreated from scratch. What we did in Bolzano was Act I. I’d love to develop Act II, Act III, Act IV… If another institution invites me, I’d propose we begin the process anew: organizing groups in that place, inviting people to explore what psychocolonial spaces mean in their own city and bodies. Colonialism is not just something in the past or in faraway places—it’s here, it’s ongoing, and it shapes our daily lives. // *Samia Henni’s exhibition* Psycho-Colonial Spaces *is on view at A*r/Ge kunst *in Bolzano until this Sunday, August 2, 2025\. Her project* Performing Colonial Toxicity *is part of the group exhibition “Technoecologies and Bodies of Memory” at Künstlerhaus Bethanien, Berlin, running until October 5, 2025.* --- ### Images: Cover: Samia Henni, Psychocolonial Spaces—Act 1\. Veduta dall’alto di uno dei workshop. Registrato da Carmine Auricchio, concepito e moderato da Samia Henni per Ar/Ge Kunst, Bolzano, Italia, febbraio 2025. Fig.1/2/3/4 Samia Henni „Psychocolonial Spaces - Act 1, Exhibition view. Credits: ©Ar/Ge Kunst e Samia Henni, Foto Tiberio Sorvillo, 2025 *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Die Einberufung zivilgesellschaftlicher Tribunale URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/die-einberufung-zivilgesellschaftlicher-tribunale/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:47.000Z In einem Straßencafé in Bogotá traf ich den kolumbianischen Menschenrechtsanwalt Santiago Salinas Mirando. Wir sprachen über das *Permanent Peoples’ Tribunal*, welches er im März 2021 in Bogotá mitorganisiert hatte. Nach Santiago Salinas wirke die Idee eines zivilgesellschaftlichen Tribunals zunächst philosophisch, sei in Wahrheit aber sehr konkret: „Was ist Gerechtigkeit?“ Für viele Überlebende von Menschenrechtsverbrechen oder systemischer Gewalt wird diese Frage besonders dann dringlich, wenn sie im formalen Rechtssystem weder Aufklärung, Anerkennung, noch Heilung erfahren. Peoples’ Tribunals, organisiert von zivilgesellschafltichen Akteur\*innen und sozialen Bewegungen, sind Ausdruck eines tief verankerten Bedürfnisses nach öffentlicher Anerkennung, Suche nach Wahrheit und Gerechtigkeit. Sie entstehen dort, wo staatliche Gerichte versagen, Gesetze ungeschrieben sind oder der politische Wille fehlt, bestehendes Recht durchzusetzen. Diese Tribunale schaffen in solchen Kontexten alternative und emanzipatorische Räume des Zuhörens, der Anklage und der kollektiven Verantwortung; sie appellieren damit an das Gewissen der Gesellschaft. Den Beginn markierte 1966 das Russell-Tribunal für Vietnam, welches als erstes seiner Art Maßstäbe setzte. Initiiert vom britischen Friedensaktivisten Bertrand Russell, verurteilten berühmte Jurist\*innen, Intellektuelle und Aktivist\*innen wie Jean-Paul Sartre, Tariq Ali und Melba Hernández die USA der Kriegsverbrechen und des Genozids im Vietnamkrieg. Seitdem entstanden zahlreiche Tribunale weltweit — u.a. in Den Haag, Bukavu, Yucatán, Tokio oder Osttimor – etwa das *International Iran Tribunal*, das *Welttribunal zu Irak* oder das *Russell-Tribunal zu Palästina*. Allen Tribunalen gemeinsam ist die Überzeugung, dass Schweigen nicht neutral ist. „To break the crimes of silence“ und „to call things by their name“— die Parolen des Russell-Tribunals — bringen auf den Punkt, worum es geht: Unrecht, das nicht benannt wird, bleibt geschützt durch das Schweigen bestehen. Weghören und Wegschauen, so zeigen diese Tribunale, sind nicht nur Begleiterscheinungen von Gewalt, sondern ihre Bedingung. Sie sind der Nährboden, auf dem Straflosigkeit gedeiht und sich Gewalt immer weiter in die Zukunft fortschreibt. Zivilgesellschaftliche Tribunale untersuchen in öffentlichen Anhörungen konkrete Fälle von Unrecht und arbeiten systematische Verstöße auf. Im Zentrum stehen die Opfer; sie treten als Zeug\*innen auf und teilen ihre Erfahrungen (üb-)erlebter Gewalt vor einer zivilgesellschaftlich zusammengesetzten Jury, oft bestehend aus engagierten Anwält\*innen, Jurist\*innen, Aktivist\*innen, Wissenschaftler\*innen und Kulturschaffenden. Obwohl die Form an ein gerichtliches Strafverfahren angelehnt ist, unterscheidet sich das Ziel grundlegend: Es geht nicht um Sanktionen oder Vergeltung, sondern um Aufklärung, kollektives Erinnern und darum, den Opfern ihre Handlungsmacht zurückzugeben. Sie sind, wie die Politikwissenschaftlerin Leah Bassel im Bezug zum Permanent Peoples‘ Tribunal sagt, „ein Versprechen zuzuhören“. Eine zentrale Rolle übernimmt dabei die Anklage, die, anders als in staatlichen Prozessen, explizit auf der Seite der Opfer steht — als ihre rechtliche Stimme und ihre Verbündeten im Verfahren. Auf der Grundlage von Zeug\*innenberichten, Gutachten und eingereichten Beweismitteln entwickelt das Anklage-Team eine juristisch argumentierte Anklageschrift. Dies dient nicht nur der internen Strukturierung des Verfahrens, sondern entwickelt zugleich eine gegenhegemoniale Erzählung des verhandelten Unrechts. Obwohl das abschließende Urteil der Jury keine rechtliche Bindung besitzt,trägt es politisches Gewicht: Es benennt politische und strafrechtliche Verantwortung, schafft öffentliches Bewusstsein, praktiziert Würde und Wiedergutmachung und eröffnet neue emanzipatorische Handlungsräume. Die Urteile dieser Tribunale tragen einen ethischen Anspruch: Sie wollen sensibilisieren, informieren, mobilisieren — und eine internationale (Gegen-)Öffentlichkeit schaffen, wo institutionelle Gremien zunächst schweigen. In vielen Fällen wird dieses Urteil nicht als Abschluss, sondern als Auftakt weiterer Aufklärungsbemühungen verstanden — in staatlichen Gerichten, in der politischen Sphäre und in der Kunst. Zivilgesellschaftliche Tribunale nutzen die Sprache des Rechts um sie zu öffnen und damit andere Modelle und Praktiken des Rechts performativ zu erproben.Es sind Suchbewegungen nach dem, was als gerecht empfunden wird. Tribunale stehen nicht in der Tradition des Strafens, sondern entwerfen eine Vorstellung davon, wie Rechtsprechung anders aussehen könnte: gerechter, demokratischer, zugänglicher und aufmerksamer gegenüber sozialen Realitäten. Sie werfen grundlegende Fragen auf: Wem gehört das Recht? Wer darf es sprechen? Und was geschieht, wenn die offiziellen Institutionen ihre Verantwortung nicht wahrnehmen — darf die Zivilgesellschaft dann selbst alternative Foren auf der Basis gültigen Rechts etablieren? In den letzten zehn Jahren wurde mehrfach das Tribunalformat im Kunstfeld als politisch-ästhetische Intervention, die Kunst in ein neues Verhältnis zur Welt setzt, aufgegriffen. Tribunale wie die *NSU-Tribunale* des Aktionsbündnisses „NSU-Komplex auflösen!“, das *Kongo Tribunal* von Milo Rau und dem International Institute for Political Murder, oder das *Court for Intergenerational Climate Crimes* von Radha D’Souza und Jonas Staal zeigen eindrucksvoll, wie sich künstlerische Praxis, juristische Form und politisches Handeln verweben lassen. Dabei leisten ästhetische Praktiken einen genuinen Beitrag zur Organisation und Realisierung solcher Tribunale — etwa durch ihre Offenheit im Umgang mit Kreativität.Während gerichtliche Verfahren oft ihre subjektiven Gestaltungsweisen unter den Gesichtspunkten der Objektivität und Sachlichkeit inszenieren, machen künstlerische Formate genau diese Dimensionen sichtbar — und nutzbar. Sie formulieren Vorschläge, wie Orte des Rechtsprechens gestaltet, wie Verfahren räumlich und emotional strukturiert sein könnten, und schreiben so an einer gemeinsamen Geschichte von Tribunal, Theater und Zeug\*innenschaft weiter. Auch diese People’s Tribunale im Rahmen der 13\. Berlin Biennale, konzipieren als Bildungs- und Vermittlungsformat, folgt dieser Verwobenheit. Mit der Kunsthistorikerin Maura Reilly lässt es sich als curatorial activism beschrieben, eine Vermittlungspraxis, die Kunsträume als soziale Felder versteht, in denen Machtverhältnisse aktiv verhandelt und verschoben werden – hier als Tribunals. Verhandelt werden zwei Fälle von Repressionen kultureller Rechte auf den Philippinen, sowie die Einschränkung von Meinungsfreiheit und Protest im Sudan. Auch in Berlin werden seit Oktober 2023 palästina-solidarische Proteste und die Bewertung Israels Kriegs in Gaza als Genozid massiv kriminalisiert. Darauf antworten Aktivist\*innen mit den wöchentlichen People United Tribunals. Ob in Khartum, Manila oder Berlin: zivilgesellschaftliche Tribunale artikulieren das geteilte Gefühl, dass etwas zutiefst falsch läuft, und nehmen im Hier und Jetzt, jenseits institutioneller Legitimation, eine gerechtere Welt vorweg. // *Am 24\. August 2025 findet ein zweites Volkstribunal zum Thema „Kulturelle Unterdrückung und Wiederherstellung der Meinungsfreiheit auf den Philippinen“ statt, ausgerichtet von der Internationalen Koalition für Menschenrechte auf den Philippinen und ALPAS Pilipinas.* *Dieser Beitrag ist Teil des inhaltlichen Austauschs von AWC mit dem Vermittlungsprogramm der 13\. Berlin Biennale für zeitgenössische Kunst „Passing the Fugitive on“, die noch bis zum 14\. September 2025 läuft.* --- ### Images: Bana Group for Peace and Development: "People’s Tribunal on the Systematic Targeting of Women Activists in Sudan". Part of Encounters and Mediation, 13th Berlin Biennale, Fabriktheater Moabit, June 22, 2025\. Image: Eike Walkenhorst *(\*1989) promoviert in Kulturanalyse unter der Leitung von Prof. Dr. Sylvia Sasse an der Universität Zürich und im Rahmen des ERC-Projekts »Prefiguring Democratic Futures. Cultural and Theoretical Responses to the Crisis of Political Imagination« unter der Leitung von Prof. Dr. Oliver Marchart an der Universität Wien. Zuvor studierte sie Bühnen- und Kostümbild für Theater und angewandte Theaterwissenschaft. Im Dezember 2022 erschien ihre Monographie Wir klagen an! über die NSU-Tribunale im Unrast Verlag. Sie lebt und arbeitet in Wien, Zürich und Berlin.* ### Who said the sky was ever neutral? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/who-said-the-sky-was-ever-neutral-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:45.000Z ## Common Skies **Where it Starts** Aby Warburg was born affluent. Let’s start there. A banker’s son with a fetish for Botticelli and Babylon, he turned his back on the family business. He literally gave his inheritance away, on the condition that the family buy him any book he wanted, and then he went full iconomaniac. He wasn’t poor, materially, but spiritually? That’s another story. He swapped capital for cosmology \[1\], became less Renaissance man than visual necromancer. The kind of guy who talks to demons in the desert and diagrams their gestures with string and pins. His famous *Mnemosyne Atlas*—a grid of black panels littered with images torn from postcards, newspapers, Renaissance prints, depictions of pagan rituals, astrological diagrams—has been misread for decades as a proto-Google Image search or, worse, the first known moodboard. But that’s sloppy. Warburg wasn’t anticipating the dominance of the algorithm. He was processing it by looking for meaning in the afterlife of images. Warburg wasn’t interested in celestial imagery, astrology, and cosmology in order to glorify the heavens. He mapped them because he was terrified. Terrified of what images do to us, what symbols can carry, what returns under different names. He wasn’t an art historian; he was an exile in his mind. The *Atlas* was not about art history. It was about psychic survival. ## The Sky Was Never Neutral This summer, in Hamburg, almost a century later, Warburg’s legacy flickers back into view—not in a typical museum, but out in the open: a public park, a former water tower turned planetarium, and the [Warburg-Haus](https://stadtkuratorin-hamburg.de/en/projects/five-years-five-elements/cosmos/from-the-cosmos-to-the-commons-symposium?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). It’s not a revival, it’s *Nachleben*—his word for that which won’t stay buried. Images, gestures, systems of thought: they return, not to comfort us, but to complicate the present. Warburg knew the past never ends cleanly. The past is a point of one of its re-entries. The reinstallation of Warburg’s 1929 exhibition *Image Collection on the History of Astrology and Astronomy forms* the gravitational core of *From the Cosmos to the Commons*, curated by Joanna Warsza, the newly appointed city curator of Hamburg. Warburg’s 1929 exhibition, originally assembled in the final months of the scholar’s life, and realized in collaboration with Gertrud Bing and Fritz Saxl, has slipped into obscurity—its contents presumed to be lost until their unexpected rediscovery under a pile of discarded materials in the late 1980s. The art historian Uwe Fleckner, who found them, now oversees the exhibition’s meticulous reconstruction. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bildersammlung-_-Image-Collection-Maik-Graf_2-v2.jpeg) Fig. 1 In his elliptical \[2\] visual grammar, Warburg articulated his belief that images have orbits like planets, that symbols migrate across time and culture, and that the past never stays still. This exhibition doesn’t seek to contain or decode Warburg. It doesn’t offer a tidy narrative. Instead, it moves with him, and from him—drawing eccentric rather than conclusions. The project’s point of departure is the rediscovered exhibition, first shown in 1929 at the Hamburg Planetarium. The same dome now hosts a careful reconstruction of Warburg’s final work—there is the constellation of black-framed panels, filled with diagrams, planetary symbols, mythic forms, and gestures that seem to repeat across millennia. They are categorized; each panel corresponds to a theme: Babylonia, Egypt's antiquity, Greece, the Greco-Roman world in late antiquity, Luther and astrology, Kepler, etc. As with his better-known *Mnemosyne Atlas*, the goal is not accurate chronology, but rhythm. What matters is not when an image appears, but how it reappears. Though there’s something uncanny about it—distant, even, as it draws on *pathos formulas* (*Pathosformeln*), i.e., emotive visual tropes that carry intense psychological and cultural meaning across history, here, they seem to embody a kind of celestial longing. Warburg’s thinking was rooted in Western hierarchies—elevating classical antiquity as the cradle of culture while viewing non-Western symbols through a European lens. Yet he also exposed cracks in the West’s self-image, showing how myth, emotion, and the “irrational” persist beneath modernity’s polished surface. From where we stand in 2025, his framework feels detached—tied to a Eurocentric cosmos that ignores the lived realities, resistances, and cosmologies of the majority world. That cultural standards shift over a century is quietly acknowledged by the disclaimer posted on the wall of this “forgotten” exhibition. Comprising historical materials that trace how humans across cultures have looked to the sky to locate themselves on Earth, the proposition invites a layered reading. Warburg insisted that images move through time—carrying with them meaning, resonance, and symbolic weight. Not all survive unscathed. Several depictions on view sit uneasily within contemporary frameworks of inclusivity, respect, and cross-cultural understanding, and may be perceived as offensive. Rather than erasing these images, the exhibition invites critical engagement—an encounter with the ideological residues history leaves behind, not a longing for their return. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Raqs-Media-Collective-KITE-Maik-Graf-v2.jpeg) Fig. 2 Suspended and slightly inclined above the panels is a striking diptych by Warburg’s son, Max Adolph Warburg: *Man Torn Between Scientific Analysis and His Fear of the Supernatural* (1929). The painting asserts its presence amid a surrounding cosmos of humanoid figures and planetary forms, positioning itself at the uneasy intersection of interior conflict and celestial immensity. Gazing down at the viewer, the diptych functions less as a form of resolution than as a warning—a sobering reminder of our smallness in the face of systems we can only ever partially comprehend. These are structures that evoke both awe and unease, awakening fears that rational inquiry alone cannot contain. At the same time, the work endures as a quiet testament to perseverance: a fragment of personal and historical cosmology that continues to resonate nearly a century on. Elsewhere in this micro-cosmos, a sarcophagus stands facing the entrance of the space—its presence unmistakable, a stark memento mori embedded in the exhibition’s celestial drift. Confronting the viewer not with transcendence but with finitude, it anchors the cosmic in the corporeal, the symbolic in the skeletal. Circling the elliptical grammar of Warburg’s mise-en-scène are four contemporary interventions: by KITE, María Edwards, Raqs Media Collective, and Eske Schlüters. This could be understood as casting a temporary shadow over the historical image. Not an erasure. Not a tribute. Something more unstable, more alive: an eclipse? Each work breaks the orbit, posing questions Warburg didn’t live long enough to ask—about indigenous cosmologies, colonial time structures, and language as a way of mapping planets and power. ## Asteroids of the Stadtpark The *Nachleben*, as it unfolds through the contemporary contributions, continues to oscillate between the pictorial-mythical and the symbolic-mathematical. On the façade of the Planetarium—symmetrical, facing the park and fountain—hang textiles by Polish-Roma artist Małgorzata Mirga-Tas. Her *Herstories* (2022-ongoing) series maps a personal zodiac of resistance: Timea Junghaus, Ceija Stojka, Esma Redžepova, Grażyna Mirga, Soraya Post. Not just portraits, but presences—stitched into public space, sewn with what Ethel Brooks calls a “feminism of the minority”, they are embodied, local, and unafraid of power. Mirga-Tas, in ongoing dialogue with Warsza—her collaborator in Venice in 2022 \[3\]—looks to the zodiac belt of Palazzo Schifanoia, where gods, months, and signs once cycled among each other in a fresco. Warburg saw them as Bilderfahrzeuge—images in motion, carriers of meaning. Here, that belt is rethreaded. Roma visibility, feminist memory, and celestial signs are woven into a living cosmology—born not from conquest, but from survival. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/malg-v2.jpeg) Fig. 3 This isn’t a Renaissance revival, however. It’s resistance in fabric. An alternative constellation hung in the open. Timo Nasseri’s *Unknown Letters* (2015-2025) starts from absence—four lost characters imagined by the 10th-century calligrapher Ibn Muqla that were erased before they could take form. What remains is Muqla’s grid of rhomboid dots, a system still used to shape Arabic script. Nasseri revives what history discarded, not to restore, but to reimagine and reposition. In the monumental niches of the Planetarium, he sculpts possible futures for these phantom letters that are precise, abstract, unresolved. Drawing on Islamic astronomy, he transforms forgotten knowledge into public form, questioning who decides what survives and what disappears. Beyond the Planetarium, the exhibition spills into Stadtpark, where public installations form a kind of commons-oriented constellation. No plinths, no fences, just art that breathes the same air as joggers, kids, and dogs. Those present at the opening—or participating in one of the guided tours—are invited into a carefully orchestrated micro-cosmic narrative led by Warsza in the role of steward—not of air or aisle, but of atmosphere and attention. She tends the passage from the metaphysical to the material, from the mythic to the mutual. For others, a more solitary path unfolds: wandering through the park, one may stumble upon an artistic intervention tucked quietly into the landscape, waiting to be discovered and activated rather than announced. Inspired by Isamu Noguchi’s *Sculpture to Be Seen from Mars* (2025)—a post-Hiroshima gesture meant not for those living now, but for whoever (or whatever) comes after—Sibylle Peters and Felix Jung grow a living face into the earth. Not for people. Not for now. It can’t be seen from the ground, only from the Planetarium, from above, from elsewhere. From a time when maybe we’ll be gone. A face as a message, as a marker, as a reminder that we tried. That we knew. That we couldn’t stop. It holds grief and care in the same shape. It looks back at us from a future we can’t reach. Down below, Shahira Issa moves in the opposite direction. Time Hid in the Sun doesn’t want to be seen at all. It disappears into the forest. No screens, no signals. Just air, leaves, breath, and voices barely louder than the wind. If Peters and Jung send a message skyward, Issa turns inward, downward. Two works move in opposite directions. One monumental, one almost vanished, one asking how we’ll be remembered. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Xul-Solar-Tarot-Deck-1953_54-Foto-Daria-Kulnina-v2.jpg) Fig. 4 In Hamburg’s Stadtpark, the stars come down to walk among us. The Argentine artist and astrologer Xul Solar, who once passed through the city in 1924, returns in fragments. His oversized cards from the *Tarot Deck* (1953/1954)—each one bearing a zodiac sign—appear on select days like loose divinations scattered through public space. No monuments, no permanence. Just moments of alignment: you, the sky, a sign, then it’s gone. Nearby, Agnes Denes’s *Sunflower Fields* (2021/2025) stands its ground. A work planted and replanted across cities—from Basel to Pristina and now here—it leans toward the sun with quiet insistence, a heliocentric manifesto made of seeds and soil. Slow, steady, unyielding. One work moves, the other grows. Both resist enclosure. They offer no grand revelations—just reminders that we live under the same sky, still looking for signs, still turning toward the light. Keep going, and you may come to realize how the cosmos exhales through compost, finds shelter under fabric, and settles on benches shaped from felled trees and sedimented memory. Hoda Tawakol’s *Cosmic Womb* (2025) turns to Nut, the Egyptian goddess who swallows the sun each night and births it each morning. But Nut here is not a distant myth—she arches gently across the grass in a padded, star-strewn canopy, soft and cosmic, a structure shaped by breath and gravity. A shelter for resting, reflecting, and remembering the maternal as force, not role. Feminized labour made visible, spatial, and public. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Hoda-Tawakol-Cosmic-Womb-2025-Foto-Maik-Graf-v2.jpeg) Fig. 5 Not far off, Ben Nurgenç’s *From the Cosmos to the Compost* (2025) drifts through the park, pulling a homemade bio-reactor like a strange companion. It turns detritus into energy, compost into current— enough to power a radio tuned to the background hum of the stars: cosmic listening, built from scraps. Call it a new genre, one that’s been composting quietly in the art world for a while now, techno-ecology with dirt under its nails. A reminder that decay isn’t the end of a system—it is the system. The forest floor has always been talking to the sky. We just forgot how to listen. And then there’s Olu Ogunnaike’s *A Good Neighbour?* (2025), a series of benches and one elliptical table, part ellipse, part gathering point. Made from trees grown and fallen here in the park, mixed with wood species from across the globe, Ogunnaike’s work refuses borders. Inspired by Warburg’s logic of proximity, the furniture stages a kind of slow pedagogy: to sit here is to learn through adjacency, through texture and time. The elliptical bench evokes return—shadows and crossings, trees that endured long enough to become a place of gathering. Warburg’s ellipse was never just a shape. It is a form of knowledge that orbits; it does not have straight lines. It expresses a refusal of progress as a straight road. This is a project that takes that form seriously—spiraling instead of marching, orbiting instead of landing. From this nonlinear logic, the works expand. Salwa Aleryani’s *Shadows Cast* (2025) and Heidi Voet’s *Hydra & the Orange Giant* (2025) bring the sky down soft and low—making time and myth pulse through your body and under your feet. Aleryani’s sundial is activated by a human participant whose presence creates a shadow that then indicates the time by scattering light and shadow among the green tiles, inviting the visitor to step into the sun’s rhythm. Voet’s stars rest in a circular amphitheater, cast from worn-out sports balls \[4\], tracing and mirroring Hydra—the longest constellation—which is just barely visible above Hamburg’s smog and seasonal sky. Hydra drifts low on the horizon, almost out of sight, but here it is solid in concrete, and faded from play, folded into the commons. It’s a beautiful mutualism, a quiet claim of cosmic scale. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Salwa-Aleryani-Shadows-cast-2025-Foto-Maik-Graf-v2.jpeg) Fig. 6 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Heidi-Voet-Hydra-the-Orange-Giant-2025-Foto-Maik-Graf-v2.jpeg) Fig. 7 This version of the constellation is gentle, free from the grit of struggle or conflict. Life here moves with ease, shaped by weather and the occasional vandal’s mark, not by protest or resistance. No fences, no rules—just a soft invitation to sit, stand, or look up and wonder. Ellipses recur—in the shape of tiles, bodies, and stars—reminding us of how time curves, folds, and loops instead of simply marching forward. The materials hold traces: sun-warmed stone, faded concrete, and stretched fabric. Embedded in the work is knowledge that is often pushed aside—Islamic astronomy, African cosmologies, matriarchal science. These traditions feature not as decoration, but as tools to orient, to remember, to belong. Together, these works turn the park into a commons, where myth, memory, and motion move through the everyday. But it’s a calm commons—one that asks for presence, not confrontation; connection, not clash. A universe revealed slowly, in ease and orbit, but missing the sharp edges of conflict that often shape our shared world. In public space, art is never alone. It contends with the everyday: the bounce of footballs, the smoke of barbecues, laughter, music, the rituals of leisure and life. It’s not about dominance, but coexistence—inserting propositions into spaces already full of meaning. ## The Ellipse Never Settles Not a flashy blockbuster shouting for a planetary crowd, From the Cosmos to the Commons moves slowly, moves sideways. Images don’t sit still—they orbit. Artworks pull like gravity, but there’s no center to cling to. Just a restless, quiet tug. The exhibition refuses “now”. It doesn’t run toward crisis; it simply looks the other way. It oscillates, like a tarot reading without easy answers, like Warburg’s ellipse circling between two poles—never closing the loop, just feeling the weight of history, the pull of myth. No spectacle. No rush. Just signs unfolding slowly—old, borrowed, alive. Not a future made clear, but a way to read the present differently. When everything wants you to be sharp, here’s space to soften. Warsza might be reaching for that “planetary public sphere” — a call for respect, care, and something shared, but humans are messy. Conflict isn’t a glitch; it’s the system. The cosmos is full of black holes, swallowing light. Still, maybe imagining differently is worth the fight. ## So, Who Owns the Sky? Warburg knew that images survive fascism. He knew that myths don’t die; they mutate. This project honors the anxiety that mutating myths stir—not with nostalgia, but with defiance. In 2025, under surveillance satellites and climate collapse, Warburg’s images still orbit. Through Warsza’s curation, they do so in the open air. Among sunflowers, mushrooms, and shadows. Among strangers. Who said the sky was ever neutral? It’s been charted, divided, named, and claimed. And still, it belongs to all of us—or none of us at all. // *The exhibition* From the Cosmos to the Commons *will be running until 24.08.2025\. Find more info* [*here.*](https://stadtkuratorin-hamburg.de/en/projects/five-years-five-elements/cosmos/from-the-cosmos-to-the-commons?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Particularly, how they appeared and were interpreted in art, culture, and mythology across different periods. \[2\] Warburg ripped open the perfect circle and found Kepler’s ellipse inside—a shape that didn’t close neatly but stretched between two points, pulling and pushing, never resting. It’s no neat orbit; it’s tension, conflict, movement—exactly what Warburg saw in history and images, caught between myth and reason, past and present. He didn’t just think it—he built it: the Kulturwissenschaftliche Bibliothek’s reading room is an ellipse, a space that holds that restless push and pull, a room shaped by struggle, not harmony. \[3\] Maria Lind, ‘Malgorzata Mirga-Tas and Joanna Warsza on the Polish Pavilion in Venice,’ Ocula Magazine, 10 August 2022, https://ocula.com/magazine/conversations/magorzata-mirga-tas-in-venice/ \[4\] The colors of the balls relate to the Morgan-Keenan Classification System for stars according to their age and temperature. The orange giant, Alphard, for example, is the largest star in the Hydra constellation at 177 light-years away from Earth. **Images:** Cover: *Image Collection on the History of Astronomy and Astrology* \- Aby Warburg in Collaboration with Gertrud Bing and Fritz Saxl, Planetarium Hamburg, 2025 © Foto Maik Gräf Fig.1 *Image Collection on the History of Astronomy and Astrology* \- Aby Warburg in Collaboration with Gertrud Bing and Fritz Saxl, Planetarium Hamburg, 2025 © Foto Maik Gräf Fig.2 On the left: Raqs Media Collective, *A Day in the Life of Kiribati*, 2014 & *Blood Moon*,2024/25; on the right: KITE, *Iktómiwiŋ (A Vision of Standing Cloud)*, Planetarium Hamburg, 2025 © Foto Maik Gräf Fig.3 Małgorzata Mirga-Tas *Herstories*, 2022-ongoing © Foto Maik Gräf Fig.4 Xul Solar *Tarot Deck*, 1953/54 © Foto Daria Kulnina Fig.5 Hoda Tawakol *Cosmic Womb*, 2025 © Foto Maik Gräf Fig.6 Heidi Voet *Hydra & the Orange Giant*, 2025 © Foto Maik Gräf Fig.7 Salwa Aleryani *Shadows cast*, 2025 © Foto Maik Gräf *Maja Ćirić is an independent curator and art critic. After the digital turn in 2020, she became more involved in phygital (physical + digital) projects, conferences and exhibitions in the hybrid field of art + science + tech. She also curates in the metaverse (meta + universe). Historically speaking, Maja was the curator of the Mediterranea 18 Young Artists Biennale, in Tirana (2017), and has been both the curator (2007) and the commissioner (2013) of the Serbian Pavilion at the Venice Biennale. Maja holds a PhD in Art Theory (Thesis: "Institutional Critique and Curating") from the University of Arts in Belgrade. Her speaking engagements, among others, were/are at MAC VAL (2017), Centre Pompidou (2018), and MNAC Bucharest (2018), AICA Serbia Conference (2021), Zlin Digital Exhibition Design Conference (2021), Interact Conference on Human-Computer Interaction (2021) and IKT Conference (2021). She contributed to Flash Art, Obieg, Artforum, Artmargins Online, Arts of the Working Class, springerin. Her areas of expertise from day one span from the geopolitical and the curatorial through curating as a practice of institutional critique. She sits at the Board of Advisors to The Telos Society, Arts & Culture Research Lab Observatorium in Athens and the Editorial Board of The Large Glass published by MoCA, Skopje. She is the art glass researcher and advisor for Digital Glass Serbia, a project whose goal is to evaluate the legacy of industrial glass production.* ### Unabating Wonder URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/unabating-wonder/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:43.000Z It’s all sedimented in the words of Bassel al-Araj, a Palestinian militant, writer, and theorist. Bassel al-Araj was born in 1984 in al-Walaja, West Bank, Palestine, and was killed on March 5th, 2017, in al-Bireh, West Bank, Palestine. He was 33 when he was fatally shot by the occupying forces of the Israel Defence Forces. The Israelis held Bassel's body for eleven days before giving it to his family for burial in al-Walajah. When the IDF broke into his house, Bassel was doing what he always did—writing. His intellectual activity was frenetic: he organized educational bus tours to recount the history of Palestinian cities and villages. He was researching for the Palestinian Museum and teaching for the Popular University when he died, restlessly living by his motto: *If you want to be an intellectual, you’d better be an engaged one.* Most of his writing has been collected in a posthumous publication titled “I Have Found My Answers” (Arabic: وجدت أجوبتي), following the will he wrote before his violent departure. Unfortunately, a language gap keeps me at a distance from al-Araj’s collection, as I don’t know Arabic. Yet, a fragment of his work reaches me, thanks to the precious dissemination of his work by Hazem Jamjoum, a doctoral candidate in the modern history of the Middle East at New York University. Published on Liberated Texts, Jamjoum’s piece reports on Bassel's life and opus in English \[1\], disclosing this treasure to a wider audience, myself included. According to Jamjoum, the text Bassel was writing when the IDF broke into his house was titled “Why do We go to War?”. It sought to find answers to the tireless steadfastness and fighting spirit of the Palestinian resistance, but it also speaks to all those who fight against oppression by global imperialist capital at any latitude. How does Bassel answer his question? Somehow betraying the revolutionary tradition, historical materialism, and analyses of power, Bassel responds that the reason they continue to fight is contained in the word al-romansiyyah, romanticism, an ineffable passion for resistance and justice that continues to push beyond any instrumental and rational calculation. Then come the few lines—nothing more than a fragment of an entire production—that make my hands tremble. As Jamjoum translates: ***You, the academically inclined, set your sights on disenchanting all things by defining and explaining, reckoning that it will land you on the truth. In these overcast days, I tell you I need no explanatory framework for rainfall—whether it is Thor’s hammer or God’s mercy or meteorologists’ consensus. I want none of it. What I want is my unabating wonder and my silly smile whenever the rain falls. Every time, as if for the first time, a child bewitched and the magic of the world.*** In the end, Bassel appeals to the magic of the world. Lucid analyses of the Israeli colonialist machine are not enough; critical readings of global capitalism are not enough. There is an element that escapes calculation, an excess of life that ends up giving meaning to an individual’s entire experience. You can call it magic, spirituality, or religion; at this level, it doesn’t matter. It is a process of meaning production that forges a collectivity, that actualizes a common intent and a framework in which events have a place. It is the realm of the pre-political as well as the ground where politics, in the strict sense, blossoms. I call it—echoing Bernard Stiegler and Silvia Federici, Federico Campagna and Luciano Parinetto—re-enchantment of the world. To speak of the re-enchantment of the world means to speak of a potential process opposite to that diagnosed by the German sociologist Max Weber in 1919, called conversely the disenchantment of the world, or, in German, *Die Entzauberung der Welt. Entzauberung* is to be understood as a loss of *Zaubern*, that is, of the charm of the world. The unabating wonder that Bassel writes about is found in the ineffable stupor that something as simple and materially explainable as rainfall can spark in human beings. He, thus, echoes Aby Warburg, the visionary German art historian, in his reflections on the Hopi Serpent Ritual from 1923 \[2\]. Briefly, Warburg studies how the Hopi symbolized and ritualized natural forces such as lightning, converting their fear of natural forces into symbolic representations in art and ritual. Meaning-making practices defeat the necessity for causal explanation. “A silly smile whenever the rain falls,” a reconciliation with wonder for the world, it doesn't matter if it’s raining because of “God’s Mercy” or “meteorologists’ consensus”. In apocalyptic times, times when entire worlds disappear, we must resort to wonder, to keep “the optimism of the will”―in the words of Antonio Gramsci—with us; the cursed beauty of the struggle, the endless magic of the world we belong to and with which we resonate together. “Il politico è l'elevamento a potenza della spiritualità umana,” / “The political is the elevation to power of human spirituality,’ I hear an Italian friend say in a heated conversation over coffee. But this political dimension must be warmed, bound together by the same spirituality and magic. We do not know a better world, but we can believe in the infinite amendability of this world. We must, therefore, sabotage the process of disenchantment. More than a mere epistemological shift, the progressive loss of magical (more-than-rational?) knowledge constitutes the systematic erasure of marginalized and colonized communities’ intellectual heritage. What started in the heart of Western Europe expanded all over the planet. It is the spiritual consequence of capitalism’s process of primitive accumulation. Its victims are indigenous populations, the witches and alchemists of Europe, nomadic peoples, and any *Lebensform* that embodied an alternative to the *reductio ad unum* of patriarchal and monotheistic capital. It is no coincidence, then, that in the heart of Palestinian resistance, where the imperialist process of primitive accumulation repeats itself every day, the seeds of re-enchantment are planted. When Bassel al-Araj speaks of “unabating wonder,” he reveals how enchantment itself becomes resistance: the ability to remain captivated by life’s magic despite systematic oppression is not escapism, but a profound refusal to surrender one’s humanity to the colonizer's rationality. To be able to survive through the process of worlds fading and to live against and within the apocalypse. --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Jamjoum, Hazem. “Liberation, Wonder, and the Magic of the World: Bassel al-Araj's 'I Have Found My Answers'.” Liberated Texts, https://liberatedtexts.com/reviews/liberation-wonder-and-the-magic-of-the-world-basel-al-arajs-i-have-found-my-answers/ \[2\] Aby Warburg, “A Lecture on Serpent Ritual.” Journal of the Warburg Institute, vol. 2, no. 4 (1939): 277-292\. https://archiv.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/artdok/8387/1/Warburg\_A\_lecture\_on\_serpent\_ritual\_1938.pdf Image: Collage of TikTok videos by the author. *Alessandro Y. Longo is a philosopher and researcher based in Berlin. Alessandro's research explores subversive uses of technology, cooperative economic models, and cultural mutations in the age of digital networks. He is the founder of REINCANTAMENTO, a research and publishing collective that explores technology, radical imagination, and rituals through the lens of re-enchantment.* ### The Joy of Difficultating URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-joy-of-difficultating/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:42.000Z **You describe your approach as *Vermittlungsverweigerung*, a refusal of mediation, yet you work within institutional structures to critique and transform them. How do you distinguish structural transformation from institutional ventriloquism (“Bauchreden”, meaning: how can art education truly transform its frameworks instead of extracting from independent voices as the voice of the institution)?** In our experience, institutions work in previously set out structures and avoid certain impulses that come from the mediation. Instead of seeing mediation as a social infrastructure of the institution, it often serves as a functional outpost for needs such as inclusion and accessibility. That contradicts \[the imperative of\] creating an environment in which differences or needs that haven’t been thought of can unfold. Often, institutions don’t reach communities outside the art world; it becomes a task that is handed over to mediation. But, structural change must be a collective strategy of the organization, and not only thought of as diversity management by one department. It is also more than “just” being in contact with visitors through tours and conducting workshops with youth groups. For us, it is rather about the whole practice and labor of mediation, of how we understand the relationship between “hosts” and “visitors”, work hours, hierarchies in relationships of employment, or freelance mediators. We also love working with children, yet we see the needs of a team of mediators and the possibilities of the public space that comes with working with an institution. For us, these are starting points to seek critical conversations from within. In this context, through refusing mediation in the way it is mostly practiced (dt. *Vermittlungsverweigerung*), we reject an institutional attitude of avoidance. This avoidance manifests in a resistance to embrace the responsibility that comes with “hosting” multiple communities and rethinking work relationships, and seeing the institution as a public resource. The business-as-usual of art institutions creates exceptional time frames in which invited communities participate in the life and programming of the institution as guests. Rather than thinking of our relationships in terms of limited invitations or visits, we seek to care for exhibitions as public spaces owned by *the* public. Art mediation, as we see it, is a way of reconsidering existing structures, working with what we have, with an acknowledgement of limited resources and capacities of the ones involved, as well as an acknowledgement of our involvement in the institutional structure. Transforming is a way of connecting, shaping, and also undergoing a certain process in relation, on the one hand with the institution, on the other with the local collectives we are working with. It would be nice to have ventriloquism workshops. Of course, we use code-switching and speak differently depending on the spaces we are in. Most important are the communities we are accountable to. **People’s Tribunals and community organizing—parts of this year’s mediation program—develop through sustained, long-term relationship-building and emerge from urgencies within communities. How do you reconcile the quest for fixed forms of representation within a biennale with the often slow and contradictory processes of community engagement?** Maybe we cannot reconcile. Neither we, as the mediation team, nor the institution owns the struggles or the collective knowledge of the communities and artists we are working with. We know that the most important fight is not happening within the institution. We try to make use of it as a resource of space, or as a stationary moment, as long as it is in alignment with the work the collectives have been doing. In the case of the People’s Tribunals, the format serves as a political educational forum with which we are trying to think about outreach differently. We apply this historical tool of community-sourced legal forums as a possibility for extending institutional resources. People’s Tribunals are organized when justice has been denied on a state and international level. In Berlin and beyond, there are already various examples of adaptations of the format of a tribunal. It is quite telling which Tribunals have been convened recently: the People’s Tribunals in Germany concerning the ongoing mass murder and displacement of the Palestinian people in Palestine, as well as the repression of Palestinian voices in Germany. With the People’s Tribunals at the Biennale, we intended to reach out to local actors whose needs and work we have been trying to be considerate of. Jas has been a member of ALPAS Pilipinas, one of the collectives that are organizing the People’s Tribunals—meaning her grounding is not only within the institution. Already-existing relations made it possible to form trust. We were very grateful that this was the foundation on which we convened the first meaningful People’s Tribunal on the Systematic Targeting of Women Activists in Sudan. **You used the word “difficultators” instead of using the terms “art mediators” or “gallery educators” to describe the role you undertake within the Biennial. How do difficultators avoid the intellectual voyeurism that allows privileged audiences to consume other people’s trauma as an uplifting experience?** “Difficultate” is a term used by Augusto Boal’s *Theatre of the Oppressed*, which Zasha Colah brought up to us, and we found this approach very useful. Instead of facilitating, a difficultator does not interpret to solve problems or contradictions, but rather creates conditions of encounter, friction, and experience. We consider ourselves lucky to work together with a brilliant and critical team of mediators, including Arootin Mirzakhani, Duc Vu Manh, Jannina Brosowsky, Niusha Ramzani, Sarah Steiner, Thesea Rigou, Zoncy Heavenly, and also other guest mediators. Each of us has their respective knowledge background that feeds into our practice of mediation. What we share is finding an opening through conflict, embracing friction, and practicing the capacity of holding ambivalences. For us, it brings a different layer to the current popular concept of “conviviality”; it is a practice that also challenges the comfort zone. The focus lies less on a fixed mediation format and more on the presence, practices, and perspectives of the mediators themselves. We all want moments of uncertainty or discomfort not to be hidden but to be consciously part of the mediation process. This openness allows for a shared space in which visitors and non-visitors can encounter not only the artwork but also their own expectations and projections. Rather than smoothing over complexity or offering resolution, the process invites all involved to remain with ambiguity and friction. It is a form of engagement that requires honesty, self-mediation, and reflection. **Critical art education discourses have been grappling with encouraging the recipients’ autonomy and self-esteem in *understanding* art, i.e., providing and translating contextual information that is often only accessible to expert audiences, while at the same time preserving the wonder of the complexity of artworks. How are difficultators encouraged to deal with these often opposing expectations towards art mediation?** Our mediators engage directly with visitors during the focus tours, each bringing their own perspectives and approaches. Therefore, they are best positioned to speak for themselves. Here are two answers we would like to share. For Sarah Steiner, contradictory expectations are not obstacles but invitations. The aim is to recognize tensions, engage with differing viewpoints, and create meaningful exchange through mutual care. Arootin Mirzakhani, on the other hand, understands context as something unstable that shifts depending on who engages with it. In contrast to the speed and overstimulation of contemporary life, his approach values slowness, ambiguity, and the discomfort of not immediately understanding—offering a necessary resistance to the constant demand for clarity and resolution. It becomes less about producing clarity, accuracy, or “the one and only truth”, more so it is about cultivating an environment where people can dwell together in not-knowing, and feel all sorts of things. **Is it possible that political engagement, despite difficult questions, doesn’t always require intensity or difficulty? How might, paradoxically, difficultating cultivate what one could call the joy of engaging with complexity, where encountering different perspectives, grappling with contradictions, and sitting with uncertainty becomes a source of curiosity and connection rather than a burden?** In contemporary art, we are mostly dealing with political themes and contexts, yet it can feel as though merely exhibiting political positions or attending such exhibitions is already considered a form of political engagement. This is the point of departure from which we begin to think about the *repoliticization* of art mediation: what can political art mediation truly be? We nudge visitors and non-visitors alike to challenge the hosting institution, to take their curatorial themes, self-positioning, and visions seriously. We try to understand the political education of art mediation in a material, but also a bodily way. Meaning how we create spaces that can be for gathering, feeling, and holding ambivalences; for play, lingering, zoning and hanging out; for shifting our perception to being in our bodies while being in the exhibition space. This does not replace the labor of organizing but can create moments of relief. In this way, we like to imagine political education as self-defense training for the public. Not in the sense of shielding oneself from politics, but in learning how to navigate and respond to complex realities with awareness, with others. Perhaps the joy of difficultating lies here: in thinking of joy not as escape from the political, but as its essential expression—as justice, as ease, as shared possibility. *Dalia Maini and Amelie Jakubek conducted this conversation.* // **Duygu Örs** is a researcher, curator, and art mediator with a background in urban ethnography. She is currently researching the possibilities of situating the museum within the Right to the City movement.‍ **Jasmine Grace** Wenzel is a writer, editor and organizer. Her practice moves between political education, cultural programming and creating collective learning spaces using a community-based approach. They both are co-leads responsible for the mediation work at the 13th Berlin Biennale for Contemporary Art. --- ### Notes Image: Flowers at the People's Tribunals for all those who were present but couldn't be in the room. Comrades who can't cross borders, martyrs, or those whose shoulders we are standing on. Courtesy of Jasmine Grace Wenzel. ### To Break up with I’ URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/to-break-up-with-i/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:40.000Z **16/07/2006** Dear I’, As a nation, we are practicing your choreographies. We embody physical actions and repeat them again and again and again until they stay in our bodies forever. The moment I chose to leave you was at the end of one “what to do in case of a war” practice in school. It was the first day of school after the summer of 2006\. I was ten years old. There was still “tension” on the border with Lebanon, as the government and media called it. So we needed to practice what to do in case rockets were sent to Haifa while we were in school. We went to our classes, and suddenly the alarm sounded. All of us, the kids from Haifa, who were experiencing war for the first time in our short lives, recognized the alarm sound, knowing it from our summer experience. We all knew the agreed-upon choreography. The school’s version was explained to us before the practice began. 1. *Hide under the tables.* 2. *Walk in a line, divided into pairs, behind the teacher to the school’s shelter.* 3. *Wait.* We went out, and my panic attack started. I could not name it back then. I remember where I was standing at this moment, the exact feeling of an inner shaking. I remember a feeling of urgency in my body. I remember my tears. I remember the feeling of the space being blurry. I remember the need to run away. Now, I had the same feeling, just like during the summer of 2006, after the first alarm sounded in Haifa, and I refused to stay home. The same as when I see helicopters. The same as when I feel in physical danger. You taught me that if I hear the alarm, I need to hide and run away. So I did. I looked inside the knowledge of a 10-year-old for a solution. I went crying to the principal's office. I told her I wished I lived in France, like my cousins and other family members. Saying I wished to leave you. Maybe this was when I started to romanticize Europe and France, the moment Europe started to be my escape route. When the Mediterranean Sea also started to represent the gate to the “PeaceLand” in my childish imagination. A’, the principal of the school, looked at me. She tried to tell me that it is not better there and that also, in France, there is violence, and—even more frighteningly—anti-Semitism. It was 2006, and there were protests in the streets of Paris. A’ told me that in the news, you could see the fires in the street there. It did not matter to me. They don’t kill each other, I was thinking. To be able to live in I’, you, we have to accept violence, war, and trauma as a regular thing. We must accept that you, I’, cannot do your part in the state-citizen agreement regarding safety. I could never accept it. Schulman wrote: “it is a distorted social norm to see the wish to repair as an assault.” Bye, N’ **25/09/2024** Dear I’, It has been some time since the last time I wrote to you. Since that last time, I have been willing to engage in a conversation with you. Last time we talked, I asked to resign from paying your monthly allowance that permits you to keep me financially tied to your crimes. I asked you to stop paying, so I will clean myself of you. Clean my guilt. You birthed me, and I am covered with the blood you have shed. How can you ignore the historical mirror in front of you? Last year, you were willing to recognize it and break up with me as well. Even in our last separation, I was obedient to your laws. It took me five years to ask to be removed from officially residing within you and to stop paying your taxes. I did so after I saw images from Gaza. Your violence replicates the one contained in the images you taught me to fear. How can you ignore the historical mirror in front of you? Maybe you are a weight I shouldn’t run away from. Maybe you are a guilt I must feel for the possibility of transformation, of deconstruction. Whenever I think I am starting to be cured of you, you prove me wrong. You find new ways to habituate yourself under my skin, in my lungs, in my mind. You traumatized me. It is a traumatic experience to hide in shelters and hear the sounds of the rockets. It is traumatic to grow up believing you have to hold a gun one day to become part of society. You keep forgetting that being traumatized from war doesn’t protect you from genocide, and being traumatized from genocide doesn’t protect you from doing genocide. I met a guy from Gaza last month. He paid for my ticket to get into a club that night, a ticket that I considered too expensive, but money he was willing to spend to party with me despite our disagreements. This me is also you, partially and paradoxically. I keep carrying your name. I keep finding identities between me and parts of you. Seeing the Jews suffering as the only real suffering is absurd. It minimizes the diversity of human suffering. It means underestimating the many faces that violence can have. It is dehumanizing. To add a truth to a space does not deny another truth. For change and peacemaking, we must learn empathy. We must fight for the understanding of human plurality. We must give space in our minds and bodies to more than a mere superficial form of truth. We must become friends with those we have learned to think of as enemies. Now, I am trying to take my identity and make it into a verb. By writing you this, I am practicing my identity as separation, as rebellion, as opposition, as deconstruction. To decolonize myself, as *you* will forever need to be a practice. A movement. A dance. I am shifting from dancing to your memorials to dance your memory in my body, and, from there, to dance away from you. To expel the I’ that is in me constantly through love and compassion. To destroy you by redefining and relearning my roots, my Judaism, and my belonging to the land between the river and the sea. Bye, N' --- ### Image: Ruth Patir, *(M)otherland*, 2024, video stills. © and courtesy of the artist *Naama Shoshana Fogiel Lewin is a movement artist based in Brussels, originally from Haifa (Israel/Occupied Palestine). Her practice emerges from dance and movement and extends into voice, text, and installation. Through her work, she navigates the politics of body, space, land, and identity, developing deconstructive practices that challenge mechanisms of nationalism and militarism. Alongside her artistic practice, she collaborates as a performer, choreographer’s assistant, and dramaturg.* ### (M)otherland URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/motherland/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:32.000Z Dies ist ein Text, den ich seit dem Sommer letzten Jahres veröffentlichen wollte. An diesem Impuls hat sich wenig verändert. Mein Eindruck bleibt: *ANGA – die Art Not Genocide Alliance*, ein Zusammenschluss aus vorwiegend Künstler\*innen, die mit über 24.000 Unterstützer\*innen, Israels Ausschließung von der Venedig-Biennale aufforderte – traf zur richtigen Zeit die richtige Entscheidung, indem sie Ruth Patir dazu brachte, den israelischen Pavillon aus eigenem Antrieb zu schließen. Der Schritt, den die Künstlerin ging, war einer des Muts, nicht des Kalküls. Dass eine zunächst um Gerechtigkeit bemühte Kampagne sich in einen Mob verwandelte und ein Gespräch mit der Künstlerin ablehnte, erstaunt mich bis heute. Ich frage mich, wie es dazu kommt, dass sich ein kritisches Publikum bildet, das nicht mehr in ein Gespräch einwilligen kann. Selbst der künstlerische Leiter der Biennale, Adriano Pedrosa, ignorierte ihre E-Mails, in denen Patir um seinen Rat bat. Im März dieses Jahres reiste ich nach Tel Aviv, um Ruth Patirs Ausstellung *(M)otherland* am Museum für Moderne und Gegenwartskunst zu sehen – jene Arbeit, die in Venedig nie gezeigt wurde. Dabei hätte sie damals, wie auch jetzt, im Kontext der Eskalation und des vielschichtigen, genozidalen Vorgehens der Israelischen Regierung gegen palästinensische Zivilist\*innen sowie der zunehmenden Proteste vieler Israelis dagegen eine relevante Perspektive bieten können. Ich schreibe dies eine Woche nach dem „präventiven“ Angriff Israels auf iranische Nuklearstationen, gefolgt von US-amerikanischen Luftschlägen – und Trumps kalkulierter Behauptung, dass dies ein Schritt hin zum Frieden wäre und dass es ein Waffenstillstandsabkommen zwischen dem Iran und Israel gäbe. In ihrer Ausstellung *(M)otherland* inszeniert Ruth Patir unterschiedliche Formen auto-narrativer Darstellungen – Videos, die mit selbstironischen Unterton von ihrer eigenen Verletzlichkeit erzählen und zugleich die repressive Unterwerfung des weiblichen Körpers unter den männlichen Blick im israelischen Gesundheitssystem kritisieren. Es ist ein feministischer Aufruf zur kritischen Sichtbarmachung jener medizinischen, gesellschaftlichen und politischen Mechanismen, die weibliche Körper überwachen, bewerten und normieren. Patir hält der Reproduktionsmedizin einen Spiegel vor – nicht mit Pathos, sondern mit bitterer Intimität. Ihre Selbstbefragung wird zur Anklage gegen ein System, das Intimität verformt, reproduktive Entscheidungen kontrolliert und weibliche Autonomie in Frage stellt. Zugleich verweist sie – implizit, aber unübersehbar – auf die noch gravierenden Formen dieser Kontrolle, denen palästinensische Frauen unter der militärischen Besatzung und kompletter Entrechtung ausgesetzt sind. Während Patirs Arbeit von der Enge zivilgesellschaftlicher Institutionen erzählt, ist das Recht auf medizinische Versorgung, körperliche Selbstbestimmung oder sichere Mutterschaft für viele Palästinenserinnen grundlegend eingeschränkt – oder ganz verwehrt. Sie zeigt, wie sich strukturelle Gewalt als biopolitische Kontrolle in den weiblichen Körper einschreibt – und dass ein Versprechen von Fürsorge, das der Begriff „Mutterland“ impliziert, durch koloniale und patriarchale Logiken unterlaufen wird. *(M)otherland* legt die Gewalt offen, die zwischen Alltag und Apparat ausgeübt wird – dabei lässt die Konzentration auf den Israelischen Staat eine Übertragung auf andere Regionen zu, ohne falsche Vergleiche zu ziehen. Patirs Rechercheobjekte, digital reproduzierte weiblichen Tonfiguren, Artefakte archäologischer Grabungen, interessieren die Künstlerin vor allem aufgrund der Unklarheit über ihre historische Verwendung. Als vermeintliche Symbole der Fruchtbarkeit finden sich die Figuren als 3D-Animationen seit längerem in ihren Arbeiten wieder. Die Vorstellung, dass diese archaischen Artefakte möglicherweise auch von Frauen als Selbstporträts geschaffen wurden, fasziniert sie. Ko-Kuratorin Mira Lapidot verweist im Katalog darauf, dass etwa die berühmte Venus von Willendorf (ca. 29.500 v. Chr.) laut einer Interpretation die Perspektive einer Frau wiedergibt, die auf ihren eigenen Körper hinab blickt – in einer Zeit vor der Erfindung des Spiegels. Die weite geographische Verbreitung der Fruchtbarkeitsfiguren im Levant, beispielsweise vom Westjordanland bis Syrien, lässt henotheistische Gesellschaften erahnen, die zwar einen Gott verehren, aber die Existenz anderer nicht ausschließen. In Patirs Händen – und mit ihrem unsentimentalen, trockenen Humor – werden diese uralten Frauenfiguren zu Vehikeln weiblicher Handlungsmacht, indem sie selbst zur Handelnden wird. Eine dieser Figuren, die zu Patirs Alter Ego wird, besucht Kliniken und Arztpraxen, injiziert Hormone, lässt sich Eizellen entnehmen, zweifelt, diskutiert – mit ihrem Partner, mit ihrer Mutter, mit sich selbst. In einer Szene, die fast unerträglich lange dauert, verwandelt sich eine medizinische Brustuntersuchung in ein rhythmisches Trommelspiel. Die Hände des männlichen Arztes werden zu Trommelstöcken auf den hohlen Brüsten der Figur – ein kluges, bitteres Bild für die Entfremdung, die viele Frauen im medizinischen System erleben. Alle Gespräche, die man in den Videos hört, ob in der Klinik oder zuhause, sind real. Dieser dokumentarische Aspekt macht *(M)otherland* zu einem Werk von Klarheit und Verletzlichkeit, das nicht ins Pathetische abgleitet. Ihre Geschichte ist zutiefst persönlich – und gerade deshalb übertragbar. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ruth-Patir_MOtherland-2.jpg) Fig. 1 Patir reflektiert diese Intimität auch kontextuell: Als junge Kunststudentin in Jerusalem wurde jede biografische Perspektive negiert; in New York, als sie an der Columbia studierte, galt sie als einzig gültiger Zugang zur Wahrheit. Diese Extreme interessierten sie. Zurück in Israel begann sie persönliche Narrative mit archaischen Bildern zu verweben – nicht als Selbstspiegelung, sondern als Kritik an der Idee von Identität selbst. Eine weitere Spannung in Ihrem Werk: Sie verwendet Motion Capture, Facial Mapping und 3D-Programmierung – um gerade jene Technologien zu untersuchen, die unser Leben organisieren und kommerzialisieren. Eine Videoarbeit zeigt auf wechselnden Bildschirmen – sei es ein Fernseher im Wartezimmer oder das Smartphone der Figur – aktuelle Live-Übertragungen von nationalen und internationalen Nachrichten des Krieges, die das Narrativ ihrer Arbeit durchbrechen. *(M)otherland* kreist nicht um ein binäres Entweder-Oder. Sie ist vielmehr an eine Konditionalität gebunden, die meist ignoriert wird – aus der Perspektive eines weißen, privilegierten Publikums. Patirs Arbeit artikuliert eine Sehnsucht nach Verständnis – eine, für die in den Vorkommnissen der Biennale kein Platz gelassen wurde. Diese Sehnsucht schwingt in Patir’s Arbeit mit: Still, bitter, wütend – aber nie vereinnahmend. Trotzdem wird ihre Arbeit in manchen Kreisen diffamiert – wie etwa in einem Text, der sie unter dem Begriff *Hasbara* Feminism angreift. *Hasbara*, ein hebräischer Begriff (הַסְבָּרָה, *hasbará*), der wörtlich „Erklärung“ bedeutet, steht in der politischen Praxis für eine Form der strategischen Öffentlichkeitsarbeit der israelischen Regierung. Ziel der *Hasbara* ist es, international ein positives Image Israels zu fördern, seine politischen Anliegen zu erläutern, Regierungshandlungen zu rechtfertigen und das Land gegen negative Presse- oder Delegitimierungsversuche zu verteidigen. Kritiker\*innen von Patir werfen ihr mit diesem Begriff vor, nicht bloß erklärend, sondern propagandistisch für den israelischen Staat zu agieren – insbesondere damit, menschenrechtlich problematische Sachverhalte zu relativieren oder verschleiern. Entgegen dieser Vorwürfe ist Ruth Patir’s Werk jedoch weder Verteidigung noch Anklage, weder Repräsentation noch Distanzierung – sondern eine tastende, zutiefst traurige, feministische Vermittlung der Repressionen gegenüber weiblichen Körpern inmitten mehrerer Kriege, einer Besatzung, eines Genozids. Ihre Arbeiten folgen keiner didaktischen oder strategischen Linie, sondern einer existenziellen Notwendigkeit: Mit lustvoller Komplexität etwas zu erzählen, das sich nicht einordnen lässt. Dabei wird ihre Arbeit weder zur Kapitalisierung vom Leid der Anderen noch verfolgt sie den Anspruch, sich als international anerkannte Künstlerin auf Kosten anderer zu etablieren. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ruth-Patir_MOtherland-3.jpg) Fig. 2 Die Kritik an Patirs Arbeiten offenbart eine verkürzte Lesart, die an binären Lagern festhält und dabei künstlerische Komplexität nicht als Möglichkeitsraum sondern als Bedrohung wahrnimmt. Doch gerade in ihrer Widersprüchlichkeit liegt die Stärke dieser Arbeit: Sie stellt aus, ohne zu instrumentalisieren; sie kritisiert, ohne zu denunzieren. Ruth Patir wird aufgrund ihrer Herkunft auf ihre Nationalität reduziert – ihre feministische Kritik droht im Kontext intersektionaler Gewalt zu verstummen. In geografischer Nähe zu einem Völkermord kann sie sich Selbstironie, ärztliche Versorgung und reproduktive Behandlungen leisten – während anderen Müttern die Kinder gezielt erschossen werden. Ungerechtigkeit schmerzt mehr, wenn sie sichtbar wird – und sichtbar wird sie im direkten Vergleich von Lebensrealitäten. Herkunft und Körper sind keine Wahl – aus diesen Gegebenheiten erwächst Verantwortung. Patir muss sich dem Schmerz stellen, den ihre Arbeit bei palästinensischen Zuschauer\*innen und ihren Unterstützer\*innen auslösen kann. Schmerz ist sogar notwendig, damit aus der Kritik der Arbeit später Zusammenhalt entstehen kann. Dafür müssen Unterschiede benannt und der Schmerz anerkannt werden – ohne zu erwarten, dass alle ihn schon jetzt tragen können. Was Kunst in Zeiten eskalierender Gewalt überhaupt noch vermag: Sie schafft Räume, in denen Unsicherheit, Schmerz und Zweifel nicht relativiert oder gegeneinander ausgespielt, sondern geteilt werden können - auch wenn der Zeitpunkt des Teilens nicht für alle synchron verläuft. Die nächste Gelegenheit: im Jüdischen Museum in New York, ab diesem September. // --- ### Images Ruth Patir, *(M)otherland*, 2024, video stills. © and courtesy of the artist *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Property Regimes URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/property-regimes/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:30.000Z Conceived as editorial prompt, this questionnaire works with the respondents to build capacity—to develop a responsibility—for the questions it advances. Publishing this set of questions now, before fully realizing that capacity to respond, serves as a point of disclosure and accountability in anticipating the behind-the-scenes work of transforming the organizational conduct and structural operations of the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst collection. Socio-ontological reckonings with the perceived purpose and actual use of museum collections remain urgent today. Collecting museums are consequential localities where art is inseparable from juridical regimes of property ownership and attendant capital. That ownable property is fundamentally ensured by the state legal order, and that a central purpose of the state constitution is property enforcement, exemplifies how inextricably co-constitutive private holding and national security are. Acquisitions are continuous with statecraft capitalism. The everyday settled expectation of property rights is a euphemism for the longstanding expulsions of the acquisitive state. New establishments that acquire recently produced property maintain the historical means of acquisition and the archaic conventions of ownership. Indeed, a contemporary museum that collects exclusively contemporary art must still contend with its participation in the exclusionary right inherent to the property regime. Property and finance in Switzerland are inextricable from colonial continuities. Acknowledging these pervasive continuities means challenging the assumed historical exceptionalism of contemporary collecting museums, including the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst, by engaging them as direct beneficiaries of ongoing accumulation derived from colonial and neocolonial dealings. An examination of the legal-economic structures supporting the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst collection inevitably considers the Migros Group as a multinational multi-subsidiary corporation, cooperative federation, and sole benefactor of the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst. Beyond merely exposing this legacy patronage of the Museum, what responsibility of action may be generated from audited disclosures of the beneficiary relations the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst has with the Migros Group? The integrated yet compartmentalized relations between the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst Collection, Federation of Migros Cooperatives, Migros Industry, and Migros Bank are an active evidentiary network of ownership within the global nexus of property. Leaning further into these evidentiary and beneficiary relations is a vital approach to any impactful reorganizing, repurposing, and redeploying of the Museum’s collection infrastructure. An apparatus established by the destructive order of propertization and its capitalization can never be liberated, but that operative machinery of trauma is necessarily utilized in the service of reparations. Because reparations is an expansive project which includes redressing ownership and wealth redistribution while also necessarily exceeding these limited legal-economic frameworks, artistic capacities are crucial to realizing that expansive project’s critical horizon. If art is significantly determined by its inseparability from the regime of property, how might art then determine the regime of property with inverse overriding force? That is, what artistic potential and social possibility can be made from that inseparability? The following questionnaire offers an interrogative occasion for the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst to reconsider its own practical administration role in that expansive project and in supporting artists’ applied methods for its realization. While this questionnaire is applicable to all representatives of the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst, it was submitted to those representatives who identify as having assigned responsibility and decisional authority over the Museum’s collection. 1. What assigned responsibilities and what decisional authority do you currently have over the collection of the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst? Does your fully executed employment contract stipulate in what specific ways you are authorized to make consequential decisions for the collection? Within your collective leadership team role, are you authorized to make changes to collection procedures and processes unilaterally, or do those changes require majority vote approval from all members of the leadership team? And then, does the leadership team require approval from a supervisory authority in making those changes? How are all members of the collective leadership team included in the process of making changes to collection procedures and structures? How are non-leadership, collection-specific team members included in that process? How would you envision that authorized approval process if it were to be restructured? Beyond the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst team’s role within the Culture Percentage of the Migros Group, is there any position in the wider Social Affairs and Culture Department of the Federation of Migros Cooperative and its Executive Board with direct decisional authority over the Museum collection? What legal entity ultimately owns the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst collection? 2. Have you sought any changes to acquisition protocols and collection procedures since you began working at the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst? Have you proposed any infrastructural changes to the collection, for instance, regarding the physical spaces and material resources devoted to the collection? If so, which changes have been implemented? What specific points of contention or challenges have you faced in making changes to the collection practices and structures? 3. Does the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst collection work with a regular in-house acquisition committee or invite external members for an acquisition committee in accordance with the specific considerations of an artwork for acquisition? If so, who comprises this committee, and what is their active role and decisional authority in the acquisition process? What advantages and disadvantages do you see with an acquisition committee having either a purely advisory capacity or a decisive vote on proposed acquisitions? What does a typical acquisition process for the collection consist of currently, please walk us through that timeline and the processual steps of negotiating and securing the acquisition and then entering it into the collection. 4. Who drafts a Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst acquisition agreement, and who are the signatories to that agreement? Who has the ultimate authority to sign the acquisition agreements on behalf of the institution? Do you believe the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst should make a standard template of the acquisition agreement publicly accessible? How much consultation with the artist do you seek out on drafting terms and conditions of the acquisition agreement, do you encourage artists to engage in the process of drafting terms and conditions for an acquisition agreement? Does the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst retain or employ legal counsel for developing the legal-economic structures of its collection and collection procedures beyond the acquisition agreements? Has legal counsel representing the Migros Museum ever engaged directly with artists (and/or their own legal counsel) whose work is being acquired? 5. How is the allocation from the Migros Culture Percentage fund decided for the total operating expenses of the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst, and how are the funds for collection acquisitions allocated from the total operating expenses? Do artists whose work is being acquired ever inquire about the origins of financing (i.e., a detailed breakdown concerning the Migros Culture Percentage funds) used to acquire their artwork for the collection? What changes to the acquisition procedures have been implemented in accordance with an artist’s demands? How have you facilitated those artists’ demands? Have you organized working groups with artists and other thinkers on collection practices to reconsider the political imperatives as well as the legal-economic structures and actual procedures of the collection at the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst? 6. Is there any institutional precedent at the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst for an artist requiring that their artwork be entered into the collection without transferring ownership over to the Museum? How might the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst collection accommodate non-ownable artwork—art that the artist for instance, has designated for lease only or stewardship—in keeping with their intended withholding of ownership? Do ideas and operative structures of cooperativism (legally enforced mutual or shared ownership) directly inform the collection practices at the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst, if so, how? 7. Under what terms does the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst collection accept loan requests from other institutions? How does the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst’s loan program vet potential borrowers and make decisions about granting those loans? Does the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst cover all expenses (transport/shipping, insurance, handling, etc.) related to loaning work from its collection? Does the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst accept donated and/or gifted artworks for the collection, if so, under what terms? Does the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst collection include any long-term loans? If so, what are the terms of these long-term loans? 8. What sociopolitical imperatives and curatorial interests motivate your work with the collection? What criteria do you emphasize for the artwork coming into the collection, and is that emphasis shared or co-created by the Co-Direction and collection team? What structures and practices have been implemented to diversify the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst’s collection with respect to artists’ lived experience and identity? And how does that imperative for diversity, access, and equity extend beyond collected representational content (property) so that artists’ difference is actualized in the Museum’s structural governance arrangements? 9. Do you and the Co-Direction aim for the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst’s collection to offer methods and modalities that can be studied and adapted by other museum collections? Do you see the Museum für Gegenwartskunst as a collection museum leading global efforts to critically reimagine the uses of museum collections? What is the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst’s understanding of the potential for radically experimental and profoundly reparative collection practices today? How does the Museum für Gegenwartskunst’s collection openly contend with its legacy of property, and resist the predominant assumed rights to property ownership? How can artists who are particularly devoted to rethinking property be invited in by the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst Co-Direction to implement substantive transformations to the Museum’s collection and collecting? // *Rather than reflecting back on the exhibition, this text puts forward a questionnaire to be utilized in an intra-institutional process of gathering responses from representatives of the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst who have decisional authority over the Museum’s collection. The questionnaire actively engages with the current research, development, and forthcoming implementation of specific actual changes to the Museum’s collection infrastructure and procedures, a process which exceeds the scope of the temporary exhibition, Accumulation. This text was commissioned by the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst in conjunction with the two-part exhibition* Accumulation – On Collecting, Growth and Excess *(first sequence 08.02\. to 25.05.2025, second sequence 14.06\. to 27.07.2025).* *Eric Golo Stone is a writer and curator whose work emphasizes artistic methods of institutional critique. His writing has been published in Afterall, e-flux, Flash Art, October, and Texte zur Kunst. With Rhea Anastas, Charles Gaines, and Jamillah James he co-edited the book The Theater of Refusal: Black Art and Mainstream Criticism (Dancing Foxes, 2024), and he is editor of the book, Services Working Group (Fillip, 2022).* ### Cemetery of dead words URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cemetery-of-dead-words/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:29.000Z My conspiracy theorist friend Mitra—bitter as 90 percent Lindt chocolate—thinks that words used repeatedly lose their potency. As has happened to once-celebrated words such as “sustainable development,” “multiculturalism,” “Y2K generation,” “liminal,” “metaphysics,” “post-human,” and “mansplaining.” Overuse of these words has rendered them irrelevant. New terms have to be constantly produced, otherwise you would sound like an old hippie. Mithra wonders who comes up with these words and in what Circumstances. Some words, such as “agency,” “embodiment,” “interrogating power structures,” and “democratising dissent,” are fast reaching their expiry dates. You know it when they start popping up in TED Talks Normally, I wouldn’t care, but I, too, have to write proposals. And proposals have to have keywords. In life, I have written just one good proposal; the rest are just the results of a lifetime of cut-and-paste jobs A Pakistani comedian once talked about how leftovers of today’s chicken korma become tomorrow's pulao and the day after’s chicken paratha roll. Same story with proposals. In the life of a freelancer, 90 percent consists of writing proposals; 20 percent is chasing money; 10 percent is writing invoices; 30 percent is networking, and 2 percent is actual creative labor Even books have started looking like proposals. Time to make peace with Chat GPT ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/cemetary-00-1.jpg) Sarnath Banerjee, Cemetery of Dead Words 04, 2025\. © and courtesy of the artist \*\* Hailed as the foremost Indian comic book writer since his graphic novel *Corridor* (2004), Calcutta-raised, Berlin-based Sarnath Banerjee has evolved into a globetrotting visual critic with post-colonial wit in the eerily imperialist order of a neo-liberal third millennium. A self-described "sideways reporter of insignificant things," he is an affable commentator on the quotidian, a recorder of the pedestrian, and a believer in the importance of the mundane, bringing minor stories into greater narrative frames to measure up to history. Reflecting on his profoundly relational work, he has said that it "doesn't exist in isolation" and that "the reader is very much part of the work." Putting his words into practice, Banerjee has devised a vast multimedia installation for the 13th Berlin Biennale. The work combines drawing and audio, on the structures of typical newspaper stands found in India's public spaces. Entitled *Critical Imagination Deficit*, it is a testament to Banerjee's diagnosis of a fleeting era of intellectual dominance-a crisis in Euro-American hegemonic power structures, the symptoms of which he may have keenly observed from his German home. As bold as it is modest and as ambitious as the comic often deceptively is-how might Banerjee's Critical Imagination Deficit stand up on a musealized street? Or could it, in fact, only exist there? Could the piece withstand the confrontation with the street? I believe it would, and hope that by doing so, it will restore what the artist terms "political being and imaginative flight." **━ Claire Tancons** *Seen at KW Institute for Contemporary Art, as part of* Passing the Fugitive On*, the 13th Berlin Biennale for Contemporary Art, on view until September 14, 2025.* Claire Tancons is a curator and scholar invested in the discourse and practice of the postcolonial politics of production and exhibition. --- ### Cover: Sarnath Banerjee, Cemetery of Dead Words 01, 2025\. © and courtesy of the artist *Sarnath Banerjee writes comic books and lives in Berlin and Delhi.* ### En el quiebre. Juntas (1) URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/en-el-quiebre-juntas-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:27.000Z Salí de casa con un vestido negro de florcitas rojas estampadas, uno de los pocos que tengo y, definitivamente, el que más he usado en mi vida hasta ahora. En cierto punto, en el área común del espacio cultural donde ocurría la conferencia en la que participaba, me encontré con una persona que conocía hace poco, pero que ya era un poco especial para mí. Ella elogió mi ropa, agregando –suave y cuidadosamente– el siguiente comentario: “Se debe tener un sentido fuerte de sí para salir así al mundo, ¿no?”. Sin embargo, yo, medio inquieta y de manera intuitiva, contesté: “Tal vez sea exactamente lo contrario: se debe tener un sentido de sí demasiado quebrado para salir así al mundo”. Ella, intrigada, me miró y pidió que, en caso de que pudiera, hablara de eso a fondo. Este texto es, de cierta manera, un intento de hacerlo; es, al tiempo, una manera de comenzar a rastrear, en el quiebre, las fuerzas que se precipitan hacia afuera y más allá de los ideales normativos de género, sujeto y colectividad. La cuestión que se proyecta sobre este texto puede, por lo tanto, formularse de esta manera: ¿y sí, en vez de la totalidad, de la autoconciencia, de la capacidad de autodeterminación y autoestima, hubiera un sentido de quiebre que desplaza de manera efectiva las posiciones inconformes a la matriz cisgénero? ¿Y si esa sujeción inconsistente, esa manera de ser demasiado quebrada para traducirse en una coherencia identitaria y representativa –sea cual sea– insinuara también una forma de presencia efectivamente desobediente del género? ¿Y si, en las márgenes del gran “nosotros” universal (humano, blanco, cisgénero y heteronormativo) a partir del que se formula y engendra cierto proyecto de sujeto e identidad, se precipitaran en la caída y, a través de ella, otros modos de creación de colectividad y de estar juntas? Y las preguntas no paran ahí, se multiplican: ¿cómo habitar tal vulnerabilidad y cómo engendrar, en ese espacio tenso de las vidas quebradas por la violencia normalizadora, una conexión afectiva de otro tipo, una conexión que no esté basada en la integridad del sujeto, sino en su inevitable quiebre? Este texto también está atravesado por el denso proceso experimental, performativo y político que se dio durante la residencia Politizar la herida, que programé con el apoyo institucional, afectivo y financiero del Água Viva Concentrado Artística como parte de su proyecto transborda. Durante una semana, un grupo de diez personas se encontró en una casa cerca del centro de Curitiba para experimentar maneras de pensar y hacer performance desde corporalidades inscritas por heridas históricas y socialmente constitutivas del mundo que se nos ha permitido conocer. Así, más que un ámbito de formación artística, se estableció un espacio de ejercicio ético y reelaboración de las maneras de ser vulnerable en grupo, teniendo en cuenta el modo en que la gordofobia, la supremacía blanca, el heteroterrorismo y la transfobia interactúan en la reproducción de la muerte como expectativa de vida de muchas personas como las que nos reunimos en ese contexto. Pero ¿qué tipo de colectividad opera en el encuentro de historias de injusticia contadas desde posiciones tan distintas, y desde siempre asimétricas? ¿Qué significa, en un contexto como el de esa residencia (y más allá) insinuar un arreglo, un encuentro, una especie de nosotras cuyo efecto no sea el aniquilamiento del carácter inasimilable de cada cuerpo y de sus heridas? ¿Y cómo remonta eso a la escena del quiebre, a la hipótesis de que no es en la plenitud ontológica, sino en la multitud de fragmentos que se produce la posibilidad de otro modo de existencia en común? Para hablar sobre el quiebre, se debe escapar cuanto antes de las estructuras lógicas que ubican en puntos opuestos al individuo y la colectividad, independientemente de qué tendencia demuestren esas estructuras. No vengo aquí a hablar acerca de quebrar la lógica neoliberal del individualismo con miras a una inmersión en lo común. Tampoco acerca de afirmarla. Se trata, más bien, del reconocimiento de una posición desde siempre inferior a lo individual –porque es desmontada por el efecto de violencias sistemáticas desindividualizantes– y de una colectividad desde siempre inferior a lo común, porque es inasimilable desde el punto de vista de la generalización de lógicas colectivas. Ni un yo ni un nosotras como entidades internamente coherentes. Hablo de una presencia que escapa al gesto mismo de aprehensión a la que este texto se dirige, hablo de una fuerza que no es ni el sujeto ni el mundo, pero que lo atraviesa todo. Es probable, sin embargo, que este texto termine sin ofrecer una definición lo suficientemente bien articulada para lo que aquí se presenta como “el quiebre”. Ese tal vez sea el método del quiebre–menos como entidad autónoma que como fuerza incapturable–:definirse en su resistencia a la definición. Así, el quiebre sería lo que no se define, pero no por heroísmo postidentitario, sino por fracaso e insuficiencia. El quiebre no se define porque no cabe en sí mismo, porque cuando estalla una ventana, los fragmentos vuelan lejos, sin orden plausible. Teniendo esa imagen como ejemplo, y finalmente acercándome lo más posible a una definición, lo que aquí llamo quiebre no son las esquirlas, sino el movimiento abrupto, errático y desordenado del estallido. Si se piensa como estallido, entonces, ¿cómo es posible insinuar en el quiebre una manera de estar juntas? Si el quiebre rompe con un sentido de integridad, ¿cómo puede precipitar la reunión de fuerzas, entidades y existencias? Si es el evento del desmantelamiento, tras el cual un cuerpo ya no puede leerse como un cuerpo propio, ¿qué política de la afinidad puede engendrarse ahí, a pesar y a través del quiebre? Mi experiencia en Curitiba, en esos días de residencia, abrió de cierta manera el escenario de esas cuestiones. Para mí, que estaba par- ticipando como programadora/proponente, fue sin duda un ejercicio duro, arriesgado, confuso y frecuentemente exhaustivo. Mi metodología –intuitiva y experimental– fue la de presentarme en mi inseguridad y vulnerabilidad, poniendo en duda mi propia posición y mis maneras de llegar al arte de la performance en todo momento. Eso permitió, por un lado, crear una situación en la que todas las personas participantes de la residencia podían, en caso de que quisieran y se manifestaran en ese sentido, asumir mi posición, proponiendo ejercicios y dinámicas; pero también (al menos en mi caso) generó una sensación permanente de cabos sueltos, bordes mal cortados, movimientos indefinidos y ejercicios inconclusos. Al describirla así puede parecer que la experiencia fue realmente un desastre, pero resulta que, si lo fue, no la analizo ahora desde un punto de vista moral: no escribo aquí para diagnosticar lo bueno o malo de una experiencia colectiva desastrosa, sino para preguntar, ¿qué fuerzas, qué densidades, qué movimientos de vida propician tal en- cuentro? Pues, en su fragilidad y desajuste, esa experiencia trajo a flote expresiones tanto performativas –propuestas y performadas a lo largo de la residencia– como afectivas –estimuladas y experimentadas en los momentos juntas, dentro, fuera y más allá del espacio que ocupamos–que se precipitan sobre las dinámicas políticas, éticas y estéticas de la colectividad contingente que allí engendramos como una manera de estar en el quiebre. Juntas. Y nada de eso es fácil, nada de eso es indoloro o cómodo. Al tantear la posibilidad de una colectividad forjada en el movimiento improbable de un estallido, siempre será necesario abrir espacio para los flujos de sangre, para las ondas de calor y para el pulso de la herida. Politizar la herida, a fin de cuentas, es una manera de estar juntas en el quiebre y de encontrar, entre las esquirlas de una ventana estallada, un vínculo imposible, el indicio de una colectividad áspera e improbable. Se trata de habitar espacios irrespirables, de avanzar sobre caminos inestables y estar a solas con la incomodidad de existir en bandada, la incomodidad de, una vez juntas, tocar el quiebre de las otras. Mientras llego al final de este ensayo –tan inconcluyente como puede ser un escrito hecho en torno a interrogantes para los cuales no hay respuesta–, me pregunto cuánto se acerca al pedido de mi amiga, que mencioné en el primer párrafo de este texto. Esto es, qué tanto enriquece esta reflexión a la idea de que el sentido quebrado de sí –que acompaña mi movimiento en el mundo como cuerpo monstruoso, de presencia aberrante y desobediente de género– marca otra manera de habitar y enfrentar ese mundo. Entonces miro la historia de mi nombre, de este cuerpo, de los géneros que pasan por él, y me pierdo en el ejercicio poético y político de dar cuenta del quiebre que me atraviesa, me desmonta y, paradójicamente, me hace posible. Atenas, abril de 2017 *Este extracto pertenece a* En el quiebre. Juntas*, incluido en el libro* No nos van a matar ahora*, de la artista brasileña Jota Mombaça, publicado por* Caja Negra Editora*.* // (1) Es probable que este capítulo sea un diálogo con el libro In the Break \[En el quiebre\], de Fred Moten, en el que se investigan las relaciones entre el jazz, la identidad sexual y la política radical negra. \[N. del T.\] *(Natal, Brasil, 1991) es una artista interdisciplinar cuya obra se desarrolla en diversos medios. La materia sonora y visual de las palabras desempeña un papel importante en su práctica, que a menudo se relaciona con la crítica anticolonial y la desobediencia de género. A través de la performance, la ficción visionaria y las estrategias de producción de conocimiento, tematiza las relaciones entre monstruosidad y humanidad, los estudios queer, la diáspora, la violencia y la resiliencia. Su obra se ha presentado en distintos marcos institucionales como la Bienal de Venecia (2024), 32° y 34° Bienal de San Pablo (2016 y 2020/2021), la 22° Bienal de Sídney (2020), la 10° Bienal de Berlín (2018) y el 46º Salón Nacional de Artistas de Colombia (2019).* ### An accumulation of care. URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/an-accumulation-of-care/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:26.000Z MANIFESTO FOR AN ACCUMULATION OF CARE The bedroom is a monument is an altar: this is our counter-architecture. WE MOURN AND WE BUILD IN THE SAME GESTURE. We grieve the conditions that make our interdependence necessary while constructing monuments to the care that sustains us. Our wooden spiral domesticates Vladimir Tatlin‘s neverbuilt Monument to the Third International: his revolutionary architecture reimagined as bedroom furniture, as mourning altar, as monument to interdependence. We know the romance of queer chosen family seduces us even as it obscures a harder truth: when the state withdraws, our care relationships buckle under weights they were never equipped to carry. Sophie Lewis names this precisely—by abandoning care to the family, the state compromises the very relationships it exploits. Love persists alongside exhaustion, tenderness alongside resentment. Not because we lack devotion, but because no relationship can replace public infrastructure. If the love comes through more clearly than the difficulty in our work, this too is part of the problem: how much easier it is to display care than to admit its costs. We monumentalise this labour precisely because it has been relegated to privacy. Not to glorify our survival, but to make visible the infrastructure that sustains life at the margins. The bedroom becomes monument, the home becomes altar—not because these spaces are sacred, but because they are where we conspire to stay alive. The care we document is exhausting. It carries the weight of being each other‘s main safety net. We monumentalise it anyway. Not despite these complications, but through them. WE PUBLICISE THE PRIVATE. Bedroom furniture occupies gallery space as fact, not metaphor. As Kathi Weeks wrote, care has been privatised by the state, confined to households, erased from public record. We drag it into view. Most of us spend a lot of time in bed. These spaces where we sustain each other aren‘t separate from politics: they are the ground from which our politics emerge. WE MAKE ART. When marginalised artists depict daily life, critics often see documentation, not aesthetic choice. We reject this framework. Every element here is composed: the duvet selected, the altar arranged, the burlap wrapped with intention. We‘re not just archiving our lives; we‘re constructing form from the materials of survival. The boundaries they police—high/low, art/life, form/document—dissolve in our hands. This work is simultaneously archive and aesthetic practice, memory and construction, documentary and speculation. WE MONUMENTALISE WHAT CAPITALISM DISCARDS. The DIY solutions, the informal networks, the rhythms that refuse productivity metrics. Our materials are deliberately imperfect. Flaws are our method. We monumentalise the makeshift because the makeshift has sustained us. WE ACCUMULATE DIFFERENTLY. We reclaim accumulation from capital‘s logic of extraction. Where they demand efficiency, we create density. Where they streamline, we layer. Our installation overflows—textiles, sounds, medical supplies, ten years of correspondence—because interdependent life resists minimalism. This isn‘t hoarding; it‘s how we build shared abundance against imposed scarcity. WE REJECT YOUR ARCHIVES. We write our own histories. The objects here are replicas from our lives; some captions document, others speculate. The correspondence is verbatim but hand-copied—we each rewrote our own letters alongside each other‘s, blurring the boundaries of authorship through collective transcription. Like Tatlin‘s monument, which exists most powerfully as an unrealised vision, any speculative aspects of the work articulate truths that conventional documentation cannot capture. WE TAKE WHAT WE CAN. We understand the difference between care as institutional rhetoric and care as material redistribution. The gallery offers us space; we use it tactically. This isn‘t revolutionary—we know political action requires more than occupying white cubes. It‘s one strategy among many. THIS IS WHAT WE PRACTICE: • Accumulation as shared abundance, not private wealth • Care as foundation, not afterthought • Interdependence as strategy, not symptom • Survival as a collective practice, not individual achievement WE ARE ALREADY BUILDING. While the state debates our right to exist, we create the structures that sustain us. While they pathologize our needs, we meet them—imperfectly, but persistently. The networks hold. The correspondence continues. The altar accumulates. This installation is testimony. \*\*\* There are parts of the house that are dimly lit. Others that have remained bright for as long as it has existed. The house wants to provide shelter for others and so makes sure to stock the correct supplies: bedding, a large dining table, a fully equipped kitchen, a playpen for children, a place for discussion, several nooks and crannies in which to gather. The house tries not to betray secrets: regardless of who they belong to. And so, it has buried some under the floor-boards, lodged others behind the sofa, painted a few into door frames and walls. It has many rooms and perhaps more importantly, many windows for looking outward. The house tries to keep its door open whenever possible, regulating temperature in order to invite others in. The interior is plush, designed for plurality and comfort. The house prides itself on being multifunctional but it is often haunted by what it has forgotten. In one room, an older woman waits patiently, looking out of the window smiling. In another, a group of friends laugh – quietly goading one another, gently pushing on each other’s sore spots. Upstairs in the nursery, a baby is being born, three doors to the left, a little girl can’t remember if she is allowed to leave her room. The house wants all of these disparate figures to meet but their different locations in time prevent this. Whenever the old woman hears the baby crying and leaves her room to find him, the sound drifts further and further along the corridor, she gives up from exhaustion before she can reach him. When the little girl gets the courage to leave the room, the old woman’s footsteps scare her back into the corner, she decides to keep playing for five more minutes. The baby can’t see past his own fingers, but the house takes care of him, makes sure he is fed and clothed and bathed, that he is stimulated, that he eats well. He has yet to be held by a human being. At any given time, the occupants of his sprawling house look outside – or at least upwards, beyond themselves. The house knows that they will find each other eventually, that they are connected by forces too powerful to name. Each person in the house only has to believe this for it to be true. \*\*\* Dear Christie, Christine and Vera, I can barely remember how we found ourselves here, where we got the audacity to provide ourselves with a framework for thinking out loud and working together. I’m so glad that we freed ourselves from the notion that the public development of artistic practice is gauche, that we humbled ourselves enough to think that we had something to learn through creating work and melding our practices. I know it has softened my own approach to writing, now I trust myself more that every piece of writing needn’t be the best, there is no competition. Since we started working and making together, many things have happened: we’ve lost two members, and that still stings, we’ve written and collaborated and fought, and dropped the ball and picked it up again, seen each other through relationship breakdowns, heartache, decisions we regretted, but our various projects have given us some way of understanding these processes as part of a creative whole. We have begun to understand and give voice to the true source of value: the work that we do for each other – in describing it, taking photos and videos, treating it as if it were a serious endeavour under capitalism, rather than merely a coincidence of friendship, we’ve revealed a structure and a strategy (at least in part) for thinking against the increasingly alienative tenants of the world. Vera, the piece on friendship by Geoffroy de Lagasnerie that you introduced to me reminded me that friendship is also a way to glimpse freedom because it involves relational invention. It’s true that I see us change and invent ourselves anew for each other almost monthly, we follow each other through fads and phases and obsessions. That relational invention feels like a promise: you can be nimble, changeable, fickle, I won’t hold you to it. It almost feels like the promise of accumulation: give me more, every version of yourself, I’ll gather it all and keep it safe for you. Thinking through and with you about working, not working, and leeching of institutional resources these last five years has reminded me how much of my life is lost to forms of wage labour which are driven by precarity. Watching our manifesto video reminds me of how we have been encouraged to forget the thousands that were sacrificed to the ongoing global pandemic – what was for many of us, an opening, a chance to build the infrastructure we have now ran alongside death. So much of the world runs alongside death. The ability to really think, to sit deeply and ponder an idea or concept, to read and understand it fully, even to fully participate in the fruition of this project has been so difficult for me as of late. When I think of an “Accumulation of Care” I think of the plural routes that we sustain each other’s autonomy, the ways we labour to produce good will, humour, pleasure, what we lend to each other in times of need – money, a home, what we make for each other: a dress, a table cloth, and the way we meet basic needs without asking, “have you eaten?” “Come over for dinner?” Here are all of the most valuable things in my life and it is never cliche to admit this in a world that continues to be ravaged from the profit motive. Christine, I was complaining to you about a person in one of my workshops, who in response to Huey P Newton’s assertion that culture alone will not liberate us, responded, from inside the imperial core that is actively annihilating the people of Palestine, that his ‘activism’ didn’t save him either. When I was ranting to you about it, I could see the ways you made space for me to call this interaction what it was: despicable, a dereliction of duty, all without judgement. I think I settled on this phrase, “Does she know what it means to dedicate your life to the liberation of black people, to be assassinated by the state because you pose such a threat to its governing order?” and you laughed and I remembered that you’ve known me for a decade and you understand exactly why that response disturbed me so much. I rarely stop to think about the work that has gone into the production of a relationship that feels so natural, as if it has always existed. In those moments, I think I understand what Marx’s mean about where value is located, I think of another quote by Sarah Marie Hall that I used in the same workshop. “One of the main ways in which components of social reproduction interconnect is as forms of labour. Thus, labour is a central concept but is often eclipsed by discussions of care. These are of course interrelated – care is labour, care is labouring.” I could keep writing forever about these instances but I want to leave a space for someone else to pick up where I have left off. Lola x \*\*\* Dear Lola, Christie, Christine, I arguably have the worst memory of us all, but I want to stay for a while with the question that you started with, Lola - how did we get here? I know we all indulge in fabricating different versions of our collective’s origin myth, but here I will abstain from a narrative account. What I can offer, though, is my thoughts on the why - why we came together, why labouring for each other doesn’t feel like work, and why all of this matters; or, to think through the terms in Lola’s letter, why all of this is so valuable. One of my favourite homosexuals once said: “As far back as I remember, to want guys \[garcons\] was to want relations with guys. That has always been important for me, not necessarily in the form of a couple but as a matter of existence: how is it possible for men to be together? To live together, to share their time, their meals, their room, their leisure, their grief, their knowledge, their confidences? What is it to be “naked” among men, outside of institutional relations, family, profession, and obligatory camaraderie? It’s a desire, an uneasiness, a desire-in-uneasiness that exists among a lot of people.” His casual disinterest for lesbianism notwithstanding, our friend is right: queerness begins with friendship. To be a dyke, at least for me, is only very partially about my own romantic entanglements, and has much more to do with the fact that I feel qualified to give my unsolicited opinion about everyone else’s. My queerness, or my desire for queerness would have remained inchoate, had I not met you. We initiated each other into what we now could call a mode of life, a commitment to companionship, something we continuously reinvent and negotiate. We had all known Estrangement before we met each other, some of us more familiar with her than others. As the years go by, I can better recognise her as the entremetteuse, her unyielding hand silently guiding us towards one another. The ungenerous will call our encounter the consolation prize, but I know that, in the end, we are the luckiest. We got a chance at co-creation, at crafting the preferential option for mutuality. Amongst us, there has been uneasiness and then some. Touch isn’t always natural. We have all, in some way or another, participated in mediated conversations as a last-resort measure to salvage our relations from what in the moment felt like inextricable conflict between us or with others. We have repeatedly failed one another, and I know we often hurt alone. The doubts over the limits of empathy haven’t dissipated - there are certain pains we don’t trust each other with, yet. We have moulded conflict into the site of intimacy, yes, but not without definite strain. So how is it, then, that our friendships feel the most natural, like they have always existed? Why do we keep coming back if being in relation can be so hard? Although we resent having our work be reduced to insipid reclamations of laziness, we can’t deny that we really hate work. Working is often associated, for me, with a state of dissociated stasis, or something that requires endless grumbling to render bearable (Lola, I’m thinking of your irritation with the man in the workshop). And yet, the work of friendship, which became the work of our collective through our decision to elevate relation to the status of the work of art, feels different. It is a type of labour of mutual reproduction that isn’t tied to feminine abjection, conditional belonging or the profit motive. Labouring for one another isn’t necessarily easier; the crucial difference is that I want to do it. Why do we need the words ‘labour’ and ‘work’ to refer to areas of human activity, when we already have ‘effort’, ‘application’, ‘dedication’, ‘survival’, ‘reproduction’, ‘care’, ‘creation’, ‘art’? If I had more time or energy I’d go down an etymological rabbit hole, as I suspect that at some point we’d end up talking about the Latin or Greek word for torture and how it leads us to the current semantic tools at our disposal. The point being, ‘labour’ and ‘work’ serve to designate that which is done under conditions of alienation. Our relationships are flawed, we make art because we need money; in other words, we work. The great promise of our collective, however, is that we work to reduce that space separating us from our selves and each other. Together we ask ourselves: what does it mean to live an unalienated life? I know that, for some moments, we go beyond the rehearsal of non-estrangement and delight in the pleasures of the communal. The work of creating this installation began long before we even knew about the existence of this gallery. Do you remember? It was in the years of death (the ongoing global pandemic, yes), and two of us got very sick. I became consumed by the fear of your loss, of the end of our lives as we knew it. Death, as I waited for her, taught me not only how to live with ghosts, but to fight for them. Did you know I was almost named Clara after our comrade Zetkin? Nothing we’re attempting here is particularly original. The person who named me and the person who I was almost named after both struggled in their own way for a cause not too different to ours. History is what hurts, and I’ve inherited a peculiar blend of conviction and ambivalence. Here, then, is the value of having a bestie: it is a strategy for building political determination, for re-enchanting the project of collectivity. I’ll end with these lines by the EZLN: “Facing the mountain we speak with our dead so that they will reveal to us in their word the path down which our veiled faces should turn. The drums rang out and in the voice of the earth our pain spoke and our history spoke. “For everyone, everything,” say our dead. Until it is so, there will be nothing for us.” With love, Vera \*\*\* A Note on Value and Accumulation: The importance of defining our terms moves us away from the ‘International Art English’ (as identified by Alix Rule and David Levine) that is commonly found in the press releases of exhibitions. For us, this note is also an invitation for us to think about if we mean what we say we mean. When we argue for a different kind of accumulation against the for-profit drivers of the present, an accumulation of caring and care practices, is such a thing actually possible? What do we know? We start from a Marxist position that holds that all external objects have both use-values and exchange values, and that capital’s transformation of objects, the product of human labour, into commodities for exchange obscures not only the labour that produces them but assigns to them a new value derived from exploitative processes of production. The truest source of value is labour: which reproduces the worker, the world and the objects which become commodities. Value is one way to think through a number of consequences of the capitalist mode of production, namely how the production of commodities and their ‘exchange values’ are merely definite quantities of congealed labour time. Our critique of the wage relation begins from an understanding that we do not strive for the cessation of labour in its entirety but rather the cessation of exploitative labour – we want to labour for each other, to produce external objects which fulfil our human needs without the requirement to buy and sell these objects. We are inclined to believe that such a thing is possible because we note the ways that, through our friendship, we sustain each other emotionally, politically and materially against the for-profit motive. Our work, ‘An Accumulation of Care’ scales up our belief. If capital’s circulation maintains a death grip on the world’s resources, can our inscrutable labour hijack the notion of accumulation and misdirect it towards abundance? Can we labour again in a different way and is this one part of a multi-pronged strategy necessary to meet the urgent demands of the present? Against maldistribution, how is the claiming of so called ‘unproductive labour,’ useful in the creation of environments of freedom and communalism? We have created a monument to this kind of slow labour: we have amassed our things, in order to give form to the caring labour that helps us fend off our own alienation. In Capital Volume One, Marx writes, ‘the less the productivity of labour, the greater the labourtime necessary to produce an article, and the greater its value.’ In a world where technological advancement, worker’s skill and the social organisation of processes of production are at an alltime high, objects which require increased labour time are of greater value because they bypass capitalist’s mode of production’s greatest imperative: efficiency. The laborious, labour-intensive processes of being with one another through modes of social relation which cannot be quantified. They do not neatly produce an object for sale and are therefore invaluable. It is because friendship requires greater labour-time that it is both beautiful and necessary. We recognise how we labour for one another outside of the rules of commodity exchange: the time spent thinking, writing, talking, wandering the earth, organising our lives around one another provides another model for locating value. Sophie Lewis writes that to love someone is to struggle for their autonomy and immersion in care as much as such a thing is possible in a world choked by capital – here “care” is positioned as an infrastructural set of ethical relations that refuses the stratification of labour and processes of exploitation inherent to capitalism’s operation. When Marx argues that the accumulation of capital is the excessive attainment of wealth in the form of commodities, we hear this argument and know with our bodies that this process relies on the fundamental disregard for human life. The profit motive does not care how and on whose backs the wealth is created – it does not care about the cages, financial institutions, weapons manufacturers and fossil fuel companies through which it flows – this disregard results in an environment in which death is not even regarded as an unfortunate consequence of wealth creation but instead a necessary and just one. ‘An Accumulation of Care’ proposes as with revolutionary historical processes across history, as with the world historical axis that shifts through resistance in Palestine, in Sudan and in Kashmir, that the drive for accumulation can be transformed, that we can reject wealth in the form of commodities in favour of resource distribution, council planning, collective ownership, love, friendship, comradeship; kinship, anti-colonial struggle and the generation of social forms and ethics which sustain life rather than extinguish it. We have created a monument that understands, like Diane Di Prima, that we must behave as if we can have what we ask for and therefore we must ask for everything. \*\*\* They’ve made the garden very beautiful and sometimes, the simplest words to describe a thing are enough. When they first moved in, it had the sad look of neglected greenery, speckled with bits of glass. Patches of grass had hardened from lack of watering. The landlord plastered over the problem and when they pull up the fake grass cover, they discover the extent of the damage. This is when it starts. They envisage what is not yet there but will be there when they have enough time and the conditions are ripe for optimal growth. Believe it or not, they’ve made the soil beautiful with water, trips to the garden centre, with jackets, boots and seeds in the rain and a careful plan for what they will grow and every possible way the flowers could bloom. They’ve made it beautiful with time and patience and periods where they had to abandon their plans for the garden because more pressing issues demanded attention. The garden is a rescue mission. // *This text written by Bare Minimum Collective is accompanying their installation* An Accumulation of Care *in the exhibition* Accumulation – On Collecting, Growth and Excess *at the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst in Zurich.* *Bare Minimum Collective is a queer interdisciplinary anti-work art collective. We hate working, hustling, neoliberal self-improvement, wage labour and surplus value, private property, how work eats into our time, our love, and our ability to make things in earnest. We are group of friends who decided to formally name an existing structure of relation that keeps us alive through our labour for each other. We are lazy, queer and many of us are disabled. Our work has most recently been on show at Kunsthalle Wien’s 2023 exhibition ‘In the Meantime, Winter Comes Around’, as well as in screenings at London's Institute of Contemporary Arts (2023) and Somerset House (2023).* ### Fence and Viper URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/fence-and-viper/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:24.000Z In a black crater close to the borders of the Gaza Strip, about five years ago, I stood at the threshold of my intellectual and political capacities. In the distance, I saw the horizon of Jabalia and felt an instinctive pull towards the border. I had arrived at the crater because at the time, Barq, a resistance group in Gaza, was launching incendiary balloons, condoms, and fire kites over the border. Abu Yousef, the spokesperson who is reportedly responsible for some of the fires, told Al Jazeera “We came here to send a fiery message to the Israeli occupation that we in the Gaza Strip can no longer tolerate the blockade that’s been taking place for 13 years".\[1\] The area surrounding Gaza, known as “Gaza Envelope,” includes settlements and vast agricultural fields of peanuts, watermelons, wheat, sunflowers, bananas, and forests targeted by the "fiery messages". The area, located on the eastern border of the Gaza Strip, grew with the Israeli settlement around Gaza and the establishment of agricultural outposts in the 1950s by the Nahal military unit. As hybrid agricultural-military settlements, these Nahal outposts were placed along the Israeli border for strategic reasons, to prevent the shrinking of Israeli sovereign territory and to solidify the border through cultivation of extensive agricultural lands. The border was established, monitored, and maintained through agricultural labor carried out by soldiers and volunteers, while also preventing the return of Gazan refugees to fields that had once belonged to them. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-07-03-at-11.42.08.png) Jonathan Omer Mizrahi, *The Snake Charmer*, 2024, (video still). Courtesy of the artist In Bert Nielson and Sandro Mezzadra’s research on dynamic borders, they use the term “Borderscapes” to express the simultaneous expansion and contraction of political spaces, engaging with the resistances that arise at these sites, the challenges they pose, and the criticism directed at them.\[2\] The current definition of the “Gaza Envelope” region was measured by the Israeli army by comparing the physical distance from the border and the range of rockets and other threats posed by Palestinian armed resistance groups in the Strip. Unlike the Borderscapes perspective, from the unilateral disengagement in 2005 until the current ethnic cleansing in Gaza, the Israeli perception of the border with Gaza has been shaped around maximum siege and segregation, like extensive, but not airtight, insulation. Besides the land and sea blockade, in recent years, the border has undergone various sealing attempts by means of accelerated automation processes, and the development of military surveillance and artificial intelligence technologies. The border with Gaza functioned as a tool to delineate Israel as a space where legal frameworks could operate, to consolidate its identity as a unified ethnonational state. The border has hardened over this period with restrictions aimed at further isolating the Gaza Strip. Since October 7th, 2023, the border has remained breached by the Israeli military, which controls it. Inside the Strip, tens of thousands of Palestinian lives, cities such as Beit Hanoun, Beit Lahia, and Jabalia, along with numerous villages, hospitals, schools, and cultural centers, have been wiped out by IDF air and land operations. The vast majority of agricultural fields and greenhouses in the Strip have been bombed, and thousands of food and humanitarian aid trucks have been stopped at the border. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/vlcsnap-2022-11-24-19h37m32s081.png) Jonathan Omer Mizrahi, *The Snake Charmer*, 2024, (video still). Courtesy of the artist The Israeli concept of the sealed border has disintegrated and has been replaced by a popular perception of military control alongside new settlements, as had been done previously and as can be seen in the West Bank over the last fifty years. Alongside the deployment of rigid and clear borders, Israel has been continuously blurring borders since its establishment, by triggering conflict which could reconfigure borders perimeter and deepen the segregation and oppression of Palestinians using geographic and civil disruption. In contrast to the misleading perception of borders as a fixed, clear, enforcing, and delineating line of a homogeneous national space, the borders of Israeli sovereignty have different faces for different groups. Israeli borders show complex, polysemic, dynamic, and heterogeneous structures. As in other territories, these qualities are reflected in immigration policies. Further, borders function as tools for control and as a way to shape or connect the global flow of migrant labor. In the Gaza Envelope, since the establishment of Nahal outposts around the notion of “Avoda Ivrit” (Hebrew labor), neoliberal policies of the Likud right-wing party have targeted the Israeli farmers. As a result, they became increasingly reliant on cheaper Palestinian workers from Gaza. During the first Palestinian Intifada (1987-1993), security forces and employers in Israel began to fear the rebelliousness of the Gazan proletariat, and the border began to tighten. Most Gazan workers were no longer allowed to enter Israel for work, and a new low-wage labor force was needed. Since then, in an oppressive migration regime, the entire agricultural sector in Israel has become dependent on migrant labor from Thailand and the exploitation of populations from the global majority. The replacement of Jewish labor by Palestinian hands, and later by Thai workers, reflects the ethnic separation between Israeli-Jewish landowners and employers and the foreign labor force. The "other", as a modular function, carries economic and psychological meanings. The anthropologist Shahar Shoham discusses how Israelis developed the term "Taylandi" (Hebrew for “Thai man”) as a synonym for agricultural worker, imagined as a submissive and compliant figure. Shoham shows how the discursive practices created by the Israeli migration regime otherizes the labourers, using the imagined figure as a disciplinary tool in exploitative labor relations.\[3\] In the Gaza Envelope, Thai national workers are required to endure war as well as neglect and discriminatory racism. Before the outbreak of the war in October 2023, approximately 6000 Thai national workers lived around the Israeli-Gaza border. It is difficult to assess how informed and prepared they were of the danger when they moved there. The absence of protected spaces, alarm systems, or accessible information provided to them by the Israeli government, Thai migrant workers in life-threatening danger at the border. Many were killed and taken hostage during the 7 October attack. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-07-03-at-11.43.57.png) Jonathan Omer Mizrahi, *The Snake Charmer*, 2024, (video still). Courtesy of the artist It is relevant to the larger geopolitical positionality of Israel to note that there is evidence of a connection between the entry of Thai labor into Israel and security-military cooperation between the two countries. In his new book, *Capitalist Colonial: Thai Migrant Workers in Israeli Agriculture*, Matan Kaminer demonstrates how Thailand's military government attempted to implement Israel's strategy of agricultural settlement in border areas, as embodied by the Nahal settlements. In the 1970s and early 1980s, the Thai government fought a Maoist uprising that received support from the communist authorities in neighboring Laos to the north. After the fighting along the Laotian border subsided in the early 1980s, Thailand became entangled in the civil war in its southern neighbor, Cambodia, and many refugees flooded the border region. General Phichit Kullavanijaya, who was in charge of the border areas, turned to Israel for assistance in establishing "border settlements" along the borders between Cambodia and Laos. The first stage of the plan involved a "border settlement" course that took place in the Gaza Envelope, the Golan, and the West Bank. On May 24, 1987, a delegation of 49 Thai military and government officials arrived in Israel to participate in the course, which was conducted under the guidance of the Israeli Defense Forces' Foreign Relations Department.\[4\] The above project can be understood in the ontological context of the Thai-Laos border since the 1970s, during which time it became a site of political tension and migration. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/mekong.jpg) Jonathan Omer Mizrahi, *The Snake Charmer*, 2024, (video still). Courtesy of the artist This border stretches along the Mekong River, the longest river in Southeast Asia. For many communities around it, the Mekong is not just a border between countries but also a threshold between the world of the living and the netherworld of the dead. In the river resides Phaya Naga, a dragon serpent god, also known as the King of Snakes, who, according to folklore, shaped the river’s path with its body. The Naga appears in numerous tales, from Buddhist scriptures to soap operas, and in most cases, its appearance is deceptive as it transitions between human and snake. Events witnessed by the Mekong’s human neighbors point to fluctuations in the river currents and the appearance of fireballs above the water as evidence of Phaya Naga’s presence. Many sites along the Thailand-Laos border are dedicated to Phaya Naga, with festivals, fairs, and statues depicting the god as a multi-headed dragon serpent. I visited one such site along the promenade of Nakhon Phanom, a province in the northeastern Isaan region of Thailand. I visited the funeral of the siblings of Settha Homsorn (Tom), who was murdered in the massacre in Kfar Aza on October 7th. The siblings sat by the riverbank and described seeing the Phaya Naga in the water. While branches drifted along with the current, Tom’s sister noticed a movement going against the flow. His brother asked the Naga to alleviate the suffering of their family. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-07-03-at-11.45.02.png) Jonathan Omer Mizrahi, *The Snake Charmer,* 2024, (video still). Courtesy of the artist For me, as a Jew visiting the serpent god for the first time, its revelation in the borderlands was accompanied by various interpretations. After all, the serpent is known as a symbolic means of crossing the Jewish border between sanctity and impurity. The serpent figure accompanies the story of Moses and is especially prominent in the Biblical myth of Nehushtan in the Book of Numbers, chapter 21, where God commands Moses to create a serpent statue to revive the faith of the Hebrews and heal them from snake bites. Years later, King Hezekiah destroyed the bronze serpent because it had turned from a symbol of transcendent healing to a belief in a serpent god. Nehushtan’s serpent moves along a metaphysical scale from the symbolic to the figurative, from the animalistic to the sculptural, and then back to the symbolic. From the Bible to modern writers including Micha Yosef Berdyczewski and Amos Oz, examples of the serpent’s presence appear in the traditional symbol network of the "Sitra Achra" (Aramaic, meaning "the other side"), describing the crossing of the threshold beyond symbols of sanctity as a process of sensual anti-rational eruption. The symbol reflects the fragile face of religious logic and serves as an alluring gate to a truer experience of profane sexuality and threatening nature. After crossing the symbolic border of holiness, for example, after sacrificing a red heifer, a marriage, or eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, the corruption, decay, and stench of earthly reality are revealed. As long as holiness remains within the symbolic world and impurity dominates earthly reality, the Sitra Achra objects evolve as an iconoclastic device that uses the symbol against itself. Once holiness is shattered, we see how the other side is more real than our symbolic existence. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-07-03-at-11.46.03.png) Jonathan Omer Mizrahi, *The Snake Charmer*, 2024, (video still). Courtesy of the artist In 2006, Hamas began digging tunnels through the soil to escape and counter the siege and trespass the border dividing Gaza from Israel. In response, the Israeli military sought ways to deal with the tunnels through complex, transdisciplinary systems of cameras and sensors, seismic motion detectors, robotic ground-penetrating devices, and a new subterranean border wall that reached the aquifer’s water. Among these systems, the Israeli military developed a robotic snake for collecting intelligence along the tunnels. The snake is controlled from a great distance and moves silently without being detected. The engineers who designed it explained that the robot was inspired by direct observations of a local viper. The mechanical snake was first revealed to the public in a 2009 television report \[5\], described as "the Israeli military’s new toy", capable of spying, listening, and surprising the enemy. In the report, the robot moved along the grass, entered a small hole, and twisted sharply and erratically. Its movements were loose, and it did not meet expectations based on viper biomimicry. In addition to the camera, it carries a microfiber communication cable to compensate for the lack of reception underground, as well as a microphone, a flashlight, and, sometimes, explosives, making the serpent a lethal weapon. In the past, soldiers from the Givati Brigade would enter the tunnel openings they discovered along the border with rifles and flashlights raised, alert for unexpected threats. The risk of abduction led to soldiers being tied to long ropes so that they could be pulled back to Israel in the event of an incident, dead or alive. In her article, *Turning the Inside Out*, Laliv Melamed examines the robotic snake development as a military tool, analyzing the snake via the concept of "penetrative aesthetics", combined with technologies including thermal and medical media that penetrate the threshold of visibility, flipping the inside out. Melamed examines how developments in the snake allow for border-crossing videography, from the outside in, as well as penetration into the human body (like the medical snake bioscope) or dangerous and collapsing structures (as in the case of the “rescue/retrieval snake”). Penetrative aesthetics, thus, reveal how new technologies can penetrate both the earth and bodies. Like the medical snake, the military serpent technology enables precision action aimed at specific threats, isolating and removing "sick" parts from the system. Through the example of the robotic snake, Melamed demonstrates how increasing reliance on optics and machine learning has led to the rise of biometric warfare, where the goal is not only to eliminate threats but also to manage life and care as a mechanism for control, occupation, and expression and dilution of sovereignty.\[6\] The serpent’s gaze echoes Vilém Flusser’s analysis of forensic photography as a means of “decoding”. Flusser argues that images are illusory meta-codes, where text is disguised as reality and the automation of the photographic apparatus conceals any human agent. These are illusory automatic reflections of the world that are harder to decipher. When operating the robotic snake, the soldiers’ proxy slithers around its data prey, ready to swallow it. The special mechanism of the robot carries a trans-species perspective on and within forbidden places and renders an offensive image that penetrates across national and human borders. Through such a device, the Israeli military’s systems embody the physical manifestation of the state's eye, realized in the body of a serpent. The videographic resources produced by the serpent actualize the enactment of a power that is now detached from its snake body. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-07-03-at-11.46.46.png) Jonathan Omer Mizrahi, *The Snake Charmer*, 2024, (video still). Courtesy of the artist Throughout this research project, I aimed to present the fluctuations I documented at the threshold between our material world and netherworlds, with particular attention to the Israeli boundary with Gaza and the Thai border with Laos. I didn’t cross these borders, but I observed and documented them from the outside. Nevertheless, the vast horizons of the other side’s landscape stretched, surrounded, and swallowed me whole. Since the ruthless violent escalation and the rupture of the Israeli boundary fence, the concept of the border as a two-dimensional line, as a tool for wrapping, sealing, and separating, has collapsed. In the past, the *borderness* of the Gaza Envelope region seemed to me like an object that consumes and obscures another object, like the box that does and does not contain Schrödinger's cat. Today, although this border has collapsed, with tens of thousands of soldiers crossing into Gaza and Israeli pseudo-journalists “reporting” from there, the sealing and lack of access to Gaza are still maintained. The lives of the Palestinians and the Israeli hostages are obscured, dissolving into the blurred image of the destruction of the Strip. The deliberate removal of non-approved documentary footage from Gaza in the media allows the military to act to destroy the area without facing the judgment of civil society, especially within Israel, and the destruction continues to distance the perception of Gaza as an actual place. The map warps, and the territory perishes, allowing for repeated crossings over the border within the ruins; this is reflected in the violence and the strange technologies like the mechanical viper camera as it pursues its lowly path into the body and the earth. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Muhammad Shehada and Walid Mahmoud, “Gaza Incendiary Balloons Are ‘Distress Signals’.” Al Jazeera, 21 August 2020\. [https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2020/8/21/gaza-incendiary-balloons-are-distress-signals](https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2020/8/21/gaza-incendiary-balloons-are-distress-signals?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[2\] Mezzadra and Neilson, Border as Method, or, the Multiplication of Labor, Duke University Press, 2013 \[3\] Shahar Shoham, *The Heroes from Isaan Working in Israel: The Production of Migrants in the Thailand-Israel Migration Regime*. PhD diss., Humboldt University of Berlin, 2024. \[4\] Matan, Kamier, *Capitalist Colonial: Thai Migrant Workers in Israeli Agriculture*, Stanford University Press, 2024 \[5\] Channel 2 News, YouTube, 11 June 2009.[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-dzZBa6TQE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-dzZBa6TQE&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[6\] Laliv Melamed, *Turning the Inside Ou*t, University of Groningen, 2023 Cover Image: Jonathan Omer Mizrahi, *The Snake Charmer*, 2024, (video still). Courtesy of the artist *Jonathan (Om) Omer Mizrahi is an artist and filmmaker who explores various relations to power through projects that transpire at the intersection of creativity and emergency. Om has participated in exhibitions and screenings at various art spaces and film festivals and was an artist in residence in Greenland, Denmark, Austria, Germany and Israel Palestine.* ### Transfiguration URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/transfiguration/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:08:41.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-37-transfiguration](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-37-transfiguration?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- A certain truth emerges from our inability to trace how beliefs manifest across times and cultures: we are drawn to believing that faith is the most powerful source of reality. But faith doesn't bring us to transcendence, but rather to transfiguration: the alteration of matter and meaning through constraint—economic, emotional, and historical. In this summer of hell, we consider how beliefs, like bodies, are shaped by the systems they inhabit and resist. Everyone is thirsty for a miracle, we claim in our cover, but few ask what this thirst says about the drought we’re caught in. This thirst also reveals a troubling paradox: we no longer move because of our beliefs. Instead, we remain frozen in place because we cling too desperately to them. This condition is a consequence of capitalist indoctrination, the religious characteristics of which are described by Walter Benjamin in *Capitalism as Religion* (1921). In the text, he warns that capitalism is the only religion that permits no exit; a cult of scarcity, a liturgy of guilt, a theology of endless extraction. Amid genocide in Gaza, anti-migrant brutality in the U.S., air war against Iran, and a tightening net of identitarian politics in Germany, belief becomes a site of suspicion—a fragile posture more than a force. We cling to belief, not to build power but to survive the absence of empowerment. Under worsening austerity economics, art communities mirror the conditions they once challenged. They are fragmented by funding cuts, fatigued by call-outs, and too overworked to protect the joy that once resisted alienation. The (art)market absorbs critique as flavor. The polarization becomes profitable. And yet—transfiguration names another register. This issue departs not from ideology, but from a shift in consciousness. It is the shapeshifting fury of Meii Soh’s fugitive bodies. It is Naama Shoshana Fogiel Lewin’s insistence that we abandon the illusion of the indivisible “I.” It is Ruth Patir’s litanies reclaiming birthing from the death drive of state control. It is Alessandro Y. Longo’s unabating “wonder,” which insists on enchantment as a form of resistance to despair. To stay with the wound long enough to name it—this is transfiguration. The Mothers of Tel Rumeida, Hebron, document survival not for spectacle, but for memory. Pablo Amaringo’s ayahuasca cosmologies—revisited by Verónica Brands—do not offer escape but insurgent clarity. Zoncy Heavenly mediates herself, asserting presence as refusal. Sarnath Banerjee and Cosima von Bonin—each dissolve the barrier between the sacred and the quotidian, the tragic and the comic. In the marketplace of belief, even miracles are priced. Our contributors insist, however, that the true miracle is not transcendence—it is stubborn endurance: a letter from a worker; a tribunal convened by the community; a museum forced to confront what and whom it excludes. We reflect upon such forms of endurance with Raqs Media Collective, and on the embeddedness of life into labor, as well as how accumulation is not only a capitalist formation, but a sediment left by the passing of time. A resource, rather than a commodity. In *Eigentumsformen*, Eric Golo Stone drafted a questionnaire through which museums can reflect on their collection acquisition process. It seems to ask what the underlying parameters are, beyond ownership and prestige? Our columnist unifies a choir of atheists. Thus, this issue is not an antidotal doctrine—it is an exercise in *difficultation*. We borrow this term from the mediation approach for this year’s 13th Berlin Biennale for Contemporary Art (14.06.–14.09.2025). As the conceivers of the program and collaborators on this issue, Jas Wenzel and Duygu Örs share: “Instead of \[only\] facilitating, a difficultator does not interpret to solve problems or contradictions, but rather creates conditions of encounter, friction, and experience.” Difficultators refuse to hide discomfort and uncertainty. What does it mean to change form under pressure? It means refusing consolation. It means turning fracture into a method, as suggested by Jota Mombaça. Not magic that blinds, but transformation that burns. Not belief as obedience—but belief as practice, as possibility, as refusal. In the ruins of consensus, everybody is thirsty for a miracle. But what if we are the site of their making? What if belief, when unfastened from loyalty to power, can again become a tool—not just for coping, but for changing the world? Transfiguration is not a cure. It is a crack where pressure meets form, and something, finally, arises. With contributions by *Octavia Abril, Sarnath Banerjee, Verónica Brands, Clara Brinkmann, Mya Berger, Julieta Colantonio and Mila Tirini, Clemente Ciarrocca and Yanne Horas, Annalee Davis & Spore Initiative, Barbara Debeuckleare and Mothers of Hebron, Sepp Eckenhaussen, Tracy Fuad, Naama Shoshana Fogiel Lewin, Rindon Johnson, Samuel Jay Sangjani Wills, Dalia Maini, Alessandro Y. Longo, Jota Mombaça, Ruth Patir, María Inés Plaza Lazo, Duygu Örs & Jas Wenzel, Lilo Ruminawi, Madlyn Sauer, Charles Sobbs, Eric Golo Stone, Meii Soh, Raqs Media Collective, Zoncy Heavenly, Claire Tancons, Cosima von Bonin, and Lea Kristin Würtenberger.* ***Impressum / Imprint*** **Founders / Publishers / Directors** Verantwortlicher i.S.d . 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Project Development & Distribution** Theresa Zwerschke **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph **Assistant Editor** Rita Torres **Proofreading** William Kherbek **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Layout / Design Issue no. 37** optikom.com **We thank our volunteers:** Louisa Stank, Teresa Mayr, Nanna Kaiser, Hannah Lu Verse, Mika Schneck, Nicole Yildiri **Druck:** Die Rheinpfalz **Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse** Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschr.nkt) Schillerpromenade 10, 12049 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org **Arts of the Working Class can be read digitally, too.** Please find our vendors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digitally buy a copy together with the respective STREAD issue. **Donate** via Paypal: **p@artsoftheworkingclass.org** --- ## In this issue - [(M)otherland](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/motherland/) - [To Break up with I’](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/to-break-up-with-i/) - [The Joy of Difficultating](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-joy-of-difficultating/) - [Unabating Wonder](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/unabating-wonder/) - [Die Einberufung zivilgesellschaftlicher Tribunale](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/die-einberufung-zivilgesellschaftlicher-tribunale/) - [Die Stadt als Plantage](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cosima-von-bonin/) - [Living labor and ghostly contaminations](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/living-labor-and-ghostly-contaminations/) - [Fury hunts](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/fury-hunts/) ### Art Critique as Midwifery of a Shifting Consciousness URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/art-critique-as-midwifery-of-a-shifting-consciousness/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:21.000Z A few nights ago, I was doomscrolling through my Instagram feed when I came across an artist’s statement: **“There is something obscene in the way we consume war now.”** These are not just words—they are a call to attention. A warning. War now arrives as a fleeting image between an influencer’s breakfast and an ad for the latest electric car. The crying child, the severed limb, the ghostly dust cloud—all real, all stripped of context. Violence without memory. Suffering without history. What is our role here, beyond being mere vessels for content—nodes in data streams that only aim to amplify and accelerate the extraction of data, measuring, indexing, and positioning users into abstractions of political affiliations to be used by future regimes? The tragedy is real for those who endure it. Unreal for those who consume it. This week, I visited Basel for the art fairs. Even in the museums and institutions I found a clear detachment from what is happening in the world right now. The reports and reviews—perhaps to my surprise—were no different. The focus remained on numbers, trends, and the familiar rotation of people meeting again and again. What does this say about the world we inhabit? What does it say about the role of art—and the role of art critique? For over a decade, we have seen the art world’s discursive shift toward a rhetoric of care, collectivity, and interdependence. But what has truly changed? Not much, I am afraid. Perhaps, nothing at all. The primary reason is that discourse alone does not birth transformation. We are experiencing a loss—not only of language, but of democracy, and of our own humanity—induced by a discursive economy that runs on the accumulation of ethical or moral positions that is then exploited by algorithms and by fascist logics to expose and divide society. It is from this mounting loss, this omnipresence of cultural and bodily death, that the question I bring to this symposium arises: **What if art criticism did not understand itself as a site of judgment, but as a practice of midwifery—attending to and supporting that which is only just coming into language?** We are not here to affirm what is already legible. Nor to celebrate excellence nor to distill meaning. We are here to dwell in the threshold. To test a different paradigm: Critique not as authority, but as companion.Not as a verdict, but as dialogue.Not as control, but as initiation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Barbara-Debeuckleare-Mothers-from-Tel-Rumeida.-Hebron-2023-5.png) Fig.1 ### **I. Departing from Judgment** Let me begin with judgment. Judgment is never objective. While it can be a powerful force for liberation, it is also rooted in a patriarchal lineage of exclusion. It has long functioned as a tool to maintain aesthetic and intellectual hierarchies. Maybe that is why judgment is everywhere now: We all feel we might be losing everything; and we cling to the power judgment seems to provide; but it doesn’t. In the age of ultimate gaslighting, it divides and exposes us. Judgment seemed to provide power even to the powerless, in the interest of truth. But what it increasingly conceals and reveals is fear. Fear of uncertainty. Fear of not knowing. Fear of losing ground in a shifting cultural terrain. Fear of powerlessness. Disagreement is vital. But recently, I have seen gestures of judgment masked by critique that hurt rather than relate, that ridicule rather than reckon. To offer a recent example, take Cornelius Tittel’s public attacks on Klaus Biesenbach. I, too, disagree with Biesenbach’s institutional strategies—particularly in their alignment with spectacle and class stratification—but disagreement is not disavowal. Tittel’s dismissal performs critique as character assassination. It fragments the cultural landscape to the benefit of far-right extremism. Tittel offers no systemic analysis—only a caricature. In doing so, he participates in the very spectacle he claims to oppose, reinforcing the elitism he purports to critique, and the patriarchal closure of spaces for reflection, contemplation, and learning. A second example: The decontextualization of Zasha Colah’s answers to an interview on Berlin Art Link that reads: “My friend tells me there is a word in German for “preemptive obedience,” that precedes legality. There is no censorship, I would say, in Germany. Not legally. The obedience is not related to the Constitution, but to something else which is illegal. For hate crimes or anti-semitism, there are already very good laws that are part of the criminal code, and on the other hand there’s a very abstract ambiguity in the way the IHRA definition of antisemitism is formulated. It exceeds what law can do. Law cannot put into writing something that is inexact, excessive or ambiguous. Obedience to something else, then.” Decontextualizing that sentence from the whole interview, which, across many layers of meaning, opens up spaces for critique of the current cultural landscape—or as in the case of Cornelius Tittel’s simplistically articulated attacks on Biesenbach—repeats the strategies of disparagement, oversimplification, and detachment adopted by fascist propaganda. Colah’s answers deserve to be read for what they are: an effort to articulate the curatorial ethics, complex solidarities, and fragmentary processes that shaped the 13th Berlin Biennale. Even if this might appear lacking a strategic awareness of the power of an affirmation as such to overshadow the lived experience of individuals and groups affected by censorship, Colah is providing a window on the subtle workings of language in bureaucratic spaces and how it can be used to illuminate and deceive at once. Rather than taking a pre-prescribed stance, the interview traces the messy, contradictory, and often silent undercurrents that form part of curatorial work today—especially when dealing with histories of violence, complicity, and resistance, and current structural constraints that are, to be sure, not equal to the sort of repression we are witnessing from afar in Palestine, Myanmar, Sudan, DRC, or many other countries in which state structures are deeply sunken in overt authoritarianism. This is not the case, yet, in Germany. To reduce this labor to an Instagram callout, as seen in a post by the collectives Arts & Culture Alliance Berlin, Palestinians and Allies, ANGA and the European Support Center, is symptomatic of a broader problem: the lack of care through which articulate disagreement, disapproval and dissent in ways that do not replicate the very punitive culture these groups expose and seek to challenge through their positionality. It is fundamental to recognize that cohesion in the message of our advocacy needs to be achieved by looking at society in all its variables, classes, disparities, rather than as a monolithic whole. So the process here would be, how do we allow each other to translate common struggle into a multitude of strategies? This is essential to transform cultural advocacy in ways that redirect the violence and the aggression that shape society in all its components into a nurturing field of commonality. Critique must remain possible—but not come at the expense of nuance. Especially not when it prevents accountability from being formed in ways that are not destructive, but which come from a rising of social consciousness. As arts and cultural workers, we must rescue critique from its weaponization as a tool of judgment, from the rage that fuels and propels it. In the current state, it fails to articulate collective alternatives. We must ask what happens when critique holds space for the birth of effort to metabolize power, contradiction, pain, and possibilities that are multiple, opaque, and fugitive? The symposium takes one of its points of departure from the work of Bracha Lichtenberg Ettinger. Conceived as a continuation of her thinking, it approaches art not as a finished representation but as an ongoing process of co-becoming and co-witnessing. Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev, a long-time companion of BRACHA’s, describes her practice as an “augural,” auratic painting in which thinking, feeling, and image become indistinguishable: *BRACHA’s painting is not only the painting of memory traces, but mainly it is an attempt to pre-figure, just like when we reach, half blindly, into the womb for ultrasound signals. The m(Other) receives intimations of the prenatal subject, while the prenatal subject listens to signals from outside the womb. The ultrasound resists imaging technologies while it uses them in duration. This is what painting the emergent, and co-emerging with painting, means, an augural form of painting, an auroral painting. Bracha co-emerges with her paintings, with our paintings.* Bracha’s pivotal concepts—co-witnessing, self-fragilization, sensing-with—underlie the methodology of the symposium itself: rather than seeking clear answers or fixed positions, it follows the subtle traces of an ethics of being-with, whereby art becomes a space where we learn how to be aware of each other, of our shared vulnerability, knowledge, thus birthing and nurturing plural methodologies. **Birth is not judgment.** It is vulnerability, friction, and transition. It is an opening into relation, not the completion of a thought, but the invitation to remain with it. To reimagine art criticism as midwifery of consciousness is not to abandon analytical and dialectical rigor, nor a commitment to justice. It is to reconfigure what rigor looks like—less the sharpening of knives, than the building of vessels strong enough to carry what is fragile, inarticulate, or yet to come. It is no coincidence that our time calls for reconnection with Marxist dreams and feminist revisions of art history and practice from the 1960s, a decade shaped by postwar disorientation and the rift between capitalist and socialist epistemologies. Susan Sontag, in Against Interpretation (1966), famously lamented the over-intellectualization of art writing. She was not against analysis per se, but against a form of interpretation that reduced artworks to content. She wrote: **“In place of a hermeneutics, we need an erotics of art.”** For Sontag, this erotics was a practice of attention—one that privileged presence over projection, encounter over extraction. She insisted on form, rhythm, and temperature—on what art does, not just what it means. Sontag writes against interpretation as a form of control—domination disguised as insight. Her call was to resist turning art into a code to be cracked. But perhaps an erotics is not enough. Or, rather: we need a politicized erotics—one that moves from arousal to accompaniment, from individual sensation to collective responsibility. If embodiment, relation, and care should really arrive at the center of cultural labor—not as metaphors but as methodologies—Sontag’s erotics might evolve further: into midwifery. Where Sontag invites us to feel more deeply, the midwife invites us to stay. Where Sontag interrupts interpretation in defense of the sensual, the midwife intervenes again: in defense of the emergent, the fragile, the unborn. **Eroticism awakens attention. Midwifery sustains it.** Eroticism resists the violence of meaning. Midwifery resists the violence of isolation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Barbara-Debeuckleare-Mothers-from-Tel-Rumeida.-Hebron-2023-7.png) Fig. 2 ### **II. Critique as Midwifery** Art criticism as midwifery might create space for an expanded gaze—one that includes all those involved, that distinguishes between pain and breath, between mediation and accompaniment. Ceding interpretive authority, critique can open itself beyond control, toward co-creation. In this light, we might read Sontag’s sensual formalism as a transitional phase. The midwife/art critic can not simply step back from interpretive violence. She needs to step into the labor of care, to enter into relation, with the one birthing, and with the process itself. This requires critics to be vulnerable. To name their positions, sensibilities, and complicities. Consider Oliver Hardt’s *laudatio for Sea & Fog*, an exhibition by the Kunsthalle Baden-Baden that was honored this week in Dresden as Exhibition of the Year 2024\. You can read the text on aica.de Hardt quoted from Mariam Ghani’s “There’s a Hole in the World Where You Used to Be,” a short film and larger body of work exploring memory, mourning, and the impact of loss. Ghani says: “There is no after, only a through.” The midwife does not invent birth. She does not command it. She accompanies it. She reads pain—not to suppress it, but to hold space for it. To breathe through it. Midwifery offers a model of critique grounded in this recognition. A through that can only be understood as birthing. To reimagine the art critic as a midwife is to move from extraction to presence. To practice critique not after the fact, but *alongside*—as a form of ethical proximity. We saw this in the friendships of the 19th century. Émile Zola wrote of Claude Monet as if describing his own life. But that world was built on and upheld masculinist domination. Today, that domination, always latent in ostensibly “modern” societies, is increasingly shameless in the forms of expression it is taking. To understand the art critic as midwife also is to draw from the work of the midwife Rachelle Garcia Seliga. She speaks of “midwifing a cultural shift.” Her work restores perinatal care to its original function: not as clinical transaction, but as ritual, as transition, as collective responsibility. Seliga writes: **“The physiology of birth mirrors the physiology of transformation: to move through rupture and reorganization, we must stay present to what is becoming.”** This, too, is where critique might find its new form—not as a tool of finality or judgment, but as a companion to transformation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Barbara-Debeuckleare-Mothers-from-Tel-Rumeida.-Hebron-2023-1-1.png) Fig. 3 ### **III. From Judging to Healing** Critique neither abandons its function nor does it romanticize its object. It proposes a more reciprocal ecology of art and writing—where both are forms of cultural labor rooted in fragility, care, risk, and mutual recognition, and where both must be resourced, socially and economically, in equal measure. The question becomes not: *what is this work saying?* But rather: *what is it trying to bring into being?* And: *what does it require of me to support that process?* Judging is easy. To support life—this is the real work. To reframe critique as a form of healing requires us to confront cruelty—not only in our institutions, but in our imaginations. The Argentinian anthropologist Rita Segato speaks of the “pedagogies of cruelty” that train us to stop feeling. To endure pain by silencing empathy. To turn bodies into things. Critique has not been immune to this training. In fact, cruelty has long been inherent to it. Here, I would draw on Segato’s counteractions to the pedagogies of cruelty: Cruelty is a concept that relates to the exhibition of violence in the media—particularly the repetitive ways in which violence against women’s bodies is portrayed. Reducing levels of empathy—our capacity to resonate with suffering and the possibility of suffering, even our own, and especially with that of others—is functional to capital and to contemporary forms of accumulation. Lowering those thresholds of empathy becomes a project. For Segato, it’s a policy clearly visible on television, in series and in displays of cruelty that were not present before. Performative cruelty is not confined to the realm of armed conflict, and small barbarities are available through our smartphones in a permanent flow. Segato’s framework is a bridge for us to understand why midwifing needs to overcome the cruelty of judgment. In her text *Patriarchy from Margin to Center: Discipline, Territoriality, and Cruelty in the Apocalyptic Phase of Capital* (2016), she shows how the things that happen to women—and to women’s bodies—are wrongly minimized, wrongly pushed into the sphere of intimacy, and treated as political leftovers. It is essential that we understand what happens to women—and to any subjectivity who is not cis-male, the only one claiming supremacy—as a thermometer of our times, as a way of diagnosing the economic phase we are currently living through. Cruelty is growing—not only in the way death is inflicted, or rapes are carried out—but also in the ways in which bodies are disposed of: dumped in landfills, stuffed in garbage bags. These practices are increasing. This increase has to do with a pedagogy—a teaching of disdain for life, of teaching people that we are in a world of things, where things dominate life, and where bodies are things. And things don’t feel. Learning not to feel, not to acknowledge suffering, learning to endure pain—this is a core feature of all military training: the hardening of the body. To endure one’s own pain and then become completely insensitive to the pain of others is essential to this phase of capitalism. It’s a necessary pedagogy for an age in which the dominant personality type—the most functional one for today’s economy, an economy of ownership—is the psychopathic personality structure: one that lacks empathy, that sees the other as a thing, an instrument, incapable of positional reciprocity, incapable of putting oneself into another’s place. The discourse of “putting yourself in someone else’s shoes” is declining. It has become obsolete. To consider a work of art a “thing” is exactly the problem. In a world such as this, where accumulation has surpassed every limit, the abrupt shift in wealth since 2010—the year Oxfam began publishing data on global concentration—is staggering. It should shock us all that in 2010, 280 people owned as much wealth as the poorest half of the world. By 2015, that number was 62%. The rate of concentration is ungraspable, especially when we consider its relationship to decision-making within the industrial-military complex and the asset-driven art market. Tax havens, offshore accounts: these now determine how art is treated, and how humans are treated. This treatment enacts a death drive. One that performs detachment, not an embrace of life. It enacts the psychopathic personality of contemporary power: rational, efficient, and unfeeling. But if we want art to matter—if we want critique to be useful—then we must unlearn these structures. Havîn Al-Sîndy, an artist I deeply admire—and whose path I am committed to accompany— said to me: *Not everything can be healed. Not every wound will close.* *Not every work seeks healing.* *And criticism must be able to endure that too.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Barbara-Debeuckleare-Mothers-from-Tel-Rumeida.-Hebron-2023-4.png) Fig. 4 ### IV. Birth Over Death Midwifery holds pain, grieving, and so should art critique: shifting not only in tone or position, but in its entire epistemology—its tools, methods, and forms of accountability. Midwifery, as a metaphor for critique in times of global war and techno-feudalism, challenges the expectation that critics must own or condemn, determining an artwork’s value or social function. It instead embraces the idea that critics can be part of the process by which artistic, social, or political meaning is slowly articulated, never how it is fully determined. The work of Barbara Debeuckelaere offers a powerful example of what this mode of critical midwifery might look like in practice. Her project *Om (Mother)*, created in collaboration with eight Palestinian families from Tel Rumeida in Hebron, does not document these women’s lives in the usual mode of reportage. Nor does it translate their experience into a symbolic or metaphorical register for aesthetic contemplation. Instead, it builds a visual and narrative space that emerges directly from the women’s voices, memories, and ways of seeing, without tokenizing them. The images and stories were not simply taken; they were shared, discussed, and shaped together. Debeuckelaere’s role as photographer is not extractive. It is participatory and deeply situated. Her work demonstrates what it means to approach art-making—and by extension, art criticism—not as a tool for exposure, but as a practice of witnessing and holding space. This is particularly crucial in Hebron, where the reality of occupation and surveillance permeates every detail of life. In the historic neighborhood of Tel Rumeida, small extremist settler outposts divide the city’s fabric into militarized zones. Checkpoints cut through homes and communities. Palestinian residents—especially women—are subjected to constant restrictions and threats. To work in such a context requires a form of presence that resists spectacle and refuses simplification. It requires, in other words, an ethics of midwifery. Debeuckelaere does not attempt to represent suffering to trigger recognition or empathy in a distant audience. Rather, she works within the limits of what can be shared and what must remain opaque, respecting the fragility of relationships forged under pressure. In this sense, her work resonates with the practice of Issa Amro, a Palestinian activist from Hebron and the founder of Youth Against Settlements. Amro insists on the power of nonviolent presence. His activism is rooted in visibility, not as provocation, but as a strategy of refusal: to be there, to remain, to walk where walking is forbidden. He documents and speaks from *within* the experience of occupation, not about it. His efforts to build international solidarity and local resilience are grounded in the belief that transformation begins with accompaniment—showing up, bearing witness, and resisting the erasure of everyday life. Both Debeuckelaere and Amro embody the politics of staying. Their practices—artistic, activist, ethical—resist the imperative to produce legible outcomes or media-friendly narratives. Instead, they cultivate long-term trust and attend closely to context, contradiction, and the rhythms of ordinary existence. They remind us that critique is not a neutral act; it is entangled in the worlds it describes, and, therefore, bears a responsibility toward them. This does not mean abandoning critical acumen. On the contrary, it means sharpening it through humility, curiosity, and relation. *There is no after.* *Only through.* *//* *This text is adapted from the opening remarks delivered at the symposium* [Art Critique as Midwifery of a Shifting Consciousness](https://artsoftheworkingclass.org/event/symposium-art-critique-is-midwifery-of-a-shifting-in-consciousness?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*, organized by AWC and ICA Germany, and held at Atelier Gardens, Berlin, on June 21.* --- ### All images: Barbara Debeuckleare & Mothers from Tel Rumeida, From the Series *‘Om (Mother)*, 2024\. © and courtesy of the artist. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### This isn’t a topic or an issue; this is life in its most brutal force URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/this-isnt-a-topic-or-an-issue-this-is-life-in-its-most-brutal-force/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:23.000Z I had not yet recovered from weeks of geopolitics-induced emotional turmoil when I was sent an article titled *Even With a Ceasefire, Gaza Has No Future*. I had read versions of this sentiment countless times over the past weeks, gnawing at the little relief I had managed to foster. The anger these articles engendered swelled, took residence between two of my ribs—I had an inexplicable side stitch for days on end. I thought there must be room for anger, its disorganized walk, its accusatory tone, its indiscriminate pointing. This is what I want to write here: something I wish I had read; something less analytical; something that rang truer; something that carried a fraction of the emotions demanded by the last months, full of wrath—when it is still an emotion, before it turns into raw material. I wanted to write something to a *you* I see everywhere yet who doesn’t exist: a unified Western gaze I find crushing, a *you* to which I also somewhat belong. When a ceasefire was announced in Lebanon on November 27th, 2024, countless people all over social media and newspapers rushed to say that we should not be too relieved, nor too joyful. The ceasefire might not be respected, and anyway, we still need to see if Israel pulls its troops out of the south. A few weeks later, when the Assad regime was defeated and overthrown on December 8th, not a single person around me who wasn’t Syrian was able to express straightforward joy. Given what had brought the authoritarian regime down, things might turn out to be just as bad, just as oppressive, arbitrary, and violent, or indeed moreso. Still, a few weeks later, on January 19th, 2025, when a ceasefire agreement came into effect in Gaza and videos of children celebrating were flooding my social media, I saw friend after friend insisting yet again that this is a small and fragile victory that might be crushed at any moment. Israeli forces might keep bombing, it is just a matter of time before they do so. There was no reason for joy. Of course, all of them have been proven right. Israel never stopped bombing Gaza or South Lebanon. Its brutal attacks on Palestinians and its use of starvation as a weapon of war are intensifying as I write this. All of the victories listed above come too late, after too much suffering and too many deaths. They are strikingly fragile and profoundly imperfect. Ideally, Israel would leave Lebanon in peace for good, there would be no corruption or sectarian divide in the country, a president could be held somewhat accountable and forced to do a decent job. The government would invest in public services. The economy would get better. Yes, I too wish that Syria was now suddenly profoundly egalitarian and democratic. I wish that after all the unnamable violence this was fully emancipatory and necessarily synonymous with peace and prosperity. Of course, a ceasefire agreement in Gaza is only a first step that can be reneged upon and violated at any moment. Nothing has truly been won, Palestine is far from free. I know that not even 24 hours after the ceasefire was first agreed upon, 70 Palestinians were killed by Israeli forces. If there were any justice, any reward for suffering, all of these countries and their people would live under utopian socialism and nothing less. I understand the importance of staying alert, of reminding each other that this isn’t good enough. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-06-26-at-09.45.33.png) Fig.1 But when I see videos of people on the ground celebrating gleefully, when I see traffic jams on the way to Damascus because people are rushing to come back home, when I see parents crying with joy because they get to rebuild their children’s old bedrooms, I cannot understand the endless commentary on all sides of the political spectrum demanding caution and measured response, despite understanding the obvious veracity of their claims and the realism of their warning. We are speaking different languages. I fear I do not have the necessary distance to comment. All I feel is relief, and grief, and rage, and joy, all at once. This isn’t a topic or an issue; this is life in its most brutal force. Every time I tried to reach for a little bit of hope over the last months, I got a slap on the wrist. Political commentators, professors of international law or political science, all the way to my leftist acquaintances, all of them with their commentaries and analyses, seemed to repeat a metaphorical finger wagging in my face: not so fast! That’s *hope*. It’s not for you! Try this: it’s called being *realistic* and *nuanced*. It will help you in avoiding further disillusionment. I wish I could brush off this kind of admonishment by now, but I am always left with nagging questions that I already know the answers to: do people around me think that Arabs are so narrow-minded, overtaken by their feelings and pain, or uneducated, or unwilling to face reality, that they do not understand the politics that rules their lives as well as Europeans do? There is a particularly Western accent to the underlying idea that only distance brings clarity, that knowledge is necessarily disembodied. This is evidently misguided: no one knows the importance, meaning, and reality of a ceasefire better than a Palestinian now sitting in a tent in the killing fields South of Gaza. I do not know what a ceasefire truly is (and, most likely, neither do you). I will not comment on the necessary tempering of joy because I only feel a fraction of it, because I understand nothing. Arabs and death are now inextricably linked in Western culture, made synonymous by decades of gruesome images and evident rhetorical dehumanization. It is now difficult to imagine anything beyond destruction for Arabs. They are either threats to others or are themselves threatened, constantly switching from terrorists to victims or being both simultaneously. Rebuilding is allowed, but building isn’t. Arabs in the Middle East are stuck in repetitions, armed only with the politics of damage control. It is clear from editorials, opinion pieces, and Instagram stories alike that Arabs cannot rejoice in the possibility of a brighter future. To imply a future, *any future*, is already idealistic. As Edward Said points out, the repetition of the dominant Western narrative amounts to “a virtual orthodoxy, setting limits, defining areas, asserting pressures”. (1) For Arabs, the limits are clear: there is nothing but a distant glorious past, then a painful one, and, finally, a thoroughly fucked, ever-lasting present. The temporality is truncated, patchy, precisely where *something else* could reside. In this sense, not only is a better future compromised, but so is our ability to imagine it. An Arab future is thus rendered an oxymoron: all there is is the now, in its pain and limitations. Even leftists insist that we put the blinkers on: imagination proscribed. Hope—with its powerful shimmer, its creative force—is necessarily impossible, forbidden. I have thought of the why and I was left with anger. There is, I think, genuine—and kind—fear in this banning of hope. The idea is that if one tries hard enough to preempt pain, then it might be avoided, or pushed away a little longer. I understand the care imbricated in this, in saying that there can be no joy until everything is okay. But we know that would mean pushing laughter away for so long that it becomes impossible. If we wait until we reach permanent security and stable prosperity, we might be left with nothing but a diaphragm’s soundless, absurd flapping. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-06-26-at-09.45.50.png) Fig. 2 Another hypothesis emerges from the usual grind of being *ahead of the curve*, of having the right Hot Take before anyone else does. Instead of waiting for the consensus to slowly turn on itself (as it inevitably does). You will be one of the first to have said it! Why waste time on rejoicing because of what seems to be fleeting good news, when you could skip that step and go straight to seeing this joy’s weaknesses, pitfalls, and dead angles? There is prestige in the dismantling, or, in more truthful terms, in taking a popular idea and simply flipping it on its head. It is also importantly preventive: since the tide inevitably will turn against the oppressed, rejoicing for even a moment of respite is embarrassing, as if caught red-handed in placing hope in a faulty, precarious location—to be rendered a fool by investing hope where there was nothing but temporary distraction. I have one last, even grimmer explanation for this unease with Arab hope. I think the idea of Middle Easterners surviving, or perhaps even thriving in the future, doesn’t sit quite right with many Westerners. There is something about this idea that seems impossible. No matter how much you will it, Palestinian liberation, an emancipated Global South—or the humbler vision of a happy Arab—are never to be expected or accepted. This is a disquieting realization: perhaps you do not believe in your own political ideals. Only their theoretical existence is certain. You do not think they *could* be in the world—although you believe they hypothetically should. Liberation thus sits amid disarray, collecting dust, never truly expected to materialize. What I really mean to say is: *You’re just not used to seeing Arabs alive by now, are you?* There seems to be a necessity to remind the world of an Arab’s destiny, that is, the fate of not having any. The promise of disappearance. This inability to envisage a hopeful Arab world and to rejoice in solidarity with this being is a profound failure. It says, in the clearest possible way, that the dehumanization is to be total, that no matter how much Europeans and North Americans have genuinely cared about and organized for the welcoming of Syrian refugees or against the annihilation of the Palestinian people, they haven’t quite reached the stage where empathy and its unthinking directness prevail. The dehumanization has worked its way in so deeply that it has extirpated the very possibility for hope. Mohammad El-Kurd has said it already: “We are not human, automatically, by virtue of being human—we are to be humanized by virtue of our proximity to innocence: whiteness, civility, wealth, compromise, collaboration, nonalignment, nonviolence, helplessness, futurelessness.” And so, in all my understanding of the necessity for nuance, and in all the joy I experience when observing slithering hope, I cannot help but be disappointed (which is, I am guessing, precisely what you are trying to save me from). It is a deafening disappointment, the kind that can only stem from the relativization of tears of joy. Images of people celebrating the possibility that they might escape death, at least tonight, or in the next few days, cannot outweigh the powerful images of destruction that the Middle East inevitably conjures up. I understand: you watch Arabs finding relief and cannot help your kneejerk reaction: no, do not rejoice, Arabs will keep dying. *It’s what they do.* I refuse this shrinking, this wilting idea of a non-future, where nothing is ever won and no horror ever stops; everlasting pain among temporary bodies meant to die in a spectacle for Western audiences. I cannot accept it. We must imagine what comes after this. I will cry with relief. I will move to Beirut, I will see *Jiddo* again. We will rejoice. We will remember the political promise of hope, the grieving there is still to be done, and the future there is to be built. Darwish, right as always, orders or perhaps begs: *we are still alive, do not remember us.* Of course, the warnings have proven right: the horror didn’t and won’t suddenly stop once a ceasefire or the fall of a regime is announced. There is no clear line between war and post-war, no borders to the compounded violence suffered. Our understanding of the last years latches onto concepts that inevitably fail us; “the terms ‘war’, ‘peace’, and ‘ceasefire’ fail to account for experience”. (2) I do not resent the warnings for their inaccuracy. I resent them for their tone and timing, their eager crushing of Arab hope. But hope is precisely what is needed—along with anger—for revolutionary change. It is the *sine qua non* for our leap from here to utopia. Hope does not have to be realistic, nor does it have to be everlasting: its passing, fluttering existence is the difference between the fragile possibility of a different future versus its complete annihilation. Its beauty resides in the fact that it is always unreasonable and untimely. Ceasefires and the falls of brutal regimes, of course, are only grief-burdened beginnings. With this knowledge, I remind myself of the need to remain critical, alert, and organized, despite hope, but also importantly because of it. There is a necessity for all of us, you and I, flawed and together in this vastness, to keep hope where it belongs: somewhere close at hand, maybe on the kitchen table, at the core of every tender thought, clinging to the napes of our necks. What a precious thing hope is, our sundial, our thrumming (a joyous hypothetical, a love note). // --- ### Footnotes (1) Edward Said, *Permission to Narrate,* Journal of Palestine Studies 13, no. 3 (Spring 1984), 35. (2) Maya Mikdashi, *Sextarianism – Sovereignty, Secularism, and the State in Lebanon* (Stanford University Press: 2022), 77. Images: Details of Byzantine mosaics, and a door knocker, all taken in Lebanon by the author. *Lara Torbay is a Swiss-Lebanese writer and feminist legal scholar. Her writing focuses on the erotic, utopia and diasporic moping.* ### Bracha URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bracha-37/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:19.000Z Das Zeitempfinden im Werk, Denken und Handeln der Künstlerin Bracha Lichtenberg Ettinger, auch bekannt als BRACHA, ist ein besonderes. Viele ihrer Gemälde entstehen über Jahre, manchmal über Jahrzehnte hinweg und offenbaren sich allmählich – durch Übermalung, Auslöschung und Wiederauftauchen. In BRACHAs Kunst wird Malerei zu “*Carriance*”, zur Praxis des “Fürtragens”: Verletzlichkeit wird nicht bloß dargestellt, sondern mitgetragen und verwandelt. Der Begriff “*Carriance*” – ein von BRACHA geprägter Neologismus – beschreibt ein ethisches und affektives Mit- oder Fürtragen eines Anderen in sich, ohne ihn zu vereinnahmen oder zu verlieren. Es ist eine Form der Fürsorge und Verantwortlichkeit jenseits jeder Aneignung. Diese Praxis durchzieht BRACHAs gesamtes Werk: Eine Malerei, die Erinnerung nicht abbildet, sondern trägt. Eine Malerei, die nicht beansprucht für jemanden zu sprechen, sondern mit ihm\*ihr zu atmen. “*Carriance*” verweigert das Vergessen und bleibt dennoch offen für Veränderung, wie eine Langzeitbelichtung des Inneren. In BRACHA’s Malerei zeigt sich das in überlagerten Details und fragmentarischen Spuren, die sich nicht festschreiben lassen. Das Bild wird zum Gedächtnisraum – offen, schichtig, in Bewegung. Auch BRACHAs Namen erzählen von Überlagerungen: *Lichtenberg*, der Name, den ihre Vorfahren in Deutschland vom Herzog von Lichtenberg nach der Vertreibung aus Spanien erhielten; *Ettinger*, der Name ihres ersten Ehemanns. Mit 33 Jahren – nach einem Zusammenbruch in Tel Aviv und einer Karriere als leitende klinische Psychologin – entschied sie sich, Künstlerin zu werden. Und wie viele, die beschließen, Künstler\*in zu werden, zog sie nach Paris. Ein Jahrzehnt später begann sie, ihre Theorie des “Matrixialen” zu veröffentlichen: eine weibliche Alternative zur klassischen, auf phallischen Strukturen basierenden freudianischen Subjektbildung. Bereits Anfang der 1980er Jahre tauchte der Begriff in ihren Notizbüchern auf. Öffentlich erwähnt wurde er 1989 im Gespräch mit Christian Boltanski – ebenfalls ein in Paris lebender Künstler, dessen Werk sich mit Holocaust-Erinnerung auseinandersetzt. BRACHA hörte nie auf, als Psychologin zu arbeiten. Ihre Auseinandersetzungen mit Psyche, Gewalt, Erinnerung und Trauma durchziehen auch ihr künstlerisches Schaffen. Theorie und Malerei entstehen bei ihr nicht nacheinander, sondern miteinander. Man kann ihre Essays lesen, man kann ihre Bilder betrachten – doch das eine existiert nicht ohne das andere. Ihre Sprache ist Malerei. Ihre Malerei ist Theorie. „In gewisser Weise kommt BRACHA zu einer Form des Schreibens, die selbst Malerei ist“, sagt Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev, langjährige Wegbegleiterin der Künstlerin. Wie Lacan in seiner späten Phase – unfähig zu schreiben, zu sprechen, aber fähig zu zeichnen – verwebt BRACHA Denken, Bild und Form. Die borromäischen Knoten, Lacans Symbol für das fragile Zusammenspiel von Realem, Imaginärem und Symbolischem, lassen sich bei ihr in Linien, Lasuren und Wiederholungen wiederfinden. Bei dieser Verdichtung von Schichten, in denen sich Malerei, Schreiben und Existenz übereinander legen, stellt sich die Frage erneut: Was bedeutet es, wenn Kunst nicht mehr Darstellung von Politiken, sondern eine “Koexistenz” von Wissen, Gefühl und Imagination widerspiegelt? Wenn sie nicht abbildet, sondern *fürträgt*? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-06-25-at-11.21.25.png) Fig.1 Das „Matrixiale“ des “Fürtragens” ist eine Einladung, die Kunstgeschichte neu zu schreiben – von einer anderen Seite anzugehen: nicht aus dem Mangel, sondern aus dem Mitsein. BRACHA identifizierte die phallischen Vorannahmen und unausgesprochenen Axiome in den Arbeiten von Freud und Lacan – und kehrte sie um. Mit dem „matrixialen Blick“ schlug sie eine neue Theorie der Subjektivierung vor, die sich im Verweben von Figuren in der Malerei selbst entfaltet. Matrix bedeutet Uterus auf Lateinisch. Während bei Freud und Lacan die Subjektivität aus einem grundsätzlichen Mangel hervorgeht – dem Verlust des begehrten Objekts, der Trennung von der Mutter bei der Geburt – verortet BRACHA den Ursprung des Selbst im pränatalen Mit-Entstehen von Ich und Anderem: eine dichte Schichtung geteilter Geschichten. Dies ist auch ein zentrales Argument von Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev – eine der präzisesten Leser\*innen von BRACHAs Werk – und von grundlegender Bedeutung für unser Verständnis von Bildlichkeit im 21\. Jahrhundert. Schon in ihren frühen Arbeiten thematisierte BRACHA die ethischen Dimensionen technischer Reproduzierbarkeit. Ihre autodidaktisch entwickelte Technik der suspendierten Fotokopie – das Öffnen des Kopiergeräts während der Belichtung – durchkreuzt die Mechanik der Reproduktion und unterläuft die Fixierung. Das unvollständige Bild wird mit Tusche und Toner weitergeführt. Christov-Bakargiev beschreibt diese Methode so: *The photocopy machine captures an already positive photographic printed image of a person, fixes it, and memorialises it by its repetition. BRACHA’s art is an art of healing, based on a subversion and usage/breakage of the technology in our modern world. Because of the risk of banalization, few art historians have dared to obliquely suggest such an obvious, but too literal, link between BRACHA’s technique of suspended photocopying and a symbolic suspension of the Holocaust.* Diese halbfertigen, offenen Fotokopien sprechen von Tod und Gewalt – aber vor allem vom Schutz der Verletzlichsten. Die Subjekte, die durch die bemalten Schichten auftauchen, werden nie zur bloßen Form, nie zum Opfer einer Abstraktion, die Empathie, Mitgefühl oder “Mitzeug\*innenschaft” in den Rezipient\*innen überdecken. Die Gemälde zeigen Spuren von Fotokopien – Luftaufnahmen des Berliner Olympiastadions vor dem Zweiten Weltkrieg und frühe Aufnahmen aus der Luft über Palästina, aufgenommen 1917 von Piloten des Deutschen Reiches. Obwohl Palästina damals formal noch zum Osmanischen Reich gehörte, stand es seit Dezember 1917 unter britischer Militärbesatzung. Der deutsche Blick auf Palästina spiegelt eine europäische koloniale Realität – vor der Shoah, vor der Gründung des Staates Israel, dessen Notwendigkeit gerade aus der Shoah hervorging. Diese Motive durchlaufen in BRACHA’s Werk einen zunehmend metamorphischen Prozess: Sie verlieren ihre vermeintliche Objektivität, werden durchlässig und affektiv aufgeladen. Auf die Frage, ob diese Bilder eine Reaktion auf die Bombardierungen in Gaza seien, antwortete BRACHA, dass sie Prozesse öffne, die weit älter und doch mit dem heutigen Leiden der Menschen vor Ort verbunden seien. Die Tragödie im Nahen Osten brauche nicht noch mehr Ausdruck von Hass, sondern Mitgefühl. Und gerade dieses Mitgefühl verlange nach einer anderen Sprache als der Ideologie, die uns bisher nicht weitergebracht hat. Sie male, um Mitgefühl erfahrbar zu machen – jenseits von identitärer Kategorisierung, jenseits des Sagbaren und des Unsagbaren. Solche Übergängen und Verwischungen finden sich auch in ihrer Farbwahl, die sich an den Rändern des Sichtbaren bewegt. Die Palette reicht von Violett über Rot bis Schwarz, mit Weiß und Blau als Zonen des Lichts – Farben an der Grenze elektromagnetischer Wellen, die unser Sehsystem gerade noch erfassen kann. Unsere Retina reagiert unterschiedlich auf diese Randbereiche – Ultraviolett und Infrarot markieren den Übergang von Sichtbarkeit zu Unsichtbarkeit. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-06-25-at-11.12.34.png) Fig.2 An dieser Schwelle der Abstraktion arbeitet BRACHA: Dort, wo Wahrnehmung flimmert, Formen verschwimmen, wo Erinnerung, Schmerz und Heilung sich überlagern. Farbe wird hier nicht nur aufgetragen, sondern durchlebt – als Strahlung, als energetische und emotionale Spur. In BRACHAs “matrixialem Blick” ist Kunst keine Darstellung, sondern „Mit-Zeugenschaft“ – eine Teilhabe an etwas, das uns nie ganz gehört. An der Erfahrung eines Anderen, an Verletzbarkeit, am Entstehen eines Selbst im Mitsein. Historisch erinnert das an eine Verschiebung: Zur Zeit des Buchdrucks waren Bibeln prothetische Technologien kollektiven Gedächtnisses – vergleichbar mit heutigen Smartphones. Die Andachtsmalerei hingegen war ein Medium der Transzendenz: eine Berührungsfläche zwischen Körper und Kosmos, zwischen Intimität und Unendlichkeit. In dieser Tradition steht auch BRACHAs Werk: ein visuelles und synästhetisches Objekt, das nicht nur das Sehen, sondern auch das Fühlen aktiviert. Eine Kunst, die sich in Berührung übersetzt. BRACHAs Bilder gleichen Röntgenaufnahmen einer Schwangerschaft – sie zeigen, dass Menschen aus Interdependenzen entstehen. Im Gegensatz zu Freuds Vorstellung, das Subjekt sei Produkt von Trennung und Mangel, begreift BRACHA Subjektwerdung als “Mit-Entstehen”, das bereits im Mutterleib beginnt. (Wichtig: BRACHA schreibt bewusst weibliche Erfahrung zu, ohne dabei den gebärenden Körper auf ein binäres Geschlechtersystem zu reduzieren.) *One of the photographic sources for Bracha’s works that is never mentioned in essays about her art is ultrasound imaging, the sonogram which performs exactly this: transporting sound waves into visuality through echo-grams, where only the most expert medical gaze can read as body parts the shapes and forms of an unborn child, a pulsating, moving tiny body in amniotic liquid. The body turns, moves, listens and sees through movement and soundscape. Visually, sonograms seem similar to trying to photograph distant cosmic things such as galaxies, or cosmic radiation from millions of years ago. Here the figure-abstract, the abstract figure, represents one “co-poietic” impulse, unformed, impressionistic, provisional, liquid, co-emergent “transsubjective” amoebic subjects, perhaps the kernels or core of why it is worth being alive in “metramorphic” womb-being.* Im “matrixialen” Raum teilen das Noch-Nicht-Kind und die Noch-Nicht-Mutter einen Grenzbereich der Wahrnehmung, in dem beide zugleich Subjekt und Andere\*r sind – ohne sich vollständig zu erkennen oder zu trennen. Nach BRACHA sind wir alle partielle Subjekte, bestehend aus entstehenden Ichs und Nicht-Ichs, in einem gemeinsamen, hybriden Raum: einem „unreinen Objekt A“. Das Ich entsteht nicht durch Abgrenzung vom Anderen, sondern durch Berührung mit ihm: *So that BRACHA’s painting is not only the painting of memory traces, but mainly it is an attempt to pre-figure, just like when we reach, half blindly, into the womb for ultrasound signals. The m(Other) receives intimations of the prenatal subject, while the prenatal subject listens to signals from outside the womb. The ultrasound resists imaging technologies while it uses them in duration. This is what painting the emergent, and co-emerging with painting, means, an augural form of painting, an auroral painting. Bracha co-emerges with her paintings, with our paintings.* Diese offene Form der Hermeneutik spiegelt sich in BRACHAs Bildern: keine festen Konturen, sondern überlagerte Zonen der “*Carriance*” – Röntgenbilder, Malerei, Skizzen, Notizen, Theorie und Affekt verwoben. Die Matrix ist dabei kein Symbol für eine Rückkehr zur Mutter, sondern ein Denkraum für eine radikal andere Erfahrung von Subjektivität, „Empathie-in-Mitgefühl“ und Zeug\*innenschaft – eine Ethik des Mitseins. // --- ### Notes Die Werke, die auf diesen Seiten zu finden sind, sind zur Zeit am K21 der Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen zu besuchen. Die Ausstellung versammelt über 80 Arbeiten, darunter 12 neue Werke der Serie Angels of Carriance (Engel des Fürtragens), die erstmals in Deutschland zu sehen sind. Der Katalog, erschienen bei Distanz Verlag, kostet 35 Euro. Alle in Anführungszeichen gesetzten Fachbegriffe sind Konzepte aus den theoretischen Schriften von Bracha Lichtenberg Ettinger. Alle Zitate sind aus: Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev, "Sonograms for Humanity: with light-sounds waves mainly nocturnal, she carries. Notes on the resonant work of Bracha L. Ettinger" in: Bracha Lichtenberg Ettinger, ed. by Alicia Knock et al., Musée National d’Art Moderne Centre de Création Industrielle Centre Pompidou (Milan: Skira Editore, 2025). Images: Cover: Bracha L. Ettinger, *Angel of Carriance - Halala n.4*, 2017-2023\. Courtesy of the artist. Photo: Inon Khalfon Fig.1: Bracha L. Ettinger, *Annucion, Birthing and a Girl*, 2013-2023\. Courtesy of the artist. Photo Ran Erde Fig.2: Bracha L. Ettinger, *Angel of Carriance-Halala n.3*, 2017-2024\. Courtesy of the artist. Photo Ran Erde *Octavia Abril ist eine chilenische Schriftsteller\*in, die sensibel auf den Lauf der Jahreszeiten reagiert. Ihre Werke gedeihen, beeinträchtigt durch ihre immer wieder neuen Allergien, die sie aufgrund des Klimawandels und industriell verarbeiteter Lebensmittel erleidet, in den Grenzbereichen zwischen Institutionen und Weinbergen. Mit dieser körperlichen Verfassung beschloss sie, Welten und Worte in gefährlichen Küssen zu schaffen. Sie boykottiert Werbung Plakate, ist aber immer für gute Gespräche zu haben.* ### 30 Jahre LISTE URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/30-jahre-liste/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:09.000Z *Die 30\. Ausgabe der* Liste Art Fair Basel *wurde gestern in der Halle 1.1 der Messe Basel eröffnet. Bis Sonntag, 22\. Juni, präsentieren 99 junge Galerien aus 31 Ländern ein vielfältiges Spektrum internationaler Gegenwartskunst - mit neuen Werken zahlreicher Künstler\*innen in Einzel- und Gruppenausstellungen in neu gestalteter Architektur. Zum 30-jährige Bestehen übernahm Nikola Dietrich die Direktion.* **Was bedeutet es für dich, deine neue Rolle zu einem so besonderen Zeitpunkt zu übernehmen, und wie siehst du deinen kuratorischen Ansatz im Dialog mit der Geschichte der Liste Kunstmesse?** Es ist eine große Verantwortung, gerade jetzt die Leitung der Liste zu übernehmen. Seit fast drei Jahrzehnten ist die Messe ein Ort für die nächste Generation von Künstler\*innen und Galerien. Als komplementäres Format zur Art Basel bietet sie eine progressive Perspektive, mit einem klaren Fokus auf kuratorische Qualität. Sie schafft Strukturen, die aufstrebenden Galerien Sichtbarkeit geben und den Zugang zu einem internationalen Netzwerk ermöglichen. Diese Ausrichtung möchte ich weiterführen und zugleich im Dialog mit aktuellen künstlerischen Entwicklungen schärfen. Die Gegenwartskunst bewegt sich in einem Umfeld, das sich stetig verändert. Künstler\*innen reagieren darauf mit neuen Ansätzen, Fragestellungen und Formen. Die Liste ist ein Ort, an dem diese Bewegungen sichtbar werden und so auch das Unausgegorene und Widerspenstige Raum findet, nicht als fertiges Bild der Zeit, sondern als offener Prozess, den wir mitgestalten. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_post_Viewfinder-28_faza-finala-2025_2500px.jpg) Fig.1 **Deine bisherige kuratorische Arbeit umfasst Institutionen wie das Kunstmuseum Basel, den Kölnischen Kunstverein und der Portikus, wo du jeweils eine intensive Auseinandersetzung mit den jeweiligen Kontexten und Publikumsgruppen hattest. Wie beeinflussen deine Erfahrungen im institutionellen Kontext deinen Ansatz, eine Kunstmesse wie die Liste zu leiten?** Als Kuratorin an diesen Institutionen war ich stets eng in Produktionsprozesse eingebunden, im direkten Austausch mit Künstler\*innen. Diese Nähe zur künstlerischen Arbeit, aber auch zu den jeweiligen Kontexten und Publikumserwartungen, prägt auch meinen Blick auf die Liste. Auch wenn eine Messe natürlich andere Strukturen und Dynamiken hat als ein Ausstellungshaus, geht es im Kern um ähnliche Fragen: Welche Stimmen wollen wir sichtbar machen? Welche Themen sind relevant? Und wie schaffen wir ein Umfeld, das künstlerische Qualität fördert und Diskurs ermöglicht jenseits einer reinen Marktlogik? Gerade bei einer Messe wie der Liste helfen mir diese Erfahrungen, mit den Galerien auf Augenhöhe zu arbeiten, genau hinzusehen, welche Perspektiven vielleicht noch unterrepräsentiert sind und wie man eine Struktur schafft, in der solche Stimmen sichtbar werden können. Die Liste ist nicht nur reine Verkaufsplattform, sondern ein Ort, an dem man erkennt, wohin sich die Gegenwartskunst bewegt und wer sie vorantreibt. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3_post_Rapimento_1.jpg) Fig. 2 **In diesem Jahr nehmen von 100 Galerien 48 neue Galerien zum ersten Mal teil. Was hat die Auswahl der Positionen beeinflusst, und was tragen diese neuen Stimmen zur kuratorischen Ausrichtung der Messe bei?** Die Entscheidungen im Auswahlprozess treffe ich nicht alleine. Dafür gibt es ein Komitee aus internationalen Kunstexpert\*innen mit unterschiedlichen Hintergründen und Perspektiven. Gemeinsam sichten wir die Bewerbungen mit besonderem Augenmerk auf die vorgeschlagenen Künstler\*innen und darauf, wie ihre Arbeiten im Kontext der geplanten Präsentation auf der Liste zum Tragen kommen. Ziel ist es, Positionen zu zeigen, die neue Impulse setzen und relevante Tendenzen im aktuellen Kunstgeschehen widerspiegeln. Die Vielzahl an Debüt-Galerien in diesem Jahr spiegelt nicht nur wider, wie dynamisch und vielstimmig die jüngere Kunstszene an vielen Orten derzeit ist; wir haben auch gezielt Galerien ausgewählt, die Künstler\*innen präsentieren, die aus verschiedenen Gründen bislang noch keine entsprechende Sichtbarkeit auf dem internationalen Parkett erhalten haben. **In einem Interview mit Artnet lobte dich der Gründungsdirektor der Liste, Peter Bläuer, als eine Person, die „keine Angst hat, Dinge in die Hand zu nehmen, auch wenn es unpopuläre, aber notwendige Entscheidungen sind“. Im gleichen Beitrag betonte der Liste-Präsident Urs Gloor die Aufgabe der Messe, „neue Trends in der Kunst frühzeitig zu erkennen, um attraktiv zu bleiben.“ Wo siehst du die Überschneidungen und Differenzen zwischen Trends und Notwendigkeiten in der zeitgenössischen Kunst?** Ich halte nicht viel davon, Trends einfach hinterherzulaufen. Oft ist es wichtiger, sich bewusst davon abzusetzen. Was für mich zählt, sind Nachhaltigkeit, künstlerische Qualität und die Fähigkeit, Differenz zuzulassen. Es geht darum, Strukturen zu schaffen, die langfristig tragen. Relevante Kunst entsteht selten aus dem Wunsch heraus, Trends zu bedienen, sondern aus dem Bedürfnis, auf die Welt zu reagieren, sie zu befragen oder ihr etwas entgegenzusetzen. Die Liste verstehe ich nicht nur als eine Messe, sondern als Ort, an dem ein ganzes Netzwerk entsteht - aus Menschen, die bereit sind, künstlerische Praktiken und Ideen langfristig zu unterstützen und sichtbar zu machen, gerade wenn sie nicht so glatt oder leicht konsumierbar sind. Gerade in Zeiten zunehmender Vereinheitlichung, Kommerzialisierung und eines Rückzugs ins Konventionelle ist es wichtig, Räume für neue, unbequeme, radikalere Ansätze zu schaffen. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4_post_Aki-Hassan_fullstop.reminder-2025.jpg) Fig. 3 **Welches sind für dich die künstlerischen Praxen, die die Gegenwart besonders prägen?** Künstlerische Arbeiten stehen für sich und haben jeweils verschiedene Hintergründe, sind mit spezifischen Geographien verbunden und nutzen unterschiedliche Mitteln. Was sich aber dennoch wahrnehmen lässt, ist die Auseinandersetzung mit gesellschaftlichen Umbrüchen auf eine sehr persönliche, poetische und politische Weise. Künstler\*innen reflektieren soziale Prozesse, kulturelle Überlagerungen, Fragen von Identität, Körperlichkeit, Erinnerung oder Raum. Das geschieht in unterschiedlichster Form: Von figurativer Malerei bis hin zu installativen, skulpturalen oder textbasierten Arbeiten. Viele der Arbeiten folgen einer inhaltlichen Dringlichkeit und öffnen neue Perspektiven, sei es durch queere Lesarten, durch dezidiert politische Bildstrategien, durch das Wiederaneignen verloren gehlaubter kultureller Praktiken oder durch das Sichtbarmachen marginalisierter Erfahrungen. Ein Beispiel dafür ist Jonas Staals Installation *How to Make Yachts Extinct?* bei [Laveronica](https://www.liste.ch/liste-art-fair-basel/exhibitors/gallery~293a143b-42dd-412a-b3c9-b2ba0a2c02ec~.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), Modica, eine politische Bildkampagne gegen Symbole globaler Ungleichheit. Oder die Arbeiten von Nahum B. Zenil bei [Parallel Oaxaca](https://www.liste.ch/liste-art-fair-basel/exhibitors/gallery~7b847733-c872-4b15-99d1-6d2634a50279~.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), die queere Identität und Körperlichkeit im mexikanischen Kontext verhandeln. Auch die Präsentation von Cylinder aus Seoul, die sich in einer poetischen Gruppenausstellung mit den Nazca-Linien und kulturellem Gedächtnis auseinandersetzt. Spannend finde ich auch die neuen Positionen, z.B. Sara Ravellis skulpturale Installation bei [Bar](https://www.liste.ch/liste-art-fair-basel/exhibitors/gallery~f2fc18a6-36fd-4d1f-aa9b-e0677081d382~.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), Turin, in der das Zusammenspiel zwischen Fürsorge und eingeschränkter Funktionalität thematisiert wird, oder die Malerei und Skulptur von Trinidad Metz Brea und Valentina Quintero bei [Valerie’s Factory](https://www.liste.ch/liste-art-fair-basel/exhibitors/gallery~8f4b8351-7756-4d1e-8022-8c03940c2a5c~.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) aus Buenos Aires, die Natur als queere, fluide Dimension verstehen. Mich interessiert besonders, wie sich diese Vielfalt an Stimmen und Perspektiven nicht nur nebeneinander, sondern in Beziehung zueinander zeigt – und da zeigt sich auch meine kuratorische Haltung in der Platzierung der einzelnen Positionen innerhalb der neuen Architektur. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5_post_Aurora-Kirlay-Heroines-Spinning-Fibers-into-fine-Yarn-copia.jpg) Fig. 4 **Was erwartest du in den nächsten 5 bis 10 Jahren? Was muss bleiben und was könnte sich entwickeln?** Gerade in Zeiten globaler Krisen und gesellschaftlicher Umbrüche braucht es Orte wie die Liste: Räume, in denen Kunst etwas schafft, das niemand erwartet. Kunst ist mehr als Verkaufszahlen oder Auktionsrekorde; ihren Wert sehe ich mehr in einer geteilten Erfahrung. Die Liste trägt diese Verantwortung für ein sensibles Ökosystem aus Künstler\*nnen, Galerien, Kurator\*innen und Publikum, für ein Gleichgewicht zwischen Markt und Diskurs und für Basel als lebendigen, internationalen Kunststandort. Ihre Stärke liegt in der frühzeitigen Sichtbarmachung künstlerischer Tendenzen, in einem fokussierten Programm, komplementär zur Art Basel und den zahlreichen parallelen Formaten, aber eigenständig in Haltung und Auswahl. Diese Qualität gilt es zu bewahren und zugleich weiterzudenken - offen zu bleiben für das, was Kunst heute geben kann. // --- ### Images: Cover: Jonas Staal, *Redistribute Extinction, study for a comparing*, 2023- ongoing. Courtesy the artist and Laveronica gallery Fig.1: Aurora Király, *Viewfinder#28*, 2024-2025. Fig.2: Leonardo Devito, *Rapimento*, 2025\. Photo by Romain Darnaud. Fig.3: Aki Hassan, *fullstop.reminder,* 2025\. Photo Courtesy of the Artist Fig.4: Aurora Király, HÉROÏNES – SPINNING THE FIBERS INTO FINE YARN #1, #2, #3, 2024 All prices are upon request to the gallery. *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### Speaking to the Past URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/speaking-to-the-past/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:07.000Z *I have always carried stories of places I’ve never set foot in* Those cities feel familiar, though I’ve only known them through names, images, and news reports. Then, one day, there was an explosion. Or so the reports say. A car bomb. Its debris scattered across streets I have memorized but never walked. I know the number of victims, the color of the car, and the time of detonation. But do I know what it felt like to be there? It’s October, and I am fixated on the barrage of images coming from war and massacre. I set my phone aside and left home without it, hoping to experience something tangible: tangible streets and the bodies inhabiting them. I see demonstrators and brutal police violence. I walk as a passerby, a witness, just a body taking up space. When I return home, I attempt to write everything down, but nothing comes to mind. Words have already escaped me. *I.* How do we internalize and remember events marked by extreme physical and psychological violence without actually experiencing them on our skin? Can we pass on anything, a memory, a bodily feeling, about a genocide we have witnessed in real time, but seen from the safety of far away? Who will tell this story if those living it are exterminated, and people like me are oceans and screens away? I wouldn’t dare to start my version with: “Once upon a time, on my phone screen, I witnessed…” Before news defined our understanding of the world, people turned to stories to imbue memory with meaning and to share what they experienced in places far away. Unlike formal histories, memories were often passed down via tales passed from one voice to another. In oral traditions, a story is like a woven sack, holding the wisdom of ancestors; each retelling adds a new thread. These stories wove together generations and geographies, bearing the weight of collective experience, as seen, for example, in *The One Thousand and One Nights* (1), which spans centuries and regions: from India to Iran, to the Levant and the Maghreb. In *The Storyteller*, Walter Benjamin portrays the storyteller as being similar to a weaver, entwining their own life with those of others to bridge past and future. Through this craft, wisdom is transmitted and preserved—not as static knowledge, which is compiled from facts, but as a living force, born of experience and reshaped as it flows from one teller to the next. This distinction is highlighted by Benjamin in his reflections on storytelling. *II.* How do we engage with facts without reducing them to their bare, raw truths? There is a form of violence in this reduction, much like when a catastrophe becomes just another flashing headline, or when a death toll turns victims into numbers, without names, without stories. There is nothing humane about a reality understood only through facts, nor about a history that consists solely of events proven by those facts. Somewhere between the lines of history books, in the voids of their grand narratives, lie the stories of those who lived through the past differently—those whose lives were too insignificant to be remembered. These lives held countless potentialities that never became possibilities, of a future that could have been imagined differently. *III.* Freudian psychology contends that trauma is not fully experienced at the moment it occurs. It registers retroactively, often becoming traumatic only when revisited later. Trauma is defined by delay, reminding us that we relate to it in the present, not the past (2). Isn’t history the same? In the Western tradition, history is often imagined as a straight line, predictable and set in stone. It appears deprived of possibility. But our connection to the past is shaped by our present circumstances. With this in mind, we can uncover hidden possibilities—those that only exist in the aftermath of disaster, events that may not be visible now but which are waiting to be recognized. This quality is called latency. Latency is not merely a matter of delay; it is a space where meaning is deferred, where events remain unresolved until another moment awakens them. To think of latencies is not to understand how we arrived at our present, but to recognize how we can move forward by acknowledging the alternate outcomes history once held. We must understand that destruction and war are not the natural progression of history. These outcomes have been imposed by erasing all the other possibilities contained in history. What would expand history into many histories? There is no salvation in trauma; there can only be healing from it. However, there may be a form of salvation from collective historical trauma—not in the sense of redemption or closure, but in the capacity to re-engage with what has been repressed, forgotten, or deemed impossible. This is where the concept of latency becomes important. Latency invites us to revisit the unresolved, to listen for the echoes of suppressed futures within past catastrophes. By acknowledging what histories could have been—and what has been violently foreclosed—we reopen a space for imagining alternative trajectories. This is not a passive act of remembrance, but a transformative one. It allows those not directly affected to assume a responsibility: to hold the weight of the past without claiming it as their own, and to imagine futures not bound to the logic of inevitability. This sense of optimism does not emerge spontaneously; it must be reclaimed through the difficult work of attending to what remains latent, unfinished, and unspoken. *I remember watching Sharif Waked’s “To Be Continued...”* The Palestinian actor Saleh Bakri plays a suicide bomber. The setting is familiar—one of those jarring personal videos where militants preparing for “martyrdom” recite their last will before their deadly mission. But here, the moment of explosion never arrives. Instead of a final testimony, the actor reads from *The One Thousand and One Nights*. The narrative recited by Saleh Bakri, like Scheherazade’s own, unfolds in fragments, one tale leading to another, endlessly deferring an ending. If, for Benjamin, the storyteller borrows their authority from death, here, the Palestinian storyteller does something else—he surpasses death. He faces the history that has already sentenced him to die for his land, that has written his ending before he could even begin, and that has always expected him dead. This is a radical way to seize this history: by speaking to the past, not about it. The value of experience lies in its resistance to being reduced to mere facts, to being erased by a history that overlooks lived moments. This mirrors the unease of witnessing a genocide through a phone screen, where a relentless stream of images and reports conveys a violence bent on annihilating every life, erasing bodies, voices, and memories that could tell of what has been. Yet, this flood of information leaves us grasping for understanding, disconnected from the wisdom of what has been lived through. But how do we tell these stories without appropriating their pain? Perhaps we cannot—not fully, not without fault. To insist on storytelling is to push back against this erasure, to craft narratives that honor the fullness of those lives—their joys, their struggles—despite the distances separating us. What we can do is stay with what remains unresolved and hold space for what lingers. To stay with these stories is to listen for what those lives held—for the futures that were never allowed to unfold—and to keep their traces from disappearing. // --- ### Footnotes (1) A collection of Middle Eastern folktales compiled during the Islamic Golden Age. (2) Sigmund Freud, “Remembering, repeating and working-through,” trans. J. Strachey. In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud: Vol. XII (London: The Hogarth Press, 1911-1913) 147-156. Images: “Demonstration in solidarity with Palestine in Berlin on October 06, 2024\. Photo: Hanif Shoaei” *Aria Baghestani is an artist, writer, and dramaturge from Tehran whose works integrate literature, performing arts, and film. He started his career in Tehran’s independent theatre scene in the 2010s, working as a playwright and director in mainly student projects. After graduating from the University of Tehran with a degree in dramatic literature, he completed a master’s in Dramaturgy at Goethe University in Frankfurt. Throughout his time in Frankfurt, Baghestani’s projects have been presented in venues such as Künstlerhaus Mousonturm and Frankfurt Lab. His artistic and research interests are focused on storytelling, history, and memory from a post-colonial perspective. Besides his career as an artist, Baghestani has also worked as a producer with other artists in Berlin. Currently, he is a Ph.D. candidate in Theater and Performance Studies at Goethe University Frankfurt with the dissertation title Storytelling: Navigating from an End to a New Crisis.* ### Visiting the Oracle URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/oracle-the-36th-ljubljana-biennial-of-graphic-arts-curated-by-chus-martinez/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:05.000Z Attending the inauguration of the 36th Ljubljana Biennial of Graphic Arts/grafični biennale Ljubljana, a small biennial in a small city, in a relatively small country, with a very small budget, already feels like holding on to something that is being pulled apart by polarization and self-interest—such is contemporary art. What matters, in Ljubljana, is this return to presence and to holding on—to each other, and to culture. This year’s title, *Oracle/Orakelj*, arises from the instability of the moment. Historically, oracles were communal tools to manage uncertainty and desire. The biennial offers itself as such a device—a site where art responds to urgent questions. One of artistic director Chus Martínez’s favorite books is *Huckleberry Finn*, a tale of friendship and freedom forged through unlikely solidarity. Mark Twain’s anti-conformist narrative mirrors the biennial’s ethos: “It’s half true and half a kind of productive fiction. If you ‘cheat’ in the right direction—guided by the right values—you can create a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Martínez says. To curate a biennial in dialogue with Ljubljana’s history means speaking with its ghosts—not only archives, but living testimonies and artistic collaborators, such as curator **Olga Subirós** (responsible for the architectural exhibition design) along with her team at the Institut Kunst in Basel, and her partner and long-time collaborator, **Ingo Niermann**. Founded in 1955 during the Cold War, the biennial served once as a cultural bridge between East and West. This year, the biennial is reimagined as a civic gesture—proposing a model of small-scale collectivity that aims for large-scale resonance. The biennial unfolds across four venues, each forming a chapter and based on themes including care, exhaustion, autonomy, and the tension between media and meaning. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/36th-Ljubljana-Biennale-of-Graphic-Arts-8617-WEB-v2.jpg) Fig.1 **“Intellectual Courage”: Museum of Modern Art (MG+)** A key figure in this year’s biennial is *Žogica Marogica (“Speckles the Ball”)*, a beloved puppet heroine created in 1951 by **Ajša Pengov**. In her tale, the little ball rolls away from home to explore the world, helping others along the way. Pengov—a pioneer of puppet theater—designed her as an “autonomous puppet,” using long strings and mirrors to challenge traditional modes of control. The innovation carried both feminist force and technical brilliance. Martínez, initially skeptical of the relevance of puppetry today, began to ask herself: what if puppets, rather than being relics of earlier forms of theater, offered a medium through which we could reflect on autonomy in the digital age? This and other questions arise as we walk through the Biennial’s venues. For example, how is it that we’re all so exhausted, so fed up—and yet nothing ever seems to really happen? Maybe the answer lies in what she calls “our exhausted collectivity.” Such exhaustion is echoed in works by the Ukrainian artists **Yarema Malashchuk** and **Roman Khimei**. Their project reprograms a robotic dog—originally designed for combat—to perform as a benign companion in a Ukrainian town displaced by war. The result is a heartbreakingly tender 20-minutes film: a machine of death becomes an allegory of social healing. Theirs is a reimagination of puppetry as technological redemption. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/36th-Ljubljana-Biennale-of-Graphic-Arts_16327_WEB.jpg) Fig. 2 At MG+, **Noor Abed** presents an almost empty room for *The Stick* (2024), a poetic reflection on Palestinian landscapes reclaimed through rhythmic collectivity, in which choreography becomes a tool and the stick a prosthesis of the body. Used for support and defense, the stick stands between an ephemeral heritage and preservation of rituals, care and violence, echoing Frantz Fanon’s anti-colonial writing on bodily extensions in *Black Skin, White Masks* (1952). *The Stick* is followed by a forest composed of arboreal installations by **Nohemí Pérez** and **Jane Jin Kaisen**. In Kaisen’s film *November*, a blue hour unfolds in reverse time as the moon wanders through the sky—a metaphor for regression and unlearning. Pérez weaves extinct insects onto trees drawn on untreated canvas with charcoal. Their work unsettles linearity, evoking Walter Benjamin’s conception of the Angel of History blown into the future while gazing at the past. It’s as if time wishes to undo itself. Of the 25 participating artists, 23 involve new commissions, two are historical inclusions. One of these latter is the work of **Aili Vint**, who draws on the aesthetics of 1960s computing to conjure speculative continuities rather than retro-futurist nostalgia. Her monochrome grids and simulated machine vision offer cartographies of futures nested within the obsolescence of past technologies, all while mapping where we might still go by reimagining where we once thought we were heading. Meanwhile, **Juan Perez Agirregoikoa**’s mural stretches across an entire wall of Moderna, broadcasting slogans, diagrams, and self-analytical prompts in a darkly comic sprawl. Like an anarchic mind map, it pulses with the tension between control and absurdity. It is loud without being disruptive. At the end of the gallery corridor, **Mladen Stropnik**’s mirror installation nods to Michel Foucault’s concept of the heterotopia: a site that is both real and illusory, reflecting and distorting the world it contains. These mirrors are not simply for self-recognition, but for glimpsing the contradictions of presence, of being here and *elsewhere* at once. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/City_Gallery_Gregor_Gobec.jpg) Fig. 3 **“Imagining for Real”: The City Art Gallery Ljubljana** Despite not being an expert in graphic arts, Martínez embraced the curatorship nonetheless. The term permeates the exhibitions as a historical anchor, inviting the question of how graphic traditions mutate under algorithmic visual culture. **Ingo Niermann** and **Mayte Gómez Molina**’s *Hieroglyphs of the Monadic Age* speaks directly to this kind of mutation. Their animated glyphs blend diagrammatic abstraction with sociological speculation, expanding on Niermann’s theoretical fiction project *The Monadic Age* (2024), where liberal individualism dissolves into a world of monads, following the terminology of Gottfried Leibniz—self-contained entities shaped for fragmented futures. These glyphs—which nod to the dual figure of the oracle and the puppet *Žogica Marogica*—act as semiotic agents. They signal a post-human subjectivity, where symbolic forms no longer mirror familiar relationships but instead encode new social grammars with uncanny precision. A similar interplay between the visible and the encrypted unfolds in the wall paintings of **Saelia Aparicio**. Her spinning, oversized eyes—bulging from distorted figures and surveillance cameras—mirror the installation space to create a field of visual disturbance. Drawing on Julia Kristeva’s theory of abjection, Aparicio inserts convex mirrors to fracture normative perception. That which is grotesque, rejected, or deformed becomes an aperture—giving a straightforward revision of what we see, and how we are seen. The recalibration of perception also informs **Nicole L'Huillier**’s *The Rehearsal Room*, a sonic architecture where listening precedes understanding. I fell asleep there before realizing it was meant to be the core of the exhibition. It is built around a heart drum that pulses into the unconscious. Trained in both visual art and sound engineering, L'Huillier composes an acoustical space where resonance becomes a social method. Through improvisation and call-and-response, the work performs a rethinking of community—echoing Fred Moten’s notion of the ensemble as a mode of Black sociality: one rooted in polyphonic attunement rather than a singular identity, in sounding together rather than speaking as one. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nicole-LHuillier-The-Rehearsal-Room.jpg) Fig. 4 **“Meshwork, Magic and Emotions”: MGLC Grad Tivoli** Each entrance to the four biennial venues is framed by the sculptures of **Silvan Omerzu**, whose works are rooted in Slovenia’s puppetry tradition, and the poems of **Svetlana Makarovič**, a major literary voice in the country. These site-specific pairings transform the thresholds into portals: each one is equipped with its own poem and sculptural composition, sliding you into a new world and offering a heightened state of perception. At MGLC, housed in Grad Tivoli—the oldest building in Tivoli Park—the non-human manifests throughout. **Gabi Dao**’s *Sweet Blood in Stagnant Waters*, winner of the biennial’s residency prize, delves into epidemic imaginaries and queer ecologies through a hybrid film and puppetry installation. Mosquitoes appear as carriers—not of disease, but of alternate mythologies—delivering folklore steeped in decay, yet vibrating with reclaimed meanings. Throughout the entire second floor, the works of **Gabriel Abrantes** and **CANAN** reflect each other like refracted opposites. They are interrupted only by **Manuela Morales Délano**’s stone sculptures. Her forms, adorned with salvaged metal fragments—recalling both militaristic plumage and anti-pigeon spikes—stand like two sphinxes, or a wounded couple, lodged between redemption and ruin, gazing at the park. CANAN’s *Kiymeti Zatiyye* (Intrinsic Value) unfolds across four rooms, illuminating a narrative arc moving from withdrawal to compassion, from pity to self-worth. Sequined sculptures shimmer in a space permeated by a voice whispering truisms on architectural and emotional transformation. The work insists on a serenity that detaches itself entirely from suffering. “I don’t believe in the existence of pain beyond one’s perception,” CANAN told me, as we chatted in the heat. In contrast, Abrantes’ *Bardo Loops* dives straight into the unbearable. A four-channel video-musical installation—each screen a vertical slab mimicking an oversized smartphone—stages the dissolution of a ghost couple. It’s a breakup told across four arenas, or four stadiums of feeling, evoking the Buddhist notion of the bardo: the liminal state between death and rebirth. Shards of dialogue hit like mantras in a loop: “I don’t speak to fascists.” “I’m not in love with you anymore.” “How can you deny me the wish of a baby?” “Nobody loves me.” The ghosts drift through post-apocalyptic landscapes, singing ballads of loss and defiance. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Gabriel-Abrantes-Bardo-Loops.jpg) Fig. 5 **“The Secret Solution for World Peace”: MGLC Švicarija** At Švicarija, the so-called “Swiss House,” Omerzu’s puppets greets you again—this time reflecting the building’s own layered history: from its origins in 1909 as a hotel and artistic hub to a site general refuge, and now, a house of metaphors. Devil statues with exaggerated phalluses, angelic guardians, and wheelchair-bound dolls conjure salvation’s complexity. **Joan Jonas** offers something dense, mercurial, and puppeteered in some way, deeply involved in a healing process. It is a video gifted to her by the marine biologist David Gruber: the first recording ever made of the birth of a whale. There have been countless recordings of whale sounds, but none of this moment. The viewer watches a baby whale being born, while all the aunts of the pod hold it at the surface for several minutes—so it can learn to breathe. Such acts of collective holding form the emotional altar of the exhibition. It is reinforced in the works of artist **Vesna Petrešin** and her father, **Eugen Petrešin**. Eugene has long been developing a sustainable energy device designed to work with the flow of rivers—without using dams—and potentially to be capable of providing energy autonomy to entire communities. If successful, it could radically shift the very architecture of global power. This edition of the Biennial is dedicated to that vision of energy, and to Vesna, who passed away just days before the opening. Her thinking—centered on care, rhythm, and the essential need for pause—has left a lasting imprint. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/36th-Ljubljana-Biennale-of-Graphic-Arts_16532_WEB.jpg) Fig. 6 **“A Flower I Will Become”: Tivoli Park** Since the early 2000s, much has been said about the blossoming of biennials. Often framed as large-scale events detached from everyday life—nomadic spectacles producing a globalized image—they have also reinforced the perception of culture, especially contemporary art, as elitist. It’s time to rewrite that narrative. To revisit local initiatives—those that, while aspiring to openness, primarily address nearby communities: a neighborhood, a city, a region. In a time when fewer and fewer can afford to travel, how can we return to—and learn from—tactics forged in the 1950s? Tivoli Park, a living artwork in itself, hosts the Jakopič Promenade—an outdoor gallery conceived in the 1930s by Jože Plečnik. Here public panels function as historical markers and spaces for communal reflection. The Promenade echoes a tradition of open-air pedagogy, transforming the park into a green agora, alive with memory, encounter, and dialogue. Ljubljana, like a cat with nine lives, continuously reinvents itself through its layered histories—not least among them, its role in the Non-Aligned Movement. As a founding NAM capital, its Biennale—established in 1955—was a stage for cultural diplomacy and global exchange. That spirit of inclusion still pulses beneath the city’s surface. **Sinzo Aanza**, an artist attuned to the symbolic and literal dimensions of NAM and its affiliated nations, draws on its core values, such as anti-imperialism, economic sovereignty, and cultural decolonization. His pathway through the Promenade reframes spatial relationships between countries using metaphors from geopolitics. His drawings amalgamate resistance, reading figures including Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, and other major figures from 20th century literature and diplomacy as prisms for confronting both historical and contemporary totalitarianisms. Aanza’s work asks us to assess a biennial not only by what it represents, but by what it does. And to recognize that what it does depends on us. What do we want these exhibitions to do? How do we want them to perform—and for whom? What kind of dialogue are we trying to create? And why might we consult an oracle to find out? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/36th-Ljubljana-Biennale-of-Graphic-Arts_KATHRIN-SIEGRIST_Skupna-senca_Park-Tivoli_2025_15253_WEB.jpg) Fig. 7 The word oracle stems from orality. And orality is key to the answers offered in Ljubljana. Now orality is regaining its power—not as simplification, but as a profound mode of transmission. The oracle is rooted in spoken prophecy. Can biennials become something like that? Sites of social pedagogy? A floating, unsettled fabric canopy by **Kathrin Siegrist**—constructed from modified emergency parachutes—suggests that yes, such a thing is possible. The artist, who is also a lecturer at the Kunst Institute in Basel, inverts the pyramid form, transforming a symbol of power into a vessel of openness. Beneath this ephemeral structure, the voice of **Maria Arnal** invited everyone to sing in time and in tone with her. She played an ancient Indian instrument, breathing through what looked like a book made of paper walls. Through our voices, chants unfolded—like a blessing for spaces ready to receive their visitors. Arnal’s practice is oral, and not just melodic. It navigates the inner and outer voice, fusing ancient languages with contemporary technologies. Her presence across venues activated the voice as a social and spiritual force—shaping identity, territory, and collectivity, all while linking the visitors’ voices with the exhibitions through resonance. “No event exists in isolation,” said Chus Martínez, emphasizing that an exhibition must not be seen as a hermetically sealed, temporary occurrence, but rather as part of the everyday life of Ljubljana. She couldn’t be more right. Every biennial, every exhibition, emerges from and returns to a context. We need to reconnect with these supporting contexts. For too long, we’ve presented creativity in fragments—critical of authorship, skeptical of monumentality. But in 2025, there is a return to the visionary. To the singular voice—not necessarily the heroic artist, but perhaps the unique community, the collective voice, the force of people together. Can a biennial do the building? No, but it can instigate it. If this exhibition generates interest, it will be because it activates people—and, in being activated, they activate others. This is a matter of the language we use. Skepticism has a role to play—but only if it clears the way for what Martínez calls “radical optimism.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Tarta-Relena-Es-pregunta-Maria-Gaminde-2.1.jpg) Fig. 8 This sense of quality revealed itself vividly during my visit to **Anselma**—a women-led tailoring collective working with recycled fabrics and century-old patterns. There, at least ten other Biennale guests browsed joyfully through garments made by school students during the collective learning sessions. In their hands, these clothes carry more than style; they revive a forgotten texture in textiles—materials once commonplace, now rare due to the overextraction of natural resources and industrial overproduction. As the Biennale’s most fulfilled prophecy, **Tarta Relena** (Marta Torrella and Helena Ros)—a Barcelonès duo working together since 2016—performed És Pregunta (which I read as “Being Question”) at sunset in the park. It marked their third time singing in Ljubljana. Through a cappella traditions, they braided ancient Mediterranean chants with synthesized compositions, interweaving Catalan, Spanish, Italian, Latin, and Ladino. Moving between sacred and secular registers, their voices gently dismantled the binaries that still separate art forms and genres. It is between the ancient and the contemporary that their music seeks new meanings—and new languages—with which to face the future. My memory of these days is one in which I allowed myself to feel optimistic. I felt somehow lighter. I breathed deeply. --- ### Credits Cover: Juan Pérez Agirregoikoa/ Fig.1: Ajša Pengov's *Žogica Marogica/* Fig. 2 Yarema Malashchuk and Roman Khimei / Fig.3: Ingo Niermann and Mayte Gómez Molina/ Fig. 4: Nicole L'Huillier/ Fig.5: Gabriel Abrantes / Fig.6 Silvan Omerzu/ Fig.7: Kathrin Siegrist / Fig.8: Tarta Relena All images: Courtesy 36th Ljubljana Biennale of Graphic Arts 2025 / **Details to every artwork will be updated soon** *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Word Worker, Local Hustler, Niche Internet Angel URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/word-worker-local-hustler-niche-internet-angel/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:58.000Z Ever since migrating to Berlin from Turkey – where authoritarianism tightens, the economy collapses, and queer, Kurdish, and migrant refugee lives shrink under its weight – I’ve found that here, in Berlin, work was the only certainty. No rest, no pause, no space to digest – just survival. Before migrating from Turkey, I had only observed migrant labor resistance from a distance – reading about the Gorillas workers’ strike and hearing a courier friend in Berlin describe their fight. So, when I arrived in Berlin, I already had an idea of what resistance looked like, but, becoming a courier myself – out of necessity for both paperwork and financial reasons – made me see the strike in a different light. It wasn’t just about wages; it was about making couriers visible in a system that reduced them to data points, where exhaustion was the metric, survival the efficiency, every second tracked, every trip optimized. To be a migrant worker – especially an ‘ideal’ one – meant being productive but invisible. Efficient, not creative. Work hard, stay in line. These rules weren’t just about labor; they turned even a moment of reflection into inefficiency, making thinking beyond work feel like wasted time. In that job, organizing became more than an idea, in the daily grind of staircases and deliveries. While working at this company, where workers labored like Gorillas couriers packed into hubs, I met an IT worker from the U.S. who had taken this job specifically with the idea of organizing a strike. Within weeks, we planned a *Betriebsrat* (works council), gathered signatures, mapped the invisible rules that governed us, and found ways to fight back. At first, organizing felt like a collective effort – until I realized whose voices were missing: BIPOC+ workers' struggles were barely a footnote in the conversation, even though, as migrants, they were at its center. There was a lack of awareness, language facilitation, and significant knowledge disparities about legal processes in the organizing group. In a room full of people fighting for ‘the working class,’ contradictions of privilege were everywhere. Some barely stayed afloat on gig wages, stretching every euro to make rent, while others took frequent vacations or lived comfortably on state support – somehow always finding time for a retreat or an artist residency. For me, this made it clear that organizing wasn’t just about challenging the bosses, it was also about making invisible struggles visible. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_1551.JPG) Fig. 1 During this process, I felt the need to express myself. My creativity was restless. I thought social media could be a way to be creative. So, I started making memes about politics, organizing, and the migrant experience, using them not just as a tool for activism, but as a creative survival tactic, a way to reclaim visibility on my terms. However, as I became more outspoken, the company began tracking my movements, monitoring my social media, and treating my online expression as a threat. In Turkey, censorship had always been the norm, an ever-present shadow, shaping what could be said and who could say it. Here, I had expected something different: the freedom to speak without fear, to exist online without offline consequences. Instead, I found a new kind of suppression – not through government crackdowns, but through corporate surveillance. Yet, as this surveillance intensified, the response from the organizing group in the company wasn’t what I had expected. Instead of support, I received instructions: *Go offline. Make your account private*. *No, better yet, delete it*. They sent links to digital security guides as if a VPN could shield me from an employer intent on erasing me. No one questioned why I was posting or how it mattered to me as a migrant from Turkey, where gaining internet freedom is already a struggle. The same directive, over and over: *Stay invisible. Keep quiet. Go incognito. Disappear.* Under surveillance, without support from the organizing group, financially on the edge, and juggling shitty jobs, I felt an even stronger pull to make myself visible online. I had no other platform, no stage in those days. I needed to prove that I existed, that I mattered, that I wouldn’t simply fade into the background. But post too little, and you disappear again. Post too much, and you become a target. Sharing online wasn’t just self-expression, it was a survival tactic, and a risk worth taking. Memes became a way to cope, to process labor exploitation and the traumas of organizing. Turning pain into a meme became a way to reclaim the narrative – transforming suffering into something digestible, ironic, and shareable – before it consumed me. Like so many precarious creative workers, meme-makers juggle multiple worlds – freelance gigs, service jobs, blue-collar shifts – all while existing in a space of uncertainty. As the meme researcher İdil Galip explores in “The ‘Grotesque’ in Instagram Memes,” meme-making reflects a twofold precarity: first, an inconsistent revenue stream from creative work; secondly, the physical exhaustion of labor-intensive jobs. The workers who go chronically online to shitpost are also the ones pulling doubles at restaurants, cleaning buildings, delivering food, and grinding through multiple jobs just to survive. For them, making memes, creating, and posting are not just forms of catharsis – they are survival tactics, reaching across platforms for resonance, solidarity, and a moment of recognition. As a precarious worker, a migrant, and an artist, I know what it means to move without resources and support, yet I still dream collectively. That’s why I go chronically online, post unapologetically, and flood every medium I touch. Because devaluation has always been the logic imposed on me, and I’ve learned to weaponize it. Now, I organize cleaning workers on strike, a role I took on right after working as a cleaner myself, and write lyrics that sound like: **Power to the women of the morning shifts. / Power to the hands that create.** // --- ### Image credits Cover and fig.1: Portrait Zeliha B. Cenkci. Courtesy of the author. *I’m Zeliha, aka Zillallah (@zallelujjah), a Berlin-based artist, poet, rapper, and cultural worker. After living in Istanbul, I migrated to Germany three years ago. Since then, I’ve been hustling, working underpaid jobs, trying to find my place in the labor system, and currently helping organize strikes with a syndicate.* ### Twelve Today URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/twelve-today/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:01.000Z **My first job after I suffered a great injury was at a crematory. Behind a small castle In Colma, nestled between fallen trees and unkept plots, in a corrugated temporary structure sat four furnaces, a grinder, and a wall of refrigerators.** Steel doors ground open against concrete floors chipping them away. Loose stones stuck to the steel-toe boots that hung loosely tied around my ankles. Near the garage doors, the bodies were dropped off in the night. Each to be cataloged, their identities proven, their possessions closed in that cardboard box with them. Old men and women, young men and women, children, all wrapped in plastic, mouths agape, staring at eternity. When I first began working there I would jump every time I opened the lid to their containers. Their white eyes fixed on me. Their wounds still seeping, or rotted entirely, never in between. **I was paid 28 dollars an hour to cremate the bodies and crush their bones into dust, then give it back to their weeping kin. From this process, I saw that on that slab we are all the same. Something to be exploited, something to be used then thrown away. Yet I can tell a rich man from a poor man by their teeth, by their hips, by their very life spread out before me. I could only see the body as a commodity; my work was to burn it as a commodity, too.** Twelve. Twelve people a day was the minimum quota to maintain our position in the eyes of our employer, a district manager, general manager, chief operating officer, or some other title. They did not know the names of the people I touched, the souls I sent below, the vessels in which I bid farewell. Each morning I checked in the load that sat out in the putrid air. Knowing more of them made them real to me, never wanting to see them as only an object, something to be changed and sold. Even if that is what they were for the industry of the dead. I pull out the first four from the refrigerator and inspect them, their names, their manner of death, their wounds, and their life. The retort would open, spitting flame onto brittle, broken, concrete slabs. They went in. The door closed. They burned. The process is slow, especially when I need to intervene with a metal stick to make sure all the parts of the body are burned completely. I will not make twelve at this pace, so I must turn them more. I must prod them more. I must tear them apart. That rod comes down on the body until it breaks under the flame. Until its black blood seeps. Until nothing remains but hot bones. With a wire brush, I push the pulverized body out the back into a steel container. My arms turn red. I have been burned more times than I can count here, dipping in and out of that warmth. The largest go in at the beginning, the smallest last. I am always behind. The second round is prepared and entered into the oven. Four done. Four in. Four left. The burning of the bodies moves quicker as the day drags. They are lighter and more emaciated. The destitute and homeless cremations are paid for by the state. People forgotten. Deaths ignored. In the cold, they lived and in that flame, they are finally free. I do not pray, I have no belief in an after. This is it. And you will suffer no more. I break. I burn. I grind. And I pack. Eight done. The round is fast, but not fast enough. Even with all my attempts to humanize these things the work rips at that faux reality. We are a product. Nothing more than our worth to another. The last four are the children, the babies, and the fetuses. The quickest to burn, the hardest to understand. Loved beyond all things even when they no longer remain. **I am the last to look at their faces. I apologize that it is only me, not God.** **I am still there with them. Two hours of overtime. My boss sends an email about the discrepancy.** **I am still there with them even after my overtime.** **//** --- ### Image credits Cover: Courtesy of Michael Brand. *Michael Brand has been a crematory operator since 2023, working in Colma California. He took up writing as a creative outlet after suffering a stroke at the age of 24\. As an SEIU union laborer and CPUSA member, he has taken to learning the theoretical foundations and applications of class struggle while pursuing an interest in the arts. He completed his master’s degree in psychology from Arizona State University in 2024* ### Creare Spazi di Alteristituzionalità URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/creare-spazi-di-alteristituzionalita/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:59.000Z **Giulia Mariachiara Galiano: Quello che mi ha avvicinata alla tua ricerca è stata l'affinità che ho percepito rispetto al modo di concepire l'alteristituzionalità e l’arte del comune. Mi interessa molto che parli di movimento piuttosto che di *fine* e che vedi nella generazione di alteristituzionalità la possibile via d'uscita dallo spazio governamentale del sistema dell'arte. Hai tradotto questo movimento in più esperienze quali il Sale Docks e l'IRI (Institute for radical Imagination). Quale esperienza credi sia riuscita meglio a mantenere la tensione di cui parli?** **Marco Baravalle:** Per affrontare il tema dell’alteristituzionalità, partirei da Sale Docks. Nato nel 2007 da un’occupazione, si è sviluppato rispondendo a due urgenze: intervenire politicamente sul lavoro culturale a Venezia, e sperimentare uno spazio artistico non-neoliberale. Un esempio della prima vocazione è *Biennalocene*, un progetto che parte come performance/ investigazione militante e si sviluppa in un’assembela autogestita di lavoratori. La seconda urgenza è quella più propriamente l’alteristituzionale, quella che cerca di istituire nuove forme istituzionali oltre il modello neoliberale. **In città, negli ultimi vent’anni emergono due modelli istituzionali: da un lato la Biennale resta il principale motore artistico, ma si è progressivamente adeguata alla logica neoliberale, senza tentare di costruire alleanze con soggetti politici subalterni, né di mettere in discussione il proprio legame con il sistema della rendita immobiliare che parassita l’arte. Dall’altro lato, si è ampliata la presenza di fondazioni legate a capitali multinazioanali privati. Il modello avviato da François Pinault ha aperto la strada ad altri miliardari e collezionisti. In questo contesto, uno spazio come il Sale è importante perché fornisce uno spazio fisico, politico ed estetico “altro” rispetto a quello dell’arte neoliberale. E questo credo valga anche per il vostro spazio, *terzospazio*. L’indipendenza culturale e artistica, deve farsi autonomia, non può porsi in senso ancillare rispetto alle istituzioni artistiche neoliberali. Questo non significa evitare ogni collaborazione, ma essere consapevoli. In quanto indipendenti pensiamo di avere meno risorse di quelle che in realtà la cooperazione ci mette a disposizione. Il discorso, però, è politico, non di mera strumentazione. Dobbiamo riabituarci a costruire spazi autonomi, sottraendoci all’occupazione dell’estetica che il neoliberismo produce. Non è solo l’Occidente ad avere cancellato, con il colonialismo, altri modi di percepire e rappresentare il mondo, anche il capitalismo ha avuto un ruolo in tal senso, fuori e dentro lo stesso Occidente.** **Anche le istituzioni “maggiori” riorganizzandosi dall’interno e attuando un movimento di *divenire-minoritario*, riescono talvolta ad aprirsi ad una dimenisone alteristituzionale, capace di sperimentare nuove forme di governance culturale. Oggi esistono numerosi esempi in questa direzione e la rete *L’Internationale* \- della quale fai parte con il tuo progetto IRI, Institute of Radical Imagination - ne rappresenta alcune tra le più significative.** I tempi cambiano in peggio e spazi istituzionali sembrano chiudersi piuttosto che aprirsi. E’ pure vero che l’esempio de L’Internationale è interessante. Il Museo Reina Sofía, ad esempio, sotto la direzione di Manuel Borja-Villel è un caso di alteristituzionalità applicata ad un grande museo pubblico. Pur con tutte le sue contraddizioni e problematicità, Borja ha lavorato su piani diversi. Sulle epistemologie che strutturano museo (lavoro sulle collezioni) e aprendo l’istituzione a soggetti subalterni, attraverso il *Museo Situado*. Il caso di Madrid mostra come anche un’istituzione pubblica possa assumere un ruolo critico. Magari la Biennale di Venezia avesse un *Ufficio Biennale Situata*, per interfacciarsi con la città! **Hai accennato alla creazione di spazi autonomi. Puoi approfondire questo concetto?** Su questo punto mi interessa il dibattito che alcune istituzioni artistiche palestinesi stanno portando avanti dopo il 7 ottobre. La scorsa estate sono stato in Cisgiordania, qui ho incontrato artisti e curatori. Ho poi letto un articolo in cui un’operatrice culturale palestinese proponeva una sorta di autocritica del settore. Si interrogava sulle difficoltà nel rispondere al genocidio in corso a Gaza, riconoscendo come trent’anni di finanziamenti da parte di ONG straniere — seguiti agli Accordi di Oslo del 1993 — avessero progressivamente eroso la politicità del settore culturale, un tempo parte integrante del percorso di liberazione nazionale. Dopo il 7 ottobre, la situazione si è ulteriormente aggravata. I donors europei ed occidentali hanno cominciato a richiedere ai beneficiari dei fondi di adeguarsi a specifiche narrative: in caso contrario, i finanziamenti venivano negati. Di fatto viene richiesto alle organizzazioni di attestare la loro estraneità alla resistenza palestinese. In questo modo, il finanziamento diventa uno strumento **apertamente coloniale**. Per contrastare questa dinamica, si è formata una rete di spazi non governativi palestinesi chiamata [*OWNHE*](https://owneh.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Questa rete ha individuato due necessità fondamentali: costruire strumenti per l'autonomia artistico culturale e creare un pool di risorse comuni: know-how, tecnologia e fondi, per permettere alle istituzioni di rifiutare i finanziamenti condizionati. In un contesto completamente diverso, questa tensione verso forme di autonomia culturale è qualcosa che abbiamo cercato di praticare anche noi. E’ alla base di esperienze come Sale Docks e di quegli spazi che affondano le loro radici nella storia dei centri sociali — realtà portatrici di unsapere prezioso sull’autonomia. L'esempio palestinese è estremo ma immediato, ma qui? Cosa succede quando una fondazione privata finanzia progetti e ricerche artistiche? Rischiamo forme di autocensura o di cattura ideologica? Le formazioni decoloniali più serie, come *Decolonize This Place*, lo denunciano apertamente, mostrando come nel board del MoMA ci siano uomini legati alla businees della guerra, a quello carcerario e alla speculazione immobiliare che caccia i poveri dalle loro case. Con le mostre a tema decoloniale si comprano la connivenza del mondo dell’arte. **Certo, riassorbire il conflitto è la dinamica più capitalistica del mondo. E lì agisce anche il *tokenismo*: inclusione solo apparente che neutralizza ogni critica.** Non è tanto diverso da quello che accade qua. Se non c’è critica della struttura il neoliberismo si mangia tutto. **Nello statuto di Sale Docks scrivete: *il nostro intento è quello di rovesciare quei processi che privatizzano i commons culturali.* Quali sono i riferimenti teoriciche vi hanno ispirato in questa direzione?** Sul piano teorico, mi concentro sul tema delle *Istituzioni del Comune*. Toni Negri e Michael Hardt, ad esempio, sostengono che non c'è rivoluzione senza la costruzione di nuove istituzioni. Questo approccio trova riscontro anche nel pensiero afroamericano abolizionista, da W.E.B. Dubois ad Angela Davis fino ai teorici decoloniali contemporanei. L'abolizionismo non si limita a smantellare istituzioni oppressive, ma costruisce nuove forme di organizzazione della vita in comune. **Anche il concetto di *Undercommons* suggerisce la possibilità di un uso tattico, sotterraneo e non conforme delle strutture esistenti.** È utile che nelle istituzioni si creino degli *Undercommons* ma l'obiettivo resta sempre quello di arrivare ai *Commons*, ovvero a una piena alternativa istituzionale. // **Marco Baravalle** è ricercatore, curatore e attivista. È membro di Sale Docks, e dell'IRI (Institute Of Radical Imagination). --- ### Image credits Cover: "Sale Docks During Art For Radical Ecologies Book Launch", 2024 *Giulia Mariachiara Galiano è una curatrice indipendente con sede a Venezia. Dal 2023 co-cura e gestisce terzospazio, un project space indipendente gestito dall'associazione culturale zolforosso.* ### Rehearsing Cultural Abolitionisms: URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/rehearsing-cultural-abolitionisms/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:20:02.000Z The current tightening of state-sanctioned measures in Berlin’s cultural landscape in which austerity, funding cuts, cancellations, and censorship are becoming more and more common prompts us to ponder the role of public cultural institutions in preserving and reinforcing the state’s ideology in relation to dissenting voices and demands for plurality. The crowdsourced Archive of Silence, lists 215 cases in which artists, theorists, and cultural workers have been disinvited, censored, or silenced by cultural institutions in Germany since October 7, 2023 until today. The vast extent of such cases opens the question whether the cultural institution as a self-proclaimed space that supports polyvocality, marginalised voices, and political opposition can disentangle itself from its state dependency and truly enact the promise of decentralized or participatory models of programming. In the essay “Cultural Abolitionisms” (2021; 2023) the French artist and writer Guillaume Maraud traces the historical ties between state and cultural institutions going back to the origin of the museum as a western, colonial project that acts as a representational organ for the national ideology of the modern state. Maraud opposes contemporary art discourse around institutional critique, reformist, or corporatist demands, and instead calls for an abolitionist approach to contemporary culture. Through a materialist analysis of the history and infrastructures of cultural institutions, Maraud argues that true liberation within the cultural sphere requires dismantling existing frameworks rather than merely reforming them. But what would it mean concretely to speak of abolitionism in the arts and culture? How might a cultural abolitionist practice look, and how would it impact the ways we work, think, and make art together? Historically rooted in the abolition of slavery, abolitionist movements have ever since demanded the dismantling of carceral and punitive institutions, and visibilized these institutions’ underlying racialized capitalist and white supremacist foundations. At the core of contemporary abolitionist thinking is the persuasion that carceral or policing institutions do not create safety for the majority of people, but instead uphold a system based on violence, exploitation, and control. Instead of reforming these systems, abolitionists seek to prefigure and build alternatives based on care, mutual aid, and structural change. Abolition centres its methodology around transformative justice, community accountability, and sustainable social structures. The geographist, theorist and activist Ruth Wilson Gilmore considers abolitionism not as an end point, but rather as a “life in rehearsal” \[1\], an ongoing process of enacting change every day. How can we learn from abolitionist struggles and strategies to conceptualize transformative approaches to art and cultural production that prefigure cultural forms beyond the confines of the institution? How could artists, collectives, and cultural initiatives approach abolition as an ongoing, everyday practice? How can abolitionism support us in self-determining the value of our work without asking for the recognition of hegemonic institutions? With this column, we will follow these questions, looking at grassroots museums, anarchic cultural centers, solidarity-based funding networks, as well as more ephemeral, informal strategies that relativize the dominant role of state institutions. Value is not redefined through reform, institutional critique, or by patiently waiting, but rather, recognizing, in the words of the poet Diane Di Prima: “it will take all of us / shoving at the thing from all sides / to bring it down.” \[2\] In this spirit we engage with specific strategies or methods which – rather than attempting to "fix" institutional failures – instead redefine value within the cultural practice itself, detach from state-sanctioned narratives of legitimacy and root themselves in mutual support structures, autonomous spaces, and subversive everyday actions. If cultural abolitionism is an ongoing rehearsal, then it is about embracing the spaces we already inhabit. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Ruth Wilson Gilmore, in: Roby Maynard, Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, *Rehearsals for Living*, (Toronto: Knopf Canada, 2002), 11. \[2\] Diane Di Prima, *Revolutionary Letters*, (San Francisco, Last Gasp, 2005), 9. Image credits Cover: Courtesy of Catwings *Catwings is an initiative of Steph Joyce and Theresa Zwerschke, whose practice is rooted in hosting and facilitating communal learning, gathering-based art, and collective action outside of institutional structures. Their research is invested in the conditions and potentialities of self-organized art practices that move beyond the product-centered idea of the artwork as commodity. Catwings’ Collective Autonomy Reading Group meets twice a month at the self-organised cultural space cittipunkt in Berlin-Wedding and is open to everyone to participate.* ### In den Rissen der Stille URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/in-den-rissen-der-stille/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:56.000Z Die Küche ist unser Zufluchtsort. Hier sitzen wir, verstummt. Die Bilder, die sich Tag für Tag tief in unsere Netzhaut brennen, lagern sich ab – als Angstsedimente, die durch jede Pore drängen und sich in Schichten übereinanderlegen. Der Tisch, an dem wir zusammenkommen – seit über einem Jahr, seit Ewigkeiten. Worte fehlen uns für das Entsetzen. Jeder Versuch, es zu benennen, endet im Scheitern. „Beweg dich nicht“, raunt es. „Reg dich nicht.“ Sie wollen das Fleisch – ohne das Blut. *Wer sind sie, wer sind wir?* Wir – das sind die, deren Geschichten nicht erzählt werden dürfen. Sie – das sind jene, die entscheiden, welche Trauer politisch korrekt ist. Die, die glauben, man könne Schmerz kontrollieren, disziplinieren, einhegen. Mein Baba hat einen neuen Mercedes. Er nennt ihn den Leopard. Mit dem Herbst kommen Monate des Schweigens – ein Schweigen, das die Trauer erstickt. Es ist keine bloße Abwesenheit von Klang. Kein Vakuum. Es ist ein dichter Nebel aus Ignoranz – schwer, bedrückend, erstickend. Das Land, das sich rühmt, aus seiner Geschichte gelernt zu haben, stellt unsere Trauer unter Bedingungen. Bedingungen, die diktieren, wie wir weinen dürfen, was wir fühlen sollen und wo unser Schmerz enden muss. Die Rhetorik der universellen Menschenrechte wird zur Maske. Die alte Geschichte: moralische Überlegenheit behaupten und dabei unschuldig erscheinen, während Waffen geliefert werden. „Wir haben Waffen geliefert, und wir werden Waffen liefern“, sagte er, ohne Luft zu holen. Ein Jahr ist vergangen. Menschen brennen in Krankenhäusern. Unsere Gebete verstummen nicht. Ich erinnere mich an den Tag, als ich zum ersten Mal wagte, die Absurdität laut auszusprechen. Ein einziger Atemzug – von so vielen gebraucht, doch aus Angst zurückgehalten. Der Satz brannte in meinem Hals, bevor ich ihn aussprach. Was geschieht, wenn ein Land das Atmen verlernt? Was, wenn das Luftanhalten die einzige Antwort auf den Schmerz bleibt? Draußen versammeln sich Menschen für das Leben. Ihre Stimmen dringen durch die Fensterscheiben, während ich hinter dem Glas verharre – gefangen in der Bequemlichkeit der Isolation. Scham steigt in mir auf – nicht nur über das Schweigen, sondern über die Erschöpfung. Diese Scham lässt mich zurückweichen. Ist es heuchlerisch, eine Pause zu brauchen, wenn draußen die Welt brennt? Ist Rückzug Verrat oder einfach ein letzter Versuch, durchzuatmen? Mein Baba hat einen neuen Mercedes. Er nennt ihn den Tiger. Die liberale Idee von Freiheit – ihre Idee – erschafft Räume der Sichtbarkeit für die Einen, während Andere systematisch aus dem Bild gedrängt werden. Wir, Kinder von Neukölln, Kreuzberg und Wedding, tragen die Geschichten unserer Eltern und Großeltern in uns: von Ausbeutung und Vertreibung, Überleben und Verlust. Erfahrungen, denen kein Raum für Trauer gewährt wird. Wessen Leben ist es wert, betrauert zu werden? Was macht das Schweigen mit unseren Körpern, unserem Atem, unseren Herzen? Khobiza wächst in den Spalten des Betons. Sie trotzt den Mauern, die uns vergessen lassenwollen. So wie wir. Wir, die wir uns weigern, ausgelöscht zu werden. Diese Wurzeln erinnern uns daran, dass das Leben seinen Weg findet – selbst in der bittersten Erde. Unsere Geschichten – wie Schatten auf unserem Rücken – erzählen vom Überleben. Vom Widerstand. Vertriebene Träume, die weiterleben in den unsichtbaren Räumen, die das System uns überließ. Sie flüstern in der Nacht, pulsieren mit unseren Schritten. Mein Baba hat einen neuen Mercedes. Er nennt ihn den Löwen. Wir träumen von einer Zukunft, in der Trauer kein Akt des Widerstands mehr ist. In der wir nicht um das Recht kämpfen müssen, zu fühlen. Eine Zukunft, in der Stimmen, die heute zum Schweigen gezwungen werden, die Geschichten von morgen erzählen dürfen. Die Welt, gebaut auf den Rücken unserer Ahnen, wird eines Tages zerfallen. Khobiza wächst in den Spalten des Betons. Sie trotzt den Mauern, die uns vergessen lassen wollen. Wurzeln, die das Leben in all seinen Wirklichkeiten feiern. Baba fährt den Löwen nun seit zwanzig Jahren. Ein neues Auto braucht er nicht mehr. Jetzt hat er Zeit. Ein neues Terrain – nach über fünfzig Jahren: Arbeit, Arbeit, Arbeit. Er betritt es vorsichtig, auf Zehenspitzen. Er ruft mich an und fragt: „Wollen wir spazieren gehen und danach Knafeh essen?“ Knafeh ist sein liebstes Dessert. Der Löwe fährt uns in den Wald. Die Sonnenstrahlen wärmen unsere Gesichter. Wir setzen uns auf gefällte Baumstämme. Unser gemeinsames Leben – nach all den Jahren des Kampfes, des Schweigens, der Arbeit – ist unser größter Widerstand. Inmitten einer Welt voller Spannungen und Krieg ist dies das Wertvollste, was wir haben: Zusammen sein. Jetzt. Hier. // --- ### Image Collage on Canvas (detail), work in progress, Courtesy by Jamila Barakat (2025) *Jamila Barakat ist eine palästinensisch-deutsche interdisziplinäre Künstlerin, Kuratorin und Pädagogin in Berlin. In ihrer Arbeit erforscht sie persönliche und kollektive Erfahrungen und Erinnerungen wie Resilienz, den Dialog zwischen Generationen und das Leben in einer spätkapitalistischen Gesellschaft. Im Jahr 2020 war sie Mitbegründerin des Interspace-Kollektivs, das mit Fokus auf marginalisierte, emanzipatorische Narrative kuratorische Räume für Solidarität und Koexistenz schafft. Ihre letzten Einzelarbeiten wurden im CCA, im HKW und im KW - Institute for Contemporary Art gezeigt.* ### "Тишина!" "Тишина!" "Тишина!" "Тишина!" "Тишина!" (1) URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/tishina-tishina-tishina-tishina-tishina/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:55.000Z ***March 15, 2025; Belgrade, Serbia*** At exactly 19:00, for the first time in my life, I stood among more than half a million people, at the largest civilian protest in modern Serbian history, experiencing a complete silence that rippled across Belgrade. We felt an acute sense of the mass, extending beyond the city centre, stretching across the bridges to New Belgrade and Zemun. The silence was meant to last 15 minutes, honoring 15 victims of the corrupt autocratic regime that has been ruling Serbia since 2012\. What struck me most was how the silence spread, from the center to the peripheries, through individuals—spontaneous volunteers—who carried the word outward. This counterintuitive feeling of silence spreading unfolded as a profoundly transformative experience. Earlier that day, Belgrade had been anything but silent. Even the night before, the arrival of students who had marched from across Serbia had been met with deafening cheers. Whistles, chants, songs, the motivational slogan *“Puuuumpaaaaaj!*”(2), vuvuzelas, instructions from protest stewards, loudspeakers blasting from windows, and the occasional rhythmic pounding of rain, all contributed to the release of long-suppressed voices. This silent ritual had been performed many times during the protests since the collapse of the railway station canopy in Novi Sad on November 1, 2024—a disaster caused by a negligent government renovation project. In the months following, students led blockades, inspiring teachers and lawyers to go on strike, farmers to join on their tractors, and citizens to engage in their protests and boycotts. The student uprising took many by surprise. For years, opposition parties, NGOs, and environmental activists had struggled to mobilize large-scale resistance against Aleksandar Vučić’s regime. Ruling Serbia since 2012, Vučić established a system of concentrated power by dismantling institutions and employing authoritarian tactics. A “former” nationalist, member of the far-right Radical Party, and Minister of Information under Milošević, he rebranded himself as a pro-European reformer to win Western support—while at the same time consolidating control over the media, judiciary, and security services; exploiting state resources, suppressing political opposition and civil society; and eroding parliamentary and electoral integrity. Foreign support, mainly driven by neo-colonial interests—especially related to the exploitation of lithium and other natural resources—has made the struggle against this pseudo-democratic, deeply corrupt regime a Sisyphean task. The students, unburdened by apathy, petrified understandings of social organization, or political baggage, who ignited a movement of unprecedented scale. They began by blocking universities, relying on their autonomy and the widespread support of their professors. Following the principles of direct democracy, they make their decisions through student plenums closed to the public. What started as an anarchist echo of the Paris Commune’s principles revealed a new generation of thinkers equipped for contemporary models of resistance. Since its beginning, the movement grew exponentially, like the silence that day, radiating from the center to the peripheries: political, class-based, and geographic. Critics labelled it a utopian Gandhian experiment. Yet, as students marched toward cities such as Novi Sad, Kragujevac, and Niš, reaching forgotten villages and towns along their way, they walked their talk, connecting with those disconnected from social media and independent news sources. The rejection of personality cults further distinguishes this movement. It has no leader—the representative speakers constantly change, maintaining a visible gender balance. More importantly, they strategically strip the president, an autocrat who monopolized public discourse, of his voice. When he called for negotiations, the students refused the offer, having no interest in addressing the *Nominal Institution of Limited, Largely Ceremonial Jurisdiction*. Instead, they demand accountability from the state institutions that had remained silent. The regime responded with diverse forms of repression: smear campaigns, intimidation, and physical violence. Thugs drove vehicles into crowds, running over students and citizens in the streets. Demonstrators braced accordingly for provocations and performative clashes intended to justify further repression. But what was not anticipated was the attack on the silence. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Marija-Pavlovic-01-1.png) Fig.1 In the 11th minute of silence, that is, on March 15th, 2025, at 19:11, an LADR—a military-grade acoustic weapon—informally known as a “sound cannon” disrupted the crowd, causing panic, trauma, and a stampede. It was a psychological as well as a physical assault aimed at turning a nonviolent protest into chaos, one that would put an end to the blockades. Nevertheless, the collective body resisted the urge to escalate panic and regained its autonomy. Just as the sound cannon generated waves of silent state terrorism, so did the mass silence amplify the fundamental strength of unity in large numbers. Silence, so often wielded by authoritarian regimes to suppress, had been reappropriated and turned into a revolutionary tool. As such, it was seen not only as a vulnerable point of the protest but also as the state’s most valuable target. The silent attack disrupted the program for that evening, but it also set off an even louder uprising. And for the first time, because of the nature of the attack on our silence, the international media took notice. “The blockades will end when we say so, and only when our demands are met,” exclaimed the students. This statement reinforced the continuous rejection of a singular violent revolution, advocating instead for a long-term process of deeper systemic change. In her book *Together: A Manifesto Against the Heartless World* (3), Turkish writer Ece Temelkuran speaks of radical political love—a love not of hippie-style optimism, but of urgent necessity—a love for those who come from different sides of the political spectrum. Here, such a love was made tangible: in food and donations for students and strikers, in the unprecedented solidarity across political and class lines, in the collective refusal to engage in violence despite provocations. And, particularly, in the mass silence. On March 21st, a sixteenth victim died after months of battling for life in the hospital. The silence grew longer; the noise that followed was louder. After March 15, Serbia saw an explosion of decentralized self-governance. Citizens, following the students’ direct democracy model, formed local assemblies. Spontaneous actions increased: regime accomplices found themselves pelted with eggs; media strongholds were boycotted and blockaded. The power of this movement lies not in centralized control, but in its capacity for fragmentation and persistence. As protests spread across the country and across the region—from Romania to North Macedonia, from Greece to Turkey—our hope is not for more countries to suffer in silence, but to join in their reappropriation. To make the noise that spreads in its wake exponentially louder. // --- ### Footnotes (1) Silence! (2) Pump it up! (3) Temelkuran, E.. Together: A Manifesto Against the Heartless World (Bloomsbury Publishing, London, 2021). Images Photo illustration: Uroš Pajović. Source photographs: Marija Pavlović; Public Work. *Marija Pavlović is a Yugoslav/Serbian writer who holds a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and currently lives in Berlin. Her literary and academic work focuses on defining a postmodern tendency she names hypertrashrealism.* ### April acts & neverending labor shifts URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/april-acts-and-neverending-labor-shifts/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:53.000Z *Drought is a state of being. It is quite empty here. People are sitting underneath the shadows of palm trees. How much money is invested in this? How many people will see it? Capital is god-like, stronger than the environment.* From the bus window, the desert stretched infinitely, interrupted only by workers in orange vests. I found myself sketching the above observations, which in my mind depicted the United Arab Emirates' (UAE) central contradiction: a wealthy economy built on labor rendered simultaneously essential and invisible. Despite labor reforms such as the 2019 Golden Visa program, the UAE remains reliant on migrant workers. Non-citizens constitute over 88% of the population. They come mostly from South and Southeast Asia. Capital manifests through air-conditioned enclaves built by those who cannot enjoy them—a colonial logic where ecosystems and labor are reconfigured to serve capital accumulation. This sort of reflection on labor systems starkly resonated while looking at artworks from the 16th Sharjah Biennial. Its title, *to carry*, connects, at least conceptually, with the revitalized land-specific labor traditions proposed by its curators Alia Swastika, Amal Khalaf, Natasha Ginwala, Megan Tamati-Quennell, and Zeynep Özm. They offer a cartography of alternative work cultures through which we might glimpse the aftermath of a capitalist world. Featuring 600 works, one third of them newly commissioned, “to carry” tries, not in vain, to move away from prescriptive exhibition-making, focusing instead on ways of carrying knowledge rooted in Indigenous knowledge-making and in embodied heritages without reducing the exhibition to a single thematic frame. To compliment this complexity, over the past years, the Sharjah Foundation, headed by Sheikha Hoor Al Qasimi, has reclaimed heritage locations across the Emirate to be repurposed for art exhibitions. The seventeen venues, including the Al Qasimiyah School, the Old Al Dhaid Clinic, and the buried village of Al Madam, places where the arenas of production and labor relations would be crafted in all their stages, created bridges between international perspectives and the local landscape while strategically positioning Sharjah on global art itineraries. The Kalba Ice Factory, once a site of manual labor in the 1970s, was repurposed in 2012 by the Sharjah Biennial to host large-scale installations, artistic labor embedded in post-industrial space. There, *Like a Flood* (2025), a two-channel video installation by Adelita Husni-Bey, offers a sweeping historical and infrastructural critique of water management in Libya under Italian colonial rule (1911–1943). The work reveals how control over water became a tool for territorial domination, cultural erasure, and the violent reordering of ecological relationships. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Adelita-Husni-v2.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Adelita-Husni.jpg) Fig. 1/2 To tame the land, the Italian regime not only dismantled organized resistance, but they also targeted bodies carrying ecological cosmologies: oral traditions, rituals, and embodied knowledge systems rooted in land and water. Erasing those bodies was an attempt to sever ancestral continuity and displace modes of knowing that challenged colonial authority. Yet these attempts failed. What survives in memory, sound, and flesh unsettles the colonial fantasy of total control. Water, here too, becomes an instrument of domination. As the Palestinian sound researcher and artist Bint Mbareh states during the *April Acts* conversation “Water Songs” (with Caroline Courrioux, Hsu Fang-Tze, and Amal Khalaf): “Water ownership is a way to impose a future on Palestinian land and the population.” The dynamics exposed in *Like a Flood* resonate in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. Since 1967, as [Amnesty International reports](https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/campaigns/2017/11/the-occupation-of-water/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), Israeli military authorities have monopolized their water resources and infrastructure, denying Palestinians equitable access to a vital commons. But Mbareh’s practice turns the body into an acoustic site of resistance. “The body sheds tears to belong back to the sea,” she whispers, reclaiming grief as a fluid, ancestral force. In her installation *What’s Left* (2023), presented in Al Manakh, revolutionary sound frequencies enter the listener’s body, bypassing narrative and language. Here, the body becomes an archive of survival, vibrating with intergenerational solidarity, memory, and defiance. These submerged stories rise again. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bint-Mbareh1.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3-2.jpg) Fig. 3/ 4 The epistemological subject of water as a way to radically rethink relationships between beings and forces in the world today, centering the fluid nature of life against the constrictive nature of border regimes and colonialism, was a major conceptual undercurrent of the biennial. Thinking about the circularity of water means recognizing its vital role in agricultural ecosystems and how its contamination disrupts natural cycles and the production of resources from the land. This revelatory interconnectedness is powerfully addressed in Yhonnie Scarce's *Orford Ness* (2022), and her new commission *Operation Buffalo* (2023), exhibited at the Kalba Ice Factory and Al Hamriyah Studios. In these works, over 2,000 hand-blown glass yam roots create haunting installations that mirror an acid rain whose fragile beauty belies the extractivist violence it represents. Scarce denounces the nuclear testing carried out by the British and Australian governments on Aboriginal land during the 1950s and 60s, revealing how such actions poisoned the soil and disrupted indigenous agricultural cultures. While visually striking, these installations nevertheless risk transforming ecological violence into consumable beauty for art tourists. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Yhonnie-Scarce.jpg) Fig. 5 A necessary encounter with the ghostly texture of everyday life in Sharjah came during a visit to the Old Al Jubail Vegetable Market, an empty 1980s souk, where disused fruit, vegetable, and flower stalls now serve as backdrops for artworks exploring harvesting and recycling practices. Some shops, still bearing traces of the merchants' presence—faded price lists, abandoned scales, and worn counters—offered a glimpse into Sharjah's port economy before modern supermarkets replaced these community hubs. At the heart of the market's long corridor, a scent of fermenting hay in the market's warm, humid penumbra permeated my nostrils. Anga Art Collective's *Storage of the Broken Times—ঋতু Ritu* (2023) unfolds generously in a circular structure made of hay and textiles. Blending an archive of agricultural practices from the Assam region with a convivial space for gathering, the installation reimagines the market as a spiritual site echoing the six-season cycle of northeastern India. It offers a sensory meditation on the shifting cultures and livelihoods of agrarian communities living in the shadow of climate change. The loss of an ecosystem, and with it, systems of exchange and production, marks a quiet surrender to the homogenizing force of disaster capitalism. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ANGA-ART-1.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ANGA-Art-v2.jpg) Fig. 6/7 The seasonality of trade, which entailed not only circulation of products and merchandise but also of ideas and cultural kinship, was beautifully framed during the *April Acts* panel discussion, "Coastal Remembrance and Oceanic Belonging," led by Seema Alavi, Bettina Ng'weno, and Engseng Ho, and moderated by George Jose. The panel outlined the relationships sustained across the Indian Ocean, where countless ports, like mouths in conversation, disseminated goods and languages, carried by the winds of the monsoons. Alavi's contribution, which illuminated key political moments in history when land and sea converged to foster spiritual and cultural resistance—what she described as "literature in transit"—a resistance that moves from places of exile to the intimate, domestic spaces shaped by the Indian Ocean. As contested by Engseng Ho, the ocean was not merely a space of positive connection, but also a liquid vehicle for imported colonial violence among the neighboring regions of South Asia. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Womanifesto.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Womanifesto-v2.jpg) Fig. 7/8 Chiming with Ho's critical analysis was *kappai kari/küli kari* (2023) by Sancintya Mohini Simpson’s three gouache scroll paintings hanging in soft waves, and bearing stories of lesser-known colonial labor routes, shown at the Sharjah Art Museum. Each scroll, measuring approximately three meters in length, depicts figures in vibrant colors against sepia backgrounds. The work traces the journey of indentured laborers, most of whom were women, from India under British rule to the sugar plantations of South Africa between 1860 and 1911\. It offers a narrative from the perspective of the enslaved, evoking the aquatic crossroads of the Indian Ocean and challenging dominant histories that center the transatlantic segment of a global trade in human bodies. Instead, it reveals a looping, often erased, circuit of displacement from South Asia to Africa. The piece is both a political gesture and a personal homage to Simpson's ancestors, indentured women whose histories resist forgetting. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Sancintya-Mohini-Simpson1.jpg) Fig. 9 A space of abundance, cosmological belief, and collective memory was offered by Womanifesto—a location-responsive, ever-evolving group of women artists primarily active in Thailand between 1997 and 2008\. Their practice focuses on assembly as a mode of thinking. It is space-making, rather than art-making, that drives their work. This spirit was palpable when I found relief from the heat within *WeMend* (2023–ongoing), a quilted, shelter-like structure installed in Calligraphy Square. Created by Nitaya Ueareeworkaul and Varsha Nair, two of Womanifesto's core organizers, alongside various women's communities from Thailand, India, and the UAE, the work invited us to pause from the press tour and contribute a stitch to the fabric. Sadly, I couldn't add my piece of fabric to the textile structure; entering the museum context, the piece was stripped of its processual, participatory nature. Still, the political power of gathering, of reappropriating narratives and memories together, was visibilized in the object. Invisibilized labour was an even more explicit theme in the work of The Voice of Domestic Workers, a UK-based education and advocacy group campaigning for the rights of Britain's 16,000 migrant domestic workers. For over a decade, they have collaborated with artists, filmmakers, and institutions to expose the realities of migrant women's labor, from sexual harassment and racial violence to economic exploitation. Their efforts were represented through archival materials, protest documentation, and personal testimonies at the Al Qasimiyah School and in a moving conversation with Amal Khalaf during the *April Acts* dialogue "The Voice of Domestic Workers: Labour, Visibility and Art for Social Movements," where it was made clear how artistic practices can actively contribute to disseminating human rights work. An important contribution, spoken from the embodied experience of those who seldom have access to international stages, provided a materialist critique of class and caste systems emerged during the conversation "Publishing as Part of Political Movements," featuring the Mexican collective RRD’s (Reproduction and Distribution Network) Bhumika Saraswati, and the Dalit artist-activist Siddhesh Gautam. Together, they explored how cultural militancy can platform marginalized voices. From the Dalit-run publication *All that Blue* to nomadic kiosks in Mexico City showcasing grassroots and neighborhood media, the speakers emphasized the importance of autonomous distribution networks. Gautam noted that the Dalit community has historically been denied access to the physical means of cultural production: printing, painting, and publishing. This material restriction, he argued, contributes directly to the erasure of Dalit history. Reclaiming these tools, beyond the limited utility of digital devices, becomes an act of narrative resistance, transforming the condition of untouchability into autonomous forms of expression. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/RRD1.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/RRD.jpg) Fig. 10/ 11 *To carry* tirelessly addresses colonial violence throughout the exhibition venues, giving audiences access to indigenous and revolutionary ways of reclaiming society, organizing, fighting, and spiritually reproducing joy beyond exploitation. The stories presented from the axes of the so-called “Global South,” particularly in relation to migrant work, represent a troubling paradox: migrant workers enabled our artistic conversations about exploitation while remaining outside these discussions themselves. The globalized art system sanitizes its friction with the surrounding environment by means of conversations like these. Despite these powerful voices, labor migration, the extraction economy threatening our ecological future, and the extractionist aesthetics fueling the art market remain aligned against them, perpetuated through the format of the Biennial itself. The separation of those who build art spaces, those represented within them, and those who access them reveals the fundamental contradiction of biennials: they speak about marginalized groups while primarily addressing an art world elite. Until these institutions confront their complicity in global capital flows and labor exploitation, they will remain performative gestures circulating within a closed system—speaking of exploited communities, but rarely to them, even more rarely through them. Beyond the Biennial's curated environments, I hope we carry forward a different reality where labor's shifts must be transformed—not merely to serve, but to stand together in empathy and shared struggle with the oppressed, creating connections that endure long after the exhibition ends. // --- ### Image credits Cover: Sancintya Mohini Simpson, kappal kari / kūli kari, 2025\. Commissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation. Installation view: Sharjah Biennial 16, Sharjah Art Museum, Sharjah. Image courtesy of Sharjah Art Foundation. Photo: Shafeek Nalakath Kareem Fig. 1-2:Adelita Husni-Bey, Like a Flood, 2025\. Commissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation and made possible thanks to the Italian Council programme (2024), with Alserkal Arts Foundation, Dubai, and Museum of Civilisations, Rome; with additional support from LOCALES. Installation view: Sharjah Biennial 16, Kalba Ice Factory, Sharjah, 2025\. Photo: Danko Stjepanovic Fig. 3-4: Bint Mbareh, What's Left?, 2025\. Commissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation. Installation view: Sharjah Biennial 16, Al Qasimiyah School, Sharjah, 2025\. Photo: Motaz Mawid Fig. 5: Yhonnie Scarce, Operation Buffalo, 2024\. Commissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation. Installation view: Sharjah Biennial 16, Al Hamriyah Studios, Sharjah, 2025\. Photo: Ivan Erofeev Fig. 6: Anga Art Collective, Adaara, 2024\. From আবতৰীয়া বতাহ (‘Aabotariya Botah’), 2024\. Comissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation. Installation view: Sharjah Biennial 16, Old Jubail Vegetable Market, Sharjah, 2025\. Image courtesy of Sharjah Art Foundation. Photo: Shanavas Jamuladdin. Fig. 7: Anga Art Collective, ঘূলি (Ghuli), 2024\. From আবতৰীয়া বতাহ (‘Aabotariya Botah’), 2024\. Comissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation. Installation view: Sharjah Biennial 16, Old Jubail Vegetable Market, Sharjah, 2025\. Image courtesy of Sharjah Art Foundation. Photo: Shanavas Jamuladdin. Fig. 8-9: Womanifesto - International Art Exchange, WeMend, 2023 – 2025\. Commissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation. In collaboration with Bangkok Art and Culture Centre (BACC), SEA Junction (South East Asia Junction), 15th AWID International Forum, Sunset.on.thebridge, Gazra Café, Shree Maharani Chimnabai Stree Udyogalaya, Komal Mistry’s home (Baroda, India), Tei Kobayashi’s home (Nogura Village, Japan), UP artists’ studios (Sydney, Australia), Master Kunst Hochschule (Luzern, Switzerland), Legler Areal (Glarus, Switzerland), Level Up Cowork and Creation Centre (Pueblo, USA), Herzfelde Community Garden (Herzfeld, Germany), The Ignorant Artschool andCooper Gallery at the University of Dundee, Lahore Biennale 03 and Al-Madam Community Center. Fig. 10: Sancintya Mohini Simpson, kappal kari / kūli kari, 2025\. Commissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation. Installation view: Sharjah Biennial 16, Sharjah Art Museum, Sharjah. Image courtesy of Sharjah Art Foundation. Photo: Shafeek Nalakath Kareem Fig. 10-11: RRD, Micromuseo, 2023\. Installation view: Sharjah Biennial 16, Al Qasimia School, 2025\. Photo: Ivan Erofeev *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Ubiquitous Resistances URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/ubiquitous-resistances/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:52.000Z *Spanning over twenty-five years of uncompromising artistic inquiry,* Pleas of Resistance *at MACBA, Barcelona, curated by María Berríos and Agustin Pérez Rubio, traces the trajectory of Carlos Motta’s practice, an oeuvre rooted in the body, sexual dissidence, and the politics of care. From early photographic self-portraits to recent performances and video installations, Motta interrogates the violence and silences of the archive, while challenging Eurocentric epistemologies and the enduring colonial legacy of religion. In this conversation with Arnold Braho, the artist reflects on the movements and medium that shaped his vision and his work.* **Arnold Braho: I'd like to begin with an epistemological question, which I believe is explored deeply in the large video installation *Nefandus* (2013) in the exhibition's first room. *Nefandus*—meaning “that which must not be spoken”—evokes censorship, symbolic violence, and prohibition. In the video, a canoe journey along the conquered Don Diego River reveals nature—water, earth—not as a passive backdrop, but as a living archive of silenced histories and colonial domination.** **The installation, made me think of Malcom Ferdinand’s *Decolonial Ecology: Thinking from the Caribbean World* (Polity Books), where he reflects on how territories carry the traces of colonization and resistance, and how they cannot be thought of as separate from historical violence, regardless of the continuous attempt of modernity to delink one from the other. This, coming back to epistemology, re-produces a fractured and fracturing knowledge.** ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSC0268.jpg) Fig. 1 **How does your work attempt to weave together nature, memory, and sexuality, resisting the separations imposed by colonial modernity?** **Carlos Motta:** That is a very thoughtful question, and it touches directly on many of the issues I sought to explore with this work. I wanted to think about the conquest and colonization not only as a problem of lands and territories—and, of course, people—but also as an imposition of knowledge(s). While the conquest of the Americas has often been studied through the lens of land dispossession and the displacement of Indigenous peoples, it is equally important to recognize that colonial domination also imposed and created entirely different ways of thinking. One aspect I wanted to consider was how gender and sexuality were forcibly (re)defined, replacing plural Indigenous understandings with rigid colonial frameworks. From today’s perspective, this might seem self-evident, but it is crucial to remember that the colonial project fundamentally reshaped the very ways people understood the body, desire, and the self. What remains, after the destruction of Indigenous cultures, is not just absences, but the ongoing presence of the project of subjugation. We still have objects that represent fragments of these erased worlds. For this exhibition, I also focused on the concept of the “homoerotic artifact”—objects that I saw in books, catalogs, and museum collections throughout my life, yet \[which\] were always presented in a disconnected manner, stripped of their contexts and narratives. Their presentation often relied on archaeological or anthropological constructs that, intentionally or not, imposed colonial viewpoints, reinforcing the very power structures that erased these histories in the first place. I wanted to propose a way of understanding history that starts from this recognition: we cannot think about Indigenous knowledges without first acknowledging that the ground we stand on was, and continues to be, fractured. We lack the context, language, and epistemological frameworks to fully understand these objects through Indigenous lenses, because these knowledges were erased. What we have instead are fragments—objects that, from today’s perspective, might seem to suggest scenes of homoeroticism, homosociality, or homosexuality. But these are inadequate categories, as we simply do not have the tools to grasp how pleasure, the body, and desire were conceived and performed by Indigenous pre-Hispanic groups. For me, the project, including the *Nefandus Trilogy* (2013) and *Towards a Homoerotic Historiography* (2013- 2014)—the two connected works in the first room of my exhibition at MACBA—is less about tracing the origins of homosexuality within Indigenous cultures and more about exposing the structures that have defined what knowledge is and how it has been imposed. In the three films, this takes the form of narrative structures, using voiceover and site-specific imagery to tell stories. In the physical installation, it manifests through museological strategies. The museum itself—the dark blue walls, the small windows, the use of glass and backlighting—becomes part of the work, highlighting how institutions, by their very architecture and presentational methods, construct certain knowledges as legitimate while obscuring others. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSC0333.jpg) Fig. 2 Regarding the landscape, the film proposes the idea that nature itself is complicit: nature has witnessed and allowed these atrocities to take place. Nature serves as the backdrop and the setting. In *Nefandus*, this idea is extended. The river becomes a vehicle that erases the traces of violence, washing away the physical evidence of what happened. The film seeks to go back and search for any remaining index of the past, recognizing that nature’s cyclical rhythms have a way of obscuring history and making it disappear over time. This line of thought also ties into the broader concept of nature, which has often been invoked as a pre-established moral order to justify certain gender and sexual norms. Of course, we now understand that sexuality and gender are not fixed biological facts but products of historical, cultural, and political constructions, shaped by medical, legal, and religious discourses and \[are\] imposed by institutions as forms of control and coloniality. **AB: At this point, I think it’s worth continuing with the concept of “nature”—as complex as it is useful—and which has long been used in modern colonial knowledge frameworks to justify and impose a pre-established moral order of gender and sexuality.** **In your work, you reclaim marginalized figures, reject institutionalized sexual categories, and question the normative frameworks that dictate what can be said, shown, or lived. I’m thinking, for instance, of the recurring image of the demon—incarnation of what modernity has labeled “perverse,” “deviant,” “unnamable”—which, in your work, returns as a figure of disobedience, of rewriting, of nonconforming desire.** **How does your work contribute to deconstructing the idea of sexuality as a “natural fact”? And what artistic tools allow you to bring to light desires, histories, and forms of life that have been erased from dominant narratives?** **CM:** In the context of the exhibition, the answer to your question unfolds in one of the curatorial chapters, *Deviant Bodies*. This dark room, containing three videos and several sculptures, explores the relationship between religion as a structuring force and the construction of identity categories with moral and legal repercussions. The project examines how the Catholic Church and its canonical literature have historically defined certain bodies as “different,” often transforming these distinctions into punishable categories. This process, deeply intertwined with the development of legal systems, has enabled the Church to establish moral norms and impose them through law. For instance, when the Church declares heterosexuality and biological reproduction as divinely mandated, any deviation from this standard, like a non-reproductive sex—becomes a transgression against both divine law and the moral order. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSC4383.jpg) Fig. 3 One key reference in this section is *Corpo Fechado—The Devil's Work* (2018). This work draws from a text by Saint Peter Damian, an 11th-century Italian priest known for his self-flagellation and extreme penitence. In his “Letter 31,” Damian articulated the identity category of the “sodomite” for the first time, defining sodomy as an anti-reproductive act, a sin against nature that warranted punishment. This was a critical moment because it established a linguistic and moral structure that the Church used to identify, condemn, and control non-reproductive sexual behaviors. Damian’s letter, sent to the Pope, effectively created a new category of deviance, providing the Church with a powerful framework to regulate sexuality. This act of naming was not merely descriptive but prescriptive, shaping centuries of moral and legal thought. The film *Corpo Fechado* also incorporates a colonial case from the archives in Lisbon, telling the story of José Francisco Pereira, a man sold into slavery in Brazil from West Africa. Pereira combined elements of West African spirituality with Catholic practices, creating a syncretic form of resistance. He crafted *bolsa de mandinga*—amulets to protect fellow enslaved people from harm. When the colonial authorities discovered these amulets, Pereira was arrested and tried as a sorcerer. During his trial, he confessed to being a sorcerer, claiming to have had sex with the devil in the body of a white man. This confession not only reinforced the racial and spiritual anxieties of the Inquisition, but also cast Pereira as both a sorcerer and a sodomite, merging moral and legal violations to justify his persecution. I found this case particularly striking because it demonstrates how these identity categories, created by institutions like the Church, have persisted through time and continue to shape our understanding of identity today. Figures like the “sodomite,” the “hermaphrodite,” or the “monstrous woman” in my work are not just historical artifacts, but embodiments of this long history of categorization and control. They reveal how religious, legal, and philosophical institutions have worked together to sustain these ideas of otherness. For example, Catholic imagery often relies on monstrous figures to represent hell or purgatory. These figures are frequently feminized, sexually ambiguous, or otherwise threatening to the established order. By presenting them in my work, I aim to expose the deep connections between the construction of identity and the maintenance of power. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSC3105.jpg) Fig. 4 **AB: I’d like to turn to the question of the archive, which has become central again in many artistic and political practices—especially in queer and decolonial contexts. No longer a neutral or institutional space, the archive becomes a counter-device, a form of collective and affective writing built through fracture, omission, relation, and pain.** **In *Legacy* (2019), this tension becomes explicit: you attempt to pronounce, without pause, all the known moments in the history of HIV and AIDS, wearing a dental device that prevents you from speaking clearly. Like the actions of the movement ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power), the archive becomes embodied, not external to the body.** **What memories are stored when the archive passes through the body?** **CM:** I appreciate the idea of approaching the archive in search of bodies, as one of the things I discovered when researching colonial history is how the archive itself acts as a device for creating and fixing historical categories. For example, the figures of José Francisco Pereira in *Corpo Fechado–The Devil's Work* and Martina Parra in *Deseos* (2015) come from real criminal cases found in colonial archives. Parra’s story is preserved in the National Archives of Colombia in Bogotá. What struck me is how the archive captures and contains lives, reducing complex, messy existences to fixed, simplified narratives. If someone like Martina Parra had evaded the archive, their story might have escaped the chains of history itself. But because her actions were documented and filed, her body is now an “object” of history, reduced to a fragment within institutional memory. In this sense, the archive is a powerful legitimizing institution. It turns lives into manageable pieces of data, reinforcing ideological structures. These documents, once stored in dusty cabinets and now often in digital files, are accessible only through bureaucratic processes, sometimes even requiring payment for access. This gives the archive a certain authoritative power. It becomes a place where “important” and “truthful” things reside, even as it flattens and simplifies the lives it captures. In the context of sexuality and gender, this is particularly significant. The archive has often been used to construct narratives of deviance, marginalization, and criminality. It might, for instance, label someone a “bad person” or criminalize them for defying religious or legal norms, challenging medical authorities, or breaking with social conventions. These fragments, when collected, create a simplified, linear version of a person's life, erasing the complexity of their existence. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSC3777.jpg) Fig. 5 However, I am also interested in the possibility of rethinking the role of the archive in the present, to challenge and rewrite these established narratives. In *Legacy*, for example, I engage with the mainstream narrative around the history of HIV/AIDS. HIV/AIDS is one of the most stigmatized diseases in modern history, often linked to the same marginalized figures I have been exploring—people who defy the norms of the Church, the legal system, or broader social conventions. This is reflected in the infamous "Four Hs" used in early medical discourses about AIDS: homosexuals, hemophiliacs, heroin users, and Haitians—categories that neatly encapsulate the intersection of fear, prejudice, and institutional control. For *Legacy*, I collaborated with Ted Kerr, a historian of HIV/AIDS and curator, to create a “counter-document” that pushes the timeline of the virus back to 1903, challenging the commonly accepted narrative that places its origins around 1981, with the so-called “Patient Zero.” In the video, I invited Ari Shapiro, a well-known NPR journalist, to read this revised timeline to me. I wore a dental gag, forcing my mouth open, and attempted to repeat what he said. This gesture became a metaphor for the difficulty of remembering, repeating, and embodying these complex histories. The physical discomfort, the pain, and the inevitable failure to accurately reproduce what I had just heard became a way of illustrating the inadequacy of historical memory. It highlights the gap between the official, authoritative voice of history and the lived, embodied experience of those it attempts to capture. In this way, the archive is both a site of control and a potential site of resistance—a place where bodies have been trapped, but also where new forms of memory and counter-history can emerge. **AB: Watching the video installation *We Who Feel Differently* (2012), I had the impression that the project functions as a device that holds together two fundamental forces: on one side, the archive — collecting sixty voices and decades of queer activism; on the other, a permanent assembly, where these voices don’t resolve into a unified community, but remain in tension, multiplying and contradicting one another.** **Similarly, in your work there is no given community—only a plurality of queer subjectivities building, through situated, unstable, and affective processes, a “we” that remains in flux.** **What form does this “we” take for you today? And how do you think about the relationship between archive and assembly, between memory and political activation?** **CM:** That’s a great question. The title *We Who Feel Differently* is both strategic and deeply significant. It speaks to the idea of collectivity, which is central to social movements but \[which is\] particularly complex within sexual and gender politics. The title is borrowed from a 1950s Norwegian writer who sought to articulate a sense of belonging among gay people at a time when such identities were heavily stigmatized. It captures the desire to form a collective identity without erasing the differences that make this “we” powerful and complex. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSC9985-3.jpg) Fig. 6 Social movements often form around a shared “we”—a collective identity that unites people with common goals. However, the LGBTQIA+2SS spectrum is far from homogeneous. It encompasses a wide range of identities, each with distinct experiences, needs, and histories. Even the acronym itself reflects this plurality, yet struggles to capture the full breadth of self-definitions. This tension is evident today, as some within the broader LGBTQIA+ community seek to distance themselves from trans struggles, revealing ongoing debates over who belongs to this collective “we” and on what terms. When I began this project around 2012-2013, I was interested in how sexual and gender politics have shifted, from the radical activism of the 70s and 80s to the more assimilationist movements of the 2000s. In the U.S. and Europe, the major political focus during this period was marriage equality, which marked a shift from earlier, more radical critiques of heteronormativity and patriarchy. This raised a critical question: What is lost when a movement for transformation becomes a struggle for assimilation? *We Who Feel Differently* aims to capture voices that argue for difference rather than mere “inclusion”—those who seek to create new forms of belonging, rather than simply to gain access to existing ones. As we’ve seen, rights won through decades of struggle are now being rolled back in many parts of the world, making it more critical than ever to resist pressures to assimilate and instead to embrace difference as a political force. In this sense, the title is both a statement of identity and a call to action—a reminder that our differences can be a source of strength, not a weakness to be erased. **AB: Thank you.** // --- ### Image credits Cover: Carlos Motta, *We Who Feel Differently*, 2012, 5-channel video installation, carpet, wooden structures. Fig. 1-6: Carlos Motta, *Pleas of resistance* (2025). Photography by Roberto Ruiz. *Arnold Braho is an independent curator and contributor for various specialized magazines including Flash Art, L'Essenziale Studio and Artribune. Braho is co-founder of the curatorial platform Sa.turn of the Provinciale11 collective. He has worked as assistant curator on international projects and has been invited by institutions such as the Center for Italian Modern Art (NYC), Istanbul Biennial, Villa Arson (Nice), FM Centro per l'Arte Contemporanea (Milan). He was assistant curator for Marco Scotini’s Disobedience Archive, which was invited as part of the 60th Venice Biennale.* ### Coincidentally, you are here URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/coincidentally-you-are-here/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:50.000Z Arriving at the Munich station, the local dialect settles around me like gentle fog—mostly because I don’t understand a word. As I make my way down the platform, I struggle to squeeze past an endless throng of soldiers, none of them older than 20\. My eyes are soon drawn to one towering backpack in particular. I’s already accumulated a number of bright badges. Alongside them, a velcro-ed on name tag simply reads “Kaltwasser.” I’m thinking this can’t quite be real, and, in a moment, I’m all but blinded. The sun suddenly breaks through the clouds to the sound of “Och, wie herrlich!” Here, though presumably not everywhere, life goes on. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Kunstverein_Muenchen_VO25_03.jpg) Fig.1 Barely have I arrived and the staff of the Kunstverein spirit me away for a tour of the newly opened exhibition. Titled *Romeo’s Eyes*, the two-person show builds on an ongoing dialogue—not necessarily a collaboration—between artists Simon Lässig and Vera Lutz. In the main hall, I’m greeted by blurry stills that Lässig has lifted from 1970s Hungarian “quasi-realist” films then reprinted on historical analog photographic paper. And, though that might sound rather cerebral, the objects themselves are surprisingly seductive. Obsolete chemicals hovering on the threshold of recognition—something about that I find particularly relatable. Meanwhile in a darkened room to the back of the building, Vera Lutz delivers a tour de force with *The Happiness Experiment* (2025). The immersive video installation is projected by eight camcorders with built-in projectors scattered along the walls. The images themselves are pretty banal: flash-lit nocturnal shots skimming an endless succession of objects, maybe from some kind of flea market, or the contents of a backpack emptied on the floor. They’re all there and gone too fast to tell. The real effect is cumulative. Sometimes a rapid panning shot seems almost to race around the room, sprinting from screen to screen. Other times, the images flicker in concert, like the ripples of raindrops on the surface of the mind. Meanwhile your own footsteps and shadows start to merge with those of the film, as the camera-projectors that recorded the original footage interpellate you into their world of object-images. Could there be a more casual retort to Dan Graham’s *Performer/Audience/Mirror* (1977)? It’s so fucking good I let out a little sigh. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/JJ_RemiAjani_Ansichten_04.jpg) Fig.2 Later on, we head over to Jahn und Jahn for a show of new paintings by Remi Ajani featuring strippers and floral still lifes. The implied connection between vanitas and sex work is a bit trying, though the images stay with me all the same. Perhaps because they’re so knowing. On one hand, she chooses subjects whose job is to be seen, but the act of looking at them immediately transplants the viewer into a moral minefield. On the other, Ajani’s is a style that flirts with so many established coordinates of painting—Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, Marlene Dumas, even a touch of Luc Tuymans—while still venturing out into a territory uncomfortably its own. Exhausted from having to give the same tour for what is surely the umpteenth time that day, the artist briskly recounts an anecdote about how she settled on the stripper motif. When she first started thinking about it, she tried to show her sketches to one of her tutors at art school, who refused to look at them at all. That’s when she knew she was on the right track. For her, the reaction to her pole dancers was emblematic of a society with unprecedented access to information, yet people seem allergic to engaging with anything they haven’t signed up for in advance. Outside, I half-jokingly suggest that Ajani’s upside-down women might also have something to do with Baselitz—at which point the handsome gallerist grows visibly unimpressed. I guess that’s enough small talk for now. Back to the chartered BMW. In the evening, I found myself at a talk on censorship in universities organized by the artists Tania Bruguera and Villa Stück. On one side, there’s Meron Mendel, director of the Anne Frank Educational Centre; on the other, Geraldine Rauch, president of the TU Berlin, who recently drew the ire of German journalists for liking a pro-ceasefire tweet that included an image of protestors carrying a caricature of Netanyahu with a small swastika on his chest. Unfortunately, Mendel could only join via Zoom, which was inevitably plagued by tech problems. So the onus automatically fell on Rauch to deliver a string of well-rehearsed penances, with Mendel weighing in or offering conflicting accounts. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Galerie_Rudiger_Schottle_VO25_01_0.jpg) Fig.3 Despite exchanging carefully worded criticisms, both speakers agreed that the most urgent task facing institutions right now is fighting to make sure that spaces for open dialogue remain available. Ultimately, it seemed the biggest threat to universities and students didn’t come from colleagues with odious opinions, or even rowdy campus protests, but from opportunistic politicians and their allies in the press. The audience Q&A was surprisingly anodyne, cordial, even warm. There was a sense that people didn’t care too much about the details of the discussion, but were just grateful for even being allowed to discuss it all. Make of that what you will. The next day I decided to head out on my own. One must-see event was undeniably the group show *Breaking the walls, Dino appears* curated by artist Leiko Ikemura at Galerie Rüdiger Schöttle. Though the curatorial premise was pretty much just “art about buildings,” the selection and quality of works easily felt like an institutional show. In addition to Ikemura’s own psychologically charged sculptures, another highlight was a photograph by Chen Wei, which I mistook for a work by Thomas Demand until I noticed how a single shadow disrupted the entire image. And, again, another Dan Graham apparition, this time the model for an unrealized work: *Two-Way Mirror Bridge and Triangular Pavilion to Existing Mill House for Domaine de Kerguéhennec* (1987). Atop a white cardboard landscape, Graham’s corporate glass and steel enclosures almost seem beamed in from outer space, a far cry from the ideal of site-specificity so painstakingly sought. The otherworldly vibe continued in another two-person show, this time by Thomas Feuerstein and Mona Schulzek at nouveaux deuxdeux. According to the press text, the title SYZYGY refers to the alignment of celestial bodies, though presumably it also recalls the CCRU’s techno-shamanist experiments of the 1990s. Feuerstein’s cycle of drawings from his Metabolica series are engaging for the way they meld the aesthetics of indie comics, scientific diagrams, and sci-fi book covers. Meanwhile, Schulzek’s totemic sculptures, for example, *Organic Matter (pill millipedes)* (2025) seem like relics of some attempt to construct animal-machine chimeras. Yet, for all their sci-fi inflection, the material choices of both artists’ works seem invested in a vision of the future that’s undoubtedly bygone. It’s easier to imagine them in the interior of a recently renovated plattenbau than the bridge of the Rocinante. Around 7pm, we start filing into the Festsaal of the Bayrischer Hof—an epic hotel beloved by both Adolf Hitler and Michael Jackson, though only one of the two is commemorated with a literal shrine outside. As the evening progresses, countless guests remark that the interior reminds them of the Titanic. Over dinner, I and a fellow writer limit ourselves to marveling at the excellent organization—shoutout to Lucrezia Levi Crespo in particular—as a local gallerist proudly lays out facts about how consistently the event has grown. He’d be happy to dole out more if it could make the weekend have an even bigger reach. At the end of the day, all his sales were to collectors he already knew. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-05-24-at-15.27.58.png) Fig.4 Downstairs, the crowds waiting in long queues for their risotto grow visibly agitated. Here and there, audible hostilities erupt. From my perch on the first-floor balcony, the well-dressed spectacle below resembles nothing so much as people jostling at aid trucks. Eventually, the staff intervenes to inform us in no uncertain terms that the free drinks are over, I repeat, the free drinks are *over*. Time to disembark and appreciate some art. The extravaganza programmed under the title *Too Soon to Say—The Unconference* is overwhelming to say the least. Scattered throughout the hotel’s countless rooms, there isn’t just the standard program of panels, presentations, and talks; there are also performances, concerts, screenings, installations, most taking place at the same time. One might find special glasses by Lea Vajda, or a guided workout by *The Chicks on Speed Experience*, all while a green-face Olga Hohmann exorcizes the ghosts of the Munich Security Conference. There’s even a textile-dyeing workshop by Philip Huang, not to mention a karaoke bar by Sam and Hilary Lui, at which the event’s charismatic director, Christian Ganzenberg, personally welcomes guests and solicits donations in exchange for signature cocktails. I struggle to sit still for long. The crowds make it impossible to see much of the presentations, and the scheduled events already have queues twenty minutes before they even start. Instead, I let myself be carried along by the surge of intoxicated small talk flowing everywhere and nowhere all at once. There is one place I keep returning to throughout the night, though: suite 725\. Here, Alex Hunter’s site-specific AI film *Close Enough* (2025) is presented on two floors, and it’s the work that sticks with me the most. Onscreen, I follow an attractive cast of characters through a succession of hotel rooms—some of them, I swear I’d been in just moments before. Illuminated by glaring lights, every shot has the feel of a party photo. The cast lounges shirtless in the jacuzzi, reclines glamorously on the bed, and dances with strippers, this time male. The more obvious AI effects only underscore a sense of the glib fakeness that was always already there. A similarly artificial voiceover serves up advertising slop that strikes a delicate balance between existential and banal: “You don’t belong here/but coincidentally you are here/so you just go/with the flow.” Needless to say, I feel seen. Back in real life, one of the more memorable figures from the video—who turns out to be Hunter’s partner—is making sure that the guests have no shortage of refreshments, all consistently served up with an ironic grin. Suddenly, I feel an acute sense of vertigo, as though I’m trapped in a hall of mirrors or a mise en abyme. I sink into the soft sofa, thank god it’s there. As the disorientation settles, I realize there’s also something cathartic in having the ridiculousness of your contradictions fed back to you in the guise of someone else. // --- ### Images: Cover: Alex Hunter, *Close Enough,* 2025, (still); Fig.1: Simon Lässig, *In a room of 497 × 239 cm, each wall measuring 250 cm in height, a window of 146 × 134 cm on the left wall, a door of 111 × 200 cm on the wall facing me. Being without motion, I look at the other, measure myself against every movement they make, for I see what they see and see it as they see it: without colour, as angles and distances*, 2024\. Courtesy the artist, FELIX GAUDLITZ, Vienna, and LC Queisser, Tbilisi; Fig.2: Remi Ajani, *Still Life*, Jahn und Jahn, Munich 2025 © the artist, courtesy Jahn und Jahn, München/Lisboa; Fig.3: Leiko Ikemura, *Haus-Frau*, 1991, Edition 3/5, VG Bild-Kunst Bonn 2025; Fig.4: Mona Schulzek, *Extraterrestrial stone (27°57.5’N 21°41.0’E)*, 2024\. Courtesy, nouveaux deuxdeux. *Stanton Taylor is an artist and writer based in Berlin.* ### La acumulación no es solo una categoría económica: es una violencia con historia URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/la-acumulacion-no-es-solo-una-categoria-economica-es-una-violencia-con-historia/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:49.000Z El museo de hoy — topologica- y culturalmente — tiene la obligación de producir una lectura crítica de las lógicas que estructuran el deseo, el valor y la conservación en el arte contemporáneo. Para esto, el Migros Museum no sólo reúne obras, sino que interroga las condiciones materiales, simbólicas y políticas que hacen posible su existencia, circulación y permanencia. El primero de dos capítulos curatoriales llamados “Accumulation” no sólo organiza una narración lineal, sino una serie de fricciones sobre la relación entre poder, memoria y forma. Una regla no mide solo una distancia: impone un régimen. *The Ruling* (2025) de Sung Tieu materializa esta afirmación con una escultura mínima y contundente. Dos reglas grabadas con unidades distintas de medida —una de ellas el "xích", borrado por el sistema métrico francés— evocan la imposición colonial del orden métrico en Indochina, una acción aparentemente técnica con consecuencias profundas en la vida de campesinxs vietnamitas. Tieu revela cómo la normalización es un dispositivo de dominación, un vector de expropiación y violencia simbólica. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Sung-Tieu_10.jpg) Fig 1. Pero donde la medida falla, emerge la memoria. Reto Pulfer activa una anti-logística del textil: sus estructuras habitables hechas de ropa usada, cortinas, sábanas teñidas y bordadas no representan, sino que encarnan. Erinnerungshaus Demenzraum y Muster operan como refugios de historias materiales, imposibles de estandarizar. Cada fragmento lleva las marcas de cuerpos, cuidados y olvidos. Pulfer subvierte la lógica capitalista del “plano” y propone una arquitectura del recuerdo que no busca la permanencia sino la vibración. ¿Y si el fracaso económico pudiera ser una estrategia estética? En *Win-Win For Life* (Edición 3) (2025), el dúo Stirnimann-Stojanovic convierte el azar en política. Convirtieron el presupuesto de su tesis en 3269 billetes de lotería raspables —no ganaron el premio mayor, pero transformaron las pérdidas en arte. Acompañada por una partitura narrativa y mosaicos de vidrio de Murano, la obra ironiza sobre el sistema del arte como promesa especulativa. Ganadora del Premio Kiefer Hablitzel | Göhner, la pieza evidencia cómo incluso el gesto más precario puede reconfigurar el valor de uso y de cambio. Los mapas también mienten. En *Et Hoc Quod Nos Nescimus* (2018), Cian Dayrit desarma la cartografía como instrumento imperial. Su bordado —realizado en colaboración con comunidades indígenas filipinas— invierte los polos geográficos, ubicando el Sur global en la parte superior. Pero no se trata solo de una inversión visual: es una reorganización del mundo desde abajo, desde los cuerpos racializados, despojados y resistentes. Sus geografías invertidas funcionan como contra-archivos que denuncian, desde el hilo, el cinismo del colonialismo tardío. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/TheCurrencySensing1Agbogbloshie_FilmStill-2_XizhuangVGBildkunst2023.jpg) Fig. 2 El infierno digital tiene coordenadas. *The Currency – Sensing 1 Agbogbloshie* (2023), del trío Musquiqui Chihying, Gregor Kaspar y Elom 20ce, capta la brutalidad de uno de los mayores vertederos electrónicos del planeta, en Ghana. Lejos del espectáculo del desastre, el video fragmenta el paisaje en elementos: aire, tierra, agua, "pluma". La devastación industrial es transfigurada en experiencia sensorial, donde incluso un peine o una pluma resisten como signos de agencia. A través de sonidos electromagnéticos, la obra reintroduce sensibilidad donde hay toxicidad, y poesía donde hay desecho. Ni la ruina ni la obra terminada. Las esculturas de Jumana Manna, *Theory of an Unfinished Building* (2021), utilizan telas de protección industrial —con polvo y grafitis— como superficies de enunciación. Allí donde el capital ve infraestructura, Manna ve memoria del trabajo precarizado, marcas de la espera. Los andamios no sostienen un edificio sino una pregunta: ¿qué formas aún no han sido determinadas? Manna insiste en el intersticio: ese espacio donde la propiedad aún no se ha consolidado, donde la forma aún puede desviarse. En su película *Wild Relatives*, Manna lleva esta tensión más allá: narra la reubicación de un banco de semillas desde Siria a Líbano, en plena guerra. El archivo genético mundial en Svalbard aparece como emblema del poder colonial verde. Bajo la apariencia del humanitarismo, se consolida una nueva soberanía sobre la biodiversidad. La semilla —símbolo de la vida— se convierte en moneda geopolítica. El filme traza una constelación entre desarraigo, monocultivo y control, denunciando la colonización de lo vivo. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-05-19-at-12.53.47.png) Fig. 3 El oro no es neutro. En *Motherboards* (2023), Selma Selman extrae oro de placas madre mediante un proceso no tóxico, heredado de una práctica familiar. Pero esta vez, la acción se da en escena: la artista performa el gesto, trasladando la economía informal al museo. Así como en Golden Spoon, donde convierte la cuchara dorada en signo de movilidad social, Selman subvierte los símbolos del capital, rescatando saberes marginalizados y dotándolos de prestigio. Un clavo dorado se vuelve insignia de dignidad. ¿Quién sostiene el arte cuando se borra el pedestal? Rachel Harrison responde con sátira feroz en *Trees for the Forest* (2007). Reúne pedestales abandonados del museo, los pinta y adorna con objetos encontrados. El resultado es un "bosque" donde los soportes, vacíos y desplazados, se vuelven protagonistas. Harrison ridiculiza las jerarquías institucionales y propone un anti-museo dentro del museo: uno que celebre lo banal, lo inservible, lo excesivo. Su gesto impugna el fetiche de la colección como orden cerrado. En lugar de respuestas, Accumulation propone una gramática de interrupciones. Cada obra es una disputa: por el valor, por la memoria, por la posibilidad de otra circulación del arte y del mundo. Lo que une a estas prácticas no es una estética común, sino una inteligencia radical: la de desnaturalizar los regímenes que miden, clasifican y valorizan nuestras vidas. Frente a la lógica expansiva del capital, estas obras despliegan saberes de contención, desplazamiento y reciclaje. Más que una colección, lo que aquí se organiza es una crítica encarnada al orden vigente. // --- ### Images: Cover: Jumana Manna, *Wild Relatives*, 2018 (still). Copyrights and courtesy of the artist and Hollybush Gardens, London Fig. 1: Sung Tieu, *The Ruling*, 2025\. Courtesy of the artist Fig. 2: Musquiqui Chihying, Gregor Kasper, Elom 20ce, *The Currency – Sensing 1 Agblogboshie*, 2023\. © xizhuang, VG Bildkunst Fig. 3: Jumana Manna, *Wild Relatives*, 2018 (still). Copyrights and courtesy of the artist and Hollybush Gardens, London *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Spektrale Heimsuchungen im Museum URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/jayanthan-sriram-akkumulation/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:47.000Z In Anlehnung an theoretischer Praxen der Dekolonisierung fragt Jayanthan Sriram nach der Möglichkeit eines musealen Ortes, der dem Erbe der Sklaverei gerecht wird. Sein Text folgt den spektralen Spuren dieser Geschichte – und den Rissen, die sie im westlichen Ausstellungsraum hinterlässt. **1\. Das Anti-Museum** In weniger als drei Seiten entwirft der politische Philosoph Achille Mbembe in seinem wegweisenden Werk *Necropolitics* die Figur des Anti-Museums. Er beschreibt dieses als eine Antwort auf die Tatsache, dass die Einbindung des transatlantischen Sklavenhandels ins Museum „unerwünscht“ sei – und dort, wo sie stattfindet, meist ohne Aussagekraft bleibt (1). Im Einklang mit den meisten Afro-dekolonialen Ansätzen versteht Mbembe den atlantischen Sklavenkomplex – weit mehr als bloß einen Handel – als konstitutiv für den modernen Kapitalismus. Im europäischen Westen, wo die Geschichtsschreibung die Linie vom Mittelalter zur Aufklärung gerne als Zivilisierungsprozess inszeniert, wird Sklaverei häufig auf Plantagenbilder aus Amerika oder vermeintliche Irrtümer „anderswo“ reduziert – Fehler von Männern, die fern jener standen, die als Träger humanistischer Ideale das „Sapere aude!“ in die Welt trugen. Dabei ist nicht zu übersehen: Der moderne Kapitalismus ist untrennbar verbunden mit Zucker, Tabak und Baumwolle – scheinbar harmlose, gar genüssliche Güter, ermöglicht durch den Dreieckshandel. Dieser Handel beruhte auf der vollständigen ökonomischen, körperlichen und geistigen Verwertung versklavter Schwarzer Menschen (2). Die Versklavung bedeutete eine gewaltsame Entfernung vom afrikanischen Kontinent, gefolgt von Misshandlungen, Vergewaltigungen und der totalen Unterordnung in allen gesellschaftlichen Strukturen – als Voraussetzung sowohl für die Kapitalakkumulation wie für die intellektuelle Selbstvergewisserung des Westens (3). In diesem Kontext erscheint der Sklave als ein „Zahnrad in einem planetarischen Prozess der Akkumulation“. Würde diese Figur ins Museum eintreten, so Mbembe, müsste das Museum selbst aufhören zu existieren – und sich in etwas radikal Anderes verwandeln. Denn das Museum, so seine These, war historisch nie ein „vorbehaltloser Ort der Rezeption der Menschlichkeit in ihrer Vielfalt“ (4), sondern vielmehr ein Ort, an dem die Verletzung des Anderen – des nicht-westlichen, marginalisierten Subjekts oder Objekts – durch die Klassifizierung und Ausstellung seiner Körper und Kulturen reproduziert wird. Zwei Logiken bestimmen dabei das museale Verhältnis zum Anderen: Trennung und Zuweisung. Sie schaffen Hierarchien von Menschsein, Zivilisation und gesellschaftlicher Zugehörigkeit (5). Im Fall des Sklaven wird durch die museale Zur-Schau-Stellung „der Geist der Apartheid doppelt geheiligt“, der sich auf einen „Kult der Differenz, der Hierarchie und der Ungleichheit“ stützt (6). Die Darstellung des Sklavenhandels bleibt so unfähig, über die Logik der Trennung hinauszugelangen – sie reproduziert sie vielmehr. Diese Unfähigkeit liegt in der musealen Praxis selbst begründet, die Objekte ihrer „Atemkraft“(7) beraubt, sie neutralisiert und domestiziert, sie zu lebloser Materie macht (8). Doch die Sklaverei trägt eine „Macht des Skandalösen“ in sich – eine Kraft, die der Neutralisierung entzogen bleiben muss, damit der Sklave als Figur aufrührerische Macht behält: das Potenzial, zu schockieren, zu verstören und damit eine Systemveränderung zu initiieren. Um diese transformative Dimension der Geschichte und ihrer Nachwirkungen zu bewahren, muss die Institution des Anti-Museums etabliert werden (9). Für Mbembe ist das Anti-Museum keine Institution im klassischen Sinne, sondern die Figur eines anderen Ortes – ein Raum „radikaler Gastlichkeit“ (10). Diese Gastlichkeit – verstanden als Zuflucht – gilt den „Ausgestoßenen der Menschheit“, den Zeugen des Opfersystems der Moderne (11). Sie kann nur entstehen, wenn der Sklave das Museum heimsucht: in einerspektrale Dimension, „überall und nirgendwo“ zugleich ist, in einem Akt des Einbrechens und Eindringens (12). Über die Poetik von Mbembes Konzept des Anti-Museums hinaus, die notwendig ist, um mit dem „abscheulichen Ereignis des Sklavenhandels“ umzugehen und uns davor zu bewahren, „einfache Schlussfolgerungen“ aus der Darstellung der Sklaverei zu ziehen, interessiere ich mich für genau diese Vorstellung des Spektralen. Sie ermöglicht eine Transformation des Museums bis zu seiner Auflösung. Das Museum, das unter der materiellen Logik der Akkumulation und der Darstellung von Kulturen und Artefakten etabliert wurde, benötigt eine spektrale Heimsuchung, um seine Existenz und Praxis zu begleiten. Diese Spektralität kann vielfältig sein, und dieser Essay wird drei miteinander verbundene Wege verfolgen: (1) das Ringen mit der Schattenseite der übermäßigen und ideologischen Akkumulation, während das Museum über das Archiv hinaus denken muss, unter destruktiven Logiken der Differenzierung und des Konsums; durch (2) ein tiefes Verständnis der Rassifizierung in den Projekten der Moderne und Museologie; und (3) das Vorschlagen einer sensorischen Praxis, die durch neuen Materialismus und Atmosphären gestaltet wird, um eine Art des „Einbrechens und Eindringens“ und eine aisthetische Beziehung mit der Welt voranzutreiben (13). **2\. Nekrokapitalismus** Karl Marx griff die uralte Vorstellung auf, dass Geld nie rein sein könne, als er schrieb, das Kapital sei von „Kopf bis Fuß“ mit Blut befleckt und tropfe aus allen Poren vor „Blut und Schmutz“ (14). Subhabrata Banerjee aktualisiert diese Einsicht in seiner Analyse des zeitgenössischen Wirtschaftssystems, das er als Nekrokapitalismus beschreibt – ein System, dessen Grundstruktur auf „Akkumulation durch Enteignung“ und die „Erzeugung von Todeswelten“ in kolonialen Kontexten beruht (15). Der Begriff aktualisiert Cedric Robinsons Konzept eines rassistischen Kapitalismus: Kapitalismus differenziert systematisch entlang rassifizierter Linien, um die Ausbeutung über eine dialektische Konstruktion von Differenz zu ermöglichen (16). Diese Prozesse – Enteignung, Trennung, Ausbeutung – werden durch Staaten oder transnationale Konzerne vollzogen, etwa durch die Privatisierung von Land oder den Entzug der Kontrolle über natürliche Ressourcen, insbesondere von indigenen Bevölkerungen. Es entsteht ein Kapitalozän, das sich auf Tod, Folter, Selbstmord, Sklaverei und die Zerstörung von Lebensgrundlagen stützt (17). Solche Beschreibungen mögen Assoziationen an historische Filme wachrufen: koloniale Gewalt in Tropenanzügen, Elfenbeinjäger mit Gewehren, die auf Menschen mit Stöcken und Steinen zielen. Doch der heutige Imperialismus tarnt sich – er operiert durch private Militärfirmen ebenso wie durch Anwaltskanzleien und “human resources” Personalabteilungen. Alle verwalten Gewalt – jede auf ihre Weise (18). Mit dem Präfix necro verschiebt sich der Blick von der bloßen Enteignung hin zu einer Dimension, die über den Tod hinausreicht. Anders als Thanatos, das den Tod als Abschluss begreift, verweist Necros auf einen Zustand, in dem das Leben selbst unlebbar geworden ist (19). Leben wird zur Form des Todes, wenn Gegenwart unerträglich wird und die Grenze zwischen Leben und Tod verschwimmt (20). Norman Ajari erweitert ein normatives Verstaendnis von rassistischer Entmenschlichung im Nationalsozialismus durch den atlantischen Sklavenhandel:, indem er die rassistische Entmenschlichung im Nationalsozialismus dem atlantischen Sklavenhandel : Während ersterer auf Auslöschung zielte, bestand das „necro“-Moment der Versklavung in der systematischen Entwürdigung von Leben (21). Die Einführung des Todes als Lebensform verschiebt damit auch Foucaults Begriff der Biopolitik: Nicht das Leben wird reguliert, sondern die Sterblichkeit. So wie die Moderne vorgibt, Austausch zwischen rationalen Subjekten zum Wohle aller zu ermöglichen, suggeriert der Markt eine universelle Teilhabe. Doch die Realität der Akkumulation operiert über die Instrumentalisierung und Degradierung von Körpern (22). Eine Spaltung zieht sich durch die Struktur: Das Sterben einiger sichert das Leben anderer (23). Souveränität erscheint als Macht, über den Wert des Lebens zu entscheiden – und über Ausnahmen zur Regel (24). Sowohl der Humanismus als auch der Kapitalismus haben diese Macht verinnerlicht. Beide sind fähig, „Todeswelten“ zu erzeugen – Zustände permanenten Sterbens für jene, deren Körper von der Norm abweichen (25). Auch wenn sich die Kritik häufig auf koloniale Konstellationen konzentriert, wirken deren Werkzeuge fort: Enteignung, Diskriminierung und die Konstruktion rassifizierter Ausnahmen als Grundlage staatlicher Ordnung (26). Die Kobaltminen im Kongo sind ein drastisches Beispiel (27). Doch auch die Lebensrealität migrantischer Arbeitskräfte in Niedriglohnsektoren zeugt von einer Spaltung in Lebens- und Todesweisen: eine endlose Serie von Rückschlägen, Einschränkungen, Gewaltakten, die rassifizierte Existenzen nekrotisieren und den Glauben an die Welt untergraben (28) – ein Zustand, den Achille Mbembe als „Planetarisierung der Apartheid“ beschreibt, in dem Grenzen zur zentralen Technologie demokratischer Ordnung werden. Banerjee spricht vom „Schwert des Handels“, das die rohe Gewalt früherer Kolonialmächte ersetzt hat (29). Es verwaltet globale Gewalt, während es ein „geschäftsfreundliches Klima“ (30) simuliert. Doch die Logik bleibt dieselbe: *(1)* Raumeroberung, *(2)* Umformung des Denkens, *(3)* Eingliederung lokaler Ökonomien in westliche Schemata. Das Museum – scheinbar neutrale Institution des Humanismus und der kulturellen Bildung – bleibt tief in diese Logik verstrickt. Es profitiert von „Raumdominanz” und kognitiver Umformung, selbst wenn es heute versucht, sich kritisch zu reflektieren (31). Mbembe spricht von Neutralisierung und Domestizierung, die auch in musealen Praktiken wirksam bleiben: in der disziplinierenden Macht, den Wert und die Darstellungsweisen von Objekten zu bestimmen (32). Diese Macht entscheidet, ob ein Artefakt als Hochkunst gewürdigt oder als anthropologische Kuriosität klassifiziert wird. Dies umfasst ihren Status als Hochkunst oder ihre Verbannung in anthropologische Systeme als Teil „fremder” oder „alter” Kulturen. Wenn man die heutigen Bewusstseinsmodi einbezieht, beispielsweise in Versuchen, die Rückgabe kolonialer Artefakte zu ermöglichen oder die Durchführung von Ritualen mit zuvor gestohlenen Gütern zu erlauben, um ihren „Atem” lebendig zu halten (33), ist das Museum nicht mehr der hochgesinnte Tempel des Diebstahls und der strikten Neutralisierung. Dennoch können seine Praktiken und die Ansammlung von Kunst nicht der historischen Interdependenz von Kolonisation und der Schaffung europäischer Souveränität entkommen. Die Beschäftigung mit dem Museum und seinen kuratorischen Praktiken führt unvermeidlich zu Zuständen der Ausnahme, die binäre Strukturen reproduzieren. Beispielsweise geschieht der kunsthistorische Diskurs über Renaissancegemälde unter den Vorzeichen einer Fortschrittslinie, afrikanischen Artefakten jedoch gelten als eingefrorene Objekte zeitloser oder eher unterentwickelter Völker. Auch wenn Formen des Todes auf den ersten Blick fern des Museums erscheinen mögen, schafft jede westliche Institution einen epistemologischen Raum, der direkt von kolonialen Kontrollmodi profitiert. Das Museum ist kein neutraler Ort – es ist ein Knotenpunkt im Gewebe nekrokapitalistischer Gewalt (34). **3\. Eintritt ins Museum** Wenn ich – geboren als PoC (Person of Color) Cis-Mann in Deutschland, Sohn tamilischer Kriegsflüchtlinge und gebildet in allen Belangen von Kultur, Kunst und Gesellschaft – ein Museum in Deutschland betrete, ereignen sich zwei Dinge gleichzeitig. Ich bemerke die wachsamen Augen der Saalaufsichten oder des kuratorischen Personals. Während ich den Raum durchstreife – sind sie bereit, meine undisziplinierte Haut zu disziplinieren. Sie strahlt die Gefahr aus, ein Objekt zu berühren oder sich in diesen ehrwürdigen Hallen falsch zu verhalten. Wenn diese Saalaufsichten selbst PoCs sind oder wenn das Wartungspersonal (ebenfalls normalerweise PoC) mich bemerkt, gibt es ein Gefühl von Überraschung, Erleichterung und Vertrautheit. Nicht selten wird ein Nicken ausgetauscht, das meine Anwesenheit als „Praktizierender der Hochkultur” anerkennt, gemischt mit der Freude, dass einige von uns „Verdammten” nicht reinigen oder endlose Stunden stehen müssen, um in diese Erde zu durchwandern. Auch wenn die Verbindung zwischen Nekrokapitalismus und der Logik der Akkumulation zunächst fern erscheint von der Vorstellung eines Anti-Museums oder einer spektralen Heimsuchung, so wirkt die Anekdote meines Eintritts doch als erste Erfahrung einer quälenden Spektralität. Nekrokapitalismus operiert durch die Schaffung getrennter Sphären. Ebenso etabliert das Museum einen Raum politischer und intellektueller Souveränität – und eine Gegensphäre, in der Formen der Herrschaft, Ausbeutung und Gewalt wirken. Diese erscheinen als spektrale Dimensionen, welche das Museum – wie Achille Mbembe argumentiert – unfähig machen, die Realität der Sklaverei zu beherbergen (35). Während der transatlantische Sklavenkomplex womöglich nie vollständig ins Museum eintreten kann – und eine solche Konfrontation die Institution in ihren Grundfesten erschüttern würde – überschreiten migrantische Körper und Körper von PoCs diese Räume als „imperiale Ausnahmen“ inmitten der geordneten Reinheit eines (necro-)konsumistischen Systems (36). In vielen Fällen umhüllt diese paradoxe Beziehung den eigenen rassifizierten Körper, wenn er im Museum präsent ist – in einer Beziehung von (a) Beklemmung, nicht in den Raum zu gehören aufgrund von "Rasse-’”, Klassen- und Geschlechtsunterschieden, die von den normativen Kulturkonsumenten’ und im schlimmsten Fall vom kuratorischen Personal selbst reflektiert werden. Und (b) eine Beziehung, die durch das erschütternde Wissen über koloniale und nekrokapitalistische Realitäten aufgebaut wird, wenn man anthropologische, ethnographische Ausstellungen oder solche, die sich im grossen Stil mit Umweltzerstörung befassen, erlebt – in Kenntnis der Realitäten rassifizierter Körper, die Systeme der Akkumulation in der kolonialen Vergangenheit und der globalisierten Gegenwart durch die Ausbeutung von Leben, Land und Arbeit aufrechterhalten. Dies könnte eine Verschiebung in der Vorstellung des Anti-Museums markieren – und dem Wert von Spektralität als kritischem Instrument. Ich argumentiere, dass das Anti-Museum als räumliche Figur durchaus wünschenswert ist. Doch für die Zwecke dieses Essays – und angesichts dessen, dass Museen weiterhin unter Prämissen der Neutralisierung und Domestizierung operieren – liegt die entscheidende Verschiebung nicht in der Ausstellung selbst (dem Was), sondern in der Erfahrung davon (dem Wie). Eine Kritik der Moderne und des Kapitalismus muss sich nicht nur mit deren Kodifizierungen von “Rasse”, Klasse und Geschlecht befassen, sondern auch mit den verkörperten Realitäten, die daraus hervorgehen. Im Hinblick auf Rassifizierung als eine Form des Othering, der Unterwerfung und Abgrenzung, ist es zentral, Rasse als „körperliche Wahrnehmung und viszerales Gefühl“ zu untersuchen. Sie offenbart und problematisiert, „wie soziale Normen, Werte und Machtverhältnisse in gelebter Verkörperung habituell und materialisiert werden (37).“ Für Sachi Sekimoto und Christopher Brown ist “Rasse” „materiell fühlbar und greifbar erfahrbar“, ähnlich einer spektralen Dimension, die „beweist, dass Rasse präzise und strategisch eingesetzt (oder verschleiert) wird, um die Werte zu institutionalisieren, die in die verschiedenen Schattierungen menschlicher Körper eingeschrieben sind.“ Rasse ist nirgends – und überall. Nah und fern. Sichtbar und unsichtbar zugleich (38). Im vorigen Beispiel bedeutet die rassistische Realität nicht nur ein „es könnte dir passieren” für PoCs beim Erleben kolonialer Artefakte, sondern zeigt, wie race „minutiöse Verhaltensweisen und Bemerkungen” im Raum des Museums beeinflusst, wie es auch in der Öffentlichkeit der Fall ist (39). In diesem Sinne erfüllt Rasse die Luft und unser Erleben, während Weisssein als „Schutz” vor der „Toxizität des Rassismus” fungiert (40). In nekropolitischen Begriffen impliziert diese Spektralität des Begriffs der Rasse, dass weissen Körpern erlaubt wird, „vollständig moralische Akteur\*innen” und „neuroökonomische Menschen” zu sein, die die Hallen verschiedener Institutionen als rein okulare Wesen durchschreiten dürfen (41). Dieser Okularzentrismus, besonders in der historischen Entstehung des Museums als visueller Raum intellektueller Erfahrung, verstärkt die Trennung von Geist und Körper und schafft Weisssein als Formatvorlage, Wissen und Wahrheit durch einen neutralen und wissenschaftlichen Blick zu erleben. Im Gegensatz dazu erscheint Kolonisation als Werkzeug, das darauf abzielt, den Anderen zu „dezerebralisieren”, indem er ihm seine Umgebung entfremdet und einen „systematischen Bruch mit der Realität” vollzieht (42). Mit weitreichenden Implikationen über das Museum hinaus erscheint diese Dezerebralisierung als Mechanismus, wie die Moderne die Sinne kolonisiert, um Transzendenz als Ware zu evozieren, die die Vorstellung einer „durchsichtigen Welt” frei von Geschichten der Gewalt oder Rassifizierung verstärkt (43). Die Präsenz des Anderen in diesen durchsichtigen Räumen schafft für Mbembe eine „radikale Unsicherheit”, die die ausbeuterischen Systeme offenlegt, die den Vorstellungen von Freiheit und Konsum zugrunde liegen (44). In der Unterscheidung zwischen dem Verständnis von Rasse als „Konstrukt” oder „Struktur der Unterdrückung”, die selbst körperlos ist, und Rasse als ein Gefüge „sinnlicher Realitäten mit Textur, Bewegung, Rhythmus, Temperatur und Gewicht” (45), wird die radikale Unsicherheit, welche die normative Kultur verfolgt, zu einem mächtigen Werkzeug des Wissens und Handelns. Mit Rasse als körperlichem und sinnlichem Ereignis – als „etwas, das passiert, statt etwas, das ist”– werden die „Verflechtungen” von Subjekten, Empfindungen, Diskursen sowie Institutionen offenbart (46). Zurück zum Eintritt ins Museum: Die erschütternde Erfahrung der Rasse darin, das sinnliche Beziehungen als soziale Beziehungen der Vergangenheit und Gegenwart reflektiert (47), offenbart Rassisierung als eine Technologie der Moderne und ausbeuterische Akkumulation, die „reguliert, wie Körper sich bewegen, fühlen, wahrnehmen, denken und miteinander interagieren, um bestimmte soziale Ergebnisse zu erzielen (48).” Dabei erscheint sensorisches Weisssein als Norm, welche die Verleugnung anderer sensorischer Beziehungen zur Welt ermöglicht – etwa im Bedürfnis, „es auszustellen, um es greifbar zu machen”– und verwandelt im Gegenzug Rassen- oder Klassendifferenzen in „physiologische Wahrnehmungen”, um soziale Hierarchien durchzusetzen (49). Bei dieser Untersuchung des „Erlebens von Rassisierung” durch „rassifizierte Sinne” tritt Rasse sowohl im Museum als auch darüber hinaus als eine gespenstische und „hegemoniale Präsenz” in Erscheinung (50). Dies bedeutet nicht, dass Rasse ein Faktum ist, das in biologischen Unterschieden verwurzelt ist, wie es verschiedene Geschichten der Gewalt nahegelegt haben, sondern vielmehr, dass „Rasse sozial existiert”. Der Versuch, rassistische Konstrukte abzubauen, beginnt damit, „die Art und Weise zu transformieren, wie wir unsere Körper und Sinne bewohnen und zueinander ausdehnen”, insbesondere innerhalb einer Institution, die als epistemischer Raum für kulturelle Begegnungen dienen sollen. (51) Sekimoto und Brown kritisieren die historische Auffassung von Rasse als Text, die oft eine okulare und intellektualisierte Perspektive auf körperliche Realitäten widerspiegelt. Sie hinterfragen Stuart Halls einflussreiche Idee, Kultur und Rasse „als Text” zu lesen, welche die Kulturwissenschaften revolutionierte, aber auch das Risiko birgt, strukturalistische Stereotype der abtrennenden Betrachtung und des Lesens als primären Zugang zu Wissen zu perpetuieren, der Fernsicht und Lesen als primäre Verständnismodi priorisiert (52). Dieser Ansatz unterdrückt die unmittelbare sinnliche Erfahrung und Materialität von Körpern, die Rasse erleben, oder tut sie gänzlich ab. Sekimoto und Brown begegnen dem, indem sie Rasse als multisensorisch anerkennen und einen multimodalen Ansatz befürworten. Diese Multimodalität als „epistemologische Orientierung” überschreitet das Textuelle und Visuelle und umfasst Verkörperung, Verortung und die Dynamiken gefühlter Dimensionen und sozialer Interaktion (53). Diese Perspektive bietet eine Möglichkeit, auf die Spektralität von Erfahrungen in all ihren grauenhaften Ausweitungen zu reagieren, während wir uns die Geschichte der Ausbeutung und den nekropolitischen Aspekten zeitgenössischer Systeme stellen. Wichtig ist, dass dieser Ansatz über Emotionen oder das sprachliche Verständnis von „mehr als Worte” hinausgeht und „unbenannte und unverständliche Räume” umfasst, die unser Sein in der Welt und unsere Beziehungen zueinander transformieren. **4\. Unsere Sinne Heimsuchen** Welche Schlussfolgerung lässt sich aus dieser vielschichtigen Analyse des Anti-Museums, des Nekrokapitalismus und der erfahrbaren Dimension von Rasse ziehen – all jener Phänomene also, die die Institution heimsuchen, deren Fundament auf Geschichten von Gewalt und durch kapitalistische Akkumulation erzwungener Tragödien beruht? Eine mögliche Antwort liegt in der Entwicklung einer multimodalen, insbesondere multisensorischen Museumspraxis. Das Kuratieren jenseits der bloßen Visualität, das Einbeziehen weiterer Sinne und verkörperter Praktiken, kann das Museum aus seiner vermeintlichen Neutralität und dem „zeitlosen Betrachtungsraum” herauslösen und es in eine politische wie ethische Erfahrung transformieren – ein Ort, der uns in Richtung sozialer Gerechtigkeit drängt (54). Gleichwohl birgt diese Öffnung Gefahren. Die Sinne könnten instrumentalisiert werden, um Erfahrungen von Rassisierung oder anderen Formen der Diskriminierung zu ästhetisieren und zu verschleiern – ein Museum als „sensorischer Spielplatz” im Sinne einer Erlebnisökonomie, das seine Besucher\*innen als bloße Konsument\*innen adressiert (55). Was die Forscherin der Sensory Studies Constance Classen als das „Nähren einer multisensorischen Ästhetik” bezeichnet, verweist hingegen auf ein Museum als „sensorisches Forum” – ein Ort geteilter Präsenz und vielschichtiger Erfahrung. Dieser Wechsel wirkt auf die Besucher\*innen zurück und führt zu einem „epistemologischen Metroidvania”: einem Erkenntnisprozess, in dem Wissen nur durch ein tastendes, sich verzweigendes Bewegen durch komplexe Realitäten gewonnen werden kann. Ich argumentiere, dass diese Transformation zur sozialpolitischen Relevanz des Museums trotz – und gerade wegen – der Geschichten von Gewalt und der Kolonisierung der Sinne sowohl auf der Ebene der Produktion als auch der Rezeption verankert sein muss. Institutionen sollten sich darum bemühen, sensorische Hierarchien zu vermeiden, wenn sie einen multisensorischen und multimodalen Zugang zum Museum fördern. So kann etwa die Inszenierung von Erfahrungen wie den Schützengräben des Ersten Weltkriegs durch Geräusche und Gerüche die Gewalt der Geschichte sinnlich nachvollziehbar machen – oder aber eine Spektakularisierung derselben erzeugen (56). Auch dürfen die Sinne nicht als „niedere Formen“ der Erkenntnis angesehen werden, wenn sie auf Menschen bezogen werden, denen man die Fähigkeit zum intellektuellen Verstehen abspricht. Der Gedanke, dass Riechen oder Berühren den kulturellen Wert einer Ausstellung mindert, offenbart ein klassistisches, oft ableistisches Vorurteil. Classen hebt die politische Dimension des „sensorischen Zugangs“ zum Museum hervor – ganz zu schweigen davon, ob die Körper der Anderen überhaupt Einlass in diese Räume finden (57). Ich behaupte, dass die Anerkennung der Sinne im Museum sowie die Präsenz spektraler Heimsuchungen wie der Rassisierung das Konzept von Atmosphäre im Sinne des Philosophen Gernot Böhme erweitert. Für Böhme ist sinnliche Wahrnehmung immer auch mit „affektiver Betroffenheit“ verbunden – eine Erfahrung, in dem wir durch unseren Körper in Beziehung zur Welt treten und mit anderen Menschen und in Resonanz geraten (58). Dies führt uns näher an das Verständnis jener Trennung zwischen dem Tatsächlichen (Wirklichkeit) und dem Realen (Realität), da sie nicht nur unsere Wahrnehmung prägt, sondern unsere scheinbar objektive Welt transformiert. Im Kontext des Museums und der nekrokapitalistischen Kräfte ermöglicht diese Perspektive ein Erkennen der ideologischen Schwerkraft, mit der die Welt gestaltet wird – jener diskriminierenden Praktiken, die für manche spürbar, für andere jedoch unsichtbar bleiben. Atmosphären – als sensorische „Ko-Präsenz von Subjekt und Objekt“ – ermöglichen es, aristotelische (und damit kapitalistische) Konzepte von Wert und Substanz zu dekonstruieren. Sie öffnen eine ethisch-spektrale Dimension, die in die von kapitalistischen Regimen konstituierte Ontologie und Epistemologie hinein wirkt. Wahrnehmen wird damit zur aistethischen Auseinandersetzung mit der materiellen Welt in all ihrer sozialen Vielschichtigkeit – und trägt einen ethischen Impuls in sich: die Realität von „Spuren auf Körpern“, von „Neutralisierungen“ und „Domestizierungen“ anzuerkennen, die unsere Kulturen zugleich tragen und hemmen (59). Wie bei der Erfahrung von Rasse destabilisiert dieser Prozess zunächst das Subjekt in seiner Beziehung zur Welt – etwa in der Angst oder dem Entsetzen, die rassistische Geschichte kapitalistischer Akkumulation und ihre Wirkung auf Institutionen zu begreifen. Doch wie Achille Mbembe in seiner „Nekropolitik“ darlegt, liegt in der Konfrontation mit dem Schreckhaften auch die Möglichkeit einer „radikalen Gastlichkeit” und einer „Beziehung der Fürsorge”. Wenn wir uns der Zukunft des Museums zuwenden, angesichts der Spektralitäten, die uns heimsuchen und auf fortdauernde Gewaltgeschichten verweisen, kann diese Fürsorge als weitere spektrale Dimension verstanden werden, die durch ephemere Atmosphären und ihr multimodales Potenzial zum Tragen kommt (60). Die Erfahrung der Spektralität von Institutionen und der verkörperten Realität der Anderen wird so zu einer Beziehung des Selbst zum Anderen – eine wechselseitige Anerkennung, die bei Verletzlichkeit beginnt und in Verantwortlichkeit mündet. Diese Offenlegung führt zu dem, was Mbembe als „zukünftiges Denken“ bezeichnet: eine multisensorische, multimodale Kritik der „nokturnalen Risse“, die unser Leben strukturieren – eine Kritik, die sich um Passage, Überquerung, Bewegung dreht, um „fließendes Leben, das wir als Ereignis zu übersetzen versuchen” – und letztlich zur Fähigkeit führt, Räume für kollektive Entscheidungsfindung zu schaffen (61). Das Anti-Museum ist in jenem „Trauern um das Verlorene“ verwurzelt, das Mbembe beschreibt – und vermag dadurch den institutionellen Kern über seine ursprüngliche Konzeption hinaus zu transformieren (62). Dies ist ein notwendiger Schritt, um jene Machtstrukturen zu verändern, die diesen Verlust überhaupt erst hervorgebracht haben. Indem wir das „Teilhaben am Sinnlichen“ praktizieren und die Anderen samt ihrer spektralen Heimsuchungen ins Museum lassen, engagieren wir uns in einer Praxis, die sich darum bemüht, „die Welt wieder bewohnbar zu machen – und zwar für alle (63).“ // *Dieses Essay entstand als Teil der Ausstellung* Accumulation – über Ansammeln, Wachstum und Überfluss *im Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst in Zürich und vertieft den Diskurs und erweitert die inhaltliche Auseinandersetzung mit dem Thema.* --- ### Notes Footnotes: (1) Mbembe 2019, 171 (2) Warren 2018, 6 (3) Mbembe 2019, 170. (4) Mbembe 2019, 171. (5) Mbembe 2019, 171. (6) Mbembe 2019, 171. (7) Mbembe 2019, 172. (8) Mbembe 2019, 171. (9\] Mbembe 2019, 172. (10)Mbembe 2019, 172. (11) Mbembe 2019, 172. (12) Mbembe 2019, 172. (13) Sriram 2025. (14) Marx, 1867, 926 quoted in Banerjee 2008, 12. (15) Banerjee 2008, 15. (16) Robinson 2021, 26. (17) Krenak 2024, 18;20. (18) Banerjee 2008, 15. (19) Ajari 2023, 58 (20) Ajari 2023, 59 (21) Ajari 2023, 13-14. (22) Mbembe 2019, 68. (23) Banerjee 2008, 14 (Quoting Montag 2005, 15). (24) Banerjee 2009, 9. (25) Mbembe 2019, 163. (26) Mbembe 2019, 162. (27) https://www.npr.org/sections/goatsandsoda/2023/02/01/1152893248/red-cobalt-congo-drc-mining-siddharth-kara (28) Ajari 2023, 13-14. (29) Banerjee 2008, 4. (30) Banerjee 2008, 18. (31) Franklin 2020,5. (32) Banerjee 2088, 7. (33) Classen 2017, 141. (34) Banerjee 2008, 10. (35) Banerjee 2008, 12. (36) Banerjee 2008, 33. (37) Sekimoto and Brown 2023, 2. (38) Sekimoto and Brown 2023, 200. (39) Sekimoto and Brown 2023, 200. (40) Sekimoto and Brown 2023, 200. (41) Mbembe 2019, 67; 183. (42) Mbembe 2019, 146. (43) Mbembe 2019, 113-114. (44) Mbembe 2019, 102. (45) / (46) Sekimoto and Brown 2020, 3. (47) Sekimoto and Brown 2020, 5. (48) Sekimoto and Brown 2020, 21. (49) Sekimoto and Brown, 30. (50) Sekimoto and Brown, 43. (51) Sekimoto and Brown 2020, 43. (52) Sekimoto and Brown 2023, 203. (53) Sekimoto and Brown 2023, 203. (54) Classen 2017, 141. (55) Classen 2017, 135; 141. (56) Classen 2017, 139, [https://www.iwm.org.uk/events/first-world-war-galleries ](https://www.iwm.org.uk/events/first-world-war-galleries?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)(57) Classen 2017, 140. (58) Boehme 2014, 47-8. (59) Barad 2007, 178; 185. (60) Mbembe 2019, 175. (61) Mbembe 2019, 181; 188. (62) Mbembe 2019, 161. (63) Mbembe 2019, 161. Bibliography: Ajari, Norman: Dignity or Death: Ethics and Politics of Race. Cambridge: Polity, 2023. Barad, Karen: Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning. Durham: Duke University Press, 2007. Banerjee, Subhabrata Bobby: “Necrocapitalism.” Organization Studies 29, no. 12 (2008): 1541–1563\. [https://doi.org/10.1177/0170840607096386](https://doi.org/10.1177/0170840607096386?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Böhme, Gernot: Atmosphären. Essays zur neuen Ästhetik. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2014 \[1995\]. Classen, Constance: The Museum of the Senses: Experiencing Art and Collections. London: Bloomsbury, 2017. Franklin, Adrian: Anti-Museum. London: Routledge, 2020. Krenak, Ailton: Ancestral Futures. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2024. Mbembe, Achille: Necropolitics. Durham: Duke University Press, 2019. Robinson, Cedric J.: Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2021. Sekimoto, Sachi, and Christopher Brown: “Race and Multimodality: An Introduction to the Special Issue.” Multimodality & Society 3, no. 3 (2023): 199–209\. [https://doi.org/10.1177/26349795231194806](https://doi.org/10.1177/26349795231194806?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Sekimoto, Sachi, and Christopher Brown: Race and the Senses: The Felt Politics of Racial Embodiment. London: Routledge, 2020. Sriram, Jayanthan: “Aesthetics as Aisthetics: Transforming the Original Conception of Aesthetics as Sensory Episteme to Sensory Perception as Relation of Action, Knowing and Being.” In: William Tullett and Andrew Kettler (eds.): The Routledge History of the Senses. London: Routledge, 2025 (forthcoming). Warren, Calvin L.: Ontological Terror: Blackness, Nihilism, and Emancipation. Durham: Duke University Press, 2018. Images: Cover: Elom 20ce, Musquiqui Chihying, Gregor Kasper, *The Currency, Sensing 1 Agbogbloshie*, 2023, © xizhuang, VG Bildkunst *Jayanthan Sriram ist Doktorand an der Concordia University, Montreal Kanada und Redakteur beim Sonnendeck Magazin Stuttgart. Als Mitglied des Centre for Sensory Studies, Vertreter der Olfactory Studies und Sohn tamilischer Kriegsflüchtlinge arbeitet Jayanthan an der Intersektion der Sinne und nekropolitischer Strukturen und entwirft eine Aisthetik des Ephemeren.* ### Letters from Vendors URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/letters-from-vendors-rico/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:44.000Z Liebe Leser\*innen, Gerade hatte ich einen Verhaltensrückfall – aus dem ich gerade wieder auftauche. Einfach zu viel – verflixtes Polytoxikomanie! Erstes unerwartetes Geschenk: Mittelgroße Tasche aus der Schweiz oder aus Bayern: außen Lederstreifen mit einem Edelweiß-Print, innen das typische bayerische Weiß-Blau. Nur ein Reißverschluss oben. Darin befindlich: - Ketamin für 2 Personen × 2 Sitzungen - 2 eingerauchte, jedoch noch fast volle Glaspfeifen (schätzungsweise ½ MDMA ,½ Crystal Meth) - Eine Flasche Poppers „Extra Strong High Rise“, noch fast ⅔ voll - Ein Fläschchen „G“ (GBC oder GHB) mit Pipette und darauf eine Skala (ml) - Eine noch fast volle Dose Chlorethyl (wird in Krankenhäusern als Vereisungsspray genutzt) Manche von uns *Hirnwindungsreisenden* wissen, dass es das Beste zum „Schnüffeln“ ist. Außerdem kann man hiermit sog. „Freie Base“ kochen (verfeinertes und verstärktes Crack – Vorsicht! – sogar Fixpunkt (der Verein) rät davon ab). Naja. Zweites unerwartetes Geschenk: Ein großer, noch verschlossener Beutel Sportlernahrung (Proteine, Vitamine, Mineralstoffe). „Vanilla“ die Geschmacksrichtung, Nutri-Score A. Cover: eine Blume (Kopf) mit Frauenkörper, die Unterarme gekreuzt, in jeder Hand eine Waffe (so wie ’ne Magnum), doch aus den Mündungen kommen Blumen. In gewisser Weise war das zweite unerwartete Geschenk schon im ersten enthalten. Raten Sie mal, mit was nämlich ein Teil der Substanzen gestreckt war? Genau – nämlich mit diesem Zeug! **Und wie ich das herausgefunden habe?** Ich hatte die Tasche zwei Tage lang in Ruhe gelassen. Ich hatte Besseres zu tun – ich wartete nämlich auf ein Date. Außerdem übte ich zu dieser Zeit auch, nicht mehr so impulsiv zu sein. Ich wartete und wartete … und wartete. Doch sie kam nicht. Meine anfängliche Wut verdrängte ich sofort und versuchte auf dem Weg nach Hause, wieder innere Leere \[1\] zu empfinden. Vor mir lagen zwei Tage, die ich für sie freigeschaufelt hatte. Meine Erwartung eines sozialen Highs hatte mir eine Falle gestellt. Die Enttäuschung, die ich verdrängte, äußerte sich als nichts anderes als eben doch ein Impuls – die Falle schnappte zu, und ich öffnete den Reißverschluss der Tasche. So fing ich an, die Substanzen zu testen. Erst mal abschmecken und Lupe. Das weiße Pulver war kristallin, und der Geschmack – klar! Dies ist Ketamin – definitiv! Ketamin stellt eine Besonderheit dar – chemisch sowie in der Wirkungsweise \[2\]. Ich wollte gerne etwas davon teilen. Also habe ich mit meiner besten Freundin eine bescheidene Linie „K“ nasal konsumiert. Sie hat sich sehr gefreut: „Ah, wow! Anders als alles, was ich vorher kannte. Schön und aufregend.“ Doch ca. drei Minuten später war sie so entspannt, dass sie eingeschlafen war. Jedoch war ich nicht müde. Ich freute mich, dass das Special K nicht gepanscht war. Das hatte die\*der Vorbesitzer\*in heilig und rein gehalten. So richtig schlimm wurde es erst danach. Wieder zurück bei mir – ohne meine Freundin – hat mich die Gier übermannt (verflixte alte Muster). Es gab zwei Gefäße mit beigem Pulver. Der Inhalt wanderte in meinen Organismus (nasal). Wie heimtückisch. Erst als ich es genommen hatte, merkte ich: Es war nur ein ganz kleines bisschen Heroin und ziemlich viel Speed sowie auch Crystal Meth – und die oben erwähnte Sportlernahrung. Ich denke, es wird „Resteverwertung“ gewesen sein, aber meiner Meinung nach nicht verkaufbar, wenn man sich noch in den Spiegel schauen möchte. Mein Martyrium begann … (tbc.) Euer Rico *Eine Version dieses Texts mit weiteren Fußnoten finden Sie hier:* [*QR Code einfügen*]([file%5Flink,id=15293]) *//* --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Die innere Leere des Zen-Buddhismus \[2\] Es ist zugleich ein Narkotikum, aber auch ein Psychedelikum (das Bewusstsein erweiternd und die Wahrnehmung verfremdend). Ungefähr so: Man ist körperlich voll betäubt. Dafür öffnet das „K“ Kanäle nach innen oder sogar nach außen (innen – Telepathie, außen – „Out-of-Body“-Erfahrung). Man kann auch Sex haben auf Ketamin, doch das erfordert Einiges an Übung. Image Caption: Cover: Rico's writing toolkit. *Rico Zyrrano ist Autor und Verkäufer unserer Straßenzeitung.* ### Olympic update: homeless in Los Angeles URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/olympic-update-homelessness-in-los-angeles/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:43.000Z This script, written and performed for the first time in 1984, narrates the Olympic games of that year as experienced by the homeless people of downtown Los Angeles. It is about the impact of the games on the street people of "the homeless capital of America": Los Angeles, the city with the largest homeless population in the U.S. (35.000-50,000). In the performance Malpede plays two homeless men. MoTo and his friend, who have been asked by the Olympic organizers and the city of Los Angeles, to travel America and report on the Olympics ("They gave us one way bus tickets."). It also Includes taped transcripts of testimony by homeless people before the L.A. County Board of Supervisors. All of the stories in the piece are true, or might as well be. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SLIDEBoxM01_05_pres.jpg) Fig. 1 *MoTo appears over the hill looking stately, dignified, wearing a sportscoat, slacks, and tie. From a distance his clothing looks clean, but, up close, it’s filthy. He's carrying a megaphone and a large ghetto-blaster wrapped in foil and a clear plastic garbage bag. He goes up the ramp to the giant megaphone. He puts down the megaphone and the blaster on the platform and begins to talk through the giant megaphone. His style is oratorical, as if addressing a political convention. He begins by reading from Walt Whitman's "Song of the Open Road," which he alters as he reads.* Alight and foot-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path beating me wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good fortune, I myself am no good. Henceforth I whimper no more, no mas, no more, need nothing. Done with indoor, outdoor, side door, and rear door complaints, complaints, complaints, Strong and content I grovel the open road. All seem beautiful to me. I can repeat over and over to men and to women, you have done such good to me that I would do the same for you. I will cut myself for you as I go, I will scatter myself among men and women as I go. I will toss a new gas and roughness among them. Whoever denies me, it shall not butcher me. Whoever accepts me, he or she shall be blistered and shall blister me. *MoTo unwraps the ghetto-blaster, picks it up and turns it on. It plays the "Olympic Fanfare," (made famous by ABC) and then "The Star Spangled Banner." While the national anthem is playing, he wraps up the blaster and descends the ramp with it and the small (i.e., normal-sized) megaphone. At the foot of the ramp the performer becomes MoTo's friend who hurriedly moves toward the audience. His hurried manner suggests a concern with the pacing of the entire presentation. At the end of "The Star Spangled Banner" he turns off the tape and begins to talk to the audience in a low-key, conversational, though presentational, manner.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SLIDEBoxM01_07_pres.jpg) Fig. 2 Friend: MoTo and I, we just came from Los Angeles. And, on behalf of AND THE HOMELESS CAPITAL OF AMERICA the City of Los Angeles, home of the '84 Olympics, MoTo and I have been asked by the L.A.C.O.O., (The Los Angeles Committee for the Organizing of Olympics), to travel this land during the Olympics and tell the people of our land with this Olympic Update Report. And they asked us to do this. And they paid for us to do this. They gave us bus tickets to travel to America and come here. They gave us one way bus tickets. They paid for them. And this is called Greyhound therapy. We were in Los Angeles for the Olympics. What the Olympics were like, the Olympics were like the movie *Blue Thunder*. *Blue Thunder* was in Los Angeles. And, just like in the movie, there were super helicopters, like Blue Thunder, from the L.A.P.D. Skywatch, watching down from the sky. There were Olympic helicopters everywhere. All over the city. The skinny ones, not the puffy helicopters that are round like balls, but the long ones like *Blue Thunder*, that look like giant grasshoppers and can see through walls. They can point right at you, and they know how cold or hot you are. And they can find you and shoot you down just because you're warm, thinking the wrong thoughts. (And you thought there weren't any more of them because in *Blue Thunder* Roy Scheider shot them down with an old-fashioned bubble helicopter, and got the tape to the T.V. station that showed how they were going to look through walls and go into your mind and read it even when you were sleeping). But now there are Olympic Helicopters, and they fly over the city and sit on the sides of skyscrapers – like the 17-year locusts, when the 17-year locusts came and covered all the trees in Ohio. And, now, the Olympic helicopters, they sit on the sides of the buildings reading thoughts and looking for terrorists. And the L.A.P.D., they come down into the Skid Row Park at 6th and Gladys, across the street from the Hospitality Kitchen and the Regal Hotel, and they make everyone lie down on the ground with their hands behind their heads. And they talk through their walkie-talkies to the Olympic Helicopters. And the Olympic Helicopters read the minds of the people lying on the ground, and they signal the L.A.P.D. and the L.A.P.D. take them away, away. They take them away and they put them in jail so that we can have the Olympics. If you're a terrorist you can pretend you're not by thinking cool thoughts all day long. But when you fall asleep, the terrorist thoughts will come back into your mind and the Olympic Helicopters (no matter where you are) will feel the heat and find you. And now that all the terrorists have been plucked up and carried off to jail by the Olympic Helicopters you can get a bed at the Weingard Shelter or the MIDNIGHT Mission. And before the Olympics you hardly ever could and you'd have to sleep outside in a box. Box, box, box all around the MIDNIGHT Mission on Los Angeles Str. Box, box, box around the corner on 4th Street. Box, box, box back into the alley in your box. And that's OK. It's good, because if you're sleeping there with everyone in boxes, you're not going to get in any trouble. Like the old lady who slept all alone in the goofy car she decorated with balls in the vacant lot over on 6th Street. She got cut up. All over the USA everyone wants to talk to MoTo. In Los Angeles they want to talk to MoTo. Here in New York they want to talk to MoTo. All over, at City Hall, the bankers at the World Financial Center, they all want to talk to MoTo. They ask him to talk to microphones, in huge rooms with marble on the walls. We go downtown. People talk. We wait for MoTo's turn to talk. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SLIDEBoxM01_08_pres.jpg) Fig. 3 *Friend finishes talking and punches in a tape excerpt of L.A. County Supervisor Ed Edelman's July '84 Hearings on the Homeless.* Chuck Tan: Good morning, sir. Chuck Tan is my name. I came to L.A. September 22nd of '83\. I became ill after arriving by bus. What money I had I used for food, rooms, and whatever I had for clothing. I went to the D.P.S.S. to ask them for help and was turned down for not having identification. They would not help me. They sent me to the missions. I told them I was ill. At the time I was on crutches. When you're in them missions you have to go up two to three flights of steps. They gave me eight dollar checks for rooms. But, after I cashed the checks I didn't have enough for the rooms. Therefore I was back out on the street. I come close to losin' my foot for that simple reason. The give you eight dollar checks for a room. It costs you anywhere farce a dollar-and-a-quarter to two dollars to cash it. Where are you going to get a room for five dollars? Supervisor Edelman: You mean the hotel doesn't take the check itself? You have to cash the check? I don't understand. *Moto's friend turns off the tape and resumes talking.* Friend: Sometimes MoTo doesn't talk for days. I talked to him three times before he even said his name. Now when he gets like that sometimes I play a trick on him. Then he gets mad and talks. Like when we go on missions. MoTo'd never never gone to the missions before I'd been with him. He'd always sleep out, in dumpsters, under bridges, or the roof of the toilets in Skid Row Park. He liked to sleep on the roof because he didn't think he'd get in any trouble there. And he'd always hide his things so that if he got beat up while he was sleeping they wouldn't get his things. And now, before we go to the mission, he hides all his things outside before we go. MoTo says to me, "Don't ever give them knives, spoons or anything, because what they give back to you it's not the same. Because it may look the same and feel the same and be just as heavy, and in all ways like it. But, it’s not the same. It’s not the same thing you gave them. And you got to remember that, and you got to hang on to that. And, no matter what happens, you got to remember that. And don't get fooled by what you see and feel and hear or you'll end up being their fool. And your things will end up gone. So now, when MoTo, he’s not talking for days, I'll want to trick him and I'll do something like I'll go right up in front of him in the line, and I give them my fork, and I give them my knife with the broken plastic handle, and I give them whatever I have, and they write it down, and they put it in a box, a metal box, and they give me a number and a piece of paper that they put it down on. And, when MoTo sees this, he shakes his head and he gets so angry. And he pushes me in the ribs and he talks. "What's the matter with you? Why don't you listen to MoTo when I tell you something for your own good? You let them make a fool of you and now your things are gone!" I get MoTo angry and he talks! And he doesn't know that that's why I do it. *Friend hurries back to the platform (he is aware of and concerned about the timing of the presentation). He ascends platform (as Moto) and begins to talk.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SLIDEBoxM01_10_pres.jpg) Fig. 4 MoTo (speaking thru giant Megaphone): The banks. The Banks. What about the banks? What about the banks? What about the banks? And what about the investments? The investments. Oh yes, the investments. They put them on. They don them. They wear them. Where them? Where? In the mirror. In the mirror. And they look so warm standing there, wearing their investments. They don't have to stuff paper under their clothing. Oh no. Why? Why? Where? Because they're wearing their investments. They're already made of paper. Commercial paper, federal paper, state paper, municipal paper. How to keep warm? I'm telling you: That's how to keep warm! I quote and I quote: "With what fortitude we bear the misfortunes of others." I quote and I quote: "With what fortitude we bear the misfortunes of others." I bear the fortitude of others. I bear with fortitude for others. Out from the dark confinement! Out from behind the screen! It is useless to protest. I know all and expose it. Behold through you, as bad as the rest. Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping of people. Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those washed and trimmed faces: Behold a secret silent loathing and despair. No husband, no wife, no friend trusted to hear the confession. Another self, a duplicate of everyone, skulking and hiding it goes. Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom, everywhere. Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright. Death under the breast bones. Hell under the skull bones. Death under the breast bones, hell under the skull bones. Hell under the death bones. Skull in the soup. *MoTo finishes, pauses, comes down a ramp. At the base of the ramp, performer again becomes MoTo's friend hurriedly (again, with a self-conscious regard for the pacing of the presentation) comes toward the audience to talk with them.* Friend: MoTo used to be a banker. He's banked all over the world. MoTo killed his wife. He was banking in Buenos Aires. He came home to Michigan and his wife was not there. He knew where she was. She was with another man. He drove to the man's house. He found her there with her shoes off. The man said, "You have a lot of problems in your marriage." "You're number 1, you asshole!" MoTo screams. He wanted to burn the man's house down. His wife dragged him out of there. She was afraid he was going to hit the man. Outside, MoTo called her a whore. He hit her in the nose and then he pushed her in the car, screaming and driving crazy, scaring her to death. "You cunt! You whore!” he screamed. He threatened her with his driving. He threatened her with his words. He almost rammed a bridge on the freeway. Then as they raced up a hill a huge tire loose off a semi-trailer truck came rolling down the hill on the other side of the road. It hooked and jumped the guard-rail. MoTo swerved to get away from it. It hit the car on the left front fender. The car lifted-up and it jack-knifed. It floated back across the guard-rail to the other side of the highway and came to rest on its side. His wife's side. In the hospital the doctor told him that his wife was dead. His family came to the hospital and they told him that it was his fault. His wife's family came and they told him that it was his fault. It was his fault because he worked all the time. It was his fault because he never took a vacation. And it was his fault because when he was home all he ever did was scream, scream, scream. When MoTo got out of the hospital, he never went home. And he never went back to the bank. He never went back to the bank. MoTo told me that it was his fault. *Ascends platform as MoTo, who again addresses audience through a giant megaphone.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SLIDEBoxM01_12_pres.jpg) Fig. 5 MoTo: Peter Uberroth, President of the L.A.C.O.C., Peter Uberroth said to me, "This is going to be the greatest Olympic games of all time. But to have the greatest Olympic games we must sanitize the city. We must put up pastel banners all over the city. We must make the city smile. But to do this we need you, MoTo. We cannot do this without you, MoTo." And I said to Peter Uberroth, I said, "Peter, your shit stinks like everyone else. Your shit stinks like everyone else. Your shit, it stinks like everyone else!" And he said to me, "МоTо, yes, it’s true: my shit stinks like all the rest. It stinks like all the rest, only worse, MoTo. Only worse. Only you know that, MoTo. Only you know how it stinks only worse. You don't have to smell it, but you do, MoTo. You don't have to carry it around and smell it, but you do. You don't have to carry it around and smell it, but you do. You doo-doo. Doo. You doo-doo you." And Peter Youandboth, he put his arm around me, and he drew me close to his side, and he handed me a bag of the nastiest and blackest shit I'd ever seen. Black and knotted shit. Knotty, twisted shit in a baggy, shit swimming in its own drips. Its own hardness and its own drips. All knotted in a baggy. And Peter Tubbermouth, he said to me, "MoTo, I'm counting on you. All of America is counting on you. You must take this blackest of shits and you must carry it throughout this great land of ours. You must carry it across this country from California to New York, as the Olympic torch is being passed from hand to hand and carried from New York to California. You must take it in your hand and you must hold it high. You must take this shit in hand and hold it high. This Olympian task, this Herculean task, I entrust to you and you alone, MoTo. To you and you alone. And I took the bag from him and said, "Peter, you are full of shit." I took it and I said, "Peter, you are full of shit." I took it and I said, "Peter, you are full of shit." And he cried. *MoTo descends the platform. Performer becomes Moto's friend.* All over America everybody wants to talk to MoTo. We go downtown. The seats are soft and green carpeted. Everything is cool like the walls. People talk. We wait for MoTo's turn to talk. *Friend punches in tape excerpt of County Supervisor Edelman's Hearings on the Homeless.* Ella Graham: My name is Ella Graham. Edelman: G-r-a-h-m? Ella Graham: G-r-a-h-a-m. I have a place to stay, but I'm still homeless. I've been on Skid Row in Los Angeles for a year and a half. I been assaulted twice. Both times the attacker had knives. I had my room broken into, my food stamps stolen. I called the police and they said if I didn't see the person who'd broken in there was nothing they could do except take the report. I have to carry a pair of scissors everywhere I go for protection. And the police tell me not to leave my room after dark because it’s so dangerous where I live. I pay $220 a month for rent for a room ten by ten. And I have to share the toilet and the shower with seventy-nine other rooms, even with prostitutes, pays and anything else. The toilet rooms are always filthy and the shower is so nasty I feel dirtier after I get out of the shower than when I got in, because they've got faeces on the walls and all like that. And when I complain to the manager she says if I don't like it to get out. So I have a place to stay, but I'm still homeless. Edelman: Tell us where this building is that you live. Graham: I live at 816 East 6th Street in room 107\. I lived in room 107 since last March. Edelman: O.K. Thank you. Let me ask— Graham: It's the Regal Hotel. Edelman: The Regal? Graham: Regal. Edelman: It doesn't sound too regal. Graham: It isn't. (She giggles). It’s anything but regal. *Friend stops tape.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SLIDEBoxM01_13_pres.jpg) Fig. 6 Friend: People talk. He waits for MoTo's turn to talk. We wait so long for MoTo to talk. Sometimes MoTo has to wait so long. So long. *Friend punches Hearings tape back in.* Lillian Waddy: Lilian Waddy. W-a-d-d-y. Good morning, Mr. Supervisor. I'm thirty-nine years old. I've lived in Los Angeles all my life. My family background was, you know, pretty basic. My father was a police officer for some thirty-five years, my brother for twenty. He just retired. And, um, one of the first jobs I got was school bus driver with handicapped children. And from there I wound up helping put the first senior ride bus on the streets, to provide our seniors and handicaps with transportation. Then, um, I experienced the, um, a tragedy in my life where I lost my sister, recently. We were very close. But, it seemed to, um, knock me off the Yellow-Brick Road for a minute, and I wound up on the streets with nowhere to go. You get tired of asking friends, you know, to sleep here and there. You get tired of going down to D.P.S.S., trying to get assistance there. And, like the gentleman said, they tell you to come back, come back. You get very depressed. Eventually, I got to the point where I wound up with a crowd of people on the streets and I wound up into drugs. You know, just finding a way to escape. Almost into alcoholism. I, uh, finally went back to D.P.S. and was given a voucher to Keingard Center for three days. When that was up I went back to D.P.S.S., was given another voucher for a hotel which – the one the young lady described – mine was even worse. Caulking down the halls in the hotel, women are being thrown into their rooms. They're being raped. Their food stamps – what little they get – were being taken. Edelman: Let me just stop you for a second. You know, it sounds as though what we need is not more of these hotels. Waddy: What we need is more transition houses. Edelman: We need more places that can be supervised with appropriate concern for people and their problems. And just hearing your testimony now, it seems to me this argues more strongly for taking care of the homeless in a more, well, more sheltered environment, and with more social services than are available in these hotels. These hotels are nothing but, well, I don't want to use the word, but they're just ratholes in many ways, from what you've said and other people have said. *Friend punches out tape.* Friend: They make MoTo wait so long. It's not fair. They make him wait so long, he gets upset. MoTo gets upset. Sometimes then I read him his favorite letter from this year and it smooths him. It smooths him. *Friend takes rumpled paper from his pocket and reads it. He reads it to MoTo on platform, (as if MoTo were standing poised to speak).* Friend (reading letter): Dear George, Forgive me for not calling you MoTo, but when you and my mother were married and we were all living in Pontiac, we kids always called you “George”. In truth I feel like calling you “Dad”, because that best expresses what you mean to me. You have no idea what it means to me to have found you again after all those years when we didn't know whether you were alive or dead. So many times during those years I wanted to tell you how unfair I thought the family had been to you about my mother's death. But, I never thought I would get the chance to do so. I can truly say that being with you was the most meaningful experience of my life. I will cherish it always. I wish I could have convinced you to come back to live with me and my family. Please know, George, the door is always open. I've enclosed a small check which I hope you'll accept. And, Dad, please be careful of it. I love you, Dad, (Signed) Larry ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SLIDEBoxM01_17_pres.jpg) Fig. 7 *Friend ascends platform, and becomes MoTo. MoTo talks.* MoTo: Mr. Chairman, my name is Moto. The cars go by. I see them. They stop at the corner. They roll up their windows. They lock their doors. I see them. Their mouths say, "They're homeless because they want to be homeless." I see them. I don't hear them. I see them say that people are homeless because they want to be homeless. That people are homeless because they choose to be homeless. Mr. Chairman, people are not homeless because they choose to be homeless. They are homeless for many reasons of mind and money, but they are not homeless because they choose to be homeless. If no one chooses to be homeless, then anyone could be homeless. Thank you, Mr. Chairman. *Descends platform and again becomes Friend.* Friend: And now MoTo and I, MoTo must get his rest. *End* *For Dolores Carlos and Rolf Mayer. Thanks to Creative Time, Inc. New York, New York for the commission which allowed me to do this work. Thanks to the Blue Mountain Center, Blue Mountain, New York for additional support. (1984)* *//* --- ### Image credits Cover / Fig 1-7: "John Malpede at Creative Time performing Olympic Update" (1984). Courtesy of the LA Poverty Department *John Malpede directs, performs and engineers multi-event arts projects that have theatrical, installation, public art, and education components. In 1985 Malpede founded, and he continues to direct, the Los Angeles Poverty Department (LAPD), the first performance group in the nation comprised primarily of homeless and formerly homeless people. LAPD creates performances that connect lived experience to the social forces that shape the lives and communities of people living in poverty. Malpede has produced projects working with communities throughout the US and in the UK, France, The Netherlands, Belgium, and Bolivia.* ### Grassroots Infrastructures that affect each other URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/grassroots-infrastructures-that-affect-each-other/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:41.000Z “Construction, Occupation” *presents the works of 24 artists and collectives that engage art’s potential to shape the city through the power of community. Show’s curators Yudi Rafael, Juliana Caffé, and Alex Ungprateeb Flynn talk about the social contexts, languages, and poetics grounded in the exhibition.* **Communities, like the arts, are shaped by specific social, cultural, and economic conditions rather than existing as abstract concepts. How does the exhibition “Construction, Occupation” map the intersections of these conditions, and what criteria guided this process?** This exhibition project unfolds from our experience curating the 2016-2017 Cambridge Artistic Residency (CARe) in the occupied former Hotel Cambridge in downtown São Paulo. The building occupied and renovated in 2012 by the social movement Movimento Sem Teto do Centro (MSTC) was turned into social housing for more than one hundred families. Additionally, cultural activities were organized in its common spaces. The movement conceived the occupation as a site of intersection: a “storefront” for the MSTC because of its role in reorienting circulation and creating social bridges in a city marked by spatial segregation. While mainstream media often marginalizes occupations, the movement, alongside collaborators in the cultural sector, and the one-to-one encounters with people of different social and economic backgrounds, helped to shield the occupation’s residents from state violence. At the time of the Cambridge Artistic Residency (CARe), artists were invited based on their interests in urban and artistic communities. The year-long duration of CARe and its public program helped to foster new ones, gathering artists, researchers, and activists in a moment in which the discussion around occupations was at the center of the public debate; students were occupying schools, cultural workers were occupying cultural centers, and the MSTC was the most visible force of the housing movement downtown. From this experience, “Construction, Occupation” revisits artistic practices that resonate with, or have emerged alongside, urban occupations and housing movements. By collaborating with artists who have directly engaged with these initiatives, the exhibition emphasizes the role of artistic practices in sustaining, amplifying, and complexifying the intersection between art and communal life. The exhibition traces a longer trajectory, linking earlier collective movements from the 2000s, such as Frente 3 de Fevereiro, Contrafilé, and Bijari, through to contemporary initiatives \[for example\] the 9 de Julho community center and occupation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Filme-Frente-still-3.png) Fig. 1 **The title “Construction, Occupation” suggests that urban space is not fixed but collectively shaped. How does the exhibition explore the relationship between art and activism as a means of challenging urban hierarchies and reimagining public space?** “Construction, Occupation” doesn’t try to replicate what happened in São Paulo but rather share its pulse – to make visible the artistic language of that very particular form of incremental social change. We are not interested in spectacle but in process. The project represents the continuation of a layered process initiated within an occupied building, sustained through collective struggle, and now resonating within the distinct geography of Los Angeles. The exhibition highlights how collectivity isn’t a moment but a method, a mode of working, imagining, and building together. Rather than positioning transformation as a distant aspiration, the artistic communities in which the artists in this show are embedded put forward prefigurative politics – the idea that political and social change does not merely follow artistic or activist efforts but is embedded within the very practices of organizing, collaborating, and collectively reimagining urban life. Since the early 2000s, there has been an incremental building of what might be called an affective infrastructure, a series of community processes held together by trust, co-presence, and shared commitments. Art in this manner becomes a relational technology: dinners, conversations, film screenings, and collective actions that allow for the symbolic re-signification of an occupied space, and a reimagination of who urban space is for. The exhibition foregrounds artistic practices that generate forms of support, exchange, and care that do not rely solely on institutional scaffolding but which are sustained through relationships, proximity, and the reinvention of space. For the extraordinary community in which the exhibition is embedded, art is not a separate realm of aesthetic activity but a longitudinal form of urban knowledge production deeply imbricated in the rhythms of occupation, housing activism, and everyday negotiation. **Urban development is often tied to cycles of displacement, erasure, and gentrification. How does the exhibition address the role of memory in contested spaces, and how can art serve as a tool for reclaiming narratives that are at risk of being forgotten?** **São Paulo is a city undergoing constant demolition and reconstruction and the sense of the fragility and contingency of memory is very much at stake. Explode!’s *Procession* (2018) records the route of a commemorative walk in homage to Andréa de Mayo – a transgender and LGBTQIA+ rights activist whose burial was obscured by official records – thereby turning a fleeting act into a living monument for marginalized communities. This drive to confront invisibility also appears in Bijari’s poster campaign, *Gentrification* (2004), which brought public attention to the realities of eviction by marking buildings occupied by housing movements challenging sanitized media accounts of urban conflict. Meanwhile, Jaime Lauriano’s *Monumento às Bandeiras* (2016) reimagines a grandiose colonial monument by recasting it in metal from police cartridges, exposing underlying structures of power and violence that continue to shape collective memory.** **Together, these artistic practices show how memory in contested spaces transcends mere commemoration. By actively engaging in public discourse – whether through visual, performative, or textual interventions – they carve out space for historically marginalized voices and experiences. In doing so, they offer tangible examples of how art, far from being decorative or neutral, can become a site of counter-history and communal empowerment, reclaiming urban narratives that would otherwise be overshadowed or lost.** ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Explode_RainbowRiots_visitaAndrea_de_Mayo_foto_CarolGodefroid-RuaPaim.jpg) Fig. 2 **How do the artistic practices featured in the exhibition challenge traditional ideas of ownership, occupation, and access to public space in Los Angeles vexed by poverty and the housing crisis?** While we’re not in a position to offer a solution to Los Angeles’s housing crisis. We’re excited to establish a conversation with the city through direct connections between the artworks on view and L.A.’s history. One clear example is the mural on the external walls of the Lucas Gallery – the first piece visitors encounter – created by UCLA students using stencils designed during a workshop led by JAMAC. Another is the work by the artist Cinthia Marcelle, adapted from a piece that originally paid homage to the 2016 high school student rebellions in Brazil. This new iteration incorporates a UCLA school chair from the era of the L.A. Rebellion, highlighting how actions in different contexts can speak to one another. **Equally significant is the dialogue between the Los Angeles Poverty Department (LAPD) and Raphael Escobar, to take place after the exhibition opens as part of a public program downtown. LAPD has spent decades working with artistic approaches in Skid Row, and their biennial *Walk the Talk* parade resonates strongly with Escobar’s *Blocolândia* intervention in São Paulo's highly stigmatized Cracolândia neighborhood. We’re especially pleased that LAPD and Escobar will come together to exchange experiences and further explore these synergies, ultimately broadening the conversation around art, activism, and urban life in L.A.** Perhaps we can think of occupation, as it emerges from the projects in this exhibition, as a strategy for reimagining ownership and transforming access to public space. In fact, there are many forms of occupation: students taking over public schools, unhoused people reclaiming abandoned downtown buildings, racialized and gender-dissident bodies occupying the streets, and Indigenous groups such as the Guarani Mbya reclaiming their territories in urban areas traditionally viewed as unclaimed or “public.” **Public space is often policed and surveilled, with certain bodies and communities facing exclusion or precarity. How do the artists in this exhibition confront or subvert the politics of visibility, and what new modes of representation do they propose?** One of the questions at stake for the exhibition is the notion of visibility within the city and the interconnected dimensions of hyper-visibility that surveills and criminalizes marginalized communities; and on the other, the very same bodies being subject to erasure and illegibility. **Eliane Caffé’s *Southern Sorceresses* (2020), for example, explores this gaze through a feminist, queer lens. The documentary follows a diverse collective of artists and activists in São Paulo – including trans and Black members – who repurpose public spaces, to assert their right to participate fully in the complex and evolving life of the city. Their actions challenge the traditional narratives of public space as being reserved for certain bodies and social groups by engaging in the construction and transformation of spaces that have been historically policed, allowing marginalized communities to construct their narratives and representations.** In *Zumbi somos nós* \[We are Zumbi\] (2006), Frente 3 de Fevereiro takes up the memory of Zumbi, a historical figure who led one of the largest rebellions against slavery in Brazil, to address ongoing struggles faced by Afro-Brazilian communities. Through their media interventions, the collective foregrounds the struggles of Black Brazilians whose lives are often dehumanized in mainstream discourse. The work speaks to the power of public memory as a tool for resistance, highlighting how Black communities renegotiate visibility in the face of racism and systemic violence. João Simões' *Segregated by time* (2024) further interrogates the politics of visibility through the lens of urban transportation and social inequality in cities like São Paulo and Los Angeles. The work explores the spatial dimension of the concept of time, particularly the uneven experience of delay, as a form of racial and social segregation. By focusing on the temporal disparity in transportation systems, Simões highlights how this "delay" becomes a structural feature that reinforces marginalization. However, while art can be a potent catalyst for challenging established power structures, it cannot, on its own, overcome the deep-seated social and political barriers that shape our world. A troubling reminder is the recent denial of a US visa for Preta Ferreira – an artist and MSTC housing rights activist featured in the exhibition – which prevented her from performing in Los Angeles on opening night. Despite the powerful dialogues artworks can generate, institutional and legal constraints expose the limits and complexities of the terrain in which these practices unfold. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/the_dream.jpg) Fig. 3 **During times of economic and political crisis, public spaces become crucial sites for gathering, making, and reclaiming imagination. How does the exhibition address the role of the body as both vulnerable and resistant in the negotiation of public space?** One of the central questions in “Construction, Occupation” is how the body – particularly in contexts of collective struggle – carries both vulnerability and resistance, not as opposing forces, but as mutually constitutive conditions. In the show, we include a trajectory of artists working hand in hand with movements that articulate the right to a home: from the early 2000s, through the Hotel Cambridge occupation, and now the 9 de Julho community center and occupation, and we understand this as a layered choreography of presence. Occupying these buildings is itself a performative act – a form of claiming space through the rhythms of daily life, through gestures of repair, collaboration, protest, and celebration. These are not isolated performances, nor are they conceived only for those present. Each action – be it organizing public talks, planting a garden, or sharing a meal – carries outward reverberations that are felt in the “body public” of the wider city. The play between “Construction” and “Occupation” finds expression in this sense, in this attention to embodied knowledge: the way bodies make space, respond to structural abandonment and collectively generate imaginative alternatives. In this way, artistic and political actions are inseparable. Rather than separating individual agency from collective impact, the works presented show how gestures become contagious, how they gather meaning through repetition, response, and co-presence. The vulnerability of each participant is not erased in collectivity but amplified as part of a broader ethical and aesthetic commitment. What emerges is not a fixed outcome, but a choreography of transformation, one that is always incomplete, always unfolding, and always calling others into being. **Simon & Garfunkel once sang, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls." In what ways does the exhibition highlight the prophetic dimensions of collectivity, and how does it position artistic expression as a force for social transformation?** Prophetic is a great word to experiment with! But the exhibition stems from the lived experience and creative labor of an extraordinary community of people in downtown São Paulo. One of the most powerful lessons we took from that period was how transformation doesn’t arrive fully formed. There is no singular moment when a space – or a society – shifts definitively from one state to another. What we saw, instead, was incremental but ever-expanding: words were written on the walls of the occupation – poems, slogans, visions – and over time, more and more people came not only to see those words and engage with them but to write their own. If there is a prophetic dimension to the exhibition, then perhaps it is this, not prophecy in the sense of prediction, or the preaching of a certain path to salvation, but in the sense of bearing witness to what is possible. The prophet, like the artist, names a reality that does not yet exist but necessarily must come into being. The occupation of the Hotel Cambridge in 2012 was not only a demand for housing, it was also a demand for the right to participate in the city, for a space to live creatively and politically. And the fact that the building was eventually converted into official social housing in 2021 is not the end of that story, but a continuation of the process that art helped catalyze. **//** **Alex Ungprateeb Flynn** is Associate Professor of Art and Anthropology at the University of California, Los Angeles. Researching collaboratively with activists, curators, and artists in Brazil since 2007\. He is co-curator of Construction, Occupation at the Fowler Museum at UCLA. **Yudi Rafael** is an independent curator and researcher based in São Paulo, Brazil. He has worked with art institutions in São Paulo, New York, Los Angeles, and Berlin, and is a co-curator of Construction, Occupation at the Fowler Museum at UCLA. **Juliana Caffé** is an independent curator and researcher based in São Paulo, Brazil. She holds a PhD in Arts, with a focus on Art History, and has curated exhibitions across Latin America, Africa, and Europe. She is a co-curator of Construction, Occupation at the Fowler Museum at UCLA. --- ### Image credits Cover: Sato, *Kopke Occupation Series* (2015). Photo by the artist. Fig. 1: Ícaro Lira, Isadora Brant, and Fernanda Taddei, *Filme Frente* (2016) (film still) Fig. 2: Explode!, *Procession* (2018). Photo credit: Carol Godefroid Fig. 3: André Komatsu, *Realidade perecível / Perishable Reality 13 (The Dream)* (2017-2025). Photo credit: André Komatsu *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Artists of Skid Row, Unite! URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/artists-of-skid-row-unite/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:40.000Z *This year marks four decades of cultural labor by the Los Angeles Poverty Department founded by the performance artist John Malpede – a collective rooted in the class struggles of Skid Row. Since its founding, LAPD has reclaimed performance as a tool of consciousness raising, organizing, and resistance against the violence of displacement and the machinery of urban profit. In this conversation John Malpede and his partner in crime, Henriëtte Brouwers, reflect on the political stakes of their practice, the contradictions of institutional engagement, insisting on art as a living weapon in the hands of the working class.* **What does it mean to look back over the past 40 years and the strange duality between Reagan and Trump, particularly in light of the neoliberal policies that took hold then, and continue now, with ICE and mass incarceration? (Ironically, Reagan did a mass amnesty of illegal immigrants, commented our colleague, Will Kherbek) Can we talk about the conditions that shaped the beginnings of the LAPD, and what legacy those early policies have left behind?** John Malpede: Reagan had everything to do with it. I started noticing people living on the street in ’83, when I was still in New York. I was working on a Creative Time commission for a landfill site in the Hudson River – what became Battery Park City. They were removing dirty river water, filling it with sand, and turning it into the world’s most expensive real estate. But just blocks away, people were sleeping on the street. In collaboration with artist Erica Rothenberg and architect Lori Hawkinson, we built the Big Megaphone and pointed it at the World Trade Center which was across the street. Anyone could climb up and speak directly to power. Factored into the design was my intention to use the megaphone in my performance about homelessness and the global banking crisis. Then I came to L.A. and discovered it was the “homeless capital” of America. I went to public hearings, started volunteering with unhoused folks and Catholic Worker organizers and wrote, “Olympic Update: Homelessness in Los Angeles”. The Catholic Worker legal clinic became Inner-City Law Center, and I was hired as a street outreach worker. I started doing performance workshops at night for anyone in Skid Row. The workshops became LAPD. LAPD was rooted in trust and goodwill within the community. What was important to me was creating something firsthand and unmediated. I wanted a space where people didn’t have to “act right.” People behaved how they behaved. Some folks on Skid Row voted for Reagan (and even now for Trump). The LAPD ensemble held divergent political beliefs. We made room for all of it. Because every person matters no matter what. That gave it dimensionality. **Henriëtte, you joined later, but you’ve helped shape LAPD’s use of testimony and collective resistance – through performance, exhibitions, public presence. That use of testimony as script isn’t obvious or easy. How did you arrive at that form?** **Henriëtte Brouwers: My performance work was movement-based with a social conscience. I performed and taught in the Netherlands, France, and the U.S. until I met John in 1996\. That year, I was performing at 7 Stages in Atlanta and traveling through Africa. My work was changing. I became interested in working directly with communities. John introduced me to the LA Poverty Department and Skid Row. My first project with LAPD was *Agents & Assets*. This performance is about the war on drugs and uses the text of a congressional hearing. It moved away from personal testimonies to witnessing the government. Testimonies are just one part of what LAPD has done.** **The testimonies you voice aren’t just biographical, but objective accounts of how people describe their lives and the structures they’re up against.** **JM: I brought with me what I knew: avant-garde performance, improvisation, monologue. The first LAPD show was all monologues, which was practical: people weren’t necessarily great at interacting onstage. And if someone disappeared, we could just drop their piece. When someone did disappear another cast member knew it and did \[the piece\] it. Our second show was a group improvisation, no script, just scene lists. Every night was different. Everyone sat in the audience and jumped into scenes. It mirrored the chaos of Skid Row. We created fictional stories shaped by real events. At the time there had been 3 point-blank shootings of sleeping homeless people. Our show, *No Stone for Studs Schwartz*, opened with someone lying dead, then \[we\] rewound to show how they got there. I wanted the story to refer to the random shootings. Others pushed for a gangster narrative. We left it unresolved. One night it ended one way, the next, another, depending on the performers’ moment-to-moment decisions. That gave it an emotional charge. People wrote about it like it was someone’s personal story, but that idea is limiting. Everyone has a million stories. Some are true. Some aren’t. We were more interested in engaging the whole person.** ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/LAPD_Walk-the-Talk-2024_picture-by-Monica-Nouwens_Walk-the-Talk-2024_picture-by-Monica-Nouwens_MN_IMG_9789.jpg) Fig.1 **You keep mentioning “energy.” What do you mean? Is it about resilience? Survival? Or structural violence?** **JM: I mean the energy of the street. How people move through it, day by day. The dynamic shapes how people talk, act, and create. There’s no irony on Skid Row.** **From *State of Incarceration* to *Walk the Talk*, LAPD has consistently documented both histories and resistance. Do you see your work as a form of preservation – especially in a city that tries to make the poor invisible?** **JM: Absolutely. *Walk the Talk*, ‘The Festival for All Skid Row Artists,’ these projects say: “This is a community. You can’t bulldoze it.” The dominant narrative says Skid Row is a place of transients, but we push against that. Even before I arrived, Catholic Worker and others fought to preserve the housing stock, blocking a development plan that would’ve razed everything. Our exhibitions and performances keep this history alive, and we use it to prevent displacement.** **Would you say that creating a neighborhood also helps balance the exposure of structural issues with a space for creativity?** HB: There are many artists in Skid Row, but few gathering spaces. People live under constant pressure from police and surveillance. But it is a community; people know each other. When LAPD started, other community resources like the Downtown Women’s Center and LAMP were starting up. Even early protests had a creative core. Clyde Casey occupied an abandoned gas station, set up a piano, and held space there for a year. People made their own cultural centers before we had this one. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MN_IMG_4462-copy-2.jpg) Fig.2 **Is the Skid Row History Museum & Archive also a space for artistic formation? Were people making art in Skid Row before LAPD?** HB: Definitely. People here have always made art. Our work is about bringing people together. We make performances starting from real issues, improvising, working with the energy that’s present. \[It’s\] very specific. It’s not commercial. It’s not like any other theater I’ve seen in the U.S.. JM: And it’s not franchise-able. We did a residency project, “LAPD Inspects America” – we’d travel to other cities, build casts with LAPD’ers and local unhoused people, and make performances together. People hoped our model would spread, but it’s not a model. It’s a relationship. A commitment. **Who are you doing this for today?** JM: We’re doing it in Skid Row, where it makes a difference – both in the community and its representation. But that question also applies to our current project: advocating for accessible healthcare for houseless people across the 4,084 square miles of LA County. It’s a massive lift. So, yes, it’s worth asking: why do this? I believe in the power of the weird. Those curveballs that art throws. Sometimes they really matter. They can create ruptures. HB: For me, the most important thing is bringing people together. That’s what LAPD does, connecting people from Skid Row with policymakers and neighbors who might not know what’s happening there. We try to widen the circle. When we perform at Redcat Theater, the circle gets even wider. And here at the museum, folks from the community can meet others working in similar contexts. That’s why we take our work to other cities, other countries, because these issues aren’t unique to us here. They are everywhere. **The art world often fetishizes these concerns. But your work resists that, it materially supports people. How do you navigate working with cultural institutions?** JM: We’ve never had any problems there. We only do what we want, and the institutions who have wanted to work with us have valued that. **When you founded LAPD in 1985, the dominant narratives around homelessness were about decay and neglect. What kind of political agency has emerged through LAPD’s work in Skid Row?** JM: That Skid Row exists and hasn’t been bulldozed or gentrified out of existence is itself a victory – thanks not only to us, but many community groups, going back to the 70s. Sustaining the neighborhood has involved sustained resistance to criminalization of homelessness and threats of displacement, and also demanding that the powers that be listen to the community. And, sometimes, they have. Our show *I Fly* at Redcat, focused on community-generated public safety. We used our own ‘Festival’ for All Skid Row Artists as an example; we never have police or security guards. The community takes responsibility. HB: *I Fly!* also highlighted the creation of *The Refresh Spot*, a 24-hour hygiene center. It exists because Alisa Orduña – working with \[former\] Mayor \[Eric\] Garcetti – truly listened to the community. Over two years, they developed a space where people could shower, do laundry, \[and\] use toilets staffed by community members. That was a massive win. That helped lay the foundation for what LA County’s Department of Health Services is now doing through the Skid Row Action Plan: creating walk-in, low-barrier health centers with beds and services. These victories came through persistence. We stopped a restaurant with a full liquor license from opening in a supportive housing facility. There were losses too. Like when we tried to form our own neighborhood council. But overall, the neighborhood is being heard more. People are being hired from the community. Residents are getting paid to serve on advisory councils to oversee the plan’s implementation. That’s huge. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MN_IMG_4646-copy.jpg) Fig.3 **What would you want the legacy of LAPD to be? And how can people outside Skid Row contribute to that vision without co-opting it?** **HB: The “non-co-opting” part is embedded in how we make our projects. For example, we avoid the standard post-performance Q&A where cast members are put on display. We say: the cast is part of the audience. They can join the conversation if they want, but the discussion is about the *issues* raised. We’re also careful with our archive. Some materials are private, only accessible to certain people. We never commercialize our work.** **Here's a related question about the 2028 Olympics. Looking at the commercialization of entire cities – and thinking back to 1985, when LAPD was born from the legacy of the ‘84 Games – what would it look like if the Olympics were forced to benefit Skid Row residents?** JM: They’d build housing, apartment buildings throughout the city – including Skid Row – that, after the Games, would be converted – 100% – into extremely low-income and supportive housing. **Have you considered holding them accountable through a project?** HB: There’s already a lot of momentum and awareness building. There’s a group called No Olympics. They’re collecting oral histories from the last time and raising awareness. We’ve participated in some of their efforts. **Maybe it’s time for a re-enactment of *Olympic Update*?** JM: I always feel like I should keep doing it. Unfortunately, it’s become kind of timeless. **One last question. If you could send a message back to the version of yourselves who started this journey what would you say?** JM: I’d say: go find a home for yourself. I think that’s what I did here, just like everyone else in Skid Row. We are home now. // *Visit the archive for all the works mentioned (and everything else) at:* [https://www.lapovertydept.org/](https://www.lapovertydept.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *This interview was conducted by María Inés Plaza Lazo. Kseniia Sivova helped her edit the transcript. William Habib Kherbek proofread the final draft.* --- ### Image credits Cover: Artists from *Skid Row Festival* (2024). Courtesy of the LAPD Fig. 1 LA Poverty Department, Walk the talk (2024). Courtesy of the LAPD Fig. 2/3: *Skid Row Festival* (2024). Courtesy of the LAPD *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Typologien URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/typologien-ein-gespraech-mit-susanne-pfeffer-ueber-ihre-ausstellung-in-der-fondazione-prada-in-mailand/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:34.000Z „Typologien“ *– der Titel wirkt beinahe ironisch, wenn man Susanne Pfeffers bisherige kuratorische Praxis kennt, die sich konsequent gegen starre Zuschreibungen, gegen Klassifikationen und institutionelle Routinen gestellt hat. Warum die Direktorin des MMK in Frankfurt diesen Begriff nun ins Zentrum ihrer Überlegungen rückt, haben wir mit ihr reflektiert – im Gespräch über Institution und Autonomie, über Widerspruch, die Konfrontation mit einer partikularen Vergangenheit, über Form, Gewalt, Anordnung und die Politik des Zeigens.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2-Typologien_Heinrich-Riebesehl_SIAE.jpg) Fig. 1 **Ging es dir bei *„Typologien“* um Aneignung, um Sabotage – oder um eine andere Art von Präzision?** Die Fondazione Prada hat mich eingeladen, eine Ausstellung zur Fotografie der Düsseldorfer Schule zu machen, was mich sofort interessierte. Bei genauer Beschäftigung wurde mir klar, dass neben Bernd und Hilla Becher auch viele ihrer Schüler\*innen angefangen haben, Typologien zu erstellen. Mit dem Blick auf Künstler wie Karl Blossfeldt oder August Sander erschien es mir interessant, dieses Phänomen, was die deutsche Fotografie im 20\. Jahrhundert geprägt hat, genauer zu betrachten. Der Begriff der Typologie stammt ursprünglich aus der Biologie. Im 17\. und 18\. Jahrhundert wurden Typologien erstellt, um Pflanzen zu kategorisieren. Karl Blossfeldt war der erste, der diese Methodik in die Fotografie überführte. Seine über 600 angefertigten Fotos dokumentierten Pflanzen auf eine bis dahin noch nie vom menschlichen Auge gesehenen Art und Weise. Er entwickelte eine Vergrößerungstechnik, mit der er die Pflanzen vor einen weißen Hintergrund stellte und damit deren Formenvielfalt und Architektonik präzise herausarbeitete. August Sander hat zunächst mit seinem Buch Antlitz der Zeit und später mit seinem Projekt Menschen des 20\. Jahrhunderts versucht, eine Gesellschaft zu porträtieren, indem er sie anhand ihrer Tätigkeiten, Herkunft und Geschlecht gruppierte. Ich habe dann in vielen Archiven und Sammlungen, zahlreichen Büchern oder auch im Internet recherchiert und gemerkt wie viele Künstler\*innen, Fotograf\*innen, aber auch Maler\*innen, Bildhauer\*innen oder Konzeptkünstler\*innen auf diese zahlreichen Typologien reagiert haben. Dabei wurde immer klarer, wie stark die jeweiligen Typologien von der Politik, der Gesellschaft ihrer Zeit geprägt waren. Es wurde im Laufe der Recherche deutlich, dass eine Ausstellung zum Thema Typologien auch zu einem Portrait von Deutschland im 20\. Jahrhundert führen würde. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3-Typologien_Heinrich-Riebesehl_SIAE.jpg) Fig. 2 **Gab es einen konkreten Moment, ein Bild, einen theoretischen Text, der dich dazu gebracht hat, mit Typologien als konzeptuellen Rahmen zu arbeiten? Oder war es eher ein Gefühl – etwa, dass wir in einer Zeit leben, in der die Wiederkehr von Klassifikationen neue Formen der Kontrolle annimmt?** Grundlegend für meine kuratorische Praxis ist es, von der Kunst auszugehen, sich mit den Werken genau zu befassen und mit den lebenden Künstler\*innen zu sprechen. Alles, was mich sonst noch begleitet, was ich mitnehme – seien es Theorien, Texte, Politik – entwickelt sich für mich immer in der Dialektik mit der Kunst selbst. Nicht so sehr ein externes Element, das gefüllt werden muss, sondern ein permanenter Begleiter. **Wenn man deine früheren Ausstellungen betrachtet – von *„Inhuman“* im Fridericianum bis zu *„MUSEUM“* am MMK in Frankfurt – dann fällt auf: dort ging es immer wieder um Überschreitungen, um Entgrenzungen, um das Nicht-Zeigbare. Jetzt scheinst du dich auf etwas ganz Anderes einzulassen: Wiederholung, Struktur, Raster. Ist *„Typologien“* eine kuratorische Kehrtwende – oder ihre konsequente Weiterführung?** Ich denke, die Ausstellung zeigt, wie es durch die Gegenüberstellung und den direkten Vergleich möglich ist, herauszufinden, was individuell und was universell, was normativ oder real ist. Unterschiede zeugen vom Reichtum der Natur und der Phantasie des Menschen: der Farn, die Kuh, der Mensch, das Ohr; die Bushaltestelle, der Wasserturm, die Stereoanlage, das Museum. Der typologische Vergleich ermöglicht es, Unterschiede und Gemeinsamkeiten herauszuarbeiten und das Spezifische zu begreifen. Unbekannte oder bisher nicht wahrgenommene Dinge über die Natur, das Tier oder den Gegenstand, über Ort und Zeit, werden sichtbar und erkennbar, ermöglichen es uns, bemerkenswerte Ähnlichkeiten und subtile Unterschiede zu erkennen. Zugleich, und das macht das Thema zeitgenössisch relevant, scheint das Einzigartige, das Individuelle, in einer globalen Masse aufgegangen zu sein, die Universalität der Dinge ist allgegenwärtig. Wenn die Gegenwart die Zukunft aufgegeben zu haben scheint, müssen wir die Vergangenheit genauer betrachten. Wenn alles zu schreien scheint und immer brutaler wird, ist es wichtig innezuhalten und die Stille zu nutzen, um klar zu sehen und zu denken. Wenn Unterschiede nicht als etwas anderes gesehen werden, sondern als etwas, das uns trennt, ist es wichtig, die Gemeinsamkeiten zu erkennen. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Typologien_Thomas-Ruff_Fondazione-Prada_Foto-Roberto-Marossi.jpeg) Fig. 3 Typologien ermöglichen es uns, bemerkenswerte Ähnlichkeiten und subtile Unterschiede zu erkennen. Nirgendwo sonst sind in der Fotografie so viele Typologien wie auch ihre spielerischen und politischen Antipoden geschaffen worden als in Deutschland im 20\. Jahrhundert. Sie ermöglichen eine eigene Klarheit. Unser Sehen und Denken wird durch die Systematik konzentriert und erhält dadurch die Möglichkeit, andere Details zu erblicken und größere Zusammenhänge zu erkennen. Die systematische Erfassung war aber auch die Grundlage systematischer Vernichtung. Die Nationalsozialisten erstellten mit fotografischen Typologien rassistische Genealogien und versuchten so, ihre Gewaltherrschaft, das millionenfache Foltern und Morden vermeintlich wissenschaftlich zu rechtfertigen. Jeder fotografischen Typologie wohnt auch die Gleichwertigkeit aller Fotografien, ihrer Bildquellen und Motive inne und ermöglicht so eine Enthierachisierung. Diese Gleichwertigkeit der Fotografien ist einfach, befreiend – aber auch erschreckend. Mit dem Ende des 20\. Jahrhunderts scheint das Zeitalter der Typologien zu enden. Das Einzigartige, das Individuelle, scheint in einer globalen Masse aufzugehen, das Universelle der Dinge allgegenwärtig. Das Internet lässt Typologien in Sekundenschnelle erstellen. Und doch erscheint es gerade dann wichtig – durch den Blick von Künstler\*innen gerichtet – genau zu schauen. Damit schließt für mich die Ausstellung an meine bisherige kuratorische Herangehensweise an. **In *„Typologien“* wirkt der menschliche Körper oft eher wie ein Signifikant unter anderen – eingebettet in Systeme. Wie hat sich dein Verhältnis dazu verändert – nicht als Sujet, sondern als Medium kuratorischer Arbeit?** Ich denke, das ist ein sehr komplexes Thema. Körper und wo sie sich befinden, wie sie sich innerhalb der Grenzen eines Systems verhalten, ist etwas, das traditionell auf den Kopf gestellt werden kann. Etwas sehr Wichtiges über unsere eigene Komplizenschaft als Institution, das wir durch unsere Arbeit am MMK gelernt haben, war zum Beispiel bei der Ausstellung „*Crip Time“*. Seitdem habe ich immer versucht, mir über die Art und Weise, wie ich eine Ausstellung aufbaue, bewusst zu sein, wie ein\*e Rollstuhlfahrer\*in die Werke erlebt, wie wir uns von dem, was als „Standard-Hängungs-Höhe“ konzipiert ist, wegbewegen und uns für eine Vielzahl von Menschen öffnen können. Das sind Dinge, die ich stets versuche, im Hinterkopf zu behalten und mir ihrer bewusst zu sein, wenn ich arbeite. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Typologien_Thomas-Struth_Fondazione-Prada_Foto-Roberto-Marossi.jpeg) Fig. 4 **Die Ausstellung hat eine fast klinische, zugleich humorvolle Präzision. Der Raum selbst wirkt wie ein Instrument der Typologisierung. Ist das kuratorische Komplizenschaft mit der Logik der Macht – oder die einzige Möglichkeit, ihre Raster sichtbar zu machen?** Ich versuche immer, mit den Kunstwerken zu arbeiten und nicht gegen sie. Als ich den Ausstellungsraum zum ersten Mal sah, dachte ich, dass ein Raster, und zugleich Ordnungsprinzip gut wäre. Dadurch kam es zur Idee, hängende Wände zu bauen. Denn so kann man einen Raum schaffen, der viele Verbindungen zwischen den Werken herstellt und zugleich Konzentration ermöglicht. Vergleiche, Gegenüberstellungen und Ähnlichkeiten wurden dadurch sichtbar, und zugleich öffnen sie den Raum. **Viele der Arbeiten bewegen sich im Spannungsfeld zwischen Sichtbarkeit und Pathologisierung. Wie verhindert man\* als Kurator\*in, dass das Zeigen nicht selbst zur Fortsetzung der Gewalt wird – insbesondere bei Körpern, die historisch normiert, entzogen oder deformiert wurden?** Ich denke, es ist wichtig, unsere eigene Handlungsfähigkeit und Komplizenschaft in diesen Machtsystemen zu verstehen und in den Hintergrund zu treten. Als Kuratorin ist es mir wichtig, aktiv zuzuhören, den Kontext zu verstehen und Künstler\*innen die Möglichkeit und Offenheit zu geben, selbst präsent zu sein, wenn sie diese Räume betreten. Daher war es mir wichtig, auch die problematische zerstörerische Seite von Typologien aufzuzeigen. **Du arbeitest jetzt an einem Ort wie der Fondazione Prada – ein globaler Akteur mit kulturellem Kapital, aber auch mit klaren Hierarchien. Wie viel Autonomie ist in so einem Rahmen möglich? Und was heißt Widerstand in einer Umgebung, die so stark von Symbolpolitik und Branding geprägt ist?** Ich hatte ganz freie Hand - was stets die Grundlage meiner Arbeit ist - und ein fantastisches Team, das alle konzeptuellen Ideen inspirierend bereichert und zugleich kritisch begleitet und die Umsetzung tatkräftig und mit einem grandiosen Engagement unterstützt hat. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/20-Typologien_Ursula-Schulz-Dornburg.jpg) Fig. 5 **In deinen Ausstellungen steht oft die Frage im Raum: Wer darf sprechen? Wer darf gesehen werden? In *„Typologien“* wirkt diese Frage leiser, fast in die Materialität eingeschrieben. Wie verändert sich für dich der Begriff von Repräsentation – in einer Zeit, in der Sichtbarkeit selbst zur Ware geworden ist?** Wir leben in einer Zeit, in der Sichtbarkeit und Lesbarkeit fast augenblicklich geworden sind. Alles soll permanent und unmittelbar konsumierbar sein. Jeder scheint nur noch zu schreien. Die Geschwindigkeit und Lautstärke sollen uns aktiv daran hindern zu denken. Dagegen muss man arbeiten. Eine Ausstellung wie *„Typologien“* hält dazu an, genau hinzuschauen und auch auf leise Unterschiede zu achten. **Wenn du auf deine bisherige kuratorische Praxis zurückblickst – würdest du sagen, dass sich dein Verhältnis zur „radikalen Geste“ verändert hat? Ist es heute überhaupt noch möglich, radikal zu sein, ohne dabei sich selbst zu bestätigen? Oder gibt es da noch mehr zu entdecken?** Alles hat sich in unserer Zeit und unserer Welt radikalisiert. Nun gilt es dagegen zu arbeiten. Nicht radikal, sondern komplex zu sein. Die Welt nicht zu vereinfachen, sondern in ihrer Komplexität zu belassen. // [*Die Ausstellung ist noch bis zum 14\. Juli 2025 zu sehen.*](https://www.fondazioneprada.org/project/typologien/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) --- ### Bilder Cover - Heinrich Riebesehl, *Menschen Im Fahrstuhl, 20.11.1969*, 1969\. Foto: © Heinrich Riebesehl, by SIAE. Courtesy of Fondazione Prada 2025 Fig. 1,2 - Heinrich Riebesehl, *Menschen Im Fahrstuhl, 20.11.1969*, 1969\. Foto: © Heinrich Riebesehl, by SIAE. Courtesy of Fondazione Prada 2025 Fig. 3,4 - Installationsansichten von *Typologien* mit Werken von Thomas Ruff und Thomas Struth. Foto: © Roberto Marossi. Courtesy Fondazione Prada, 2025. Fig. 5 - Ursula Schulz-Dornburg "Transit Sites – Armenia. Erevan-Ararat", 2001\. Foto: © Ursula Schulz-Dornburg. Courtesy Fondazione Prada, 2025. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Experience URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/experience/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:09:27.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-36-experience](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-36-experience?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- The more we attempt to shape our experiences one by one, the more we realize this process relies not only on our will but on factors beyond the reach of our aspirations. Experience is a condition of being, and the more intentional we can be about it, the more it reveals its potential to reshape us and our surroundings. For Marx, class consciousness emerges when workers recognize their shared position within the structure of labor relations. This collective awareness is not just descriptive, but transformative, it enables the possibility of proletarian revolution and the reappropriation of the means of production. Similarly, situating our own experiences in connection to other people’s is a necessary first step toward understanding how our identities are shaped by – and, in turn, shape – the conditions we live under. In light of this, we ask you: what does it mean to undergo the all-encompassing, turbulent experience of being human in the late stages of capitalism? What does it do to our sense of self, community, and possibility? For us, it means navigating a world where even our most intimate emotions – grief, joy, longing, rage – are intercepted and repackaged as content, metrics, or market data. It means witnessing the erosion of boundaries between self and system as our identities become entangled with the platforms on which we perform, the jobs we endure, and the crises we cannot ignore. Community, once rooted in physical proximity and shared survival, is now fragmented, outsourced, geographically distributed, and algorithmically sorted. Possibilities narrow to a menu of preselected outcomes: brand affiliations, productivity hacks, and fleeting visibility. In such a landscape, to truly feel what we experience – and to truly relate to it – becomes both an act of resistance and a form of remembering: a memory of what we are still capable of. This issue, the first under the thematic umbrella of *Value Attachment*, seeks to reclaim shared experiences and ground them in forms of transactionality that reveal and challenge the logic of the capitalist system. Accordingly, we ask: Which experiences are valued? Who values them for which reasons? How come experiences of interdependence and pain tend to be hidden, while those that show us as able, autonomous and rich are cherished? We turn to art forms and collective practices that reside in the messiness of struggle, love, and memory. Here, experience is neither sanitized nor transactional. It is presented in its rawness, or shaped by the slow labor of time, where wisdom does not flow lightly like water, but emerges thick and opaque, like a primordial broth. In the *Art in Context* section, we draw from Bracha L. Ettinger’s matriarchal gaze on time and trauma, as embodied in her retrospective at K21 in Düsseldorf, visual hymns to interconnectedness against a world marked by profound division. To deepen and pluralize this exploration, we turn to works from the 16th Sharjah Biennial, tracing a lineage of transgenerational experiences through visual and cultural expressions from Oceania to Africa, Asia, and South America. These works chart distinct lived experiences while revealing the interdependencies that bind them. Similarly, the group exhibition “Accumulation (Part I)” at the Migros Museum in Zürich confronts emotional, material, and existential textures of scarcity, urging us to rethink what it means to live within systems of extraction and deprivation. Our first open call (to date) invited you to contribute to a brand new section of our editorial core entitled *Commonplace*, offering a space to foreground the political and poetic dimensions of the everyday to everyone. We are deeply grateful to all who submitted. From the selected contributions, we share narratives of labor struggles and attempts to rehumanize production; reflections on how society is shaped by grief and rage; and gestures of daily militancy and alter-institutionality – ranging from the museum to the meme. In our *Phenomena* section, we spotlight the enduring work of the Los Angeles Poverty Department (LAPD), which this year marks four decades of cultural labor rooted in class struggle on Skid Row in Los Angeles. We talked to its co-founders John Malpede and Henriette Brouwers about reclaiming performance as a vehicle for consciousness-raising, community organizing, and resistance to violence of displacement and speculative urban development. In *Specialists*, we speak with Yuliana Caffé, Yudi Rafael, and Alex Ungprateeb Flynn, curators of the exhibition “Occupation, Construction” at the Fowler Museum (UCLA), opening up the conceptual and political backstage of an exhibition where grassroots cultural practices in Brazil are put in dialogue with Los Angeles’ own, offering examples of community-led sustainable futures. Last, but not least, this issue launches a series of columns centered on the economic dimensions of art, confronting the art market and its inherent inequalities. These contributions – by Catwings, Sepp Eckenhaussen, Prof. Dr. Hubertus Kohle, Clemente Ciarrocca, Lilo Ruminawi, and Nachbarschaftshaus Urbanstraße e.V. – aim to reframe our understanding of experience, shifting it beyond the commodification of labor and toward collective, materialist imaginaries that resist capitalist valuation. The meme on our cover is taken from an IG story from the media platform and community New Models and points to the annihilatory gesture of recreating the rich visual language of Studio Ghibli in endless AI-generated images. It tells us, “the world we live in no longer exists” and, while capitalism relentlessly reinvents itself, we know that its roots are always the same. This issue is dedicated to exposing those roots and to the transformative experiences that arise from resisting them. In Gratitude, AWC With contributions by *Octavia Abril, Aysel Akhundova, anonymer Arbeiterin, Marco Baravalle, Jamila Barakat, Juliana Caffé, Zeliha B. Cenkci, Irene Chin, Casual Staff, Catwings, Bracha L. Ettinger, Sepp Eckenhaussen, Alex Ungprateeb Flynn, Food Culture Days, Francesco Garutti, Giulia Mariachiara Galiano, Natasha Ginwala, Myour Gape, María Inés Plaza Lazo, Prof. Dr. Hubertus Kohle, John Malpede, Dalia Maini, Giulia Mariachiara Galiano, Alesa Mustar, Nachbarschaftshaus Urbanstraße e.V., Zeynep Öz, Frankie Pizá, María Inés Plaza Lazo, LA Poverty Department, Lilo Ruminawi, Pauł Sochacki, Jayanthan Sriram, Boris Suyderhoud, Rita Torres, Yudi Rafael, Alia Swastika, Rico Zyrrano.* ***Impressum / Imprint*** **Founders / Publishers / Directors** Verantwortlicher i.S.d . 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Assistant Editor** Rita Torres **Artistic Project Development & Distribution** Theresa Zwerschke **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph **Proofreading** William Kherbek **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Layout / Design Issue no. 36** Manuel Bürger **We thank our volunteers:** Martha Bird, Kseniia Sivova, Louisa Stank **Druck** Druckzentrum Osnabrück GmbH & Co. KG, Osnabrück, DE **Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse** Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Schillerpromenade 10 Berlin [hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org](mailto:hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Arts of the Working Class can now be read digitally, too.** Please find our vendors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digitally buy a copy and additionally the STREAD issue of each month. **Donate** Paypal: **p@artsoftheworkingclass.org** ### Bracha URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bracha/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:32.000Z Das Zeitempfinden im Werk, Denken und Handeln der Künstlerin Bracha Lichtenberg Ettinger, auch bekannt als BRACHA, ist ein besonderes. Viele ihrer Gemälde entstehen über Jahre, manchmal über Jahrzehnte hinweg und offenbaren sich allmählich – durch Übermalung, Auslöschung und Wiederauftauchen. In BRACHAs Kunst wird Malerei zu “*Carriance*”, zur Praxis des “Fürtragens”: Verletzlichkeit wird nicht bloß dargestellt, sondern mitgetragen und verwandelt. Der Begriff “*Carriance*” – ein von BRACHA geprägter Neologismus – beschreibt ein ethisches und affektives Mit- oder Fürtragen eines Anderen in sich, ohne ihn zu vereinnahmen oder zu verlieren. Es ist eine Form der Fürsorge und Verantwortlichkeit jenseits jeder Aneignung. Diese Praxis durchzieht BRACHAs gesamtes Werk: Eine Malerei, die Erinnerung nicht abbildet, sondern trägt. Eine Malerei, die nicht beansprucht für jemanden zu sprechen, sondern mit ihm\*ihr zu atmen. “*Carriance*” verweigert das Vergessen und bleibt dennoch offen für Veränderung, wie eine Langzeitbelichtung des Inneren. In BRACHA’s Malerei zeigt sich das in überlagerten Details und fragmentarischen Spuren, die sich nicht festschreiben lassen. Das Bild wird zum Gedächtnisraum – offen, schichtig, in Bewegung. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_Bracha-L.-Ettinger_Angel-of-Carriance-Halala-n.4_2017-2023_50x50_oil-on-canvas_photo-by-Inon-Khalfon_10391.jpg) Fig. 1 Auch BRACHAs Namen erzählen von Überlagerungen: *Lichtenberg*, der Name, den ihre Vorfahren in Deutschland vom Herzog von Lichtenberg nach der Vertreibung aus Spanien erhielten; *Ettinger*, der Name ihres ersten Ehemanns. Mit 33 Jahren – nach einem Zusammenbruch in Tel Aviv und einer Karriere als leitende klinische Psychologin – entschied sie sich, Künstlerin zu werden. Und wie viele, die beschließen, Künstler\*in zu werden, zog sie nach Paris. Ein Jahrzehnt später begann sie, ihre Theorie des “Matrixialen” zu veröffentlichen: eine weibliche Alternative zur klassischen, auf phallischen Strukturen basierenden freudianischen Subjektbildung. Bereits Anfang der 1980er Jahre tauchte der Begriff in ihren Notizbüchern auf. Öffentlich erwähnt wurde er 1989 im Gespräch mit Christian Boltanski – ebenfalls ein in Paris lebender Künstler, dessen Werk sich mit Holocaust-Erinnerung auseinandersetzt. BRACHA hörte nie auf, als Psychologin zu arbeiten. Ihre Auseinandersetzungen mit Psyche, Gewalt, Erinnerung und Trauma durchziehen auch ihr künstlerisches Schaffen. Theorie und Malerei entstehen bei ihr nicht nacheinander, sondern miteinander. Man kann ihre Essays lesen, man kann ihre Bilder betrachten – doch das eine existiert nicht ohne das andere. Ihre Sprache ist Malerei. Ihre Malerei ist Theorie. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3_Bracha-L.-Ettinger_Angel-of-Carriance-Eros_2015-2020_40x30cm_oil-on-canvas_photo-Ran-Erde_10244.jpg) Fig. 2 „In gewisser Weise kommt BRACHA zu einer Form des Schreibens, die selbst Malerei ist“, sagt Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev, langjährige Wegbegleiterin der Künstlerin. Wie Lacan in seiner späten Phase – unfähig zu schreiben, zu sprechen, aber fähig zu zeichnen – verwebt BRACHA Denken, Bild und Form. Die borromäischen Knoten, Lacans Symbol für das fragile Zusammenspiel von Realem, Imaginärem und Symbolischem, lassen sich bei ihr in Linien, Lasuren und Wiederholungen wiederfinden. Bei dieser Verdichtung von Schichten, in denen sich Malerei, Schreiben und Existenz übereinander legen, stellt sich die Frage erneut: Was bedeutet es, wenn Kunst nicht mehr Darstellung von Politiken, sondern eine “Koexistenz” von Wissen, Gefühl und Imagination widerspiegelt? Wenn sie nicht abbildet, sondern *fürträgt*? Das „Matrixiale“ des “Fürtragens” ist eine Einladung, die Kunstgeschichte neu zu schreiben – von einer anderen Seite anzugehen: nicht aus dem Mangel, sondern aus dem Mitsein. BRACHA identifizierte die phallischen Vorannahmen und unausgesprochenen Axiome in den Arbeiten von Freud und Lacan – und kehrte sie um. Mit dem „matrixialen Blick“ schlug sie eine neue Theorie der Subjektivierung vor, die sich im Verweben von Figuren in der Malerei selbst entfaltet. Matrix bedeutet Uterus auf Lateinisch. Während bei Freud und Lacan die Subjektivität aus einem grundsätzlichen Mangel hervorgeht – dem Verlust des begehrten Objekts, der Trennung von der Mutter bei der Geburt – verortet BRACHA den Ursprung des Selbst im pränatalen Mit-Entstehen von Ich und Anderem: eine dichte Schichtung geteilter Geschichten. Dies ist auch ein zentrales Argument von Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev – eine der präzisesten Leser\*innen von BRACHAs Werk – und von grundlegender Bedeutung für unser Verständnis von Bildlichkeit im 21\. Jahrhundert. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4_Bracha-L.-Ettinger_Halala-Kaddish-Pieta-n.7_2017-2024_50x50cm_oil-on-canvas_photo-Ran-Erde_10396.jpg) Fig. 3 Schon in ihren frühen Arbeiten thematisierte BRACHA die ethischen Dimensionen technischer Reproduzierbarkeit. Ihre autodidaktisch entwickelte Technik der suspendierten Fotokopie – das Öffnen des Kopiergeräts während der Belichtung – durchkreuzt die Mechanik der Reproduktion und unterläuft die Fixierung. Das unvollständige Bild wird mit Tusche und Toner weitergeführt. Christov-Bakargiev beschreibt diese Methode so: *The photocopy machine captures an already positive photographic printed image of a person, fixes it, and memorialises it by its repetition. BRACHA’s art is an art of healing, based on a subversion and usage/breakage of the technology in our modern world. Because of the risk of banalization, few art historians have dared to obliquely suggest such an obvious, but too literal, link between BRACHA’s technique of suspended photocopying and a symbolic suspension of the Holocaust.* Diese halbfertigen, offenen Fotokopien sprechen von Tod und Gewalt – aber vor allem vom Schutz der Verletzlichsten. Die Subjekte, die durch die bemalten Schichten auftauchen, werden nie zur bloßen Form, nie zum Opfer einer Abstraktion, die Empathie, Mitgefühl oder “Mitzeug\*innenschaft” in den Rezipient\*innen überdecken. Die Gemälde zeigen Spuren von Fotokopien – Luftaufnahmen des Berliner Olympiastadions vor dem Zweiten Weltkrieg und frühe Aufnahmen aus der Luft über Palästina, aufgenommen 1917 von Piloten des Deutschen Reiches. Obwohl Palästina damals formal noch zum Osmanischen Reich gehörte, stand es seit Dezember 1917 unter britischer Militärbesatzung. Der deutsche Blick auf Palästina spiegelt eine europäische koloniale Realität – vor der Shoah, vor der Gründung des Staates Israel, dessen Notwendigkeit gerade aus der Shoah hervorging. Diese Motive durchlaufen in BRACHA’s Werk einen zunehmend metamorphischen Prozess: Sie verlieren ihre vermeintliche Objektivität, werden durchlässig und affektiv aufgeladen. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bracha-L.-Ettinger_Eurydice-series_2013_2023_29x36cm_Mixed-Media-on-Paper_10285.jpg) Fig. 4 Auf die Frage, ob diese Bilder eine Reaktion auf die Bombardierungen in Gaza seien, antwortete BRACHA, dass sie Prozesse öffne, die weit älter und doch mit dem heutigen Leiden der Menschen vor Ort verbunden seien. Die Tragödie im Nahen Osten brauche nicht noch mehr Ausdruck von Hass, sondern Mitgefühl. Und gerade dieses Mitgefühl verlange nach einer anderen Sprache als der Ideologie, die uns bisher nicht weitergebracht hat. Sie male, um Mitgefühl erfahrbar zu machen – jenseits von identitärer Kategorisierung, jenseits des Sagbaren und des Unsagbaren. Solche Übergängen und Verwischungen finden sich auch in ihrer Farbwahl, die sich an den Rändern des Sichtbaren bewegt. Die Palette reicht von Violett über Rot bis Schwarz, mit Weiß und Blau als Zonen des Lichts – Farben an der Grenze elektromagnetischer Wellen, die unser Sehsystem gerade noch erfassen kann. Unsere Retina reagiert unterschiedlich auf diese Randbereiche – Ultraviolett und Infrarot markieren den Übergang von Sichtbarkeit zu Unsichtbarkeit. An dieser Schwelle der Abstraktion arbeitet BRACHA: Dort, wo Wahrnehmung flimmert, Formen verschwimmen, wo Erinnerung, Schmerz und Heilung sich überlagern. Farbe wird hier nicht nur aufgetragen, sondern durchlebt – als Strahlung, als energetische und emotionale Spur. In BRACHAs “matrixialem Blick” ist Kunst keine Darstellung, sondern „Mit-Zeugenschaft“ – eine Teilhabe an etwas, das uns nie ganz gehört. An der Erfahrung eines Anderen, an Verletzbarkeit, am Entstehen eines Selbst im Mitsein. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bracha-L.-Ettinger_Angel-of-Carriance-Halala-n.3_2017-2024_50x50cm_oil-on-canvas_photo-Ran-Erde_10330.jpg) Fig. 5 Historisch erinnert das an eine Verschiebung: Zur Zeit des Buchdrucks waren Bibeln prothetische Technologien kollektiven Gedächtnisses – vergleichbar mit heutigen Smartphones. Die Andachtsmalerei hingegen war ein Medium der Transzendenz: eine Berührungsfläche zwischen Körper und Kosmos, zwischen Intimität und Unendlichkeit. In dieser Tradition steht auch BRACHAs Werk: ein visuelles und synästhetisches Objekt, das nicht nur das Sehen, sondern auch das Fühlen aktiviert. Eine Kunst, die sich in Berührung übersetzt. BRACHAs Bilder gleichen Röntgenaufnahmen einer Schwangerschaft – sie zeigen, dass Menschen aus Interdependenzen entstehen. Im Gegensatz zu Freuds Vorstellung, das Subjekt sei Produkt von Trennung und Mangel, begreift BRACHA Subjektwerdung als “Mit-Entstehen”, das bereits im Mutterleib beginnt. (Wichtig: BRACHA schreibt bewusst weibliche Erfahrung zu, ohne dabei den gebärenden Körper auf ein binäres Geschlechtersystem zu reduzieren.) *One of the photographic sources for Bracha’s works that is never mentioned in essays about her art is ultrasound imaging, the sonogram which performs exactly this: transporting sound waves into visuality through echo-grams, where only the most expert medical gaze can read as body parts the shapes and forms of an unborn child, a pulsating, moving tiny body in amniotic liquid. The body turns, moves, listens and sees through movement and soundscape. Visually, sonograms seem similar to trying to photograph distant cosmic things such as galaxies, or cosmic radiation from millions of years ago. Here the figure-abstract, the abstract figure, represents one “co-poietic” impulse, unformed, impressionistic, provisional, liquid, co-emergent “transsubjective” amoebic subjects, perhaps the kernels or core of why it is worth being alive in “metramorphic” womb-being.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bracha-L.-Ettinger_Eurydice-Halala-n.3_2017-2023_503x503cm_oil-on-canvas_10320.jpg) Fig. 6 Im “matrixialen” Raum teilen das Noch-Nicht-Kind und die Noch-Nicht-Mutter einen Grenzbereich der Wahrnehmung, in dem beide zugleich Subjekt und Andere\*r sind – ohne sich vollständig zu erkennen oder zu trennen. Nach BRACHA sind wir alle partielle Subjekte, bestehend aus entstehenden Ichs und Nicht-Ichs, in einem gemeinsamen, hybriden Raum: einem „unreinen Objekt A“. Das Ich entsteht nicht durch Abgrenzung vom Anderen, sondern durch Berührung mit ihm: *So that BRACHA’s painting is not only the painting of memory traces, but mainly it is an attempt to pre-figure, just like when we reach, half blindly, into the womb for ultrasound signals. The m(Other) receives intimations of the prenatal subject, while the prenatal subject listens to signals from outside the womb. The ultrasound resists imaging technologies while it uses them in duration. This is what painting the emergent, and co-emerging with painting, means, an augural form of painting, an auroral painting. Bracha co-emerges with her paintings, with our paintings.* Diese offene Form der Hermeneutik spiegelt sich in BRACHAs Bildern: keine festen Konturen, sondern überlagerte Zonen der “*Carriance*” – Röntgenbilder, Malerei, Skizzen, Notizen, Theorie und Affekt verwoben. Die Matrix ist dabei kein Symbol für eine Rückkehr zur Mutter, sondern ein Denkraum für eine radikal andere Erfahrung von Subjektivität, „Empathie-in-Mitgefühl“ und Zeug\*innenschaft – eine Ethik des Mitseins. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Bracha-L.-Ettinger_Halala-Series_2018_22x22.5cm_Mixed-Media-on-Paper_10144.jpg) Fig. 7 // --- ### Image credits Cover: Bracha L. Ettinger, Annucion, Birthing and a Girl, 2013-2023\. Courtesy of the artist. Photo Ran Erde Fig. 1: Bracha L. Ettinger, Angel of Carriance - Halala n.4, 2017-2023\. Courtesy of the artist. Photo: Inon Khalfon Fig. 2: Bracha L. Ettinger, Angel of Carriance - Eros, 2015-2020\. Courtesy of the artist. Photo: Ran Erde Fig. 3: Bracha L. Ettinger, Halala-Kaddish-Pieta n.7, 2017-2024\. Courtesy of the artist. Photo: Ran Erde. Fig. 4: Bracha L. Ettinger, Eurydice (series), 2013-2023\. Courtesy of the artist. Fig. 5: Bracha L. Ettinger, Angel of Carriance-Halala n.3, 2017-2024\. Courtesy of the artist. Photo Ran Erde Fig. 6: Bracha L. Ettinger, Eurydice - Halala n.3, 2017-2023\. Courtesy of the artist. Fig. 7: Bracha L. Ettinger, Halala Series, 2018\. Courtesy of the artist. *Octavia Abril ist eine chilenische Schriftsteller\*in, die sensibel auf den Lauf der Jahreszeiten reagiert. Ihre Werke gedeihen, beeinträchtigt durch ihre immer wieder neuen Allergien, die sie aufgrund des Klimawandels und industriell verarbeiteter Lebensmittel erleidet, in den Grenzbereichen zwischen Institutionen und Weinbergen. Mit dieser körperlichen Verfassung beschloss sie, Welten und Worte in gefährlichen Küssen zu schaffen. Sie boykottiert Werbung Plakate, ist aber immer für gute Gespräche zu haben.* ### Putting the Law on Trial URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/putting-the-law-on-trial/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:31.000Z A year ago, I attended a trial at the Berlin Moabit Criminal Court where two climate activists were prosecuted for throwing paint on a Rolex store to protest the corporation’s complicity in ecological destruction. The paint had allegedly left irreparable damage to the window frames, and the activists were ordered to pay a large sum to restore the storefront. I came to see the trial because a friend was involved in the defense. It was my first time witnessing a court case, and I was struck by the performativity of the proceedings, the state attorney’s impassioned speech about liberal values, the formal robes, and the defense’s quotation of Brecht in his closing speech. The trial became a stage for the theatrics of law and a clear example of its bias toward property. While the court pursued compensation for material damage, the activists' motives, rooted in environmental justice, had no place within the legal framework. Justice here was demanded for a damaged window, but not for the ecological harm the corporation causes. Most legal systems recognize only two kinds of entities: natural persons (humans) and legal persons (such as corporations or states), reflecting a juridical structure centered around the protection of human interests and capital. Non-human entities, for example, rivers or forests, are not regarded as legal entities and, thus, cannot seek justice or be represented in court. To claim justice on their behalf, they must first be granted legal personhood. In recent years, several cases, led mainly by indigenous movements, have challenged this anthropocentric, proprietarian framework, advancing an ethic of ecological relationality. A key example is the Whanganui River in Aotearoa (AKA: New Zealand), which, after decades of a land rights struggle by the Whanganui iwi (Māori), became the first river recognized as a legal person under the *Te Awa Tupua Act* (2017). This recognition, aligned with the Māori view of the river as an ancestor, is not merely a matter of representation. It challenges the limitations of juristic language and reveals the inherent values, biases, and power structures embedded in international legal systems. It exposes the paradox of seeking justice within systems that are themselves shaped by the very structures of oppression they purport to redress. It reveals how law is not a neutral tool, but instead a performative apparatus entangled with the legacies of racial capitalism, white supremacy, and anthropocentrism. Within such systems, many beings – human and more-than-human – remain unrecognized as legal subjects, and are excluded from the possibility of justice altogether. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.CICC-Serpentine.jpg) Fig. 1 The Court for Intergenerational Climate Crimes (CICC), which opened on April 4, 2025, at Ambika P3 as part of the Serpentine Gallery’s ongoing “General Ecology” program, had these concerns at its core. Initiated through a collaboration between the artist and researcher Jonas Staal and the writer, lawyer, and activist Radha D’Souza, the CICC was launched with a three-day program. This included an opening event and a series of court hearings that, taking Britain's colonial legacy into account, placed the British East India Company on trial for its role in ecological destruction, displacement, dispossession, and the forced separation of people from land. Following previous collaborations on the New World Summit – Utrecht (2016) and the New World Embassy: Rojava (Oslo City Hall, 2016), D’Souza and Staal launched the ongoing project CICC (Court for Intergenerational Climate Crimes) in 2021\. Conceived as a large-scale tribunal intervention and public assembly, CICC seeks to prosecute ecological and colonial injustices perpetrated by states and corporations. Each iteration invites the public to participate as jury members, collectively enacting a demand for justice tied to the specific locality in which the tribunal takes place. The first CICC, held at Framer Framed in Amsterdam (2021–2022), put the Dutch state, Unilever, ING, and Airbus on trial for their complicity in ecological destruction. The second iteration, part of the 14th Gwangju Biennale in South Korea (2023), focused on the role of the military-industrial complex in climate crimes, particularly in relation to the environmental devastation caused by warfare. This year’s CICC is staged in a former concrete testing factory in West London, now home to the contemporary art space *Ambika P3* and located in the basement of Westminster Business School. As I enter the basement on the evening of April 4th for the opening speeches by Jonas Staal and Radha D’Souza, the scene I step into reminds me of a TV talk show – well-lit, almost disarmingly staged. Yet with each detail that catches my eye, it becomes clear that the symbolism embedded in the set subtly unsettles this first impression, turning the spectacle inside out. The audience is seated around a yellow, triangular stage, on which seven matching wooden chairs are placed. The stage design draws inspiration from El Lissitzky’s propaganda poster *Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge* (1919/1920), created in support of the Bolshevik Red Army. In the original image, a red wedge pierces a white circle (symbolising the anti-communist Whites), its tip nearly reaching the center. The yellow wedge stage echoes that same sense of directional force and ideological charge. While there is no literal circle for the yellow wedge-shaped stage to pierce in the space, the center of the stage features a circular cutout filled with soil, in which an indigo bush is planted. Throughout the hearings, this plant – referred to as “comrade indigo” – is acknowledged as a more-than-human witness to the proceedings. As the hearings unfold, the indigo plant releases its seeds across the courtroom, becoming a living metaphor for sowing disobedience, resistance, and the call for justice. Surrounding the stage, four screens display images of cotton, jute, sugarcane, and papaver plants that played a central role in colonial trade and industry under the East India Company. Represented through images of herbarium sheets, the plant’s display not only positions them as witnesses and participants in the trial but also as evidence of the colonial discipline of botany, through which non-human life was classified, catalogued, and subsumed into a universalizing taxonomy. The stage thereby becomes both evidence of historical crimes and a space for cultivating new forms of comradeship between what D’Souza and Staal call “earthworkers,” as envisioned by the CICC. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3.CICC-Serpentine.jpg) Fig. 2 The trial is opened by a communal reading of the Statutes of the Special Court on Intergenerational Climate Crimes 2025\. The audience, considered a public jury, takes turns reading the statutes setting the ground for the hearings, which we are handed in a leaflet upon entering the space. Statue s.4(3) of the Act states: *Noting that a regular criminal trial is not suitable for bringing to light the criminal as well as civil aspects, and historical, and temporal aspects of intergenerational climate crimes \[...\]* \[1\] Under the premise of contesting the insufficiency of the current legal structures to prosecute the crimes committed by the East India Company and the British Crown, the CICC exposes the inherent performativity of the law by restaging it as a theatrical, though not merely fictional, trial; one that does not mimic a traditional courtroom, but rather reimagines what justice could look like beyond the limits of existing legal frameworks. In the ensuing hearings, which presented three cases in front of the public jury/audience, Jonas Staal took on the role of the clerk, while Radha D’Souza, together with Ramón Vera-Herrera, and the Indigenous rights activist and writer Sharon H. Venne took on the roles of the judges. Drawing on the historian James M. Vaughn’s research on the East India Company and the British Empire, alongside the journalist Andy Rowell’s investigations into the enduring ecological destruction they set in motion, the first hearing presented evidence of how the Crown/Company’s crimes persist through modern corporate-state alliances that shape central policies and practices. The second hearing focused on agricultural techniques and forced labor regimes in the indigo trade. The social justice activist Leonida Odongo testified to the harms caused by contemporary agribusinesses in Kenya, while Ghulam A. Nadri detailed how Company contracts legally bound peasants to forced labor, which also prevented them from cultivating their land. He explained how this led to deforestation, biodiversity loss, famine, and disruptions in local rainfall patterns. The final hearing addressed the forced separation of people from land. The historian Sudipto Mitra spoke about the impact of labor migration on indigenous life in Assam, describing how the East India Company’s forced labor system persisted through contract labor after slavery's abolition. Migrant workers' advocate Mostafa Henaway extended these insights to today’s global labor migration systems. Each hearing was followed by questions from the judges and public jury, collectively assembling a complex picture of the enduring impacts of these historical crimes. At the end of each hearing, the public jury was asked to vote on a verdict. After the third and final session, the court closes with two concluding questions: firstly, whether the labor systems of the British Crown and the East India Company established a form of slavery that divided people and land; and secondly, whether transnational corporations have since expanded and embedded these systems, continuing to forcibly subject people and ecologies to exploitation. I raise my hand in agreement after both questions, along with everyone around me. Looking across the room, the verdict seems unanimous. No visible disagreement. What would happen if someone disagrees? The clerk notes the numbers, thanks are exchanged, and the court is formally adjourned. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4.CICC-Serpentine.jpg) Fig. 3 Stepping out into the late Sunday sun, I carry a sense of irresolution, of having participated in a verdict that holds no weight beyond the performative space. What happens to justice when it exists only within the bounds of the symbolic? What responsibilities do we carry as participants in a trial that claims no institutional authority, yet demands accountability? Reflecting on Point 13 of the Statutes’ Act that states: “CONSCIOUS that the interests of future generations of all species and intergenerational justice may require further actions by the CICC” \[2\]. I think of André Lepecki’s designation of the roles of audience members as either accomplices or witnesses. In his formulation, drawn from critiques of modernity as a continuous crime scene, the passive spectator becomes complicit by silently accepting their position within systems of violence. The accomplice is the one who attends and yet chooses not to act. In contrast, the witness is charged with the ethical task of testifying, of recounting, translating, and transmitting the ephemeral experience of the event across time. The witness does not merely observe but carries the responsibility of historicizing and activating what they’ve seen. For Lepecki, to witness is not just to remember but to activate memory into future responsibility. If we, as the public jury, are not merely observers but also witnesses, then our role extends beyond the courtroom. The collectively reached verdict doesn’t necessarily remain symbolic when it becomes a task of transmission: to recount what we’ve seen and heard, and to transform the speakers’ testimonies into further acts of resistance, care, and justice that uphold the court’s verdict beyond the cultural space. Ideally, the Court for Intergenerational Climate Crimes does not end when the chairs are stacked and the lights turned off, but instead finds ways for its verdict to persist with a shared commitment to making its demands present beyond the courtroom by turning testimonies into actions. *The law wanted to know about desire as a thing that is or isn’t. The law wanted to know if the desire was in the poem. The law wanted to know if the poet’s desire made the poem mean. The poet wanted the law to read the entire poem. The law refused to do this.* \[3\] Contesting the law’s refusal to grasp the whole picture, the CICC offers an enactment that contains both a poetic desire and a revelation of the limitations of a legal system. As Jonas Staal stated in his opening speech, “The court is as real as we act it into being,” the trial highlights how legal systems rely on collectively upheld fictions. In a speculative mode of “what if,” this performative reenactment doesn’t aim to replicate the judicial process, but to challenge its exclusions, particularly its inability to prosecute historical and ecological crimes committed by the British East India Company, whose traces still reverberate in the present. In doing so, the CICC exposes the law’s foundations in violent logics of colonialism, anthropocentrism, and capitalism. Leaning on the “fiction involved in law-making,” as Radha D’Souza describes it, opens the potential to activate the performativity of juridical processes as a rehearsal for new methods of justice, to speculate on an enactment of a trial that moves beyond its confines and expands into the question of what and who can be recognized within systems of accountability. As an exercise in putting the law on trial, the CICC reveals language and the speech act as its main constituting property. In naming the represented plants as witnessing comrades, the attending audience as public jury, and with organizers taking on the positions of clerk and judge to subvert legal vocabulary as the base for setting out the tribunal’s framework, Staal and D’Souza appropriate a juristical language to alter its forces and effects. The CICC opens a linguistic reality in which accountability is no longer anchored in institutional authority but emerges through a shared commitment to collective memory, testimony, and reimagination of justice. Thinking with Anne Boyer’s “Poetry & the Law,” this effort to forge a language that embraces different life forms – as earth workers, comrades, legal entities – extends justice beyond the narrow realm of prosecution and gestures instead toward the generative, disruptive power of poetry: *Poetry, when it regards law, regards law as that which is made of the same substance – language – but itself as what exceeds law’s bounds. The law, when it regards poetry, regards it as the means by which it might finally prosecute hearts.* \[4\] // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Court for Intergenerational Climate Crimes, CICC Pamphlet (2025), 33. \[2\] Court for Intergenerational Climate Crimes,, CICC Pamphlet (2025), 33. \[3\] Anne Boyer, “Poetry & The Law”, in: A Handbook of Disappointed Fate, (New York: Ugly Duckling Presse, 2019), 206. \[4\] Anne Boyer, “Poetry & The Law”, in: A Handbook of Disappointed Fate, (New York: Ugly Duckling Presse, 2019), 207. Image credits Cover Fig.1/2/3: Radha D'Souza and Jonas Staal, Court for Intergenerational Climate Crimes: The British East-India Company on Trial, 2025\. Commissioned by Serpentine Ecologies. Photos: Ruben Hamelink *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### Second-Hand-News aus dem Rheinland URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/second-hand-news-aus-dem-rheinland/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T09:19:28.000Z Die Frage, was Kunstkritik heute sein kann – und was sie längst nicht mehr ist – begleitet die deutsche Sektion des internationalen Kunstkritiker\*innenverbands AICA seit Jahrzehnten. Doch selten war sie so dringlich wie heute, wo gesellschaftliche Polarisierungen, ökonomischer Druck und kulturelle Vereinnahmungen zunehmend den Raum für unabhängige, kritische Stimmen verengen. Dieser Gedanke drängt sich mir auf, während ich dem Podium der diesjährigen Preisträgerinnen des [*AICA-Preises für Junge Kunstkritik*](https://www.aica.de/auszeichnungen/aica-preis-fuer-junge-kunstkritik/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) lausche. Dabei erscheint mir das Gespräch wie eine Bühne der Selbstbehauptung, die wenig mit echter kritischer Auseinandersetzung zu tun hat. Es folgten weder prägnante Positionen noch scharfsinnige Reflexionen – stattdessen herrschte eine Leere, die durch fachliche Ignoranz noch deutlicher spürbar wurde. Ist sie Ausdruck von Bildungsdefiziten, strukturellen Barrieren oder schlicht eines homogenen Desinteresses an der kritischen Auseinandersetzung mit dem eigenen Feld? Mit der *AICA* selbst? Mit dem Talk-Format der [*Art Düsseldorf*](https://www.art-dus.de/de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)? Ich schreibe dies nicht aus Enttäuschung, sondern als langjähriges AICA-Mitglied und diesjähriger Medienpartner der Messe – aus dem wachsenden Bedürfnis nach relevanter, substanzvoller Kritik, für die es hier offenbar keinen Raum gibt. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2024.06.06_Galerie-Gisela-Clement_10.web.jpg) Fig. 1 In einem Kunstbetrieb, dessen Verhältnis zur Ökonomie weniger von „Autonomie“ oder „kritischer Distanz“ geprägt ist als von Verwertungsketten, Symbolproduktion und kuratorischer Kapitalakkumulation, tritt Kritik allzu oft nur noch als PR-Format in Erscheinung. Und doch könnte sie gerade in diesem Kontext das letzte verbleibende Mittel sein, das Kunst und ihre Präsentation noch vom reinen Asset-Management unterscheidet. Jetzt wäre der Moment, den Mut aufzubringen, eine andere Form der Kritik zu wagen – eine, die Analyse mit Nähe verbindet, zum Nutzen aller Beteiligten. Die Topographie der Messe erhebt selten den Anspruch, mehr zu sein als ein Marktplatz. Doch sobald sich die Stadt selbst involviert, verschiebt sich die Perspektive: Sie wird zur Kulisse einer lebendigen Auseinandersetzung. Die Präsentation der *Sammlung Ringier* in der [*Langen Foundation*](https://langenfoundation.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) inszeniert sich als Geste von Großzügigkeit und intellektuellem Anspruch. Tatsächlich ist sie jedoch eine präzise kalkulierte Kanonisierung: Sichtbarkeit wird hier ökonomisch kuratiert. Mit trockenem Humor könnte man die materialistische Kritik von Wade Guyton und Beatrix Ruf im Ausstellen von 500 Werke als Spektakel des Werts lesen, das sich selbst zur Ware macht. Die Präsentation steht im starken Kontrast zu den bisherigen Ausstellungen in der *Langen Foundation*, bei denen das Tadao-Ando-Gebäude zu einem Ort der kontemplativen Erfahrung wurde. Guyton mag sich für den Witz des Depots interessieren, aber man fragt sich: Wer möchte diesem Kurs der Entleerung folgen? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2024.06.06_Galerie-Gisela-Clement_12.web.jpg) Fig. 2 Die Ausstellung in der *Langen Foundation* stellt eine Blaupause der Kunstwelt dar, die dem Prinzip der universellen Verwertbarkeit unterworfen ist. Inmitten des makellos inszenierten Porträt eines Sammlers fehlt das, was kritische Auseinandersetzung ausmacht: Reibung, Kontext, Selbstkritik. Statt eines Dialogs wird hier ein Monolog der Macht inszeniert– kunstvoll ausgeleuchtet, perfekt installiert, aber stumm gegenüber den Fragen der Gegenwart. Kunst wird zur Trophäe, nicht zum Werkzeug. Auch die Platzierung von Simon Fujiwara im Booth der Julia Stoschek Collection beim „Japan-Fokus“ der Messe wirkte zunächst wie eine symptomatische Setzung. Doch „Who the Bear“, sein cartoonhaftes Alter Ego, ist mehr als bloße Karikatur des Kunstmarkts: Es offenbart ein feines Gespür für die Absurditäten ökonomischer Verwertung und verweist zugleich auf die Entfremdungserfahrungen, die damit einhergehen. Im Kontrast zu den marktorientierten Inszenierungen wirken staatlich geförderte Initiativen wie der Bernd-und-Hilla-Becher-Preis erfreulich entschleunigt und konsequent in ihrem Anspruch: Sie orientieren sich an nachvollziehbaren Kriterien, begleiten künstlerische Praxen über längere Zeiträume und stärken die Kunst als Form der Erkenntnis. Die kommende Ausstellung in der Kunsthalle mit den Preisträgerinnen Ursula Schulz-Dornburg und Farah Al Qasimi verspricht in diesem Sinne eine wohltuende Vertiefung. An diesem Punkt wäre eine Kunstkritik, die eine Reproduktion von künstlerischen Positionen hinterfragt, notwendig, doch sie ist selten erwünscht, zumindest nicht, wenn sie wirklich destabilisiert. Kritik, die nicht als Ressource dient, sondern es schafft, unbequem zu sein, Routinen zu stören und dabei Momente der Unterbrechung als Aufforderung sieht, den Betrieb selbst in Frage zu stellen. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2024.06.06_Galerie-Gisela-Clement_14.web.jpg) Fig. 3 Auf der Messe der *Art Düsseldorf* wurde klar: Kritik entfaltet ihr reformierendes Potenzial nur, wenn sie neue Denkräume eröffnet. Statt geschlossener Kreise braucht die Messe kuratierte Zonen der Konzentration – Orte, an denen Werke und Diskurse gleichwertig verhandelt werden. Kursorische, vertiefende Auseinandersetzung sollte stärker ins Zentrum rücken – nicht nur in der Präsentation von Kunst, sondern auch in ihrer kritischen Vermittlung. Ein konkreter Vorschlag: Die Einführung eines kuratierten Programmes für Kunstpublikationen als nicht-kommerzieller Raum für unabhängige Magazine, Lesungen, diskursive Formate und Redaktionstreffen. Die Talks als Kernelement diskursiver Auseinandersetzung zu konsolidieren, statt als Nebenprodukt könnte der *Art Düsseldorf* ermöglichen über die Rolle der Vertriebsplattform hinauswachsen und zu einem Ort werden, an dem neben Werken auch Begriffe, Werte und Kritik zirkulieren. Ein Zeichen des Wandels setzt das Kapitel, das sich in Düsseldorf schließt: Max Mayer beendet seine Galeriearbeit in der Stadt, während die [Galerie Hans Mayer](https://www.galeriehansmayer.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) mit einer letzten Ausstellung das Ende einer Ära würdigte – eine stille, einfühlsame Geste des Abschieds. Max Mayer entschied sich für den Aufbruch: Im September eröffnet er in Berlin-Charlottenburg – ein Wechsel, der nicht nur geographisch zu verstehen ist, sondern auch sinnbildlich für eine Generation steht, die neue Bedingungen schaffen will. Seine neue Galerie versteht sich als Experimentierfeld für das Noch-nicht-Formulierte. Diese Haltung spiegelt bereits der Messestand wider: klar strukturiert, ohne kuratorischen Überbau, mit Raum für jede einzelne Position. Besonders hervor treten die Arbeiten von Stanton Taylor und Tobias Hohn, deren großformatige fotografische Ausschnitte aus Schaufenstern – 7.500 Euro (zzgl. MwSt.) – im engen Austausch entstehen. Die überlagerten Bildflächen erzeugen eine visuelle Spannung zwischen Schärfe und Unschärfe – fast ein tutografischer Moment. Im Dialog dazu hängen neue Gemälde von Murat Önen. Seine Arbeit *Painter’s Window* (11.600 Euro zzgl. MwSt.) reflektiert Malerei als Schaubühne – eine ambivalente Schnittstelle zwischen Blick, Künstlerfigur und Bildraum. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Tobias-Hohn-Stanton-Taylor_In-the-Service-of-Reality-Berlin-FriedrichstraAe_photo-Galerie-Max-Mayer.jpg) Fig. 4 Ein weiterer bedeutender Wechsel: Kathrin Bentele, deren kuratorische Arbeit am Kunstverein Düsseldorf kürzlich ausgezeichnet wurde, verlässt im Herbst die Stadt, um die Leitung der [Kunsthalle Friart](https://friart.ch/de?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) in Fribourg zu übernehmen. Seit 2021 prägt sie das Programm des Kunstvereins mit bedeutenden Ausstellungen wie der aktuellen Soloausstellung von Wang Bing, der Retrospektive von Monica Majoli („Distant Lover 2009–2024“) und „A Portrait in Fragments“ mit Patricia L. Boyd und Moyra Davey. Ihre kuratorische Praxis, die essayistische und genreübergreifende Ansätze verfolgt, reflektiert ein tiefes Verständnis von Institutionen als Orte der Produktion, Vermittlung und des kollektiven Dialogs. Wieder ein Übergang, ein Möglichkeitsraum. Die Frage bleibt, was bleibt – und was neu entstehen darf. Nicht alle verlassen die Region – manche erweitern ihren Radius: Nach der Eröffnung einer dritten Dependance in Los Angeles mit der präzise kuratierten Doppelausstellung *Okey Dokey* (Alice Channer & Charlotte Posenenske) zeigt die [Galerie Konrad Fischer](https://www.konradfischergalerie.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) in Düsseldorf eine eindrucksvolle Installation von Edith Dekyndt. Ihre reduzierten, atmosphärischen Arbeiten – ab Juli auch in der [Kunsthalle Bielefeld](https://kunstverein-bielefeld.de/en/exhibitions/jahresgaben-24-25?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) zu sehen – wirken wie poetische Verschiebungen: leise, aber bestimmt, stellen sie Fragen an das Verhältnis von Körper, Zeit und Umwelt. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSF0904.jpg) Fig. 5 Die [Galerie DREI](https://drei.cologne/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) zeigt gemeinsam mit Lukas Hirsch Werke in einem dichten, spannungsvollen Dialog. Mira Mann überlagert in *Cinematheque Moranbong* (2025) eigene Aufnahmen vom Anwesen Chris Markers mit dessen Nordkorea-Bildern – ein performativer Akt des Re-Fotografierens über Erinnerung und Bewegung. Ihre Skulptur *The monumental objects of the wind* (2024) verbindet theatralische Gesten mit ostasiatischen und europäischen Bildtraditionen. Hans-Ulrich Britsche, ehemaliger Waldorflehrer, zeigt fragile Notationen eines inneren Sehens – licht-metaphysische Malerei zwischen Abstraktion und Figuration. Während Britsche sich ins Poetische vertieft, entfernt sich Mann radikal vom zeitgenössischen Kunstdiskurs – und trifft ihn doch überraschend präzise. Eine alternative Form der Kritik gestalten Katharina Klang und Victoria Tarak, Direktorinnen des Kunstverein Bielefeld, mit ihrem jährlich gestalteten Lesezeichen – eine scheinbar schlichte Geste, die sich als radikales Gegennarrativ zum kognitiven Kapitalismus versteht. Der Satz „I am Eye. I am I. The Mechanical I.“ reflektiert die Verschmelzung von Subjektivität und Technik, von Wahrnehmung und Ideologie. Im kleinen aber prägnanten Booth des Kunstverein Bielefeld ist eine Edition der brasilianischen Künstlerin Andrea Hygino zu finden, die das koloniale Erbe des Bildungssystems ihres Landes thematisiert. Ihre poetische Barrikade aus gestempelter Sprache erinnert an Schüler\*innenproteste und nutzt den Stempel als Symbol widerständigen Lernens. Der Preis ihres Unikats – 1.400 Euro, 1.200 für Mitglieder – macht deutlich: Auch Kritik wird in einem systemimmanenten Kunstmarkt handelbar. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Mariuccia-Secol-ohne-Titel-Galerie-Gisela-Clement-Bonn.web.jpg) Fig. 6 Formell anders, aber ähnlich präzise wirken die bestickten Werke von Mariuccia Secol bei der Bonner [Galerie Gisela Clement](https://www.galerie-clement.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Secol schneidet Risse in Textilien und überstickt sie von Hand – ein zärtlicher Akt des Heilens, der Wunden sichtbar belässt. Der Faden ist kein Ornament, sondern Medium. Ihre in Deutschland kaum bekannten Arbeiten sind für unter 4.000 Euro erhältlich; eine Solo-Ausstellung in Bonn ist geplant. Neben Secol verweist eine ungewöhnliche Arbeit von Ulrike Rosenbachs eines drachenhaften Engels auf verborgene Geschichten. In ihrer Kiste liegt nicht nur das Werk, sondern ein Archiv gelebter Kunstgeschichte – Reisedokumente, Fragmente, Spuren. Wie umgehen mit den Rissen, die der Betrieb hinterlässt? Vielleicht so: sie nicht kitten, sondern offenhalten. Kritik nicht als Dienstleistung begreifen, sondern als Nahtstelle zwischen Theorie und Körper, Institution und Straße, Wort und Protest. Und das Rheinland? Ein Schlachtfeld wie jedes andere – auf dem mit Preisen, Sammlungen und Sichtbarkeit gekämpft wird. Vielleicht braucht es genau hier eine neue Form von Radikalität: elegant, präzise, unbestechlich. // --- ### Image credits **Cover:** Das Lesezeichen I am Eye bezieht sich auf den Text von Dziga Vertov: *"I'm an eye. A mechanical eye. I, the machine, show you a world the way only I can see it. I free myself for today and forever from human immobility. I'm in constant movement. I approach and pull away from objects. I creep under them. I move alongside a running horse's mouth. I fall and rise with the falling and rising bodies. This is I, the machine, manoeuvring in the chaotic movements, recording one movement after another in the most complex combinations. Freed from the boundaries of time and space, I co-ordinate any and all points of the universe, wherever I want them to be. My way leads towards the creation of a fresh perception of the world. Thus I explain in a new way the world unknown to you."* **Fig. 1:** Mariuccia Secol, *... di Lato* (1970er-Jahre). Copyright the artist. Courtesy of Galerie Gisela Clement **Fig. 2:** Mariuccia Secol, *ohne Titel* (ca. 1980). Copyright the artist. Courtesy of Galerie Gisela Clement **Fig. 3:** Mariuccia Secol, *Abito da sposa (Casa di bambola)* (1973). Copyright the artist. Courtesy of Galerie Gisela Clement **Fig. 4:** Tobias Hohn & Stanton Taylor, *In the Service of Reality (Berlin, Friedrichstraße)* (2025). Copyright the artist. Courtesy of Gallery Max Mayer **Fig. 5:** Andréa Hygino, *ESTUDO PARA UM CADEIRAÇO #11 (STUDIE FÜR EINE BARRIKADE)* (2024). Copyright the artist. Courtesy of Kunstverein Bielefeld **Fig. 6:** Mariuccia Secol, *ohne Titel* (1974). Copyright the artist. Courtesy of Galerie Gisela Clement *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Among Friends of the Fiera URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/miart-week-2025/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T09:19:26.000Z It started with a pair of sneakers. A black-and-white photograph of **Robert Rauschenberg**’s worn-out shoes, taken in 1951, bought modestly at the booth of Galerie Lelong, now hangs in the living room of Nicola Ricciardi, a curator turned strategist and the director of [*miart*](https://www.miart.it/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) since 2020\. That small act of collecting sparked something bigger: an exhibition network on Rauschenberg's centenary and a reimagining of Fiera Milano not as an alienated marketplace, but as a sustainable cultural and urban infrastructure. *miart* exposes the contradictions at the heart of art production — caught between neoliberal international regulations and local practices. This year, instead of forming a WhatsApp group with collectors, Ricciardi launched one with Italy’s fragmented gallery associations, working together to pressure the government into revising the 22% VAT rate that’s stifling the art sector. The fair’s halls now display a manifesto of artists speaking out against this tax. “It doesn’t just affect galleries,” she says. “It affects students, artists — the entire ecosystem.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/tempImaget2yjOh.jpg) Fig. 1 Italy taxes art the way it taxes refrigerators – an approach that leaves the ruling class untouched while suffocating everyone else. France, by contrast, levies only 5% on art. This is a structural failure that erodes cultural labor and narrows access to art as a public good. In response, miart isn’t shouting slogans, it’s coordinating strategy. After a year of lobbying, the Minister of Culture has finally acknowledged the problem. It’s a small win, the result of quiet, collective labor – at both the front and back ends of the cultural sector. Even international gallerists including Thaddaeus Ropac have joined the effort. Thanks to Ropac’s support, Ricciardi co-produced a non-commercial Rauschenberg show at the [Museo de Novecento](https://www.museodelnovecento.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and the vaults of Intesa Sanpaolo. “I was shocked,” Ricciardi says. “But people believe in what we’re building.” It may sound naïve, but it’s a wager on art as a commons – not a zero-sum game. This belief also shapes *Talks Among Friends*, a series public conversations unfolding across five institutions: [Fondazione Prada](https://www.fondazioneprada.org/?gad%5Fsource=1&gclid=CjwKCAjwktO%5FBhBrEiwAV70jXjb3n%5Fp-LkO3H6jQqj6VDxgvNRXfrFYefpzvC5CMcJnRum%5FQYMwL-xoCQ9YQAvD%5FBwE&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), [HangarBicocca](https://pirellihangarbicocca.org/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), Museo del Novecento, [Triennale](https://triennale.org/en?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), and PAC. It’s a sustainable move by Ricciardi, who managed to convene major institutions – navigating egos and bureaucracies – through the fragile structure of a local fair composed of 60% national and 40% international participants. When government support evaporates, even unlikely alliances become vital. *miart* offers a lesson this year in resilience and trust – not by transcending the market but by grappling its logics. Ricciardi finds ways to embed care and collectivity into an extractive system. The Rauschenberg photo isn’t just a story, it’s a reminder: even worn-out shoes can carry us forward, if we walk together. Here are some of the highlights seen along the way: ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/tempImageXUieTJ.jpg) Fig. 2 **Terrone** This word, often used pejoratively in Northern Italy to describe Southerners, becomes an act of reclamation in **Ugo Rondinone**’s solo show at the Galleria d’Arte Moderna di Milano. With "*Terrone"* as its title, Rondinone returns to his roots, embracing the term with pride and tenderness. It becomes a poetic tribute to his parents and to the millions of Italians who left the South in search of work, dignity, and survival. The exhibition begins outside, where three monumental olive trees, cast in aluminum and painted white, stand sentinel. For Rondinone, they are not just emblems of resilience and rootedness, but timekeepers. Their gnarled forms condense centuries, carrying the memory of land and labor. Inside, the exhibition’s heart is a painting: [*Il Quarto Stato*](https://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Il%5Fquarto%5Fstato?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (1901) by Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo. The iconic image of workers advancing in solidarity is both historically and personally charged. When Rondinone visited GAM last July, he stood before it, transfixed. He turned to the curator, Caroline Bourgeois, and said, “These are my parents.” Growing up in Switzerland, two images hung in his family’s kitchen: a photo of the Pope and a postcard of Il Quarto Stato. His father would point to the latter and say, “This is us. Don’t ever forget where you come from.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/tempImageFjUfO6.jpg) Fig. 3 In response, Rondinone conceived *The Alphabet of My Parents*, a large-scale installation mirroring the painting’s dimensions. It consists of casts of farming tools once used by immigrant laborers in Long Island, New York, many of them Italian. These tools, symbols of survival, echo the original sketches Pellizza made before completing the painting, where workers held tools that were ultimately removed. Rondinone, in his way, restores them. Another subtle intervention: filters applied to the museum’s windows. Titled *When the Sun Goes Down and the Moon Comes Up*, this gesture doesn’t darken the gallery but opens it to crepuscular light. The filtered glow evokes a sense of transition and timelessness, creating a dialogue between the interior and the olive trees in the courtyard. The exhibition culminates in life-size sculptures of nude dancers, cast in translucent wax mixed with soil from each of the seven continents. These figures, stilled rather than in motion, suggest quiet presence. Like Rondinone's [clowns](https://www.textezurkunst.de/de/48/ugo-rondinone-in-der-kunsthalle-wien/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), they embrace passivity not as apathy, but as poise. The use of earth connects them to origin, place, and decay – a world made and unmade through time. Asked whether Terrone is political, Rondinone replied, “I’m not a political artist. But this is a form of poetic justice.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MIART_06.jpeg) Fig. 4 **Unready Mades** ***miart*’s Emergent section** continues to interrogate what “emergence” means in a global art market obsessed with novelty yet resistant to structural change. As the curator **Attilia Fattori Franchini** explains, it’s not about age but position – emergence as a risk taken. In her seventh year curating the section, Franchini has expanded its meaning to encompass diverse practices and positions. “As long as miart wants to collaborate, I’ll keep doing it.” Among the 25-gallery “cohort,” the joint booth by gallerists [**Matteo Cantarella from Copenhagen**](https://www.matteocantarella.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and [**Shahin Zarinbal from Berlin**](https://shahinzarinbal.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) – the recipient of the LCA Studio Legale Prize – presents a sharp critique of value production and display economies in the works of **Sanna Helena Berger** and **Cecilie Norgaard**. Berger repurposes Italy’s obsolete currency, the lira, by encasing individual coins in capsules at standard painting height, the booth wall becomes a ledger of lost value (Edition of 372 + APs, EUR 160,- per unit, excl. VAT); Norgaard destabilizes the aesthetic function of painting, connecting it to labor conditions and the structures that either sustain or exploit artistic production (paintings priced up to EUR 2.900,-, excl. VAT). In their shared booth, painting is placed beneath a line of devalued money, inverting traditional hierarchies and transforming medium into message. At the booth’s center, Berger’s *“unready mades”* – sculptural stacks of domestic objects – function as both critique and residue: artifacts of domestic labor and capitalist accumulation. These aren’t plinths to elevate commodities, they’re monuments to use, wear, and refuse. They offer not spectacle, but a direct confrontation with the way art is made, shown, and priced. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/tempImage1t5mR0.jpg) Fig. 5 **World Weaving** Water runs through [**Kaufmann Repetto**](https://kaufmannrepetto.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)’s booth like a buried thesis: a current of beauty, pollution, sorrow, and survival. It’s the medium in which bodies drift, labor is obscured, and global circulation shows its seams. **Kresia Mukwazhi**’s sculptural works, made from discarded bra straps salvaged from informal markets in Zimbabwe, speak to the flow of overproduction and post-colonial dumping. Meant to shape and constrain, these garments arrive as “donations” from the Global North, turning fashion into waste and women’s bodies into battlegrounds. Her works weave together histories of exploitation and resistance, hanging against the rain wallpaper of **Judith Hopf** (size adaptable to the walls, priced at EUR 15.000,-, excl. VAT). In the paintings of **Katherine Bradford**, figures float – isolated, yet connected – in shared waters. Bradford’s swimmers suggest fragile solidarity; Sadie Benning’s submerged cut-outs reflect a world in crisis, drifting onward as though everything were normal. Adrian Paci extends this drift with collaged seas, a patchwork of migrations and erasures. Even the ghostly pastels of Gökçen Baltacı seem caught in transit, suspended lives glimpsed through fog and condensation. Water gives way to a dense and layered materiality at [**ChertLüdde**](https://chertluedde.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)’s booth: trompe l’oeil, hair, spices, and decolonial tools to anchor a shared sensibility. **Álvaro Urbano** casts hand-painted apples in concrete (EUR 10.000, excl. VAT). They are remnants of a larger installation tracing queer ecologies and the disappearance of public space in New York. These are pars pro toto of what waits for you in his solo show opening during the [Gallery Weekend in Berlin](https://www.gallery-weekend-berlin.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) the first weekend of May. Ali Eyal paints from exile (EUR 15.000, excl. VAT); his dreamlike works combine helicopters, garden memories, and a child’s footprint crushing a dove. Hair, his own and his mother’s, becomes a recurring symbol of family and loss. In a recent Mexico City show, he mailed painted body fragments via FedEx to build a presence where he was denied it. **Sofía Salazar Rosales**, who studied with Urbano and **Petrit Halilaj**, engages the colonial history of the banana trade in Ecuador in her contribution. Her sculptural works, involving bicycle tubes, metal, and muffled bells (EUR 6.000, excl. VAT), reference silenced rituals and disrupted flows of goods, bodies, and beliefs. Monia Ben Hamouda’s paintings (EUR 20.000, excl. VAT) fuse herbs, gestural abstraction, and spiritual invocation, drawing on her father’s calligraphy and using natural pigments and spices to turn paint into a ritual field. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Tolia-Astakhishvili-Thea-Gvetadze-Ser-Serpas-miart-2025.jpeg) Fig. 6 **Portals** On the eve of opening their new outpost in Cologne (May 17) – a timely expansion for the increasingly contracted Rheinland scene – **LC Queisser,** the Herno Prize Winner for Best Exhibition Project, brought to Milan a booth that felt like both a dispatch from the margins and a sculpted microcosm of its artistic alliances. Presenting works by **Tolia Astakhishvili, Thea Gvetadze, and Ser Serpas**, the Tbilisi-based gallery offered a quiet intensity: fragile and violent, architectural and bodily, intimate and displaced. The painting by Ser Serpas comes from her third solo show with the gallery (EUR 20.000, excl. VAT), which unfolded in late 2024 within the climate of political upheaval in Georgia. Paired with Astakhishvili’s installation *Lites and Gates* (EUR 38.000, excl. VAT), the booth revisits that moment, one shaped as much by resistance as by collaboration. Astakhishvili previously embedded a Serpas painting within the architecture of her show at the Bonner Kunstverein: subtle, visible, yet unreachable. The dialogue between their works continues here. Serpas’s recent series draws on AI-generated imagery of distorted, almost unrecognizable bodies – figures derived from algorithms, turned into raw painterly gestures. Astakhishvili, meanwhile, works with architecture as medium and metaphor. Lites and Gates – made from two lamps and a wall of canvases – evokes a portal without a passage, a recurring motif in her practice, and evoking the gallery’s former life as a Tbilisi apartment. She constructs spaces that confound orientation: mirrors, thresholds, interventions that sit uneasily in the places they inhabit. At miart’s Portal section, **Santiago Yahuarcani** introduces viewers to a universe where the visible and the invisible coexist through ancestral storytelling. Born in 1961 on the banks of the Ampiyacu River in the Peruvian Amazon, Yahuarcani belongs to the Aimeni̶ clan of the Uitoto Nation. A self-taught painter and sculptor, he works with barkcloth (llanchama), natural dyes, and acrylics to materialize the myths, spirits, and cosmological visions transmitted orally by his elders. His paintings (priced EUR 30.000, excl. VAT) are not representations in the Western sense; they are activations, portals into a living knowledge system. Yahuarcani’s figures emerge from a world where plants speak, rivers listen, and the spirits of the ancestors continue to guide. These works bring forth stories that were once forbidden to be shared outside the community: the dances of creation, the spiritual flights of shamans, and the night-long vigils of ampiri and coca where knowledge is dreamed, chewed, and spoken into being. The paintings, despite the sterile environment of the fair, speaks to a collective form of resistance rooted in the spiritual and ecological intelligence of his people, a resistance against the long durée of colonial dispossession and the ongoing erasure of Indigenous epistemologies. His participation in miart 2025, in collaboration with the Peruvian gallery CRISIS, marks the continuation of an international trajectory that has brought his work to institutions such as the Adriano Pedrosa’s Venice Biennale, the Van Abbemuseum, and upcoming solo exhibitions at The Whitworth in Manchester and MASP in São Paulo. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Kazuko-Miyamoto-Untitled-1972-string-and-nails-230-x-205-x-15-cm-courtesy-of-artist-and-EXILE-.jpg) Fig. 7 **Poetry** The golden hues in **Gwenn Thomas**’ works are not applied pigments but the result of a precise gesture in the darkroom. Working with photographic emulsion and developer, she paints light onto unexposed paper, allowing its latent warmth – the natural tone of the paper itself – to emerge through chemical reaction. The series on view at **EXILE**’s booth (EUR 10.000, excl. VAT), made in 2022, is intimate and finite: produced from a single remaining box of vintage paper, each piece carries the risk and finality of its making. Thomas’ process echoes the slow time of analog photography while asserting itself as a kind of painterly alchemy. EXILE also presents drawings by **Katsuko Miyamoto**, including a rarely seen 1972 drawing and a special "string construction" piece (EUR 150.000, excl. VAT), works that hover between drawing, architecture, and sculpture. Miyamoto's relationship to site-specificity is crucial. One wall piece, originally conceived for a brick wall in 1970s Manhattan, is shown here through a system not unlike that used by Sol LeWitt: the work exists as a certificate and set of instructions, executed with painstaking fidelity by institutions. Yet as the KW Institute in Berlin prepares a major exhibition this October, questions arise: what happens when the original site – or even the brick dimensions – no longer exist? What compromises are permissible in the face of historical accuracy? As the Triennale Milano celebrates its centenary, the institution dedicates a major exhibition to **John Giorno**, the poet, activist, and architect of one of the most radical systems of cultural production of the 20th century. Giorno’s practice, born in the heat of New York’s underground scene of which both Thomas and Miyamoto are also part, resonates powerfully in today’s Milan, where art is increasingly caught between public service and market logic. Spread across Cuore, the Triennale’s research and archive center, and the Scalone d’Onore, the exhibition unpacks Giorno’s fierce commitment to democratizing poetry. Highlights include the groundbreaking Dial-a-Poem installation, a pre-digital platform that allowed anyone to access poetry via telephone, and his Perfect Flowers series, where words bloom with visual force. Over a hundred archival materials – posters, letters, flyers, video clips – trace a network of friendships and collaborations with figures such as Andy Warhol, Patti Smith, William S. Burroughs, and Laurie Anderson. But this is no nostalgic tribute. Giorno’s Poetry Systems functioned as an alternative infrastructure: collective, queer, anti-commercial. Giorno rejected the commodification of language and offered new means for artistic distribution – spanning phones, stages, cassette tapes, and walls.Throughout the show, Giorno’s materials are juxtaposed with Triennale’s own archives, inviting dialogue between two histories, one institutional, one insurgent. A free tattoo session of Giorno’s poems caps the program, ensuring that his words, once again, become part of the (literal) body politic. Closing the week of collective memory and speculative futures that shaped this year’s *miart* discursive mesh, **Yukinori Yanagi**’s *"ICARUS,"* curated by Vicente Todolí and Fiammetta Griccioli, reverberates with a sobering grace. Staged between the monumental works of **Tarek Atoui** and **Anselm Kiefer** at Pirelli **HangarBicocca**, the exhibition acts as both anchor and beacon. It is a rare retrospective of one of Japan’s most quietly radical artists, returning to Italy more than three decades after his iconic intervention at the 1993 Venice Biennale. Yanagi, who has long made his home on the island of Momoshima, far from Japan’s urban power centers, creates works that breathe and decay, that traverse soil, borders, and political histories. Viewers walk around displaced flags. Uniluminated containers turn into metaphors of global trauma. Sand drawings erode over time. As for the title of the exhibition, it sits uncomfortably close to the event horizon of our current wars, as global power structures continue to mutate, clinging to the illusion of control. Yanagi’s art, in contrast, dissolves such illusions. His materials – ants, oil drums, rusted scaffolding – reject permanence and demand a different kind of attention: one that is sustained, attentive, and, yes, friendly. In light of *miart* 2025’s theme Among Friends, the darkness of the halls of *"ICARUS,"* becomes a meditative colophon offered to those who give themselves to navigate our daily ruins together. --- ### Footnotes Disclaimer: *For the first time, Arts of the Working Class is disclosing prices in a review. This gesture is a deliberate attempt to introduce, using a class-conscious lens, money – often the unspoken imperative of fairs and commercial events – into our critical discourse.* Images: Cover: John Giorno with *Dial-A-Poem* telephones, c. 1969\. Courtesy of Giorno Poetry Systems Fig. 1 - Letter from the artists to the government. Photo by María Inés Plaza Lazo Fig. 2 - Ugo Rondinone's *Nude (X)*, 2010\. Wax, earth, pigments, 77.5 cm x 123 x 70.5 cm. Photo by María Inés Plaza Lazo Fig. 3 - Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo's *Il Quarto Stato,* 1901, at the GAM Milano. Photo by María Inés Plaza Lazo Fig. 4 - Installation view, Sanna Helena Berger, Cecilie Norgaard, miart 2025, courtesy of artists and Matteo Cantarella and Shahin Zarinbal Fig. 5 - Cressià Mucuazi's composition of fabrics and Judith Hopf's rain wallpaper at Kaufmann Repetto. Photo by María Inés Plaza Lazo Fig. 6 - Installation view, Tolia Astakhishvili, Thea Gvetadze, Ser Serpas at LC Queisser's booth, miart 2025, courtesy of artists and LC Queisser Fig. 7 - Kazuko Miyamoto, Untitled, 1972, string and nails, 230 x 205 x 1,5 cm, courtesy of artist and EXILE *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### April, April! Eine feministische Praxis ohne Widersprüche? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/politisch-poetisch-polemisch-texte-zur-feministischen-gegenwart-von-caroline-kraft-und-elisabeth-wellershaus/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:25.000Z Es wird zwar immer noch nicht vom Mainstream ernst genommen, aber die Tatsache, dass feministische Kämpfe nicht nur gegen patriarchale Strukturen, sondern auch gegen die wirtschaftlichen und medialen Machtverhältnisse die gesellschaftliche Meinungsbildung dominieren, geführt werden müssen, bleibt nach wie vor eine Notwendigkeit für den Widerstand gegen die gegenwärtige Hypermaskulinisierung der digitalen Welt. Während neue Tech-Oligarchen immer mehr Kontrolle innerhalb des abgefuckten kapitalistischen Systems bekommen den digitalen Diskurs in regressive Echokammern verwandeln, sind emanzipatorische Stimmen kontinuierlich gezwungen, sich gegen die Verwertungslogik hegemonialer Wissenshierarchien zu behaupten, sie zu unterwandern und sich ihnen entgegenzustellen. Diese Verhältnisse ermöglichen zwar Räume für Subversivität – sie schaffen aber gleichzeitig auch Räume für deren Zerstörung. Caroline Kraft und Elisabeth Wellershausens Sammelband Politisch, Poetisch, Polemisch - Texte zur feministischen Gegenwart ist nicht nur eine Versammlung feministischer Perspektiven, sondern auch eine exemplarische Bestandsaufnahme der Selbstbehauptung innerhalb eines hegemonialen, patriarchal organisierten Mediensystems, gegen das feministische Stimmen sich immer wieder aufs Neue behaupten müssen. Dabei wird die Zeit-Online Kolumne "10 nach 8" paradigmatisch für Möglichkeiten der Repräsentation und Sichtbarmachung feministischer Stimmen, jedoch auch gleichzeitig für ihre Funktionalisierung innerhalb einer neoliberalen Medienlandschaft. Zehn Jahre lang veröffentlichte "10 nach 8" wöchentlich drei Texte mit welchem die Autor\*innen der Kolumne aktiv den medialen Diskurs um patriarchale Machtverhältnisse, emanzipatorische Kämpfe und Intersektionalität mitgestalten – bis der Medienkonzern die Kolumne nach fast zehn Jahren einstellte. Der Grund dafür waren weder ein fehlendes öffentliches Interesse (die Kolumne gehörte zu den meistgelesenen Artikeln von Zeit-Online) noch die Entscheidung der Kolumnist\*innen, sondern der Ausbau der eigenen Redaktions - “Vielfalt” des Medienkonzerns. Nachdem die Zeit also genug Diversität in den eigenen Stimmen und Perspektiven geschaffen hat, wird die feministische Kolumne nicht mehr gebraucht? Kraft und Wellershaus haben mit "*Politisch, Poetisch, Polemisch*" eine Anthologie zusammengestellt, die weit über die bloße Auflistung repräsentativer, feministischer Gedanken dieser Kolumne hinausgeht. Die versammelten Texte verweigern sich einer Kommodifizierung, welche sich in vorgegebene Formate eines “braven” Feminismus packen lässt, den man\* selbstreflektiert konsumieren kann. Stattdessen zeichnen sie die Kolumne als einen kritischen Raum, in dem weibliche und nicht-binäre Perspektiven eine Stimme finden und die Ökonomie der Medienlandschaft selbst ins Visier genommen wurde. "10 nach 8" analysierte die sozialen, politischen und ökonomischen Strukturen, die immer noch die Diskurse über Geschlecht, Körper und Sexualität prägen. Es sind Texte, die die Grenzen zwischen dem Politischen und dem Persönlichen weiter aufbrechen und die Art und Weise hinterfragen, wie Geschichten über Feminismus erzählt werden. Dabei finden sich unter den versammelten Autor\*innen nicht nur etablierte Namen, sondern auch neue, weniger bekannte Stimmen, die einen frischen Blick auf unterschiedliche soziale Realitäten werfen. Kraft und Wellershaus schaffen mit Politisch, Poetisch, Polemisch eine Vielzahl von unterschiedlichen, feministischen Perspektiven zusammenzubringen, die eine Auseinandersetzung mit den verschiedenen Aspekten struktureller Bedingungen der Ungleichheit ermöglichen. Gleichzeitig wird die Notwendigkeit betont, feministische Kämpfe intersektionaler zu gestalten und mehr Raum für die Perspektiven mehrfach-marginalisierter Gruppen – etwa queerer und behinderter Menschen – zu schaffen. In einer Zeit, in der Feminismus zunehmend als Marketinginstrument und Konsumobjekt missbraucht wird, schaffen es Kraft und Wellershaus, den Fokus auf ein anderes, radikales Verständnis von Feminismus zu lenken– eines, das nicht nur nach medialer Anerkennung und Repräsentation sucht, sondern grundlegende Veränderungen der sozialen Verhältnisse fordert. Ein Beispiel für eine kritische Analyse der sozialen Machtstrukturen innerhalb einer monopolisierten Medienlandschaft ist der Beitrag von Nino Haratischwili. Sie schreibt: „*Feminismus darf nicht nur ein Gespräch in den westlichen Medien sein. Es muss in den Rändern von Europa und den ehemaligen Kolonien geführt werden.*“ Diese Bemerkung scheint jedoch die kolonialen Erbschaften des Feminismus außen vor zu lassen, ohne zu hinterfragen, dass der westliche Feminismus, gerade in seiner institutionalisierten Form, sich oft innerhalb von Verhältnissen etabliert, die die kolonialen und kapitalistischen Ausbeutungsverhältnisse reproduzieren. Statt einen (immer noch oft überwiegend weißen) feministischen Diskurs aus dem globalen Westen zu exportieren, braucht es eine radikale Auseinandersetzung mit der eigenen Reproduktion von Machtverhältnissen die dem eurozentristischen und westlichem Feminismus inhärent sind. An diesem Punkt setzen viele der Texte der Anthologie selbstkritisch an, reflektieren die eurozentristische Ausrichtung eigener emanzipatorischer Kämpfe und ermöglichen es damit, Feminismus als globalen, aber auch lokal widersprüchlichen Kampf zu begreifen. Die stilistische Vielfalt der Anthologie spiegelt die pluralen Ausdrucksformen feministischen Schreibens wider. Zwischen essayistischer Dichte, poetischer Sensibilität und theoretischer Präzision entfaltet sich ein Panorama feministisch-marxistischer Praxen, das keineswegs einfachen Lösungen bietet. Vielmehr fordert es dazu auf, die Widersprüche und Fragmentierungen des Feminismus nicht nur zu erkennen, sondern aktiv in die politische Praxis zu integrieren. Dabei werden die Gedichte, Essays und theoretischen Auseinandersetzungen in ihrer Zusammenstellung zu einem Zeugnis für feministische Emanzipation als widersprüchliche, vielfältige Bewegung, die Gleichzeitigkeiten, Gegenteile und Überlagerungen genauso beinhaltet wie ihre stetige Veränderung. Die Texte der Anthologie zeigen Feminismus nicht als dogmatische Ideologie, sondern als stetige Aktualisierung eines Widerstands gegen die Bedingungen der jeweiligen strukturellen Gegenwart. Die Einstellung der Kolumne "10 nach 8" ist nicht nur ein Verlust für feministische Diskursräume, sondern ein Moment, der die fortschreitende Kommerzialisierung und Vereinheitlichung öffentlicher Medienlandschaften sichtbar macht. Feminismus nicht als catchy T-Shirt Aufdruck und Clickbait Thema für Profitsteigerung in der Medienbranche zu begreifen, bedeutet, sich für nachhaltige strukturelle Veränderungen und gegen die Kapitalisierung von Erfahrungen und Selbstermächtigung einzusetzen. Wenn wir den Kampf für ein radikales und selbstreflexives feministisches Schreiben ernst nehmen, müssen wir uns gegen diese Entwicklungen stellen und Räume für eine nicht-kommodifizierte und radikale Feminismus-Praxis schaffen. Kraft und Wellershaus schenken uns mit dieser Anthologie eine wertvolle Ressource – ein Zeugnis nicht nur der feministischen Gegenwart, sondern auch des notwendigen Widerstands gegen konservative Kräfte,, wie wir sie heute im Auslöschen von progressiven Perspektiven im Feuilleton, der Zensur linker demokratischer Kritik und nicht zuletzt [in menschenrechtswidrigen Deportationen von Studierenden und Aktivist\*innen](https://theintercept.com/2025/03/31/germany-gaza-protesters-deport/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) beobachten müssen. *Caroline Kraft, Elisabeth Wellershaus (Hrg.), Politisch, Poetisch, Polemisch. Texte zur feministischen Gegenwart. 256 Seiten € 25,- bei Leykam Verlag* --- ### “10 nach 8” war das erste Frauenkollektiv, das eine eigene Kolumne in einem nationalen Medium etablierte – damals unter dem Titel “10 nach 8” im Feuilleton der Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. Zwei Jahre später wurde daraus “10 nach 8”, eine wöchentliche Kolumne auf Zeit Online, die seit zehn Jahren die feministische Debatte prägt. Bei “10 nach 8” schreiben Autorinnen, Schriftstellerinnen, Journalistinnen und Wissenschaftlerinnen, aber auch Expertinnen spezieller Fachgebiete; es kommen junge Stimmen genauso wie preisgekrönte Autorinnen zu Wort und solche, die in ihren Ländern nicht mehr publizieren dürfen oder aus deren Ländern gerade kaum berichtet wird. Aktuelle Mitglieder der “10 nach 8” Redaktion sind Marion Detjen, Hella Dietz, Heike-Melba Fendel, Annett Gröschner, Caroline Kraft, Lina Muzur, Catherine Newmark, Annika Reich und Elisabeth Wellershaus. *Octavia Abril ist eine chilenische Schriftsteller\*in, die sensibel auf den Lauf der Jahreszeiten reagiert. Ihre Werke gedeihen, beeinträchtigt durch ihre immer wieder neuen Allergien, die sie aufgrund des Klimawandels und industriell verarbeiteter Lebensmittel erleidet, in den Grenzbereichen zwischen Institutionen und Weinbergen. Mit dieser körperlichen Verfassung beschloss sie, Welten und Worte in gefährlichen Küssen zu schaffen. Sie boykottiert Werbung Plakate, ist aber immer für gute Gespräche zu haben.* ### Art in Permacrisis URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/art-in-permacrisis/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:23.000Z If you are an art worker, you’ve probably been accused of making bad life decisions by your family, childhood friends, and random people who feel entitled to comment just because you happened to be at the same party. It’s hard to argue that they were wrong. Becoming an art worker is often an awful career decision. Underpayment and unstable working conditions are normalized to the point where artistic labor is almost always precarious. This structural precarity starkly contrasts with the capital flows of the art market. Sales on the global art market totaled about 65 billion dollars in 2023\. Blue chip galleries, fairs, and auction houses thrive on the backs of underpaid art workers. A UNESCO report on the working conditions of artists in 2018 concluded: “The largest subsidy for the arts comes not from governments, patrons, or the private sector, but from artists themselves in the form of unpaid or underpaid labor.” How is it possible that so much money is made in the arts but not by the ones who create the art? And what can art workers do to organize, demand, or create a more sustainable system of art circulation? In this series, titled *Art in Permacrisis*, I will discuss some of art workers’ most commonly-heard ideas for a more sustainable art economy – such as basic income or fair practices – and assess their strategic potential. But I will start with a broader reflection. How can we think about the strategic organization of art workers while the world is on fire? Since the COVID pandemic, there’s been a lingering sense that we live in a “time of crisis”. The highly anticipated “new normal” never arrived. Instead, we’ve faced climate collapse, war in Ukraine, war in Sudan, war in DRC, genocide in Palestine, inflation, misinformation, housing shortages, and rising authoritarianism. Like the heads of a Hydra, every defeated crisis seems to reemerge multiplied. Some have described this multiplicity as a “polycrisis”, or a "stack of crises". I think the word “permacrisis” is more apt because the exceptional crisis appears to have become permanent. This is a confusing contradiction. “Crisis” describes a decisive change in the world, requiring a new normal. But if the crisis is permanent, there’s no normalcy, and, consequently, there is no more crisis. The result is an anxious state of insecurity, where everything feels broken, but it’s impossible to say exactly where history took a wrong turn, or how to set matters right. It is not unlike the 1980s’ “no future” sentiment, when people sought refuge from economic recession, political repression, and fear of the Cold War on the fringes of society, in punk culture and squatting. Regardless of the mobilization of many people worldwide, hopes for systemic improvement might be even fainter today as world powers keep prioritizing their economic interests over the destruction of the planet. Permacrisis puts art worker organizing in a tough spot. However urgent the question of precarious artwork is, there are always more urgent crises. Every day it’s harder to rebuke the stereotypes about art. To the Left, art seems a bourgeois privilege. To conservatives, it is a hobby of “wokies”. To liberals, it is a passion-driven dream job. Art workers, painfully aware of their limitations, feel disoriented and disillusioned. As the artist Maisa Imamović said, we are “always doomed to feel guilty in our unique way.” The ritualistic habit of academics to organize debates about the “real value of art”, which always concludes that art is socially indispensable, does not seem to help much. Waning support for art as a social good is nothing new. Thirty years ago, the “creative industries” paradigm emerged, promoting art as a profitable endeavor and leading to a series of resilience programs and industry development policies that have instrumentalized art but not improved its working conditions. Permacrisis management is merely an acceleration of this neoliberal instrumentalism, which comes in two flavors. The value of art, and its right to funding, is either determined by its competence to address urgent crises and make a “positive impact”, from relieving care workers to developing new materials to be used in the energy transition, or by being the victim of the correct crisis, e.g., human rights infringements. Like any system of governance, the crisis economy is a system of push and pull. Participants can find their agency by studying its patterns and using them to beat the funders in their own game. If we assume the next crisis is around the corner, art workers can prepare – and strike first. Any period between crises can be used to develop tools, such as safe spaces, mutual aid networks, governance systems, and redistribution experiments. Many people working in social art practice have figured this out perfectly. But that’s not all. With the acknowledgment of permanent crisis as a dominant governance tool, we can develop our desires and self-organized tactics into a strategic counter-position. In solidarity with other workers subject to permacrisis management – in healthcare, education, public transport, and so on – we can regain a grip on the direction of history and fight for our rights together. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/perm2.jpg) Fig.1 /// Image Credits: Cover: Jerónimo Rüedi, Étude #3 (2025). Photo credit: Gerhard Kassner © / Courtesy: The artist and Galerie Nordenhake Berlin/Stockholm/ Fig.1 Portrait, Sepp Eckenhaussen, courtesy of the author --- ### Notes *Sepp Eckenhaussen is an art writer, organizer, and researcher based in Amsterdam. He works at the Institute of Network Cultures and the Caradt research group of the St. Joost Academy.* ### Glanz und Armut URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/glanz-und-armut-das-geld-bei-arts-of-the-working-class/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:22.000Z Letztens war ich in der Ausstellung der deutsch-vietnamesischen Künstlerin Sung Tieu in der Kunstorganisation KW. Sie setzt sich dafür ein, die Verteilung von Geld und den Einfluss von Geld in der Kunst zu verändern – die Briefe, die sie geschrieben hat, sind in Spiegel eingraviert, es ist schwer sie zu lesen, nur wenn man eine Lichtquelle darauf richtet, erscheinen die Buchstaben klar. Es ist Teil ihrer künstlerischen Praxis, den Kontext der Produktion in Frage zu stellen – ohne dass ihre Arbeit an Sinnlichkeit verliert. Wie sie, habe auch ich Kunst studiert und konnte die Produktionsbedingungen nicht ertragen. Ich wollte das Kunstsystem so verändern, dass es allen offensteht. Doch wo Kunst mit Geld zu tun hat, gibt es Ausschlüsse. Diese Ungleichheiten führten mich zu *Arts of the Working Class*. Ich verwalte dort das Geld – nicht, weil ich es will, sondern weil es nötig ist. Unser Ziel war es, Geldströme der Kunstwelt umzuverteilen und benachteiligten Menschen zugutekommen zu lassen – eine Art Ablasshandel. Viele in Museen und im Kunstmarkt bedauern, dass Kunst meist nur Reichen dient. Da sie das System nicht ändern können, kaufen sie bei uns Anzeigen und tragen so zu mehr Zugang bei. Bis vor Kurzem gewannen wir neue Partner\*innen (pro Ausgabe rund 300 persönliche E-Mails mit Follow-ups), stellten Rechnungen und finanzierten damit Team und Produktion. Gleichzeitig widmeten wir uns Künstler\*innen und Texten, die die bestehende Ordnung hinterfragen. Jetzt ist alles anders. Selbst jene, die uns unterstützen wollen, haben kaum noch Budgets. Seit fast sieben Jahren finanzieren wir die Zeitung ohne feste Mittel von Ausgabe zu Ausgabe. Kulturkürzungen treffen vor allem Zugänglichkeit: Marketing, Barrierefreiheit, Vermittlung. Die hart erkämpften Mittel sind gestrichen – und als Medium, das davon lebte, trifft uns das direkt. Auch das Interesse der High Class Kunstakteur\*innen hat nachgelassen. Warum, sagt uns niemand ins Gesicht. 2022 war unser bislang bestes Jahr mit fast 297.000 Euro, doch pandemiebedingt hohe Druckkosten und hohe Steuernachzahlungen schmälerten das Plus. Wir konnten viele Autor\*innen bezahlen und zwei neue Teammitglieder gewinnen. Seit 2023 sind die Einnahmen jedoch rückläufig – über 60.000 Euro weniger –, während unser Team groß und Druckkosten durch eine 75-prozentige Auflagensteigerung hoch blieben. Zusätzlich begannen wir, Schulden bei der Künstlersozialkasse abzubezahlen. Wir arbeiteten deshalb vor allem mit Autor\*innen, die bereits sozialversicherte Einkünfte hatten, und zahlten Texthonorare nur noch an weniger Privilegierte. Zudem hatten wir den Eindruck, dass unsere Haltung zum Völkermord in Gaza dazu führte, dass sich weniger Organisationen mit uns solidarisierten. Schließlich mussten wir unser Team verkleinern, hatten kaum Kapazitäten mehr für barrierefreie Angebote und verzichteten teilweise auf Honorare. Trotz aller Herausforderungen konnten wir uns gerade noch über Wasser halten – doch unsere Zukunft ist ungewiss, was uns alle in permanenten Stress versetzt. Wir sind nicht nur ein sozial engagiertes Kunstprojekt, sondern auch eine wichtige Einnahmequelle für 400 Verkäufer\*innen. Angesichts steigender Wohnungslosigkeit in Berlin – derzeit rund 50.000 Menschen – wächst der Bedarf. Von 70.000 gedruckten Zeitungen pro Auflage werden pessimistisch geschätzt 55.000 verkauft. Bei einem Verkaufspreis von 2,50 Euro bedeutet das direkte Einnahmen von über 137.000 Euro pro Ausgabe – hochgerechnet auf fünf Ausgaben im Jahr mehr als 687.000 Euro. Diese Einnahmen ermöglichen es den Verkäufer\*innen, sich dort legal mit dem Nötigsten zu versorgen, wo Hilfesysteme nicht ausreichen. Künstlerische Arbeiten sind Spiegel einer Gesellschaft – dort, wo gemalt, getanzt und musiziert wird, ist sie nicht arm. In Sung Tieus Spiegeln blickt man nur sich selbst in die Augen, solange kein Licht auf sie gerichtet wird. Doch gerade durch das Licht, das auf sie gerichtet wird – durch eine soziale Kunstförderung – bleibt eine Gesellschaft reich, auch wenn die allgemeinen ökonomischen Bedingungen sich verschlechtern. Kunst hat ohnehin nur einen winzigen Teil des Berliner Haushalts ausgemacht, ihn noch überproportional zu kürzen, verändert im Gesamtetat nicht viel, bedeutet aber tiefgreifende Einschnitte für uns alle. Denn Kunst ist nicht nur Ausdruck, sondern auch ein Maßstab für gesellschaftliche Vitalität. // Consider supporting our labor by [donating](https://www.betterplace.org/en/projects/117943-printing-costs-support-arts-of-the-working-class?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Every offer is vital and greatly appreciated. Thank you! --- ### Image Caption: @Arts of the Working Class *Amelie Jakubek is an artist, editor and organizer researching methodologies of collectives. She is working with AWC, Archive Books, the Collective Commune/ الكوميونة (Cairo and Berlin) and the association Membrane e.V..* ### For ‘I love you’, say Free Palestine URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/for-i-love-you-say-free-palestine/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:20.000Z Sara M. Saleh’s poem *Say Free Palestine*, described as a meditation after Sean Bonney, pays homage to the English left-wing radical poet known for his poem *ACAB: A Nursery Rhyme*, which begins with the line: *"for I love you" say fuck the police.* March 21, 2025, marks the 65th anniversary of the tragic Sharpeville massacre—a day in 1960 when police fired 1,344 rounds without warning into a peaceful crowd, including children, protesting South Africa’s apartheid pass laws. At least 91 people were killed, and at least 238 were injured. *Fuck the police.* Saleh has called for drawing attention to this date in solidarity with South Africa at a time of intensified imperial duress—partly sanctioned by the U.S. in response to South Africa’s case at the International Court of Justice (ICJ), which accuses Israel of genocide against the Palestinian people. *Free Palestine.* Progressive International (PI), for whom Saleh contributed poetry to a limited-edition fundraising artwork, has stood alongside South Africa in its ICJ case and, most recently, against the U.S. cancellation of USAID funding. Saleh’s contribution to PI is a poetic call for Palestinian liberation, embedded within a graphic of broken chains by Mothanna Hussein, a Jordan-based artist and co-founder of the Free Palestine Project. *Free Palestine.* March 21 is also the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, established in 1965 as a landmark step by the United Nations General Assembly toward eradicating racism. *No one is free until we are all free.* Sara M. Saleh is an award-winning writer, human rights lawyer, and racial justice organizer. The daughter of migrants from Palestine, Egypt, and Lebanon, she lives on Bidjigal land (Sydney, Australia) and is committed to uplifting youth and building communities of resistance rooted in the interconnected struggles for Indigenous self-determination. In keeping with this commitment to liberation and to highlight the fundraising series of editions inspired by Indigenous solidarity with Palestine, we republish a poem from Sara M. Saleh’s award-winning poetry collection, *The Flirtation of Girls* (UQP, 2023). This piece speaks to colonization and displacement, engaging with *Sun of Consciousness* and other works by Édouard Glissant. **Punctuation as Organised Violence** 1. Thirty years ago, my folks migrated to a city half dipped in ocean. To this day, they are sepia-faced and prayer-shaped, coal soot and cedar hills still rolling underneath their fingernails. 2. Arab-Australian Arab Australian ArabAustralian This arbiter of gods. This wretched frontier: duality or hybridity? 3. The Arabic language does not have hyphens, because the breaking of something from the inside is not allowed or we continue on as if it is not broken. We ration bags of za’atar and green almonds and joke in our parents’ accents. In this place, we have learned to leaven like dough. 4. Colony wants to uproot the cedar from our nails. To be citizen is gauze negotiating with festering exit wound. 5. Father says. maybe it does not. always. have to be. a choice. between the smell of bread. or the smell of bullets. 6. The officer who watched the burning cities on my father’s shoulders said, ‘This land is for the living. For the free.’ And stamped the papers. ‘Welcome. Welcome.’ Each welcome a blister. A pledge to an elusive ‘Australian future’. 7. Welcome. To back-beating labour. To being taxed out of beloved, grey-lipped houses, for the motorway and a multiplex centre. To brazen high-rises and rooftop gardens and high ceilings with delicate emerald trimmings. To where they constantly move salvation beyond our reach. 8. Application. Visa. Policy. Border. Fence. Ceremony. Father didn’t know then, are all elements of fiction, too. 9. My folks grew me on a land thick with eucalyptus, moss, metropole, genocide Arab, Australian, Other, Amen My first words stumbled out, shreds of language on a clumsy tongue, clenched in-between the aches of this suspect body our lands, our skies, our lines heirlooms cannot be fractured, or curated so quietly in your museums and galleries Does a comma slow the chaos, or expand it? 10. Arab, Australian, Other In a drop-down list, who I am does not exist in English, violence enacted by a box, these algorithms of absence 11. Every day, Mama and Baba plant the alphabet at first light. Their citrus-skinned bodies are whole canons. Our lashes licking the sun, we make our way into the golden harvest. 12. Mama and Baba, they’re so thin now. The words for what is killing us also thinning. 13. Apostrophe: to contract or to subdue; to possess 14. Sundays at Arabic school, we chewed mastic-flavoured gum loudly and rolled our eyes at Mr Hamza’s conjugations. I must have missed the (grammar) lesson then: That which you think you possess first possesses you. 15. Australia Largest exports: metals, minerals, grains Largest imports: m̶a̶c̶h̶i̶n̶e̶r̶y̶, p̶r̶e̶c̶i̶o̶u̶s̶ ̶m̶e̶t̶a̶l̶s̶, p̶l̶a̶s̶t̶i̶c̶s̶, human beings (Colony honors itself with statues and streets and medals and prefers we don’t ask whose land we are on and who builds everything around here.) 16. The Migration Act (people are footnotes). 17. Colony is a chalk outline. We are up to our necks in fuel and muted prayers and neat piles of grief. Let us swing baseball bats instead of lighting more candles. I know it is not convenient (when will it be?) 18. Silence in a place is the same as not existing (and they expect us to not exist). 19. My folks did not march at protests and chant slogans and they never explained preferential voting. They lined up at the phone booth for hours as the promised rains came, cradling 50¢ coins and two screaming toddlers waiting for a chance to call home. They worked dishwashing and cleaning shifts to scrape enough for my medical bills and one book from the Scholastic sheet (and what is more revolutionary?) Invasion / Terra Nullius / White Australia / Immigration / English / Multiculturalism / Democracy / Anti-Terror laws, over 82 and counting / Countering Violent Extremism / Afghanistan / Iraq / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 1. My people are not recognised in national legislation that protects from Racial Discrimination. Why do these Laws matter more than we do? (Do we matter at all?) What of these holy texts lodged deep in the dredges of country? 2. How long must we live in a world that only offers dust in our eyes and is there such a thing as courtesy in a War we never asked for? 3. I don’t want a world where we are Almost Beautiful. 4. Is Death still any less Death if it is taking its time? To the edition direct [here](%20https://workshop.progressive.international/products/for-twitter-im-not-calling-that-shit-x-say-free-palestine-sara-m-saleh-x-mothanna-hussein). // **Sara M. Saleh**’s words have been published widely in English and Arabic. While her literary achievements transcend medium, genre and geography, she is most celebrated for co-editing the critically acclaimed anthology, Arab, Australian, Other (Picador, 2019) and for historic wins of both the Peter Porter Poetry Prize (2021) and the Overland Judith Wright Poetry Prize (2020). Her books The Flirtation Of Girls (UQP, 2023) and Songs For The Dead And The Living (Affirm Press, 2023) have received multiple shortlists and prizes. **Mothanna Hussein** is an artist and designer active in the creative community of Amman, Jordan. With Saaed Abu-Jaber, Hussein is co-founder of the widely respected Radio alHara, a Palestinian digital radio station and Turbo, a design studio with international clients. The Free Palestine Project is a curated archive of free posters submitted by designers from around the globe in solidarity with Palestine, initiated with Hadi Alaeddin as the design duo known as Warsheh. *Ché Zara Blomfield is a curator and Arts and Culture Coordinator for Progressive International.* ### This Won’t Be a Wholly Aestheticized Documenta URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/naomi-beckwiths-first-press-conference-in-kassel/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:19.000Z Her first public address as the artistic director of Documenta 16 was, as expected, a carefully choreographed introduction to her curatorial methodology and intellectual framework. Yet, what stands out is that, despite governmental efforts to preempt controversy and an imperative to address the disillusionment of radical voices who see continuity as a betrayal, Naomi Beckwith already underscored the necessity of interdisciplinarity, non-hierarchical collaboration, and global interconnectedness – quoting what the artist Arthur Jafa calls “a principle of discrepancy.” Beneath this expansive rhetoric, however, lies a strategic vagueness. Her vision appears calibrated to keep political influence at bay – a decision that, in this context, seems as determined as it is cautious. Rather than issuing grand political statements, Beckwith articulated a curatorial rhetoric rooted in personal and collective historical consciousness and the agency of artistic practice, allowing the images from her presentation, projected on the wall, to voice what she chose not to say. I thank her for that discrete, but very powerful, move. One of the key moments of her lecture centered on a photograph taken of the blue sky in Chicago paired with a credit card of the same color. The image was created by the artist Cauleen Smith. The landscape seen was not incidental – it was near Beckwith’s own birthplace and the neighborhood where she was raised. This geographic connection carried a deeper resonance with the histories and creative heritage linking Chicago’s diverse communities and those of Berlin. In the first half of the 20th century, the historian David Levering Lewis chose the term “congregation” over “segregation” to emphasize how Black communities actively constructed their own cultural and social ecosystems. These spaces, shaped by linguistic and artistic traditions, were necessary for survival and self-definition, something Beckwith linked to her own subjective formation. Well into the 2000s, German was still spoken among neighbors in Chicago’s Lincoln Square, just as Black cultural enclaves continued to foster their own aesthetic codes and systems of meaning. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Glenn-Ligon-Give-Us-a-Poem-2007.jpg) Fig. 1 Beckwith grew up at the tail end of an era marked by extraordinary artistic and intellectual energy within Chicago’s Black community. This was a time when artists saw themselves as agents of transformation, reshaping not only their own narratives but also those of the broader world. Their efforts generated images that allowed Black individuals to see themselves as beautiful and powerful in a society that often denied them both qualities. This ethos was deeply intertwined with Pan-Africanism, a movement of transnational solidarity that resonated strongly as African and Caribbean nations gained independence from European rule. Pan-Africanism did not stop at the Black Atlantic, however; it forged alliances with liberation struggles in Latin America, Asia, and Eastern Europe, culminating in the rise of the Non-Aligned Movement in the 1950s. This history, Beckwith suggested, has shaped her curatorial sensibility, instilling a belief that artistic and intellectual work could – and should – extend beyond national or geographic boundaries. Her trajectory as a curator was formalized in *The Freedom Principle: Experiments in Art and Music, 1965 to Now* at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago, an exhibition she co-curated 2015 a.o. with Dieter Roelstraete, a former member of the Documenta 14 team. In her lecture, Beckwith paid attentive tribute to past Documenta contributors, particularly recognizing the role of ruangrupa, whose vision for Documenta 15 expanded the exhibition’s geopolitical scope and decentralized its structures rising to a planetary level in order to address (non)human rights. By mentioning ruangrupa in this way, she signaled an awareness of the forces that have shaped Documenta’s evolution – from its Cold War diplomatic origins to its attempted postcolonial expansions – and positioned herself within that lineage with a will to return to its roots. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Installation-view-The-Freedom-Principle-Experiments-in-Art-and-Music.-1965-to-N.png) Fig. 2 This sustained attention to historical and cross-disciplinary practices was further reflected in her reference of Wadada Leo Smith’s graphic scores – abstract, aerial-esque drawings intended to be interpreted and performed by musicians. But Beckwith also acknowledged the ways in which US cultural production is scrutinized from an external perspective, particularly when non-American curators engage critically with its legacy. It was in this context that she invoked the late Okwui Enwezor and Bisi Silva. This invocation marked a turning point in her lecture. Enwezor’s *Grief and Grievance: Art and Mourning in America* at the New Museum, exhibited 2021 after his passing and deeply rooted in the intellectual project of Documenta 11, examined the ways in which unresolved national traumas shape cultural production. It interrogated how segregationist legacies continue to structure contemporary life and questioned whether cultural encounters can ever be truly equitable. While Beckwith’s nod to Enwezor aligned her with a similar critical stance, her approach to migration and displacement appeared more focused on the subjective dimensions of these experiences rather than their structural or political implications. This positioning became even clearer when she addressed the role of protest at Documenta. Unlike ruangrupa, who fully integrated forms of protest into their curatorial model, making them an active part of their methodology, Beckwith opted for a more distanced approach. She described how she would allow protests to take over the institution without intervening – acknowledging their presence without directly engaging with them. This signals an institutional strategy that neither antagonizes nor aligns itself with protest culture, emphasizing instead the protection of both the institution and the right to free expression. It is a curatorial stance that seeks to neutralize conflict rather than incorporate it; one that suggests an awareness of the political stakes, while also drawing a line between institutional responsibility and artistic freedom. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nan-Goldins-P.A.I.N-group-held-an-anti-Sackler-protest-at-the-Guggenheim-Museum-New-York-2019-Group-of-artists-protesting-in-solidarity-with-Iranian-women-2019.jpg) Fig. 3 Her framing of Documenta 16 as a response to the shattered expectations of the 21st century – replete as it is with wars, economic precarity, ecological disaster, rising autocracy, exemplified by the renewed bombing by Netanjahu's government in Gaza, beginning the same day as the event – was equal parts compelling and evasive. She rightfully criticized the impulse to merely catalog trauma, arguing that the exhibition should instead examine how artists have historically adapted to crisis. Yet this stance risks depoliticizing crises altogether, turning them into an abstract curatorial theme rather than an immediate material reality. In reflecting on past moments of institutional protest, Beckwith presented an image of Nan Goldin and the P.A.I.N. collective’s 2019 demonstrations against the efforts of the Sackler family to art-wash their involvement in the opioid crisis, alongside an image from 2022 protests in solidarity with women in Iran. She positioned these moments as examples of institutions allowing activist interventions to unfold within their walls without interference, citing her own experience at the Guggenheim, where protesters were “let in” but not engaged with in order to “protect the staff.” This framing, however, signals institutional tolerance rather than participation. It is a way of saying: “We will not integrate protest into the curatorial framework, but neither will we suppress it. We will protect the institution and the right to freedom of speech for all.” In doing so, Beckwith sidesteps the more urgent question of what protest looks like today, when police violence against activists, students, and cultural workers is escalating. The cultural environment has changed; protest is no longer something that institutions can afford to passively observe from behind their walls. Student activists such as Mahmoud Khalil from Columbia University are detained without charges or deported from Trump’s US, while German police increasingly brutalize civilians at protests and in other contexts. If Documenta is to remain a space for difficult conversations, it must address these realities head-on rather than relegating them to historical references. The reluctance to do so reflects a larger tendency in contemporary institutional discourse: the aestheticization of political struggle stripped of its consequences. If this won’t be a wholly aestheticized Documenta, then the question remains: how will it account for the cost of dissent today? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Naeem-Mohaiemen-Two-Meetings-and-a-Funeral-2017.-Installation-view-Hessisches-Landesmuseum-Kassel-Documenta.jpg) Fig. 4 This is where the inclusion of artists such as Naeem Mohaiemen becomes crucial. His *Two Meetings and a Funeral* (2017), shown at the Hessisches Landesmuseum in Kassel during Documenta 14, examined the political foundations of the Non-Aligned Movement, demonstrating how art can critically address global political histories without succumbing to local ideological constraints. Mohaiemen’s work represents a refusal to engage in the superficial moralism that often dominates institutional discourse, instead offering a nuanced critique that looks beyond reactionary censorship tactics – tactics frequently weaponized by the far right to silence progressive voices. His practice, like that of many artists Documenta has historically embraced, challenges not just the content of political debates, but the very conditions in which they are framed. If Beckwith truly seeks to let the artworks speak for themselves, these are the kinds of voices that must be amplified. Despite these critiques, Beckwith’s insistence on letting the artworks speak for themselves is a stance worth defending. If, as she claims, this won’t be a wholly aestheticized Documenta, then her curatorial strategy must make clear – through the artworks rather than the rhetoric – that the perspectives she invites will address the suppression of basic rights, the silencing of protest, and the marginalization of radical voices. For this, she will need the support of art workers and activists – those willing to push against the art-perennial-industrial complex and resist the temptation to turn Documenta into yet another polished, Instagrammable affair. The challenge, then, is to support her vision for something truly groundbreaking. I’m game, how about you? --- ### Images Cover - Portrait of Naomi Beckwith on March 18, 2025 © Dieter Schachtschneider Fig. 1 - Glenn Ligon, *Give Us a Poem*, 2007 Fig. 2 - Installation view, *The Freedom Principle: Experiments in Art and Music. 1965 to Now*, Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago Jul - Nov, 2015 Fig. 3 - Nan Goldin’s P.A.I.N group held an anti-Sackler protest at the Guggenheim Museum, New York 2019 / Group of artists protesting in solidarity with Iranian women, 2019 © awc Fig. 4 - Naeem Mohaiemen, *Two Meetings and a Funeral*, 2017\. Installation view: Hessisches Landesmuseum, Kassel, Documenta © awc *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Die Realität hinter der Leinwand URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bericht-ueber-premiere-von-no-other-land-in-masafer-yatta/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:17.000Z *Dieser Text entstand vor genau einem Jahr, anlässlich der Premiere von "No Other Land" in Masafer Yatta, wo die Dokumentation gedreht wurde. Nach den Angriffen der Hamas auf Israel am 7\. Oktober 2023 hat sich die Lage für die Zivilbevölkerung in Masafer Yatta weiter verschärft. Im Schatten des Krieges in Gaza berichten Menschenrechtsorganisationen wie die israelische B'Tselem von einem drastischen Anstieg der Siedlergewalt, zunehmender Vertreibung, die Völkerrechtler teilweise als Ethnische Säuberung klassifizieren, und einer de-facto Annexion des Westjordanlands. Mit dem israelischen Luftangriff auf Gaza in der vergangenen Nacht endete nun auch der fragile Waffenstillstand.* Dass die israelisch-palästinensische Co-Produktion “No Other Land” ausgerechnet in Deutschland uraufgeführt wurde, führte zum Eklat: In der Dankesrede zur Preisverleihung für den Berlinale Dokumentarfilmpreis am 24\. Februar 2024 bezeichneten die Regisseure Yuval Abraham und Basel Adra die Situation im Westjordanland als “Apartheid”, weil der Israeli und der Palästinenser dort auf ein und demselben Gebiet unterschiedlichen Rechtssystemen unterstellt sind. „Ich lebe unter Zivilrecht, Basel unter Militärrecht“, erklärte Abraham. Adra rief angesichts der vielen Opfer des Krieges im Gazastreifen zum Stopp von Waffenlieferungen an Israel auf. Politiker wie Berlins Regierender Bürgermeister Kai Wegner sprachen daraufhin von Antisemitismus. Israelische Medien warfen Adra daraufhin Antisemitismus in seiner Rede vor, was wiederum in deutschen Medien nachhallte. Abraham wurde nach eigenen Angaben auf dem Heimweg von Nachrichten mit Todesdrohungen von Israelis überschüttet. In seiner Heimatstadt bei Be’er Scheva stand ein wütender Mob vor dem Haus der Familie, seine Eltern flohen mitten in der Nacht. Sie fühlten sich so bedroht, dass sie fortziehen wollen. “Ich finde es dreist, wie manche deutsche Politiker bei einer jüdischen Person, deren Familie im Holocaust ermordet wurde, Antisemitismus insinuieren”, sagte Abraham im persönlichen Gespräch. Dies nähme dem Wort “Antisemitismus” jedwede Bedeutung und werde oft gebraucht, um kritische Stimmen zum Schweigen zu bringen. Grotesk sei auch, dass die Kulturstaatsministerin Claudia Roth in einem Interview mit dem SPIEGEL gesagt hatte, ihr Applaus habe nur dem jüdisch-israelischen Regisseur gegolten, ausgerechnet nachdem der von “Apartheid” gesprochen hat. Das sei aus ihrer Sicht „sehr problematisch, und das lehne ich ab“, sagte Roth in dem Interview. Zwei Wochen nach dem Eklat in Deutschland sind Adra, Yuval Abraham, Hamdan Ballal sowie Rachel Szor an den Drehort ihres Films zurückgekehrt, um “No Other Land” erstmals den Menschen in den Dörfern von Masafer Yatta zu zeigen. Menschen, deren Alltag von der israelischen Militärkontrolle und Siedlergewalt bestimmt ist. Es ist Mitte März, und die Mondsichel schimmert vor einem Himmel aus zartem Rosa und Blau, als der Muezzin an diesem Frühlingsabend im Ramadan zum Gebet ruft in dem palästinensischen Dorf at-Tuwani im Westjordanland. Zum Fastenbrechen haben sich einige Dutzende Dorfbewohner, israelische Friedensaktivisten und internationale Medienvertreterinnen in dem Haus des palästinensischen Aktivisten und Journalisten Basel Adra Haus eingefunden, es gibt Pilaf und arabischen Kaffee. Zurück im Westjordanland, zurück in der politischen Realität, in der der Film entsand, sagt Yuval Abraham: “Der Antisemitismus-Vorwurf wurde in einer Art instrumentalisiert, die mich und meine Familie gefährdet. Aber noch mehr gefährdet all das Basel, der hier unter einer Militärbesatzung umzingelt von gewalttätigen Siedlungen lebt.” Nach den Drohungen gegen seine Familie habe er Anrufe von deutschen Regierungsvertretern erhalten, die sich entschuldigt hätten, und israelische Journalisten hätten ihm geschrieben, sie würden sich für den Umgang in den israelischen Medien schämen. Nun scherzt Abraham: Er sei erleichtert, dass die Aufmerksamkeit zu Jonathan Glazer weitergezogen sei. Der jüdisch-britische Regisseur Glazer hat bei der Oscar-Verleihung vor knapp einer Woche für „The Zone of Interest“ die Auszeichnung für den besten internationalen Film erhalten. Den Preis hat Glazer gemeinsam mit den ebenfalls jüdischen Produzenten entgegengenommen und in seiner Dankesrede gesagt: "Wir stehen hier als Männer, die es anfechten, wenn ihr Jüdischsein und der Holocaust gekapert werden von einer Besatzung, welche für so viele unschuldige Menschen in einen Konflikt geführt hat. Ob es um die Opfer des 7\. Oktober in Israel geht oder die der fortlaufenden Attacke auf Gaza, alle sind Opfer von Entmenschlichung, und die Frage ist: Wie widerstehen wir dieser?" Wie Glazers Spielfilm – in dessen Zentrum Rudolf Höß, der einstige Kommandant des KZ Auschwitz, und dessen Familie steht – war auch die Doku „No Other Land“ lange vor dem 7\. Oktober 2023 abgedreht. Doch beide hatten danach ihre Weltpremiere. Über den Erscheinungszeitpunkt, mitten im Gaza-Krieg, der durch die Terrorangriffe der Hamas auf israelische Orte ausgelöst wurde, hätten sich die Regisseure von „No Other Land“ natürlich Gedanken gemacht, sagt Yuval Abraham. Denn auch die Gemeinde von Masafer Yatta habe bei diesen Angriffen Freunde verloren, etwa den Friedensaktivisten Haim Katsman, der im Kibbutz Holit von den Terroristen ermordet wurde, als er eine Nachbarin schützte. “Aber wir haben schon am 06\. und am 05\. Oktober und lange davor darüber gesprochen, dass dieses System der Ungerechtigkeit nicht nachhaltig ist und nicht aufrechterhalten werden kann”, so Abraham. Die Forderungen nach einer politischen Lösung des Konflikts zwischen Palästinensern und Israelis seien bis zur jüngsten Eskalation weitestgehend ignoriert worden. Vielleicht sei genau jetzt der richtige Zeitpunkt, wirklich darüber zu sprechen. Viele Bewohner der Region Masafer Yatta, die etwa zwanzig kleinen Gemeinden im südlichen Westjordanland umfasst, sind seit Jahrzehnten von Vertreibung bedroht. In den Achtzigerjahren wurden Teile des Gebiets von Israel zur Militärübungszone deklariert. In einem Dokument von 1981 ist festgehalten, dass der damalige israelische Landwirtschaftsminister und spätere Premierminister Ariel Scharon erklärte, eine Feuerzone könne erwirken, “dass diese so wichtigen Gebiete in unserer Hand bleiben“. Die palästinensischen Bewohner versuchten, sich mit juristischen Mitteln zu wehren. Schließlich leben sie schon seit Jahrhunderten als Olivenbauern und Schafhirten dort, ihre Dörfer sind in osmanischen und britischen Dokumenten beschrieben. Doch 2022 entschied Israels oberstes Gericht, dass die Räumung von acht Gemeinden mit etwa 1.800 Menschen in der sogenannten “Firing Zone 918” rechtens sei. Aber auch jene Dörfer, die nicht vom Gerichtsurteil bedroht sind und außerhalb der Feuerzone sind von Siedlergewalt bedroht. Auch deshalb wollen die Regisseure den Film jetzt zeigen, und nicht erst, wenn es für die Menschen schon zu spät ist. “Wir haben keine juristischen Mittel, um uns zu wehren. Politischer Druck ist das einzige, was uns jetzt noch schützen kann”, sagt Basel Adra. “No Other Land” ist ein aktivistischer Film. Viele Aufnahmen, die darin zu sehen sind, sind lange vor der Idee entstanden, sie für einen Dokumentarfilm zu verwenden: Manche Szenen sind über 20 Jahre alt und wurden ursprünglich privat gemacht. Andere sind im Zuge einer Initiative der israelischen Menschenrechtsorganisation B’Tselem gedreht worden, die Kameras in palästinensischen Gebieten mit besonders hoher Siedlergewalt verteilte, um die Verbrechen zu dokumentieren. Denn, sagt Adra, die Stimmen von Palästinensern würden oft angezweifelt, deshalb brauche es Beweise. Zur Filmvorführung haben die Regisseure in den Hof der Schule von at-Tuwani geladen, wo sich einige hunderte Bewohner versammeln. Einige Dutzend israelische Friedensaktivisten aus Tel Aviv und Jerusalem sind nach Masafer Yatta gekommen, weil sie die Bewohner mit ihrer Präsenz vor Siedlergewalt und militärischer Willkür schützen wollen. Auch die Schule ist ein Brennpunkt der Gewalt. Hierher kommen Kinder aus der ganzen Region. In Tuba, aus dem einige Schüler stammten, waren die Siedlerangriffe auf Kinder so drastisch, dass die israelische Besatzungsbehörde auf internationalen Druck Soldaten angeordnet hat die Kinder zur Schule in at-Tuwani zu begleiten, um sie zu schützen. “Die größte Angst ist, dass wir auch heute angegriffen werden”, sagt Ariel, ein Friedensaktivist, der aus Tel Aviv angereist ist. Seit Jahren kommt er alle paar Wochen, um Olivenbauern und Schafhirten zu begleiten. Die nächste israelische Siedlung ist nur einige hunderte Meter von at-Tuwani entfernt. Mittlerweile leben dort doppelt so viele israelische Siedler als Palästinenser in at-Tuwani. Erst im November wurde Ariel beim Versuch, einen Angriff von Siedlern aus dem benachbarten Ma'on auf einen Garten im Dorf zu filmen, von den radikalen israelischen Siedlern mit scharfer Munition beschossen. Als die Lichter ausgehen und der Film beginnt, schleichen sich Yuval Abraham und Basel Adra aus dem Publikum. Sie wollen vorbereitet sein, sollten Soldaten oder Siedler die Filmvorführung angreifen. Auf der Leinwand ertönt bald Adras Stimme, er spricht über seine erste Begegnung mit israelischen Soldaten, bei der er fünf Jahre alt gewesen sei, und über den Aktivismus seiner Eltern. 95 Minuten lang zeigt “No Other Land” den Alltag der Bewohner von Masafer Yatta, eingebettet in die Freundschaft zwischen dem 27-jährigen palästinensischen Aktivisten Basel Adra und dem 28-jährigen israelischen Journalisten Yuval Abraham. Er folgt der Familie der 50-jährigen Farsi Umm Harun, einer Bewohnerin von Khirbet al-Rakiz, einem kleinen Ort in Masafer Yatta. Hastig trägt sie ihr weniges Hab und Gut aus ihrer bescheidenen Hütte und ruf ihrer Tochter Doha raus, als der Bulldozer auf ihr Heim zufährt. Das kleine Mädchen klammert sich an seine Mutter und weint. Und trotz der Brutalität kichert eine Gruppe von Kindern im Publikum, Doha sitzt an diesem Abend unter ihnen. Wie Umm Haruns Haus werden seit 1999 regelmäßig Häuser und Zugangswege von Militär und Besatzungsbehörde demoliert. Die palästinensischen Gemeinden werden an der Entwicklung gehindert, während die völkerrechtswidrigen Siedlungen und Außenposten weiter wachsen, einige von ihnen in die Feuerzone hinein. In einer Aufnahme des Films zeigt sich dieser Kontrast besonders: Während das palästinensische Haus im Vordergrund innerhalb von Minuten in Schutt gelegt wird, sind im Hintergrund die großen, gepflegten Häuser der Siedler zu sehen. Noch drastischer zeigt der Film die Ungleichheit der Leben von Yuval Abraham und Basel Adra. Letzterer hat an der Hebron University Jura studiert, doch im Westjordanland gibt es keine Arbeit für die Jugend. Seit er 19 Jahre alt ist, filmt er gewalttätige Übergriffe durch Siedler und durch Soldaten. Die erste hat er von B'Tselem bekommen als Teil eines Programms, Rechtsbrüche in der Region zu dokumentieren. Immer wieder wird er dafür verprügelt, seine Kameras werden konfisziert. Als sein Vater ohne Grund und ohne Anklage in Administrativhaft gesteckt wird, wird Adra depressiv und traut sich nicht mehr raus. Wie weit die Ungerechtigkeit geht, zeigt der Fall von Umm Haruns Sohn Harun Abu Aram. Er wird beim Versuch, an einem Stromgenerator festzuhalten, von einem Soldaten aus nächster Nähe in den Hals geschossen. Auch das ist auf Film festgehalten. Die Armee sagte damals, sie “werde den Fall untersuchen”. Passiert ist seitdem nichts. Aber auch ruhige und optimistische Momente gibt es, wenn etwa die Bewohner mit einer List eine neue Schule bauen. Im Abspann des Films ist schließlich noch eine letzte Szene eine Woche nach dem07\. Oktober zu sehen, die manche vielleicht bereits aus den sozialen Medien kennen: Ein israelischer Siedler läuft auf einen unbewaffneten palästinensischen Mann, schubst ihn und schießt ihm aus nächster Nähe mit einem Sturmgewehr in den Bauch. Die Szene hat Basel Adra gefilmt, nun hört man auch die Tonspur dazu: Adra ruft die israelische Polizei an, berichtet ihr vom Angriff und bittet um Hilfe. Die Polizistin ignoriert ihn offenbar. Sein Cousin überlebt den Angriff. “Aber seit dem 07\. Oktober ist die Realität noch viel schlimmer als das, was im Film zu sehen ist”, sagt Basel Adra. Nach Angaben vieler Menschenrechtsorganisationen ist Siedlergewalt so eskaliert, dass allein in Masafer Yatta sechs Gemeinden geflohen sind. Siedler aus den angrenzenden Siedlungen haben die verlassenen Orte inzwischen fast vollständig zerstört. Im restlichen Westjordanland sieht es nicht viel besser aus. Umm Haruns Sohn ist inzwischen an seiner Schussverletzung gestorben. Auch sie saß an diesem Abend im Publikum. “Es war sehr emotional, diese Bilder zu sehen”, sagt sie. “Aber ich glaube, es ist gut, wenn die Welt sieht, welche Ungerechtigkeit uns widerfährt.” Nach der Filmvorführung bleiben etwa ein Dutzend israelischer Aktivisten in at-Tuwani. An diesem Abend sind die Siedler nicht gekommen, aber das könnte sich am nächsten Morgen schon ändern. Auf den Straßen im Westjordanland sind nachts israelische Autos und Siedlerbusse zu sehen. Palästinenser hingegen, so berichten viele hier, haben Angst, nachts auf der Straße von Siedlern angegriffen zu werden. // --- ### Image Caption Cover: No Other Land by Basel Adra, Hamdan, Ballal, Yuval Abraham, Rachel Szor, Palestine/Norway, 2024, 95’, video still. *Kulturjournalistin mit Sitz im Nahe Osten und schreibt über politische und kulturelle Entwicklungen in Israel und Palästina.* ### Narrating Protests: On Collectivizing Justice URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/narrating-protests-on-collectivizing-justice/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:16.000Z *The first episode of Narrating Protests dealt with the decentralized protests in Hong Kong from 2019-2020 and their digital mobilization and organization strategies. The protesters used various digital tools to organize and protect each other. The second episode is about collaborative knowledge production, critical documentation, and investigating systemic injustices in the context of trial observation at the Tiergarten District Court in Berlin.* Civil society observations of court proceedings have existed in Germany since 1970 to ensure transparency and fairness in national criminal proceedings. For around ten years, the focus has increasingly shifted to analyzing structural racism - an important step in the critical examination of discrimination in the German legal system. In the justice system context, it is often assumed that procedural standards and human rights violations are only relevant in authoritarian regimes and that the German justice system acts neutrally. This overlooks the fact that structural disadvantages and bias in legal decisions exist in democratic systems too. **\# Trial observations as a strategy** In 2022, the [Justice Collective](https://www.justice-collective.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (Berlin) began systematically observing criminal proceedings at the District Court in Tiergarten in Berlin to analyze the processes of the German criminal justice system and investigate potential injustices and discrimination. The collective was founded in 2021 by lawyer and researcher Mitali Nagrecha as part of the alliance to abolish alternative prison sentences. In addition to Mitali Nagrecha, the group consists, among others, of the lawyer Franziska Duda, who focuses on criminal, migration, and labor law, and Lara Möller, who studies Social Justice and Community Action at the University of Edinburgh and who researches racism in the penal system. The collective aimed to identify and check possible discriminatory and racist structures within criminal proceedings through civil society trial observations. Since then, the collective has observed and documented more than 230 trials. Up to 300 minor cases are heard every day at the local court in Tiergarten, including traffic offenses, theft, commuting without a ticket, and fraud. The cases mainly concern people who live in precarious social circumstances and who are confronted with poverty, discrimination, and inadequate defense. “Observing trials gives us an insight into the criminal justice system and allows us to see where the state is taking action and what political strategies can be derived from this,” says Lara Möller of the Justice Collective. The collective often visits courtrooms unannounced and documents the progress of the proceedings, which usually last between 15 minutes and one hour - far too little time to grasp the complexity of the cases. Trial observers are not direct participants in the trial and are not legally recognized, as is the case with the press, for example. However, they are considered part of the public and are, therefore, legally protected also, because court hearings and the pronouncement of judgments are generally public. According to the Justice Collective, the documentation of court proceedings is often perceived as disruptive and irrelevant by the court and the public prosecutor's office - especially related to factors critical of racism. This often results in trial observers being admonished, for example, not to take notes about the trial, even though this is permitted for the press and the audience. The aim of observing court proceedings is not only to record the course of the proceedings but also to scrutinize the structures behind the judgments and to empower those affected by the proceedings - especially if they do not have a lawyer. Many of the cases observed concern people from marginalized social classes, including people with precarious residency status. The defendants are often unemployed have no regular income or are banned from working. In many cases, they lack legal support or the necessary language skills to defend themselves in court. “There are always two or three of us. If we notice things during the trial that have been overlooked, we talk to the defense during the break," says Möller. In some cases, however, the accused lacks a defense and a support network of any kind. **\# Racism in criminal proceedings** In December 2024, the Justice Collective published some of the documented cases in an archive as part of the “Racism on Trial” campaign and used anonymized examples to show the systematic inequalities and structural racism in the German criminal justice system. Overall, the documented trials contradict populist narratives that often attempt to link migration with criminality. Instead, they show that migrants and racialized people are disproportionately criminalized and highlight the social and economic backgrounds that bring people into contact with the criminal justice system. According to the collective, racial profiling continues in numerous process observations. In many cases, police witness statements are the only evidence and these are rarely questioned. “In the court, racial profiling is strongly legitimized and continued by authorities, police, and private security companies,” explains Möller. In addition, many defendants are exposed to racist stereotypes from judges and prosecutors during the negotiations. In Germany, there are legal requirements that are intended to ensure compliance with human rights and non-discriminatory prosecution. On the one hand, criminal prosecution must not be discriminatory, and on the other hand, at an international level, in reference to Article 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights, there is an obligation to uphold non-discriminatory criminal prosecution and the right to an independent, impartial court. Against this background, process observations are repeatedly questioned by the court. However, what is overlooked is that there are legal provisions that create circumstances for systematic racism in the first place. In many cases documented by the Justice Collective, not only was anti-Roma and/or anti-Muslim racism evident, for example, through repeated derogatory comments against the defendant, but the Collective also recorded racism towards asylum seekers. Judges included factors such as the primary motivation for migration, residence, status, and integration performance of those affected during sentencing, which often led to higher penalties compared to similar offenses by non-racialized defendants. “For example, if people don’t yet speak German very well, this is seen as a lack of integration performance and a poor social prognosis,” says Möller. “In the case of migrant mothers, the judgment often includes the fact that they are ‘bad mothers’ and bad examples for their children.” The systemic precarity in which these mothers live is ignored, instead, they are blamed for their poverty and even lectured. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-of-the-court-case-archive-of-the-ARacism-on-trialA-campaign-A-Justice-Collective.png) Fig. 1 **\# Merging of criminal and migration law** Although criminal and migration law are separate, the Justice Collective showed that the residence permits of refugees are often jeopardized in criminal proceedings. In one case, the collective documented how, in the opinion of the Justice Collective, a judge deliberately left the spelling of the defendant's name and other data incorrect to create a document that legitimized the deportation of the person concerned. “The immigration authorities had registered the person's name incorrectly. The defense lawyer corrected the spelling several times, but the judge insisted on the wrong version and an argument ensued. In our opinion, the court wanted to create a document that confirmed the spelling of the immigration authorities so that the person could be deported,” explains Möller. In another criminal case, which the Collective published under the heading of Case 23 in their case archive, the court accused the defendant of falsifying identity documents. Despite evidence proving that the person had traveled to Germany for medical treatment on a visa, the court sentenced the person to a heavy fine. “Although even the public prosecutor's office stated that there was no evidence of intent to deceive, the judge explained that he simply did not believe that the person had come to Germany legally,” explains Möller. “He said that he considered it to be a common case of illegal migration and sentenced the person based on this belief.” This context shows how strongly criminal courts are involved in the tasks of a border regime and how they arbitrarily jeopardize the health and residency status of affected persons - as even minor penalties often have immediate consequences under residence law. **\# Criminalization of poverty** The trials observed also illustrate comprehensively how poverty is criminalized in the legal system. Many defendants live in precarious social circumstances, which are reflected in the offenses committed - often minor ones, which, in many instances, are the result of social exclusion and a lack of economic resources. In 2024 the National Discrimination and Racism Monitor (NaDiRa) first published a report that showed that people who are racially marked have a higher risk of living in poverty than those who are not. According to the Collective, people who live in precarious social conditions, who do not have work opportunities, or who are not allowed to work due to their residency status, are more likely to develop survival strategies that are then criminalized. Many of the defendants in the observed proceedings also did not have a lawyer because they simply could not afford one. In some cases, there was also a lack of translators, which made the defense even more difficult and increased the possibility of a conviction. In several cases, the defendants received high fines for their offenses, which they could not afford due to their financial situation. The result: they committed new offenses to pay off existing fines. Besides the flat daily rate is often set without taking the financial circumstances of those affected into account - even though a legal regulation in October 2023 stipulated that the daily rates must not endanger subsistence level. The penal system reproduces poverty, as high fines hit people at risk of poverty disproportionately hard, eroding even more resources and further increasing their social and economic insecurity. “When questioned in court, those affected are often blamed for their poverty. This approach is a simple solution to a crisis in which more and more people are affected by poverty,” says Lara Möller. “The alternative would be concrete changes to the social system and stronger social security, but this is more expensive and politically more difficult to implement. Instead, systematic injustices are hidden through mass criminalization.” **\# Demands for reform** The Justice Collective is campaigning for fundamental reform in the way minor offenses are dealt with and is calling for the decriminalization of poverty-related offenses. The Collective's demands include the abolition of the alternative custodial sentence (implemented if someone cannot pay their fine), the decriminalization of theft, and the elimination of so-called “crime-ridden places” that target people in suspicionless checks and discriminate against them based on of their appearance or residence status. These demands are accompanied by an end to austerity measures in the social sector, which penalize low-income and migrant communities in particular. “Decriminalizing minor offenses makes a huge difference,” says Lara Möller. “If these are no longer penalized but addressed through social solutions, it could make much of the criminal justice system redundant.” **Racism on trial campaign** [https://www.racismontrial.org/de](https://www.racismontrial.org/de?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Case archive** [https://www.racismontrial.org/de/case-archive/case-3](https://www.racismontrial.org/de/case-archive/case-3?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **National Discrimination and Racism Monitor (NaDiRa)** [https://www.rassismusmonitor.de/](https://www.rassismusmonitor.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) // --- ### Image credits Cover: *Members of the Justice Collective in front of the local court Tiergarten Moabit in Berlin*. © Justice Collective Fig. 1: *Screenshot of the court case archive of the "Racism on trial" campaign*. © Justice Collective *Noa Jaari writes journalistic and fiction texts, and researches social and socio-political issues such as social inequalities and grassroots movements, labor and production conditions, education, and poverty.* ### Review: States of the Earth URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/review-states-of-the-earth/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:07.000Z *Wildfires in Los Angeles, floods in Libya, earthquakes in Morocco, and droughts in the Horn of Africa deepen not just anthropocentric environmental damage, but social and political inequalities. In shared agony, these crises demand reflection on our entanglements with the planet and its systems.* *The exhibition States of Earth at Yapı Kredi Culture Art in Istanbul explores these entanglements in artistic practices; from organic materials, recycled artifacts, to narratives of destruction and regeneration. It offers a space of autoreflection, but it also considers how art might embody the Earth’s wounds and its potential for renewal.* *Yet, questions arise: Is it enough to address the scale of these crises without complicity? How does an exhibition reflect Istanbul’s own environmental challenges? And can it transcend symbolic gestures to provoke real change? We speak with Didem Yazici and Burcu Cimen about these tensions in curatorial possibilities for greater depth.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/mimiko-.jpg) fig. 1 **Let’s start on the surface: Can bodies and ecosystems be regarded as separate entities in this exhibition? If so, how do we approach both bodies (and) ecosystems as sites of conflict, resistance, and healing within colonial and capitalist frameworks?** **Didem Yazıcı:** The work of Gözde Mimiko Türkkan is a compelling example of how bodies and ecosystems are deeply interwoven. In her immersive installation *Giving (Oneself) to the Seine River* (2024 - ongoing), the river Seine itself assumes full agency, becoming the subject rather than an object of the piece. The river speaks for itself, while the artist assumes the role of translator, witness, and mediator rather than primary voice. This work examines the intersections between water as a body and the human body, questioning identity politics in relation to embodiment. The starting point for this work was the historical and contemporary efforts to clean the river Seine in preparation for the Paris 2024 Olympics. Yet, the river has been a silent witness to numerous tragedies, from the 1961 massacre of Algerian protestors—where at least 100 people were killed, many thrown into the Seine—to the recent death of a beluga whale that strayed into its waters. An archival photograph in the installation features graffiti on the embankment reading, “Here, Algerians were drowned.” The French state still refuses to fully confront its history of anti-Arab racism. The Seine, in this work, is not merely a river but a graveyard, a political instrument wielded by the populist French government, and an unnatural home for lost creatures. The piece meticulously addresses these histories through archival materials, images, poetry, and a video installation that mimics the movement of water reflections. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/mimiko_research-wall.jpg) fig. 2 **Burcu Çimen:** Another work that engages with the impact of political and capitalist forces on urbanization and fundamental rights is Cengiz Tekin’s *Sand* (2012). His minimalist yet evocative photographic work constructs a narrative about the consequences of inadequate urban planning. The image presents a living room filled with sand, a surreal juxtaposition that critiques ecological destruction while maintaining a wry sense of humor. By layering ecological concerns with social critique, *Sand* provokes discussions on the absurdities of capitalist-driven environmental degradation while also suggesting resilience and potential healing through its aesthetic playfulness. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/cengiz-tekin.jpg) fig. 3 **Many of the works use organic or recycled materials, engaging with their aesthetic possibilities while risking co-option within the consumer-driven art world. What guided your selection of these works?** **BÇ:** We wanted to challenge the limitations of how ecology is conventionally approached in contemporary art. Our selection of works sought to bridge different methodologies, moving beyond a single, dominant narrative. While the exhibition centers on artists from Turkey, their works engage with issues that transcend national boundaries. For example, Müge Yılmaz’s *Umay Ixa Kayakizi* (2024) reinterprets Anatolian cultural motifs through an ecofeminist lens, creating a dialogue with Judy Chicago’s *Garden Smoke* series (2019). Similarly, Buşra Tunç’s *New Extremophiles* (2024) reimagines plastic waste as future archaeological relics, forcing us to consider the ecological legacies we leave behind. **DY:** We also aimed to shift away from an anthropocentric worldview. We were inspired by Turkish poet Birhan Keskin, whose work engages with ecofeminism. She writes, *İçimde yeryüzü konuştukça anlıyorum ki bölünmüş bir hatırayım ben dünyaya dağılan*, which translates to: *As the Earth speaks in me, I realize that I am a fragmented memory scattered across the world*. This poetic approach resonates with the artists in the exhibition, who each bring forth different earths speaking within them. The works are not literal translations of Keskin’s themes but rather parallel reflections that encourage audiences to rethink their relationships with nature and the world. Ekin Kano’s *Ancestor Worship* employs cellulose waste-based paper, produced through the interaction of acetic acid bacteria, yeast, and sugar. The microorganisms come to life when exposed to water, and their lifecycle ends when the paper dries. Inspired by the Torajan tribe’s tradition of exhuming and caring for the dead, Kano draws a connection between this cultural practice and her own artistic process of preserving the remnants of life forms. This research-based work proposes new meanings in the co-creation between human and non-human agencies. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/muge-yilmaz.jpg) fig. 4 **How does your curatorial practice make injustices visible without aestheticizing activist struggles?** **DY:** We intentionally avoided a didactic curatorial approach. The juxtaposition of visually striking works like Begüm Mütevellioğlu’s stained glass paintings with Rozelin Akgün’s research-driven *Wild Herbs* (2024) creates a layered discourse on ecological justice. While vastly different in form, both works emphasize the equal significance of all living beings within the cycle of life. Speaking of injustices, Cengiz Tekin’s *Sand* (2012) again comes to mind. By transforming a mundane interior into a desert-like expanse, Tekin critiques urbanization policies while humorously nodding to the absurdity of contemporary ecological crises. His work exposes the tensions between nature and human intervention without reducing the topic to mere aesthetics. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/begum-mutevellioglu.jpg) fig. 5 **The Anthropocene is often framed as a universal concept, despite the uneven distribution of ecological crises. How does the exhibition address the challenge of grounding the artworks in Istanbul’s local context while connecting to global narratives?** **BÇ:** Sibel Horada’s work is a great example of this. It emerges directly from her immediate environment, and we took this aspect seriously when curating the exhibition. We considered perspectives from both within and beyond Istanbul, constantly questioning: *Where is the inside? Where is the outside?* Rather than narrowing the focus to the city itself, we sought to explore the intersections of boundaries—both conceptual and geographical—allowing for a dialogue between the local and the global. **DY:** Yes, Sibel Horada is an artist who lives on Burgazada Island and has a deep connection to its ecosystem. In her series *Shaped by Water*, she takes the island, where she spent her childhood, as a point of departure. Her practice is shaped by her surroundings—she collects waste, observes transformation, and focuses on details that might otherwise go unnoticed. The sculptural series *Shaped by Water* (2019) brings together notions of damage and resilience, blending ecological realities with poetic storytelling. The works in the exhibition are made from plastic foam fragments found along the shores of the Marmara Sea. In these sculptures, Styrofoam and other foam-based materials appear as they were shaped by the sea, waves, rocks, and marine life—without direct intervention from the artist. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/sibel-horada.jpg) fig. 6 **The exhibition critiques, if only generally speaking, power structures contributing to the climate crisis. How does your curatorial practice critically reflect on its own dependencies on institutions and resources that may be complicit in these very structures?** **DY:** The exhibition does not claim to be something it isn’t. Contemporary art in Turkey exists within a challenging landscape, where governmental support for critical and socially engaged art is limited and often precarious. As a result, the art scene relies heavily on private institutions with long-standing traditions of supporting critical discourse. At Yapı Kredi Gallery, we have the freedom to address pressing questions of our time, to work with artists and themes that are urgent. But with this freedom comes responsibility—the responsibility to remain mindful of the local context, critically aware of the system we operate within, and conscious of the realities that shape it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/rozelin-akgun-detail.jpg) fig. 7 **Many of the works evoke a sensual connection, reinforcing an intimate relationship with the Earth. Can sensuality in art act as a counterstrategy to alienation, or does it risk becoming an aesthetic indulgence for a privileged audience?** **DY:** It depends on context and the politics of display. The challenge is to engage both the intellectual and emotional dimensions of the audience. Sensual connection is fundamental—we cannot rely solely on intellectual understanding to navigate the complexities of our world. We need intuition, empathy, and a range of emotions to process these entanglements. This is particularly relevant at Yapı Kredi Gallery, located on Istiklal Street—an artery of Istanbul, a site of political encounters, and a passage for nearly three million people each day. We actively challenge the notion that contemporary art is for an elite audience by curating and designing exhibitions in ways that are accessible, inviting, and open to all, regardless of generational or educational background. The exhibition reflects on cycles of destruction and regeneration. What role does the concept of time—linear or cyclical—play in the presentation and the works themselves? How is this notion of time linked to the urgency of current crises? **BÇ:** The urgency of crises differs across contexts, but what matters is how art transforms into a form of resistance and intervention. While artists may not always engage in direct action, their work carries the potential to shape discourse, influence perspectives, and contribute to movements. The exhibition acknowledges this power—art as a response, a protest, and a reflection of societal concerns. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/murat-yildiz.jpg) fig. 8 **How do the exhibited works and your curatorial decisions address the challenge of building global solidarities without re-centering Western perspectives?** **BÇ:** Instead of reinforcing Western-centric narratives, we foreground local perspectives and histories. This means engaging with research-based works, tracing the origins of materials and practices, and creating dialogues that are rooted in lived experience. In doing so, global solidarity emerges not as a top-down imposition but as a web of interwoven local realities. **DY:** Materiality plays a crucial role here. Many works in the exhibition are created using local and natural materials, actively challenging the conventional economies of exhibition-making. For example, Berna Dolmacı’s painting *Foggy Blue* (2022) is composed of coffee, henna, tea, clay, and seeds, while Ekin Kano’s installation *Body Living Itself* (2019) explores the relationship between mushrooms and acetic acid. Rozelin Akgün’s *Wild Herbs* (2024) revisits traditions of cooking, medicine, and healing in Southeastern Anatolia, reminding us that sustainability is not a new concept but rather a set of intergenerational practices. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSC03827-copy.jpg) fig. 9 **Does the exhibition aim to be a transformative practice that opens concrete spaces for action, or is its strength rooted in symbolism and reflection?** **DY:** Primarily the latter. The exhibition invites audiences to engage with the ecological crisis through an ecofeminist lens. Works such as Judy Chicago’s *Garden Smoke Series*, Müge Yılmaz’s sculptural and research-based practice, and Berna Dolmacı’s landscapes made from scrap paper all cultivate spaces for contemplation. **In the end, does the exhibition call for action, or does it remain within the realm of symbolism?** **BÇ:** It’s not a question of either/or—action and symbolism are deeply intertwined. As Beuys famously said, *everyone is an artist, and society itself is a work of art*. The goal is to create connections, initiate dialogue, and foster a sense of agency within those who visit us. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/berna-dolmacAe.jpg) fig. 10 *The exhibition runs until March 30, 2025 at Yapı Kredi Museum, Istanbul.* *//* --- ### Image credits Cover: Buşra Tunç, *New Extremophiles* (2024) Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Emirkan Corut Fig. 1: Gözde Mimiko Türkkan, *Giving (Oneself) to the Seine River* (2024 - ongoing). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk Fig. 2: Gözde Mimiko Türkkan, *Giving (Oneself) to the Seine River* (2024 - ongoing). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk Fig. 3: Cengiz Tekin, *Sand* (2012). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk Fig. 4: Müge Yılmaz, *Umay Ixa Kayakizi* (2024). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk Fig. 5: Begüm Mütevellioğlu, *Discover All the Beauties With Us This Summer* (2023). Courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk Fig. 6: Sibel Horada, *Shaped by Water* (2019). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk Fig. 7: Rozelin Akgün, *Wild Herbs* (2024). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk Fig. 8: Murat Yildiz. Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk Fig. 9: Ekin Kano, *Body Living Itself* (2019). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk Fig. 10: Berna Dolmacı, *Foggy Blue* (2022). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Querer ser nada más que imagen URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/querer-ser-nada-mas-que-imagen/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:05.000Z *La obra de Jerónimo Ruedi se distancia del panorama actual del arte, donde las tendencias tienden a repetirse, explorando los mismos discursos, figuras y estéticas. Es cada vez más raro encontrar algo que se sienta realmente auténtico, algo que resista su categorización. Frente a las pinturas de Ruedi, surge una sensación de sorpresa y placer: el reconocimiento de una voz singular. Daniela Labra conversó con el artista sobre exploraciones que desafían la percepción.* **Jerónimo, ¿por qué sigues llamando a estas obras "pinturas"?** Creo que, por falta de una mejor palabra, seguimos llamándolas pinturas. Antes trabajaba con una pintura más tradicional: pinceles, óleo, muchos colores y elementos sucediendo en el lienzo. Pero después de diez años de pintar, tuve una crisis. Miraba mis cuadros y pensaba: "Ok, se ven bien, pero ¿de qué se trata todo esto?". Comencé a deconstruir mi proceso, a ser más minucioso con cada elemento en la pintura, cuestionando por qué cada uno estaba allí. Al principio, sentí que exageraba con el uso del color, algo común en la pintura abstracta. Entonces, empecé a reducir la paleta, hasta que, incluso con menos elementos, seguían sobrando cosas. Ahí fue cuando comencé a eliminar todo lo que no tuviera un propósito claro. Mis pinturas empezaron a parecer reminiscencias de lo que fueron antes. Fue entonces cuando me interesé en la fuerza de los vestigios, en desarrollar cartografías de esas huellas. Tengo alrededor de cincuenta cuadernos llenos de ellas, que siguen transformándose. En esa etapa, no podía dejar de notar la fisicalidad del lienzo: la textura, la superficie blanca imprimada. Así que dejé de pintar, pero seguí yendo al estudio para centrarme en eso. Compartía espacio con otros pintores, y me preguntaban: "¿Qué demonios estás haciendo aquí?" porque mis cuadros eran solo blancos. Pero en realidad, estaba trabajando en la superficie, experimentando con materiales durante unos seis meses, sin hacer una sola pincelada. Hasta que llegué a lo que te describo. Puede parecer otra cosa, pero sigue siendo un lienzo—muchas capas, mucho lijado. Ahora, la superficie permite ver a través de ellas. Me interesa mucho eso: cómo una pintura puede ser leída no solo de izquierda a derecha o de arriba abajo, sino también a través de las capas. Esa es una forma rápida de resumir los últimos seis o siete años de mi trabajo. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2024_jr00189_parataxis-20250125135621.1000-0-85.jpg) fig. 1 **Me contabas que produces todos tus materiales desde cero—desde los pigmentos hasta los lienzos. ¿Cómo lo haces?** Convertí parte de mi estudio en algo parecido a un laboratorio de pintor humanista. Compro minerales, aglutinantes, y preparo todo yo mismo. No uso gesso ni pinturas industriales—compro las materias primas y las mezclo. Es un enfoque clásico, pero luego aplico todo con máquinas. Es una mezcla rara entre técnicas antiguas y tecnología moderna. En la mayoría de las pinturas aquí no hay contacto directo—todo está pintado con aire. Pero también utilizo técnicas de claroscuro propias de la pintura barroca. Es una combinación de referencias dispares. Creo que por eso seguimos llamándolo pintura, porque es consciente de su historia. Cuando pintas, formas parte de una tradición milenaria. Si eres consciente de eso, todo lo que haces se inscribe en esa línea. En términos de composición, también estás atento a los espacios vacíos. No trabajas con imágenes de manera convencional. Tu trabajo no trata sobre la creación de imágenes. La pintura tiene una naturaleza dual: es imagen y presencia. Cuando empecé a reducir la imaginería, me di cuenta de que, al eliminar elementos visuales, te conectas más con la presencia de la pintura. Yo llamo a esto el "trabajo invisible": cosas que suceden en el estudio pero que no se traducen fácilmente en fotografías. Esa es una diferencia clave entre la pintura y la creación de imágenes. Consumimos millones de imágenes al día, pero la pintura funciona de otra manera. Puedes mirar una pintura durante semanas o meses. No es algo que se consuma en un instante. Por eso mis pinturas no se traducen bien en fotos. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2024_jr00195_etude-3-20250125135651.1000-0-85.jpg) fig. 2 **Hay una relación física con la obra—un elemento sensorial. ¿Podrías hablar sobre esta noción de ambigüedad?** La ambigüedad es central en mi práctica. Al principio, solo estaba presente en las marcas. El dibujo es una parte fundamental de mi trabajo, pero me interesa explorar lo que sucede cuando no dibujas nada en específico. Desde pequeños, siempre nos preguntan: "¿Qué estás dibujando?". Yo exploro qué pasa cuando un dibujo no tiene una intención representacional. Si una marca comienza a parecerse demasiado a algo reconocible, me detengo y paso a la siguiente. Por eso hay una sensación de interrupción en mi trabajo. También quise crear ambigüedad en los materiales. En esta exposición, algunas pinturas son acrílico sobre lienzo, otras son serigrafías con cera, encausto, resina. Pero cuando las miras, no es evidente de qué están hechas. Los colores también son ambiguos—se mantienen en un rango que no se puede definir con precisión. Me gusta mantener las cosas en un estado intermedio, evitando respuestas definitivas. Una vez leí que John Baldessari dijo que solo hay una pregunta en el arte: "¿Por qué esto y no aquello?". Mantengo mi trabajo en ese espacio indefinido. **Y esta idea de dibujos inacabados—dibujos que parecen incompletos—se relaciona con la noción de fracaso. Hablamos del fracaso como proceso, como método. ¿Cómo lo ves tú?** Tenemos la suerte de trabajar en un campo donde el fracaso no es necesariamente algo negativo. Nadie nos exige respuestas. El arte nos permite estar cómodos con la incertidumbre, existir en un espacio de no saber. Ahí es donde ocurre el verdadero aprendizaje—expandiendo el campo de lo desconocido y fracasando de maneras más interesantes. **Absolutamente. En la vida cotidiana, el fracaso está estigmatizado. Se espera que seamos perfectos. Pero en el arte, el fracaso abre nuevas posibilidades. No es como en la ingeniería, donde el fracaso tiene consecuencias graves. En el arte, cuando fracasas, comienzas algo nuevo.** Exactamente. Si solo haces lo que ya sabes hacer, ¿dónde está el crecimiento? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2024_jr00200_va-de-nuevo-20250125135716.1000-0-85.jpg) fig. 3 *Las preguntas fueron formuladas por Daniela Labra durante un conversatorio en la galería Nordenhake, en su sede de Berlín, a finales de Enero del 2025\. Esta entrevista ha sido transcrita, editada y traducida por María Inés Plaza Lazo para el número 35 de AWC, titulada Reset.* *//* --- ### Image credits Cover: Jerónimo Rüedi, *Fabula*, 2024\. Copyright the artist, courtesy of the artist and Galerie Nordenhake Berlin, Stockholm, Mexico City. Photo by Gerhard Kassner. Fig. 1: Jerónimo Rüedi, *Parataxis*, 2024\. Copyright the artist, courtesy of the artist and Galerie Nordenhake Berlin, Stockholm, Mexico City. Photo by Gerhard Kassner. Fig. 2: Jerónimo Rüedi, *Étude #3*, 2025\. Copyright the artist, courtesy of the artist and Galerie Nordenhake Berlin, Stockholm, Mexico City. Photo by Gerhard Kassner. Fig. 3: Jerónimo Rüedi, *Va de nuevo*, 2024\. Copyright the artist, courtesy of the artist and Galerie Nordenhake Berlin, Stockholm, Mexico City. Photo by Gerhard Kassner. *Daniela Labra is a curator, cultural critic and educator. She is a founder of the art studies platform Zait.art, and lives between Berlin and Rio de Janeiro.* ### Reset URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/reset/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:10:05.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-35-reset](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-35-reset?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- This paper still exists because it has to. Not as a singular voice, but as a porous front—passed from hand to hand, reshaped by those who write for it, read it, sell it, and push it forward. It does not merely document the arts and its workers; it moves through realities—on the streets, within labor structures, across borders, among both the international Intelligenzija and all sorts of elites. It is carried by those who refuse invisibility, who refuse to let culture be reduced to capital or confined to the interests of the few. To sustain AWC is to recognize that critique, radical imagination, and artistic practice cannot survive in isolation. They must circulate, be accountable, be redistributed, and build economies that do everything but extract—economies willing to transform into common infrastructures. A commons does not self-perpetuate; it must be insisted upon, returning to the many communities it exists through, renegotiating what it means to be in commons, again and again. This issue pursues a reset—not as a plea for charity or recognition, but as an invitation to shape the street newspaper’s focus. No niche, however irresistible your ideals can be, justifies gatekeeping. Culture is not a product to be consumed but a field of resistance—wobbly, not linear; intense, not predetermined. Every contribution—words, labor, material support—feeds this shared resource. Every exchange refuses scarcity, asserting that solidarity is not symbolic but structural. To reset this paper is to acknowledge that AWC has never been static. Indeed it has been a ​​seismograph of the crisis of our times, becoming an institution without stability. But, what does it mean to reset, when our political, social, and economic surroundings are constitutively unsettling? Resetting is not erasing; it is reckoning with the conditions that shape intellectual and artistic work and choosing, again and again, how to move forward out of precarity, in shaping, to the extent we can, new conditions altogether. We’ve come to despise precarity—not romanticizing it is not enough. To work against it is an act of maintenance, a commitment to staying purposeful without succumbing to spectacle, to making space for new voices without abandoning the legacies that brought us here. If every issue is a map of shifting and enduring solidarities, then resetting is the work of mapping the fields we inhabit and ensuring we are still charting the right coordinates. This labor is dedicated to you, reader, comrade, lover, vendor, shoplifter, criminal, kweens – and to our joint horizons. *With features by Octavia Abril, Julieta Arandas, Tony Balseca, Pamela Cevallos, Marcel Cedeño, Sepp Eckenhaussen, Kathy García, Martha Hellion, Pablo Hermida, Amelie Jakubek, Daniela Labra, Movimiento GRSB, Nachbarschaftshaus Urbanstraße e.V., Hortensia Pico, María Inés Plaza Laz, Krishan Rajapakshe, Blanca Rivadeneira, Sonia Rosales, Jerónimo Ruedi, Lilo Ruminawi, Amelia Sánchez Mosquera, Pauł Sochacki, Rocío Soria, Trinidad Perez, Ana Cristina Vásquez, Rico Zyrrano* ***Impressum / Imprint*** **Founders / Publishers / Directors** Verantwortlicher i.S.d . 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Editorial Assistance** Rita Torres **Artistic Project Development & Distribution** Theresa Zwerschke **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph **Proofreading** William Kherbek **Translations** Margaux Schwab Huda Zikry **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Layout / Design Issue nº35** Jaime Nuñez del Arco **Druck** Druckzentrum Osnabrück GmbH & Co. KG, Osnabrück, DE **Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse** Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Schillerpromenade 10, 12049 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org **Arts of the Working Class can now be read digitally, too.** Please find our ven- dors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digitally buy a copy and additionally the STREAD issue of each month. **Donate** Paypal: p@artsoftheworkingclass.org --- ## In this issue - [Glanz und Armut](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/glanz-und-armut-das-geld-bei-arts-of-the-working-class/) - [Art in Permacrisis](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/art-in-permacrisis/) ### Entre la Historia y la Calle URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/entrevista-con-trinidad-perez-realidad-social-y-modernidad-artistica/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:04.000Z *El verano pasado, desayunamos con Trinidad Pérez entre sus diligencias como docente de la Universidad Andina de Quito y como curadora de Realidad social y modernidad artística: 1916-1958, una muestra que marcó el programa del* [*Museo Antropológico y de Arte Contemporáneo (MAAC) de Guayaquil*](https://www.culturaypatrimonio.gob.ec/museo-antropologico-y-de-arte-contemporaneo-provincia-de-guayas/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *bajo la dirección de Stephanie García Albán. Este es un fragmento de una larga conversación en la que exploramos los desafíos y decisiones que guiaron la selección de obras y el diseño curatorial de su muestra, la primera del MAAC en colaboración con la fundación* [*EACHEVE*](https://eacheve.com/RS-Guia-de-Sala.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*. Desde la dificultad de obtener préstamos hasta la intención de abrir espacios de interpretación para el público, Pérez comparte cómo la exhibición busca generar diálogos entre el pasado y el presente. También reflexiona sobre la evolución de la representación social en el arte ecuatoriano y la manera en que el realismo social sigue resonando en las prácticas contemporáneas.* **AWC: ¿Cómo trabajaste en la selección de las obras para la exposición?** Trinidad Pérez: La idea inicial era trabajar exclusivamente con la colección del MAAC, pero pronto nos dimos cuenta de que eso no sería suficiente. Decidimos buscar préstamos en otras instituciones, como la Casa de la Cultura en Quito, que tiene una colección maravillosa para el siglo XIX y la primera mitad del XX. Sin embargo, algunas obras clave, como Los Guandos de Kingman, no pudieron ser prestadas por coincidencias con otras exposiciones. Así que trabajamos con lo que estaba a nuestro alcance, lo cual también fue un proceso de aprendizaje sobre las posibilidades y limitaciones del acceso al patrimonio artístico. Fue un proceso complejo. Llegamos a considerar alrededor de 200 obras, lo que fue una cantidad tremenda para depurar. Trabajé en los bocetos con Pamela Caldas, una excelente museógrafa y parte del Museo de la Ciudad de Quito, que además fue alumna mía. Fue una excelente elección porque tuvimos una gran sintonía. Ella me ayudó mucho a pensar en cómo organizar la muestra, y fue quien definió los colores de las paredes de acuerdo a los capítulos temáticos. Recuerdo que dijo "no queremos ocre", porque muchas de las pinturas sobresaltan tonos ocres. La sala era larga, así que optamos por agrupar las obras en paneles y organizar dos temas principales, aunque a primera vista pareciera que hay más. **AWC: La exposición cubre hasta 1958, pero en el espacio introductorio incluiste imágenes que no pertenecen a esa época. ¿Cuál fue la intención detrás de esta decisión?** TP: Queríamos contextualizar cómo las jerarquías de clase y raza han sido representadas a lo largo del tiempo. Por ejemplo, incluimos una ilustración de Jorge Juan y Antonio de Ulloa del siglo XVIII que muestra de manera explícita la distinción entre los españoles y los indígenas. Aunque no se explica en detalle en la sala, estas imágenes funcionan como antecedentes visuales de los cambios en la representación social que se abordarán en la exposición. En las obras de Camilo Egas ves un cambio en la representación, aunque sigue habiendo costumbrismo. Lo mismo pasa con los artistas de los años 30, donde hay un enfoque en lo cotidiano, especialmente en los sectores populares, mostrando cómo vivían y trabajaban. **AWC: Es interesante cómo esta biografía, este perfil de Egas, de realista y a su vez idealista, ofrece una perspectiva pluridireccional sobre las demás propuestas artísticas.** TP: Esa era un poco la intención. Es como si hubiera un punto de transición, ya desde ahí se llega al corazón de la muestra, que es el realismo social. Camilo Egas marca momentos cruciales, pero el centro de la exposición es el realismo social de la década de 1930 y los artistas que la definen, y buscan diferenciarse de Egas, quien durante este tiempo ya había emigrado a Nueva York. No se sabia mucho sobre lo que él estaba haciendo en ese momento, aunque también se involucró en el realismo social, pero en Estados Unidos, donde este movimiento tenía su propio enfoque. Es como mencionabas, ese realismo social que retrata a las personas sin hogar, a quienes viven en las calles. Egas tiene algunas obras de esa temática, aunque no las incluimos en esta exposición, a pesar de que forman parte de las colecciones locales. En cambio, pusimos el énfasis en los artistas de una generación más joven, como Galo Galecio, activo desde 1931. **AWC: Cuéntanos más sobre Galo Galecio y los dibujos escogidos.** TP: Galo Galecio es un artista que trabaja con formatos que podrían considerarse "menores", pero no en el sentido de poco importantes. No utiliza elocuencia ni retórica grandiosa en sus obras; su enfoque es más discreto. Los formatos que usa son, de algún modo, coloquiales. La imagen que seleccionamos para la invitación de la muestra es una obra llamada Marimba, que representa a afroecuatorianos tocando música. La imagen no pudiese ser más vanguardista: todas las figuras están en primer plano, lo que eleva la composición visualmente. A pesar de ser "plana", juega con la perspectiva de una manera muy interesante y realmente importante. **AWC: En la muestra hay un enfoque en los trabajadores, pero no sólo en aquellos organizados en sindicatos, sino en figuras invisibilizadas como las lavanderas o la chaguarmisqui. ¿Que nos enseña este enfoque?** TP: Que el realismo social en Ecuador se enfocó en la vida cotidiana de los sectores populares, en resaltar oficios duros y poco visibilizados, como el de las lavanderas, quienes trabajaban en condiciones extremas con agua helada, lo que inevitablemente llevaba a problemas de salud. También incluimos representaciones de trabajadores del campo, como los cacaoteros. Artistas como Galecio reflejaron esta realidad, aunque no todas sus obras pudieron estar en la exposición. Lo interesante es que, aunque las condiciones laborales han cambiado, los temas de explotación y trabajo siguen vigentes. Uno de los eje principales es la exaltación del trabajador, o más específicamente, la exaltación del cuerpo de aquellos que ponen su fuerza y energía en su labor. No son subalternos en el sentido jerárquico, sino que son trabajadores que destacan por su esfuerzo físico. Este enfoque en la representación del cuerpo del trabajador aparece en varias pinturas y es realmente impresionante. No se trata de Tejada, pero sigue esa línea de exaltar el cuerpo del trabajador, algo que también se veía en el muralismo mexicano, donde se destacaba la fuerza y dignidad de los obreros en el arte. **AWC: Retornando a Galecio: él también se interesa por figuras políticas. ¿Cómo se inserta su obra en esta narrativa?** TP: Aunque Galecio no se adhiere a una línea política específica, sus obras tienen una fuerte carga subjetiva y expresiva. Por ejemplo, Sangre en el cauchal, que lamentablemente no logramos incluir, es una obra impactante que representa el cuerpo de un hombre afro muerto con un cauchal al fondo. Su lenguaje visual es potente y directo, lo que lo distingue de otros artistas de su tiempo. **AWC: ¿Cómo abordaron los desafíos logísticos en el montaje de la exposición, en épocas en donde la infraestructura cultural se ve desafiada por falta de financiación y políticas sostenibles y renovadas?** TP: El MAAC se encargó de toda la gestión y lo hicieron de manera impecable. Sin embargo, la falta de recursos y de tiempo fueron un reto. Esto afectó el nivel curatorial, ya que nos enfrentamos a la decisión de cómo estructurar el recorrido de la exposición para que la cronología y los temas emergieran de forma orgánica. **AWC: Hablando de estructura, decidieron ubicar la cronología al final. ¿Qué motivó esta elección?** TP: Fue una decisión compleja. El espacio disponible era un corredor, lo que presentaba dificultades. Temíamos que empezar con demasiada información histórica pudiera ser abrumador, pero finalmente optamos por una línea de tiempo diseñada visualmente para atraer al visitante sin saturarlo. Además, se improvisaron paneles a último momento para conectar mejor las obras y permitir una transición fluida hacia lo contemporáneo. **AWC: Hay que hablar del salto a lo contemporáneo. Todas las obras expuestas en la sala final fueron creadas después del 2000\. ¿Por qué no se incluyeron obras de transición, como de los años 70?** TP: Nos enfocamos en evidenciar cómo el realismo social definió el arte hasta los años 50 y cómo sus problemáticas resurgen hoy con nuevas aproximaciones. Obras como las de Manuela Rivadeneira y Sofía Salazar exploran la precariedad y las desigualdades estructurales desde perspectivas contemporáneas, sin replicar el lenguaje visual del realismo social clásico. Esta decisión curatorial enfatiza que, aunque las formas evolucionan, las problemáticas persisten. Esto se hace especialmente evidente en la obra de Oswaldo Terreros y el Movimiento GRSB, cuya producción mantiene una clara filiación con el realismo social, apropiándose de su gráfica y su carga política para someterlas a un cuestionamiento crítico. Su obra no solo representa lo subalterno, sino que se erige como una plataforma directa de reivindicación.. **AWC: Más allá de la conciencia histórica y política, ¿qué tipo de reflexiones generaron los visitantes?** TP: Existe un público que valora la creatividad de los artistas y la capacidad del arte para generar discursos múltiples. Como curadora y docente, veo cómo diferentes personas interpretan las obras de formas inesperadas. Esa es la riqueza del arte: permitir que cada espectador encuentre su propio camino de significación. Hay que seguir forjando el crecimiento del público; para ellxs es este trabajo. *Esta conversación fue editada en conjunto con Stephanie Ruiz Matute.* --- ### Footnotes Camilo Egas, *India,* 1916, Colección de arte moderno y contemporáneo MUNA, Óleo sobre lienzo, 40 x 33 cm *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Couriers’ Bag Theory of Fiction URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/couriers-bag-theory-of-fiction/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:02.000Z *In our late capitalist society, labor conditions are constantly diverted by geopolitical tensions, climate and health crises, as well as the rapid pace of digital transformation. With the transition to digital platform-based work, we increasingly see how technologies have played a faceless managerial role for the increasingly racialized migrant workers class. The two-part video work* Terms and Conditions *(2024) by Alicja Rogalska queries our world of work, where platform gig workers are left alone to grapple with systemic racism and combat the pervasive lack of rights and fairness, who nevertheless together seize their narrative and project their labor struggles into the future.* **Can you introduce us to the genesis of your latest work* *Terms and Conditions, and what drew you to the gig economy?** When I moved to Berlin in 2020, I reconnected with an old friend from university who had just started working as a bike courier – a job well below his qualifications but the only one he could find during the lockdown without speaking German. He was subsequently sacked for taking part in worker organizing. He went to court, won, got reinstated, and continued activism. Coincidentally, I also collaborated with [European Alternatives](https://euroalter.com/it/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) running several workshops on using art strategies in worker organizing, protests, and campaigns for migrant workers and activists, including self-organised groups of bike couriers. In 2023 I invited the Lieferando Workers’ Collective to join my workshop at n.b.k. as part of the mediation program for the *If The Berlin Wind Blows My Flag* exhibition. Last year I was invited by another friend to join a group of bike couriers to make a short film, one which we are currently working on. Through these meetings and networks, I have become a friend and an ally of several bike couriers and started wondering how I could support their struggles through my work. I have focused on the topic of labor (and precarious labor specifically) in several past projects such as *The Monument to Precarious Workers* (2015), *Tear Dealer* (2014), and *The Royals* (2018), and collaborated with workers in fields such as agriculture, care work, and hospitality. Terms and Conditions is my first project addressing the gig economy directly. The platform economy, with its algorithmically controlled labor, was already one of my theoretical research interests. However, I never develop my projects based on the theory itself, I always strive to connect with and learn from the people who are at the receiving end of the various injustices and abuses of late capitalism, in a "nothing about us without us" spirit. So when Krisztina Hunya from n.b.k. invited me to work on a solo exhibition, I decided to give voice to the couriers I have met along the way who have vast experience in the sector, most of whom have also taken part in workers’ organizing. ***How did you structure the video installation?*** Terms and Conditions is a two-channel video that uses temporal shifts to expand on the idea of what is politically possible and acceptable. In the first video, we see the couriers dismantling thermal food bags resembling the backpacks that are part of their workwear. As they cut the bags open they talk about the systemic exploitation they are subjected to, using the past tense as though these were memories of a distant past. The second video shows them discussing various improvements in their working conditions and the wider economy and society. They use the present tense \[here\] making the viewer believe these are the current reality until the increasingly less plausible scenarios reveal themselves as sci-fi-like expressions of their political desires. Hopefully, by setting out from the couriers' desires, the work helps people realize how class, race, gender, and nationality or migration status play an important role in maintaining the matrix of inequality in the global division of labor. Through the specific lens of the food delivery industry, we can observe how the structures of exploitation are built around these axes by multinational corporations and how the state is often an enabler of that, even if only through being slow to act. The few cases that make it to court take a very long time to be resolved, and the legal changes that would fix the loopholes that the companies take advantage of are even slower. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/AR060125_8a.jpg) Fig.1 ***In* Terms and Conditions*, the relationship between capitalism and structural racism manifests itself in the contractual features of the terms and conditions. Which legal constraints do workers experience in the framework of the gig economy, and how is it addressed in the work?*** When listening to workers' stories, it soon becomes clear that their situation is very different depending on where they are from, what their visa status is, and whether they can speak the local language or understand their rights. There’s an obvious correlation between the ethnic profile of the workers and how they are treated, with those coming from the global majority facing a lot more difficulties than their white counterparts. This creates a multi-tier exploitation situation where the companies know that some workers will be more scared than others to complain or report unlawful or illegal practices. The actual terms and conditions of the bike courier work vary across the different platforms and also depend on whether the company directly employs one or works under a subcontractor. The workers in the video mention a lack of breaks, working at night and on the weekends for the same pay, not receiving tips, being forced to be on standby (unpaid time waiting for orders to come in), as well as either the lack of health insurance or difficulty receiving statutory sick leave pay, as well as temporary contracts and being fired when delivery work demand is low then hired again when it peaks. They share their experiences of the gig economy work and their insights into the systemic structures that enable the kind of exploitation they face. This includes how the companies find loopholes to operate beyond German labor law through subcontractors and outsourcing responsibility. Just like the companies that hire them, the participants in the video know that the abuses in their workplaces also are possible because of a lack of awareness of the majority of migrant workers about their rights. The participants in the video also share their personal feelings of feeling invisible or even disrespected by society at large. ***In the video installation, we see workers sitting and talking to each other while dismantling their thermal backpacks. What does this gesture of narrating and unmaking the tools of their labor entail for you? What meaning do you feel it carries for the workers?*** Gig economy workers are completely alienated from one another, and this alienation deepens the precarity experienced by so many. That's why I wanted them to gather around in a common activity and collectively speak about their experience as well as the strategies they use to resist. The backpacks in the video are both a narrative tool (telling a story is often easier when your hands are busy) and a symbol of sector-specific oppression – they represent a kind of physical and metaphorical weighing down of the workers. Bike couriers might well be the most visible of the gig economy workers, but they, and their stories, remain invisible to most people. The act of dismantling the bags is a catalyst for unraveling the stories hidden within and also for trying to reassemble the metaphorical pieces into a speculative reality: a courier bag theory of fiction of a kind, to paraphrase Ursula Le Guin. The backpack represents to the workers, as one of the participants explains in the video, a double burden. First of all, it’s a physical burden: the riders are not allowed to attach or fix the backpack onto their bike, they are instructed to always carry it on their back. Then there’s also the symbolic aspect, how it symbolizes a low social and economic status and evokes feelings of contempt or pity, which the workers resent. Destroying the backpacks, according to the participants in the video, had an almost therapeutic effect and helped release some of this tension. The act of dismantling the backpacks, on the one hand, references sabotage and other acts of disobedience, and, on the other, provides the riders with an opportunity to “work” on a common task together, which stands in stark contrast to the isolation they face on the streets. The action of deconstructing the bags mirrors what's spoken about: the unveiling of layers and structures of systemic oppression that the workers experience, against which they are already organizing, and protesting while supporting one another. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/nbk_rogalska_terms_conditions2-1.jpg) Fig.2 ***While the workers narrate their stories, some post-capitalist ideas such as universal basic income (UBI) or free access to legal representation are posed. To what extent do you see artistic practices such as yours playing a role in empowering workers to shape their labor environment and rights?*** The workers in the video don’t indulge so much in “post-work” scenarios. Their dreams are rather modest. Even the mention of universal basic income is not about removing work altogether but about the ability to choose a profession that is a calling rather than a dead-end job, and having the time and the means to engage in creative activities. What is important to me when thinking of empowerment is the question of individual and collective political desires and how they shape our actions. To engage with post-capitalist visions there is a temporal shift at play in how the work is organized. This creates the illusion that the current situation is in the past and the future is already here, pushing the boundaries of what is possible to imagine. Imagination alone is not enough to change the status quo, especially when one’s material conditions limit the ability to construct and articulate alternatives – the ability to imagine alternative futures is unevenly distributed due to unequal access to resources and power. The Indian cultural anthropologist Arjun Appadurai, amongst others, highlights the need for disadvantaged groups to foster this capacity as a form of critique, a means of resistance, and a way to reclaim their agency. Understanding our current situation, and knowing what kind of society and world we want to live in, are crucial to planning actions that are needed to achieve these goals. My role in the project was that of an instigator and a facilitator of the collective exercise, first articulating the current issues and then coming up with concrete solutions that could alleviate them. In my current research I’m particularly interested in prefiguration, that is, future narratives that are linked to concrete social and political struggles and which are rooted in everyday practices, as well as the relationship between strategies used for social change and the visions of people involved in these struggles. That’s why I decided to work with bike couriers who are already actively involved in creating a different kind of future through self-organizing and campaigning. In many ways, they are already empowered, but in the video, they also speak about those of them who aren’t. Hopefully, the project can also be inspiring for others. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/nbk_rogalska_terms_conditions3-1.jpg) Fig.3 ***Couriers are workers, and so are you. What are the tools that you adopt in your work to create points of contact between workers across different categories?*** In the last few years, as part of my Ph.D. in artistic practice at Goldsmiths, I have been investigating how using future imaginaries as a method can expand the horizons of political possibility, especially in the context of environmental collapse. My research aims to create and reflect on alternatives to the prevailing end-of-world narratives, building on the premise that a prerequisite to change is active hope and a belief that a change for the better is possible. I have previously used progressive hypnosis when working with activists to try and stimulate radical imagination (*Dreamed Revolution*, (2014-15), and in my other projects such as *NOVA* (2024) and *The Feast* (2022), I turned to methods such as LARP and improvisation to explore queer-feminist and post-fossil fuel futures. Terms and Conditions is a continuation of this line of research, this time focusing on the economy. I have been reading a lot of writing on speculative political economy, looking into economic systems in sci-fi books, and so on, wondering how we can speculate our way out of the worst cases of the gig and platform economy and then make this vision a reality. This is just the beginning of a longer-term project. In terms of the connection between workers across different categories, by trying to disrupt the capitalist realist framework and using verbatim storytelling I try to highlight the moments of solidarity – both between me and my collaborators, and amongst them. I don’t come from a place of financial privilege and I have a lot of work experience in different fields, so I can relate to people from many walks of life. As a freelance artist, I also face extreme precarity, I’ve never had an unlimited job contract or been on sick leave. I faced a lot of migration-related stress and bureaucracy and as a mother of young children, I often work late into the night, so I can relate to a lot of what’s being expressed in Terms and Conditions, even if the field of work is very different. I aim to also evoke a sense of empathy and understanding for other people’s struggles in the viewers. In today’s fragmented society, where algorithms affect more and more who we speak to, or even encounter, I think it’s very important to try and connect across the various divides. ***With the economic crisis looming in Europe, and the dire budget cuts to culture in Germany, your work could offer an archive of workers’ stories, from which to learn how to re-organize. If you could leave a message to the workers of the future, which would it be?*** I guess: “Workers of the future unite.”? As long as we are divided it will be difficult to achieve anything. But, more seriously, unless there is radical social and political solidarity, there won’t be any workers in the future; they will all be dead on a dead planet. I think, especially in the current context, connecting the different struggles: labor, feminist, anti-racist, anti-fascist, and environmental struggles, and building even the most improbable alliances and solidarity networks are crucial. // Alicja Rogalska is an interdisciplinary artist based in Berlin and London and working internationally. Her practice is research-led and focuses on social structures and the political subtext of the everyday. She mostly works in specific contexts making situations, performances, videos, and installations in collaboration with other people to collectively search for emancipatory ideas for the future. --- ### Image Captions Cover, Fig.1-2-3 Alicja Rogalska. *Terms and Conditions*, 2024, exhibition view Neuer Berliner Kunstverein (n.b.k.), 2024\. Photo: © n.b.k. / Jens Ziehe *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### corre la sangre URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/corre-la-sangre/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:19:01.000Z ¿ya te enteraste de los otros? a quienes les toca la segunda inhalación cuya exhalación te da otro respiro hay suficiente sangre y si juntas le respiramos, ¿respiramos más profundo el apellido? apellido, sangre sin respiro y, ¿cómo viaja el concepto de sangre? y, ¿cómo viaja el apellido en la sangre? y, ¿cómo viaja el concepto de otro en el plasma? *si llega a su funeral, le mando con él a la chingada* *también es su sangre* *aún escrito en ella, no le toca nada* yo quiero nada acompañada compartir la traición impuesta destapa posibilidad *le conocí en la escuela, misma clase* *mismos pasillos* *mis hermanas se enojaban al verle correr* *enojadas de que todos saben que nos hacemos que no sabemos* de nosotras parte la sombra de la sombra partimos nosotras parte de nosotras en la sombra cómo corre la sangre corre la sangre la sangre corre por todas nosotras otro es posibilidad de develar el dolor para que sane un resentimiento que ni es mío *para* ahora tienes que ser el mar de forma que no es sangrando de distintas maneras tomar tu mar tomarlo hasta reprimir en coágulos coágulo es fingir que no están coágulos son coágulos son las ideas sin corazón para *para mi abuela en la casa no había más espacio* *ahora, la casa abandonada* *prefiero ser casa* *espacio para dolor* casa diaspora, casa del gran espectro que duele pero habito porque no fue nadie sino el sentimiento no dicho cómo cambia la sangre cambia la sangre la sangre cambia por otras para otras y nosotras *otras* *en plasma* *nosotras* *en plasma* *las otras y nosotras pasadas coaguladas* *ahora cambian y corren* *son plasma* cómo corre la sangre cómo corre la otra corre la otra la otra corre en mí cómo corre la otra en mí dejo que corra la otra en mí ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/photo_2025-01-16-13.08.51.jpeg) Fig.1 --- ### Image Caption Cover and Fig.1 Courtesy of the author *Irene Trejo is a transdisciplinary artist, poet, and journalist from Mexico, currently based in Berlin. She focuses on exploring different relational forms and translanguage through sound, words, and embodied listening – playing with layers, possibility, memory, dreams, identity, and various creative processes.* ### Family values of interdependent art worlds URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/family-values-of-interdependent-art-worlds/ Last updated: 2026-09-02T08:18:59.000Z First co-edited and published by the Center for Plausible Economies (CPE) in 2022, the Penfold Principles summarise our thinking and practices related to interdependent art worlds. Inspired by the 19th-century Rochdale Principles, often referred to as the start of the European co-operativist movement, the Penfold Principles are structured around seven application areas, ranging from governance to aesthetics, and are led by the guiding notion of interdependence. They attempt to summarise and find words for how we want to work with each other (inwards) and towards the bigger aims (outwards). As often is the case with the Center for Plausible Economies, the manifesto is accompanied by an image, the aim of which is to visually steer our imagination. We picture the principles of interdependent art worlds as seven needles of a compass, which point both outwards - towards society at large - and inwards – to the realm of our everyday practice and self-organization. We designed this compass as a navigational tool to be used by ourselves, our comrades, and our extended art families. People we are close to and communities of which we are part. As CPE we mainly move within and across art worlds that hover beneath the most visible surface of contemporary art, formed in the guise of the art market and large institutions. In a more-than-human world, we happily work peer-to-peer, often allied with movements struggling for progressive social change. As we reference notions substantial to the theory and practice of feminist economies – such as interdependence, community economies, the commons, and care labor – these principles encapsulate our take on the otherwise complex question of “family values”. While doing so, we challenge how this term has been instrumentalized by conservative and authoritarian ideologues. For example, in Poland the notion of “wartości rodzinne” (i.e. family values) has been often evoked to limit women’s rights, to enshrine patriarchal models of family, to relegate queerness to the margins, and to insist on heteronormativity. A famous credo of Margaret Thatcher that “there is no such thing as society, only individual men and women and their families” underwrote neoliberal and conservative revolutions across the world. Such “family values” are evoked to trample over alternative social and economic orders, and to serve as an ideological cover for ultimately economic interests based on accumulation and extraction rather than interdependence and regenerative justice. When we talk about family values here, we think about the needles of the interdependent compass suggested by the Penfold Principle, which points towards such notions as the commons, solidarity, equity, labors of love, cultural democracy, stylistic plurality, and radical pragmatism. These values help us to navigate the plethora of self-organized art, interdependent worlds, and myriad artistic ecosystems that we inhabit, cherish, and sustain. Extended art families constitute these art worlds, kinships made of friendships and comraderies forged over years of self-organization. They do not organize around institutional reputations and commercial success. Their plurality of organizational structures and aesthetic idioms contrast with a globalized circulation of contemporary art, which trades on familiarity to establish the commercialized monoculture. The picture of globalized art, offered by large institutions, biennales, fairs, and auction houses alike, is painted in very broad strokes. This perspective tends to be rather limiting, pushing many figures outside of the art family photo, as they do not conform to the globalized norm. In contrast, the art worlds we cherish are stylistically plural; they dissent from being reduced to market-centric art production whereby others decide what is art and what is not. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2025-01-15-at-12.41.25.png) Fig.1 Self-organized art worlds tend to be open (like a parade) rather than snobby (like a VIP lounge), collaborative (like a social movement) rather than exclusive (like a curatorial cult). They are chatty as a community gathering and friendly. They are fundamentally egalitarian in their indiscriminate belief in the human capacity for organizing social systems that benefit society as a whole instead of those already best off. This provides them a slightly idealistic veneer, without which any culture becomes cynical pulp. The art worlds we enjoy and want are not distinguished by any specific style; they can host an infinite number of artistic formulae. Emerging below curatorial radars, they are as messy as a community kitchen and as varied as a shared meal. They can be compared to a lacustrine district – a complex ecosystem of interconnected lakes, streams, reservoirs, dams, and canals – that does not form a single mainstream that can be captured in a single family photo. The aesthetics of these art families can deploy forms of radical critique, or the desire to simply make something. Their creations can be things of beauty, a collective luxury that offers joy to their makers as well as users. They are everywhere, being part and parcel of everyday life; they are down to earth, and they operate in the cultural everyday spaces of which they are part. They are made by and enjoyed by many, sometimes as part of a celebration or a protest, sometimes in moments of relaxation and respite. Often, they do not even need to be called art; typically, they offer wider possibilities. The aesthetic needle of this compass is closely aligned with its ethical and political program, where the notion of family values is interpreted through the prism of commons-based, community-affiliated economies. Establishing interdependent economies in the sector of contemporary art is associated with wider efforts at creating more transparent, equal, and just social and economic systems. These efforts are geared against capitalist extraction, in contemporary art and beyond. // The Penfold Principles were first drafted and edited in public during “Compost” at The Showroom London in 2021\. Penfold is the name of the street where they originated. Text by Kathrin Böhm and Kuba Szreder (2022) was first edited together with Seema Manchanda and Lily Hall at The Showroom (2021), and with many others since. The compass is inspired by the legacy of the Rochdale Principles, a mid-nineteenth-century European co-operativist movement that demanded member rights, democratic control, economic participation, autonomy, self-education, and cooperation in society. Key terms coined and practiced by collaborators and colleagues include: Community Economies (Community Economies Institute), Solidarity Economy (art.coop), idt. (The Interdependence), Lumbung (ruangrupa), ideas for a new art world (The White Pube), and Today is Our Tomorrow (PUBLICS). *This contribution is part of the 2024 annual Codes of Conduct on Heritage a series of images to redraw the codes of economic conduct underpinning contemporary art.* --- ### Image Credits: Cover: Why do we care about art?, co-produced by Kathrin Böhm together with The Showroom London and members from local community and interest groups, mural commission by Lacuna for Paddington Square, London, design: An Endless Supply, 2023 Fig.1 Courtesy of Center for Plausible Economies *The CPE was initiated by Kathrin Böhm and Kuba Szreder in 2018\. It is a pata-institutional research cluster affiliated with the Company Drinks in London. Responding to economic frustrations with upbeat pragmatism, the CPE brings together artistic action and critical thinking to reclaim the economy.* ### Notes from the Azores URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/notes-from-the-azores/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:44.000Z Gestures, group rituals, individual expressions, and commitments of an entire community have seldom struck me as those in the portraits of Laudalino da Ponte Pacheco have. Maybe it’s because I don’t trust everydayness in the arts anymore. Maybe there is too much discursiveness blocking all sense of reality. And that is what my gaze reproduces at first sight: Laudalino’s portraits, which echo Richard Avedon’s black-and-white precision, Anton Corbijn’s filmic sensibility, William Eggleston’s everydayness, Khadija Sajés traces of objectification and mystification in photography and Francesca Woodman’s oneiric intimacy, and, as I recognize myself doing this, they start to fade away and my body returns to the former Jesuits building, now the Museum Carlos Machado. The cycles of life and death – from birth to wakes, funerals, weddings, anniversaries, and everything in between – emerge as a graspably unique, granular texture of a moment that is not defined by photography, but rather the other way around. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-12-20-at-15.43.45.png) fig. 1 Maria Emanuel Albergaria, Margarida Medeiros, and João Leal have built an exhaustive exhibition. However, the display in Ponta Delgada barely scratches the surface of the 8,000 photographs Laudalino took during the 1960s and 70s. Primarily focused on his parish of Maia, Laudalino’s images reflect the photographic aesthetics of the time while embodying an anthropological sensitivity to the every day: images of adolescents sewing a white cloth in a field of cabbages, children playing on soil, farm workers resting under the sun, a boy cutting a pig’s head, or a girl taking her first eucharist. These moments resonate with photography’s inception as both representation and historical document, a mode of citation – recording, collecting, reframing – a notion that Eduardo Cadava traces back to Walter Benjamin’s thinking on history. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT2022_Centriphery_AWalkonTheEdgeAMarianaLopes_42.jpg) fig. 2 Laudalino evokes this tradition while remaining outside of it. However, his practice is not peripheral. Rather, it straddles amateur and professional photography, transcending Cartier-Bresson’s notion of the “decisive moment” through sheer continuity and multiplicity, open to every gesture in every portrait, whether staged or ephemeral. Pierre Bourdieu’s *Un art moyen* reminds us of photography’s enduring social function, vernacular or artistic, as a mirror of societal values. Laudalino’s portraits connect to reading because the people in these images are not an extension of the material or the device, and I am in awe of the difference it makes. It also makes me very sad that we seem unable to escape this categorization state. Laudalino eludes this, and in this paradox lies the power of his images. They are fragments of everyday life that elevate its collective significance, offering us a way to see the mundane as essential, not as particularity. It is here that I find the lens with which to interpret Walk&Talk’s curatorial vision: art as part of life, not a separate sphere, not sanctified through discourse, but vice versa. Art as a stroll along Atlantic shores, a conversation in the park, as a jointly cooked and shared meal. It might read as redundancy, but how dire it is to meander these days in discursivity without making thoughts graspable? Like Laudalino’s archive, Walk&Talk refuses to tokenize locality while simultaneously creating a living archive of the Azores. The biennial does not merely document the every day; it amplifies, distorts, and rehearses it. And it has allowed me to traverse my intellectual pettiness to arrive at conversations that are seemingly obvious here, and uncannily *natural*. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT2013_AlexandreFartoVhils_ScratchingTheSurfaceARuiSoares.jpg) fig. 3 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-12-20-at-15.45.33.png) fig. 4 #### From Archiving to Living: Permanently Restless Laudalino’s textures align perfectly with the considerations of Walk&Talk’s upcoming edition. The festival, a biennial since last year, mirrors his photographic method by foregrounding rituals, assemblies, and shared spaces as integral to its curatorial framework. Yet Walk&Talk’s living archive moves beyond documentation: it transforms collective action, local traditions, and relational gestures into forms of contemporary art practice. At its inception, Walk&Talk sought to democratize art through public interventions. Ponta Delgada became an open-air gallery, showcasing works by artists such as Cyrcle, Clemens Behr, Okuda, and Hyuro. These early interventions prioritized visibility and accessibility, reflecting the festival’s mission to engage residents directly. The act of inserting art into the public sphere challenged the peripheral status of the Azores, positioning the region as a site of artistic production rather than one of mere consumption. A significant shift occurred around 2016 when Walk&Talk pivoted from focusing on public art toward deeper site-specific practices. The territory itself became the medium, a platform for artistic encounters that engaged with the land, its history, and its people. This evolution mirrors broader artistic trends: moving from works *about* place to work *with* place, from visual display to lived participation. The choice of the public realm as the stage for the festival to evolve reflected the organizers’ democratizing intent to engage directly with residents and visitors alike. As the festival matured, its scope diversified, and at the same time, it returned to local traditions. From the ceremonial pig slaughter, loaded with cultural significance and shared labor, kinship radiates through generations to how Walk&Talk’s commitment to redefining how we perceive art and culture. Originally conceived by Jesse James and Diana Sousa as a modest, yet daring plan to bring contemporary art to the Azores, the festival’s collective immediately grew with a sense of common purpose and through urban interventions, most notably a mural by the SpY collective: *No (More) Walls*. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT21_NadiaBelerique_SaraPinheiro_006.JPG) fig. 5 Vítor Belanciano contributes to the catalogue of the festival with an examination of the evolution and significance of the festival’s trajectory since 2011, which he got to know as a visiting journalist, experiencing it as an exemplary case study for how small-scale, interdisciplinary artistic initiatives can transform territories while remaining deeply engaged with urgent global issues. He, too, thinks of Pierre Bourdieu when, in light of the pandemic, which amplified feelings of isolation, Walk&Talk rethought its institutional models, pairing vulnerable structures with powerful ones, the small-scale with the large-scale, and hierarchical with horizontal initiatives, all based on shared conceptual affinities. Bourdieu’s analysis of the center-periphery dynamic explores how the cultural periphery often seeks legitimacy through difference while engaging in power struggles specific to given contexts. Embracing collective action, as Bourdieu advocates, requires cultural producers to better communicate and understand differences, defending art’s autonomy against the encroachment of capital and fostering collaboration among institutions, artists, and intellectuals in public debates. The term “rehearsal” captures Walk&Talk’s essence as a propedeutic relational layer, that is a process of preparation and experimentation leading towards its transformation into a biennial. The festival serves as a rehearsal ground for collective artistic methodologies that center on hospitality, participation, and negotiation. Hosting becomes an active methodology, not just an aestheticized act. The pig slaughter in Laudalino’s images, for example, resonates with themes of labor, ritual, and kinship that are, again and again, the center of conversations at Walk&Talk. Local tradition and contemporary narratives become part of a broader relational framework, assembling participants for a collective experience. Events, for example, the lunch at Casa do Povo, Jokko Collective’s music performances, and communal bus rides are not mere art-tourism spectacles, but rehearsals of togetherness. These gatherings dismantle host-guest hierarchies, positioning everyone as participant-contributors. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT2022_Excursao3MarianaLopes_40.jpg) fig. 6 Yet Walk&Talk does not naively replicate ruangrupa’s “make friends, not art” mantra. While the festival embraces hospitality as a curatorial principle, it does so critically, acknowledging the tensions inherent in collective assemblies. It challenges dominant art-world logic by proposing non-hierarchical modes of cultural production and resisting centralized institutional power. Walk&Talk is not only dedicated to nurturing inclusivity and representation – particularly for the queer community, which Jesse James proudly belongs to – and promoting civic engagement in a region still grappling with stigmatization. This sociocultural impact underscores how the festival has not only transformed physical spaces but also influenced attitudes and behaviors, positioning the Azores as a site of contemporaneity and renewal, far away from the seasoned hotspots of cultural and political confrontation. **The Propaedeutic Layer: Landscapes as Stages of Rehearsal** In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, São Miguel stands as a dense interruption – a volcanic fragment, both isolated and connected. This geological thrust from the earth holds stories of extraction, migration, and resilience, with every stone seemingly bearing the weight of collective labor. Standing at the edge of Lago Sete Cidades, amidst rain and rainbows, we heard local geologists answer in their own terms curatorial questions for an upcoming exhibition: how can we perceive abundance in a place where scarcity has long been assumed? What can collective processes – marked by failures and recoveries – teach us about negotiating life, space, and imagination? The land itself offers its testimony: places of rest by the sea, the violence of geological extraction sites, and the weight of walls built stone by stone. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT2022_Centriphery_AWalkonTheEdgeClaudioOliveira_65.jpg) fig. 7 Walking becomes a medium for understanding, moving through both the terrain and the ideas that it holds. The journey unfolded in layers; at the thermal baths in Caneiros, we were enveloped in mineral waters rising from deep within the earth, sparking quiet conversations about labor, collective fatigue, and the trial-and-error evolution of Walk&Talk since its inception. Last year, Walk&Talk began transitioning from a festival to a biennial format, seeking to reimagine futures and reflect on models, practices, and alliances. I realized that the journey towards the Biennial was shaped by Virgílio Varela's optimistic call to envision collective futures rooted in joy, transformation, and abundance. Far from being idealistic, it challenged my assumptions: can abundance truly emerge without acknowledging tensions and discomforts? Under the curatorial direction of Claire Shea (Toronto, Canada), Fatima Bintou Rassoul Sy (Dakar, Senegal), Liliana Coutinho (Lisbon, Portugal), and Jesse James (Azores, Portugal), the biennial will emerge as a communal effort to navigate, map, and narrate the relationships of the ultraperipheral, reaching far beyond the picturesque framework I have described here. Their proposal is rooted in worlds that intersect, sediment, and transmute via individual and shared invisibilization. It made sense, therefore, to see members of the Jokko Collective spend time with everyone and play music on the night of our arrival. The gatherings, bus rides, and free lunch at Casa do Povo all serve as preparations for the new commissions for 2025 which will be proposed by artists such as Alice Visentin, ANDLab, Candice Lin, Colectiva MALVA, Ebun Sodipo, Helle Siljeholm, Gala Porras-Kim, Janilda Bartolomeu, Joana Sá, Lucy Bleach, Mae-Ling Lokko, Maria Emanuel Albergaria, Meg Stuart & Forum Dança, Nadia Belerique, Resolve Collective, Uhura Bqueer & Soya the Cow, as well as co-productions with Hotel Europa and Os Possessos. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT2022_Excursao4AMarianaLopes_07-v2.jpg) fig. 9 Landscapes are never neutral. They carry the traces of labor and dispossession, the cumulative histories of those who dug, carried, or simply laid against their warmth. In much the same way, Shea, Sy, Coutinho, and James draw on the layered, often contentious, histories of their respective environments, united by a commitment to challenging conventional narratives and fostering inclusive dialogues. Shea’s work, unfolding in the Fogo Islands and Hong Kong, is grounded in social activism and emphasizes identity, belonging, and marginalized voices. Sy, based in Dakar, foregrounds African contemporary art, blending traditional and modern practices to decolonize the cultural landscape. Coutinho’s curatorial work in Lisbon centers on memory, history, and the power of the archive, inviting critical reflection through experimental art. Meanwhile, James, with a focus on the Azores, creates immersive, site-specific exhibitions that integrate local traditions and landscapes, fostering deeper engagement with ecological and societal issues. Together, they embody a diverse, innovative approach to curating that emphasizes cultural exchange, critical discourse, and the reimagining of artistic and societal boundaries. The physical heart of the festival, Vaga – the exhibition space born from the pandemic – hosts *Magmatic Bodies*, curated by Marta Espiridão, a longtime collaborator of Walk&Talk, and produced under the Nova Vaga Award. The exhibition explores how Isabel Medeiros, Joana Albuquerque, and Sofia Rocha understand the friction between place, body, and belonging. Touch is the central theme: What happens when a hand wraps around a stone? When skin brushes against the textured earth? Approaching such questions, the artists highlight the intimacy of these encounters, insisting that geology is not just a matter of science, but of history and memory. Their residency in São Miguel took them to sites where these relationships were most vivid: hot sulfuric lakes that relax all muscles, fissures where water erupts from rock, and quarries where stone is severed from the earth and displaced for construction labor. The works suggest that to hold a stone is to grip the past, compressed, crystallized, and carried into the present. The artists transform landscapes into bodies, and bodies into volcanoes, with the exhibition space revealing these transfigurations. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT2022_Centriphery_AWalkonTheEdgeAMarianaLopes_08-v2.jpg) fig. 10 Accumulated frustration from a year of dire and brutal polarization in the midst of the rise of authoritarianism around the world meant I was met with something more enduring during my stay in the Azores: a sense of shared possibility – fragile but urgent, and ultimately abundant in its capacity to redefine what artistic and social collaboration can achieve. The call to “exist as practice” remains a turning point over a weekend filled with the unexpected, a reminder that abundance is not something to find only within capitalistic logic, but something to build, together, from within oneself, holistically. To focus on abundance is to focus on contradictions, at least in the Azores, a territory shaped by colonial histories, capitalist incursions, and profound ecological beauty. The archipelago's geographical position made it a critical node in transatlantic trade routes, embedding it within systems of imperial extraction and exploitation that continue to reverberate through its economy and social fabric. These routes, which connected Europe, Africa, and the Americas, were key conduits for the transatlantic slave trade, human lives commodified, uprooted, and violently displaced to fuel colonial economies. The Azores served as both a waypoint and a participant in this system, where enslaved Africans were forcibly transported, traded, or worked on plantations that fed imperial powers with goods such as sugar and wine. The scars of forced migration, monocultural agriculture, and the militarization of its landscapes reveal how deeply entangled the Azores remain within histories of empire and global power dynamics. And yet, rather than romanticize or reject this complexity, the Biennial aims to inhabit it, working with the material and immaterial landscapes that are already there, acknowledging the contradictions while reimagining them as fertile ground for new forms of solidarity, creation, and coexistence. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-12-20-at-15.51.21.png) fig. 11 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/WT21_Excursao6_SaraPinheiro_001.JPG) fig. 12 // --- ### Image credits Cover: SpY, Nomorewalls ©SaraPinheiro fig. 1: © Herdeiros de Laudalino da Ponte Pacheco / Santa Casa da Misericórdia do Divino Espírito Santo da Maia fig. 2: Centriphery, *A Walk on The Edge.* Walk & Talk 2022\. Photo by Mariana Lopes fig. 3: Alexandre Farto (Vhils), *Scratching The Surface.* Walk & Talk 2013\. Photo by Rui Soares fig. 4: Nadia Belerique, Walk & Talk 2021\. Photo by Sara Pinheiro fig. 5: © Herdeiros de Laudalino da Ponte Pacheco / Santa Casa da Misericórdia do Divino Espírito Santo da Maia fig. 6: *Excursão #3*, Walk & Talk 2022\. Photo by Mariana Lopes fig. 7: Centriphery, A Walk on The Edge ©Claudio Oliveira fig. 8: © Herdeiros de Laudalino da Ponte Pacheco / Santa Casa da Misericórdia do Divino Espírito Santo da Maia fig. 9: *Excursão #4*, Walk & Talk 2022\. Photo by Mariana Lopes fig. 10: Centriphery, *A Walk on The Edge.* Walk & Talk 2022\. Photo by Mariana Lopes fig. 11: © Herdeiros de Laudalino da Ponte Pacheco / Santa Casa da Misericórdia do Divino Espírito Santo da Maia fig. 12: *Excursão*, Walk & Talk 2021\. Photo by Sara Pinheiro *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Reading behind Fragmentation URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/reading-behind-fragmentation/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:43.000Z My grandmother is a small woman with big, bony hands. Her left arm has a long scar and a crooked bone because she once got it caught in a meat grinder. The older she gets the more she shrinks and the more her humpback grows. All the women in my family grow humpbacks when they get older. I think it's an effect of their work. My grandmother thinks it’s a genetic condition. She tells me I should take care of my posture so as not to end up with a humpback like her. I straighten my back for reassurance and wonder about how my own work, although different from hers, might leave me with a humpback too. I’m reminded of my grandmother’s back standing in front of Kelly O’Brien’s *No Rest For The Wicked* (2022 - ongoing), which is currently on view in the exhibition “Hard Graft: Work, Health and Rights” at the Wellcome Collection in London. The artist’s photographic documentation of the working-class women in her family consists of an assemblage of intimate close-ups of their everyday lives and stylized portrayals of domestic work. As an exploration of reproductive labor traced in the bodies of multiple generations of O’Brien’s family, who immigrated from Ireland to the UK, her photographs zoom into seemingly trivial details such as a hair tie, a half-closed bra zipper, a hand holding a supermarket bill, and make them sensitive, personal signifiers of their socio-economic positions. In contrast to these images, staged portraits of her family members posing with, and hiding their faces behind, their working tools indicate the self-alienation inherent to the stereotyped representation of their labor. My grandmother’s body - just like those of O’Brien’s family members - with its physical condition and scars is a testimony to the extractive structure of capitalist accumulation and how its labor regimes and mechanisms of domination are inscribed into the body. According to Silvia Federici, to understand the history of the body under capitalism one needs to consider all the techniques that are used to discipline, commodify, and exploit it as labor power. Describing a history of the body means describing the different forms of repression that have been activated against it. Federici insists on considering this correlation to understand “the crisis our bodies are currently undergoing and, at the same time, read behind our collective and individual pathologies \[to\] search for new anthropological paradigms” \[1\]. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Image-2.jpg) fig. 1 “Hard Graft: Work, Health and Rights”, seeks ways of reading behind such pathologies through an extensive engagement with the history of the exploitation to which the worker’s body is subjected. It is a history rooted in colonialism and racism and the long legacy of workers’ rights and resistance movements. Within a wooden structure, historical documents and objects from the museum’s collection, contemporary artworks, and new commissions are brought in relation to and conversation with each other. The exhibition’s structure focuses on three different workspaces, each of which speaks of different aspects of precarity, working conditions, and repression. They are *Plantation*, *Street* and *Home*. Text- and audio-based exhibition guides, as well as accompanying signs, lead visitors through the wooden labyrinth from one area to the others, contextualizing and expanding the show with additional information. Upon entering the exhibition space I first encounter Adelita Husni Bey’s video work *Gestures of Labour* (2009). The video produced in the Kapungs neighborhood of Jakarta, which is mainly inhabited by migrant workers, shows sequences of working hands fulfilling repetitive tasks, weaving, stitching, or handling machines. The camera isolates the focus on working hands in their production and detaches them from the working body, which remains unknown to the viewer. All I learn about the workers portrayed in this video is through the repetitive movements of their hands. The image of these hands becoming disembodied production tools displayed in the artist’s work prompts me to reflect on how the fragmentation of the working body for the sake of capitalist accumulation relates to the archival logic in the history of *Wellcome Collection* itself. Considering the archive and the pharmaceutical industry as institutions that are historically complicit in the execution of colonial and capitalistic workings against the body, it feels relevant to look into the history of the *Wellcome Collection* itself to situate the exhibition within the legacy of the institution. Founded in the early 20th century by Sir Henry Wellcome, whose wealth was accumulated through his pharmaceutical business, the collection’s history is deeply tied to imperial policies and colonial trading relationships. Between 1890 and 1936 Wellcome collected a tremendous number of looted indigenous medical artifacts, sacred objects, and human remains through auctions and dealer markets to tell “a global story of health and medicine” \[2\]. The classification system of his collection perpetuated the idea of cultural hierarchies and the superiority of European medical advancement. His archival techniques that categorize objects and knowledge according to Eurocentric standards seem to reveal analogies with the violent logic of exploitation and the fragmentation of the working body. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Image-3.png) fig. 2 The *Wellcome Collection*’s efforts in recent decades to address and take responsibility for the collection's violent history, facilitate restitution, and critically revise its practices are also reflected in this show. By making most of its holdings publicly accessible and inviting members of source communities to engage with and reclaim their cultural heritage, the institution seeks to reconcile with its past \[3\]. With its focus on necropolitical domination, exploitation, and medical violence “Hard Graft…” seems to align with this endeavor, contributing to the reevaluation of the collection's own history. Archival material from the Collection is included in the exhibition and put in relation to contemporary artworks, in ways that seek to create new relationships between past and present. If, following Federici, the struggle of the working body “must begin with the re-appropriation of our body, the revaluation and rediscovery of its capacity for resistance, and expansion and celebration of its powers, individual and collective” \[4\], I wonder if the same applies to a restitutional approach to the museum's collection. How can a focus on the inherent capacity of the objects to resist an imposed system of division and de-contextualization support a critical revision of the collection? Could this resistance be found in the objects themselves? The works of contemporary artists in this show not only address or oppose the violence inherent to the history of those documents but also re-appropriate the narrative and thereby the working body itself. Entering the area dedicated to the heading *Plantation*, which reveals the roots of capitalist disembodiment in colonial enslavement, I encounter one such confrontation between Md Fazla Rabbi Fatiq’s *Dark Garden Series* (2021 - ongoing), and a black and white photograph depicting enslaved people working on a plantation in the Paraiba Valley region. Reproducing a romanticized colonizer's view of an exotic landscape, this photograph, taken in 1882, normalizes and aestheticizes the violence, dehumanization and exploitation inherent to this photograph. *Dark Garden*, which is displayed on the wall opposite to this photograph, disturbs this brutal romanticisation of a landscape by opposing it with his own documentation of plantation workers in Bangladesh and their bodies’ injuries and scars. One of his photographs depicts a worker sitting on a severely pollarded tree staring back at the camera. While one of the worker’s hands holds his leg, his other arm rests on the cut-off branch. Although the position of the photographer could be read as similarly distant and the depicted man as aligned with the landscape, the firmness of his gaze seems to both recognize the destruction of the landscape and resist his objectification through the camera. Here both the photographer and photographed seem to reclaim a unity between body and land, resisting the body’s separation from the land and nature, which is as inherent to capitalist exploitation as it is to colonial extraction. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Image-4.jpg) fig. 3 Industrial forces aligned against bodies and land are uncovered in the video *If toxic air is a monument to slavery, how do we take it down?* (2021) by Forensic Architecture. Their investigation into the air pollution caused by industrial complexes in Louisiana was commissioned by RISE, an activist group of local residents who live along the Mississippi River between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. As descendants of historically enslaved people in the so-called “Petrochemical Corridor” the proliferation of industry not only exposes them to severe health risks but also threatens the destruction of their homes and their ancestors’ burial grounds. FA’s tracing of cemeteries in earlier maps, scientific investigations of air pollution, and medical statistics support the persistent fight of RISE against the destruction of their land, their own displacement, and the subsequent health risks to which residents are exposed. Proving the severe repercussions and continuation of the area's history of slavery becomes especially crucial because of its invisible workings. The narrator’s statement “Like the climate of racism, toxic air pollution is almost invisible to the eye,” thereby indicating how the reappropriation of control over bodies and land must go hand in hand to fight the environmental racism posed by industry. The second area, dedicated to the *Street*, addresses different forms of labor in public space, which often remain unrecognized and unvalued, for example, sanitation work, or others that are criminalized such as sex work. A huge altar-like installation in the middle of the space, reminiscent of an obscure mix of an amusement park installation, an abandoned cathedral, and a souvenir shop draws me closer. On pews, ceramic money boxes are placed. These are shaped like souvenir items and bear inscriptions including “The contagious disease’s act”, and “Stop shaming us to death”. Behind these two-color stained glass windows depicting distorted biblical scenes frame a screen on which - instead of a priest’s sermon - a monologue plays historical narratives, personal and collective experiences of sex work that too often remain unknown. Developed in collaboration with Polly Blake and Juno Mac from SWARM collective and the author and actor Mendez, Lyndsey Mendick’s *Money makes the world go round* (2024) honors the labor that, despite having always formed a fundamental function within capitalism, has been systemically stigmatized and criminalized. The tension between the beauty of remembrance and the brutal forces of criminalization becomes especially tangible in the corresponding archival material. A series of etchings entitled *Prostitutes with their names and charges* from the early 17th century makes me wonder about the context of their production. While each picture is marked with the criminal charges written next to each person’s portraits, the delicateness of the detailed depiction of their beautiful dresses and appearances overshines their stigmatization. Despite their brutal function, these etchings preserve the legacy of the depicted women’s lives and work in the face of their social systemic erasure. This legacy, connecting sex workers over decades and centuries in their fights and struggles for self-determination, is celebrated on a huge billboard in the exhibition. Documents, photographs, and archival material shed light on *The English Collective of Prostitutes, SMARM collective*’s and other movements’ activism claiming public space to resist an often predominant victimizing narrative of sex work and the societal stigma ascribed to their bodies. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Image-5.jpg) fig. 4 Sylvia Federici ends “Beyond the Periphery of the Skin” with a celebration of the body’s capacities to reunite what capitalism has divided. By highlighting the body as a “natural limit” to exploitation which is structured by desires and needs, she opens the understanding of bodies under capitalism towards our abilities to resist, disobey, organize, and change: “Since the power to be affected and to effect, to be moved and to move, a capacity that is indestructible, exhausted only with death, is constitutive of the body, there is an immanent politics residing in it: the capacity to transform itself, others, and change the world" \[5\]. Following Federici, I want to end this text with the celebration of all the depictions of collective resistance, workers' uprising, and labor rights movements displayed in the show, of which the following are only a few examples. Bouba Touré’s photograph “Our lives and struggles”(1980-2000), honors the migrant-led workers’ movements in Paris, whose resolute fights and resistance paved the way for improved rights for all workers in France. Louise Rocabert’s *Women of Ibis Batignolles* (2020), which documents the strikes of 40 chambermaids at the Ibis Batignolles hotel in Paris, and the documentation of the International *Wages for Housework Campaign* (1995) both celebrate the uprising against the devaluation of reproductive labor and demands for adequate compensation from various movements across the world. While these works beautifully document the legacy of reunified bodies, these pictures direct the attention outside of the museum where transformation is catalyzed by disobedience. When I leave the show ruminating on the limitations of representing a reunification of fragmented bodies in a museum context, a small notation of a resistance song by enslaved people in Barbados remains with me. Transcribed by the English abolitionist Granville Sharp and owned by Gloucestershire Archives, this document acts as a reminder that a museum might be able to archive the (dispossessed) material manifestation of resisting bodies, categorize and display it, but it is nonetheless incapable of owning the resistance itself. Reflecting on how the reverberation of the song remains with resisting bodies that sing, recount, and hear it, proves that the immanent capacity of the body to reunite what capitalism has divided cannot be contained by the museum, the collection, or the archive. Instead, it happens when bodies gather in the streets, on the fields, and elsewhere to carry on the material manifestation of their needs and desires, in limbs, lungs, ears, vocal cords, and movements that pose an embodied limit to exploitation. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Silvia Federici, Beyond the Periphery of the Skin: Rethinking, Remaking, and Reclaiming the Body in Contemporary Capitalism (Binghamton: PM Press, 2020), 76. \[2\] [https://wellcomecollection.org/about-us/the-colonial-roots-of-our-collections--and-our-response](https://wellcomecollection.org/about-us/the-colonial-roots-of-our-collections--and-our-response?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (last accessed: 04.12.2024). \[3\] [https://wellcomecollection.org/about-us/the-colonial-roots-of-our-collections--and-our-response](https://wellcomecollection.org/about-us/the-colonial-roots-of-our-collections--and-our-response?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (Last accessed: 04.12.2024). \[4\] Silvia Federici, Beyond the Periphery of the Skin: Rethinking, Remaking, and Reclaiming the Body in Contemporary Capitalism (Binghamton: PM Press, 2020), 123. \[5\] Silvia Federici, Beyond the Periphery of the Skin: Rethinking, Remaking, and Reclaiming the Body in Contemporary Capitalism (Binghamton: PM Press, 2020), 124. Image credits Cover: May 1st demonstration in solidarity to the Sans-Papiers in hunger strike at the Halle Pajol before the occupation of the Saint Bernard Church, 1996, Paris, Photo: Bouba Touré Archive fig. 1: *Dark Garden, Md Fazla Rabbi Fatiq, 2021- ongoing*. Courtesy of the artist; Hard Graft Gallery Photo: Wellcome Collection/Steven Pocock, 2024 fig. 2: *If toxic air is a monument to slavery, how do we take it down?, Forensic Architecture in partnership with RISE St. James, 2021* © Forensic Architecture fig. 3: *Money Makes the World Go Round, Lindsey Mendick, 2023-2024*. Commissioned by Wellcome Collection, CC-BY-NC; Hard Graft Gallery Photo: Wellcome Collection/Steven Pocock, 2024 fig. 4: *No Rest for the Wicked, Kelly O'Brien, 2004-2022*. Courtesy of the artist; Hard Graft Gallery Photo: Wellcome Collection/Steven Pocock, 2024 *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### Infrastructural Violence by Design URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/infrastructural-violence-by-design/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:41.000Z Berlin\`s landscape of funding for both cultural institutions and independent projects and actors has always been heterogeneous. From the 1990s to the early 2000s, the ways the cultural scene has been funded, blended historical residue from a once-divided city with two cultural administrative departments and traditions, and different episodes of post-Wall Berlin. This made conceiving Berlin’s image a vast playing field for artists and creative entrepreneurs to squat, experiment, and develop in widely available and affordable spaces. This era was followed by the emergence and aspiration of the “creative city” narrative, a managerial mindset coined by economic geographer Richard Florida, proposing to treat creativity as a resource for urban and regional development and popularizing ambivalent approaches such as the temporary use (*Zwischennutzung*) and the naming of a “creative class” and “creative entrepreneurialism”. The “creative city” narrative was shaped by a funding allocation partially explained via long-cultivated traditions of funding for individual cultural institutions that have a recurring item position in the bi-annually allocated cultural budget, a so-called “Haushaltstitel”. Other cultural actors or initiatives, which are either “younger” institutions to begin with, or which came into being in very different socio-spatial conditions in Berlin’s creative city script, do not receive longer-term recurring funding but are instead reliant on competitive project funding. Debates in Berlin’s cultural and creative (industries) policy meander between arts and culture-related aspirations on the one hand, and economic development rationales on the other. Hence, cultural policy and funding in Berlin consist of differently-minded administrators, policymakers, and, artists, to discuss, design, and distribute forms of subsidy and support for the arts. **From Squats to Strategies: Mapping Berlin’s Cultural Funding Infrastructure** Since the 2010s, collective organizing within the independent arts scene has significantly influenced cultural policy debates. This became evident with the formation of groups such as *Haben & Brauchen* (2011) and the *Koalition der Freien Szene* (2012), as well as mobilizations for cultural spaces including the *Alte Münze* and *Haus der Statistik* (both since 2016). These and other artist-led initiatives actively engage with political stakeholders to secure and preserve spaces for artistic production and presentation. Prominently, the *Koalition der Freien Szene* has acted as a trans-disciplinary action platform for artists and independent cultural producers from multiple artistic genres, articulating collectivized voices to represent political and funding-related claims. While the *Koalition* is not without its difficulties in representing the “whole” of Berlin’s hugely diverse creative scenes – including diasporic, refugee, and non-German speaking cultural groups and actors – the *Koalition* has vocally claimed the City Tax to leverage additional funds for the independent production and presentation of art and culture. While the *Koalition* was exemplarily consulted in the design of distributing the first incoming City Tax \[1\] funds back in 2015/16, a decade later, the status quo of such collaborative policy-making stands at a worrisome point. It is also in this last decade of cultural politics that diversity-sensitive initiatives such as *Stiftung für Kulturelle Weiterbildung und Kulturberatung* (the Foundation for Cultural Education and Cultural Consulting, est. 2020) were founded, laying the groundwork for diversity-centered cultural consultation and programming, as spearheaded by [Diversity Arts Culture](https://diversity-arts-culture.berlin/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (est. 2017), the cultural education [hub ](https://www.kulturformen.berlin/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[kultur\_formen](https://www.kulturformen.berlin/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), or the Institute for Research on Cultural Participation (Institut für Kulturelle Teilhabeforschung, est. 2020). When it comes to the breadth of cultural funding in the city-state of Berlin, for the past 10 to 15 years, the overwhelming majority (90 to 95%) of the provincial budget (amounting to around 600 million Euros as of 2020) has been going to institutions such as opera houses, orchestras, theatres, collections, and museums. Respectively, independent cultural actors in fields such as visual arts, performing arts, literature, poetry, jazz, and new musical forms, and cross-disciplinary structures such as cultural centers, cultural education hubs, programming for children and young people, and artist-run project spaces have received the remaining percentage of the budget. ## ***In short, the days of “poor but sexy”, announced in the early 2000s by then-mayor Klaus Wowereit of the Social Democratic Party, are, once and for all, over \[2\].*** While we all knew that, with the announcement of a historic 11.6 % cut to the cultural budget (totaling about 130 million Euros) to come into effect as of January 1, 2025, precarity in Berlin’s cultural sector has been taken to another level. In the most absurd ways of receiving the news from the newspaper, some cultural initiatives that focus on inclusive, children and youth-related, and diasporic cultural programming will be forced to close down by the beginning of the new year. The ways they are affected by “cuts” actually do not equal scaling back, or receiving less funding, but the complete dissolution or erasure of their existence. The political mobilization of the independent scene from roughly the last ten years can be captured via a conflict-oriented approach to cultural policy, and to cultural politics more broadly \[3\]. The emergence of the *Koalition*, mentioned above, shows that multi-stakeholder governance between cultural administrators, politicians, artists, and artist advocacy bodies *can* work together despite differences about the concrete purpose and scope of funding the arts. Some conflicts about the social meaning and value of art, the need for inclusion, intersectional thinking, and/or participation in the arts, as well as the contentious norm of artistic excellence/quality, will persist amongst different stakeholders. In light of this, it is important for cultural policy and politics to actively invest in formats of cultural funding and cultural political dialogue that hold space for degrees of disagreement and conflict, rather than breaking off conversations altogether and ending in stalemates and silos. Over the past year, cultural politics have been deeply influenced by a volatile geopolitical landscape, ranging from conflicts such as the October 7 Hamas attacks, the ensuing Israeli total war on Gaza, and other ongoing wars in the Middle East and Ukraine, to domestic national controversies such as the debates surrounding anti-Semitism during *documenta fifteen*. These tensions have reverberated locally in Berlin, where shifts in cultural administration — along with personnel changes and coalition realignments — are increasingly intertwined with artist-led advocacy efforts. In this climate of fear-driven politics, characterized by cancellations, delays, and the exclusion of dissenting voices in cultural discourse, Berlin has seen alarming withdrawals of funding from pluralistic cultural spaces such as *Oyoun*, as well as looming restrictions on artistic freedom, programming, and freedom of speech. These conflicts form a complex web that cannot be reduced to a critique of Joe Chialo, the current State Minister for Culture and Social Cohesion (CDU). However, it is significant that Chialo has failed to honor his promises to strengthen infrastructures including *Diversity Arts Culture*. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG-20241125-WA0007.jpg) fig. 1 While it may be tempting to focus on Chialo’s rhetoric — such as his remark about “strong shoulders carrying weak shoulders” — doing so risks amplifying the condescending notions around which cultural players are considered “strong” or “weak”. What is more pressing, however, is an analysis of the political culture that such statements evoke: a troubling narrowing of pluralism and a retreat from defending artistic spaces, precisely when they are most vulnerable to the spillover pressures of geopolitical and societal conflicts. In embodied solidarity with the many statements and critiques currently circulating in writing, and vocal protests in front of the Abgeordnetenhaus (provincial parliament), and in complementarity to these voices, in the remainder of this commentary, I present critical scholarship around infrastructure to unpack both the “cruelty as well as promise” \[4\] of specifically cultural infrastructures. After a time of setting up diversity-sensitive cultural funding (i.e. allegedly a time of promise), Berlin has now clearly entered the era of revealing the cruel face of infrastructure and divestment – while larger national, European, and international cultural funding initiatives, and policies, are strongly focusing on inclusion and care such as the *Culture of Solidarity Fund*. My tentative diagnosis is that the drastic cuts display a case of “infrastructural violence” \[5\]. infrastructural funding decolonizes people, places, and the spectre of artistic excellence *infrastructural funding decolonizes people, places, and the spectre of artistic excellence* *infrastructure never dies* *againing as an exploitative verb - you gain nothing, this time* *the pulse of vulnerability races through infrastructural lines* *your right to exist has been decreed upon* *you end now* *WTFWTFWTFWTFWTF* *If you cannot ever fully kill cultural infrastructure, have you tried divesting it to death?* **The (broken) promise of infrastructure** Almost five years after my first reflections on individual and collective infrastructures of vulnerability and cultural institutions, the appeal to consider differently embodied, intersecting forms of human(e) vulnerability is as pressing as ever. Yet, cultural infrastructures, or infrastructures of cultural funding to be more precise, such as *Diversity Arts Culture*, or diasporic and multi- or trans-disciplinary, intergenerational initiatives, places, festivals, platforms of culture, etc., are currently trundling into the exact opposite direction of infrastructural support and care – infrastructural violence. ## ***But what exactly is “infrastructure”? And why has it gained such traction within academic and activist discussions that seek to disentangle this complex messy world?*** In what has been referred to as the “infrastructural turn”, scholarly attention has been dedicated to molding the thinking about infrastructure as not merely technological, technocratic, digital or information-related relations between humans, places, and things. Rather, infrastructures shape, and are shaped by, affective, poetic and embodied aspects, leading to an overall *political* understanding of infrastructure. In other words, infrastructures are never neutral – neither in their presence or existence, nor in their absence or elusiveness. Those who make decisions about infrastructure are often those in power and they have a say in what is being maintained or renovated – or not. In short, infrastructural reparation and investment are just as political as infrastructural divestment, dismantling, or erasure – the latter sadly describing the status quo of Berlin’s cultural funding at the moment. Abdoumaliq Simone has coined the notion of *people as infrastructure*, enacting or resisting greater systems of infrastructural power \[6\]. But people (i.e., artists and activists, in our case) cannot resist those hegemonic structures that deny infrastructural support, via drawing from their resources by compensating or self-exploiting forever. *how to start from brokenness, again?* *broken again, start again, never again, who again* *againing as an exploitative verb - you gain nothing, this time* *we scream against againing* *because who is gaining what from againing?* *your strong-shoulder-metaphor biologizes discrimination against community strength* In their book *The Cultural Infrastructures of Cities* \[7\], the geographers Alison Bain and Julie Podmore (2023, p. 15) describe cultural infrastructure(s) as “a combination of buildings, facilities, spaces, practices, funding and legal frameworks, personal and institutional networks, and social media sites that support a common localized urban culture.” Dennis Rodgers and Bruce O’Neill (2012, p. 402), who have coined the term “infrastructural violence” see the latter as “an ideal ethnographic site for theorizing how broad and abstract social orderings such as the state, citizenship, criminality, ethnicity and class play out concretely at the level of everyday practice, revealing how such relationships of power and hierarchy translate into palpable forms of physical and emotional harm” \[8\]. Hence, precisely because the existence or withdrawal of infrastructures reveals what cultural senators, administrators, and budget-makers prioritize, both the presence and absence of infrastructure are telling. In Berlin’s current swingeing budget cuts, leading to the complete erasure of some cultural infrastructures, infrastructural violence appears as both active or passive; while the cuts are blatantly active, they have passively rampant implications, too. Active effects of infrastructural violence, for example, become apparent in the direct and immediate reduction, or complete removal, of funding for cultural institutions, leading to the closure of initiatives like *Diversity Arts Culture,* or the reduction of programming at *SAVVY Contemporary*. These cuts are intentional, and illustrate specific actions aimed at withdrawing support for pluralistic cultural spaces, leaving artists and communities without critical resources to self-organize, network and institutionalize. Passive effects of infrastructural violence, or the long-term consequences of these cuts, may not be immediately visible or tangible, but are cumulative, wide-ranging, and multiple. For example, the reduction of funds for accessing affordable work and exhibition spaces via facilities such as the atelier or project space program or KulturRaumBerlin, will gradually erode existing infrastructures, and will force artistic communities and projects to the margins of the city or into less visible, less accessible, and even more precarious conditions of production. This represents a slow but profound destruction of Berlin's diverse cultural ecosystem, one that is not overtly active but is deeply destructive over time. Overall, this erratic managerial-administrative behavior is now clothed in arguments of austerity, with strange assumptions about relative strengths and weaknesses within the cultural landscape, and the implications of funding cuts. What is more, such short-sighted “decisions” to cut (which are then partially tweaked and revoked \[9\] as partial and insufficient responses to the ongoing and fervent protests, for example, lessening cuts at the *Schaubühne*, *Philharmonie*, or *Berliner Ensemble*) breed a culture of insecurity for *all* cultural actors, be they defunded this time or not. Now, everyone is afraid of who will not be receiving funding next time. Who is safe for another budget round? What are the parameters of maintaining funding, and what exactly are the reasons for falling prey to cuts/erasure? Which types of cuts will allow cultural organizations and spaces to keep functioning or (when/how/why) will they be “kaputtgespart”, i.e., (de)funded to death? **Cultural Life in a Post-Infrastructural Age** The inherently relational concept of infrastructure unfolds in partially unforeseeable ways – it can bring about new alliances, networks, and solidarities. But infrastructure is also consciously built to divide, neglect, or destroy. With both active and passive implications of violence, the groundwork of Berlin’s diversity-and-inclusion-sensitive cultural infrastructures has nourished generative and relation- and bridge-building soil over the past years which will not vanish overnight. Indeed, many initiatives and communities have long worked together in solidarity, before, without, or despite funding. However, the current rupture within the cultural funding landscape not only facilitates, but almost sickeningly opens the gates for infrastructural violence to flow through the newly established infrastructures of inclusive, diverse, and intersectional care that the cultural sector needed, and continues to need. The removal of essential infrastructural elements — such as offices, personnel, and both digital and physical spaces — leaves behind the lasting marks of infrastructural violence. Berlin will not forget *Diversity Arts Culture*, nor will it overlook the absence of *Mondiale*. The city will mourn the reduced programming at venues including *SAVVY Contemporary*, *Schinkel Pavillon*, *Silent Green*, and *Zentrum für Kunst und Urbanistik*. The list goes on. We will remember. Or perhaps, as the saying goes: Infrastructure is never truly gone. Whether this idea feels like a threat or a glimpse of justice and hope reflects your stance in the ongoing struggle for an intersectional cultural policy and practice—a fight that is never fully over. Not now. Not ever. // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] A 5% tax levied on net tourist overnight stays since 2014, and for professional travels since 2024. \[2\] [15 Jahre „Arm, aber sexy“-Spruch: Und heute? Reich, aber öde! | taz.de](https://taz.de/15-Jahre-Arm-aber-sexy-Spruch/!5546816/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[3\][Agonistic Articulations in the 'Creative' City: On New Actors and Acti](https://www.routledge.com/Agonistic-Articulations-in-the-Creative-City-On-New-Actors-and-Activism-in-Berlins-Cultural-Politics/Landau/p/book/9780367671129?srsltid=AfmBOoo3kauKhVz384CFV9yyXA9kblJjtbBNofJU9JkLuA1iHV%5FzYDRl&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[on](https://www.routledge.com/Agonistic-Articulations-in-the-Creative-City-On-New-Actors-and-Activism-in-Berlins-Cultural-Politics/Landau/p/book/9780367671129?srsltid=AfmBOoo3kauKhVz384CFV9yyXA9kblJjtbBNofJU9JkLuA1iHV%5FzYDRl&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (accessed December 9, 2024). \[4\][ Seeing Like a City](https://www.politybooks.com/bookdetail?book%5Fslug=seeing-like-a-city--9780745664255&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (accessed December 9, 2024). \[5\][ Urban life in the shadows of infrastructural death: from people as infrastructure to dead labor and back again: Urban Geography: Vol 42 , No 9 - Get Access](https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/02723638.2021.1902633?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[6\][ People as Infrastructure: Intersecting Fragments in Johannesburg | Public Culture | Duke University Press](https://read.dukeupress.edu/public-culture/article/16/3/407/31780/People-as-Infrastructure-Intersecting-Fragments-in?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (accessed December 9, 2024). \[7\] [Title Detail: The Cultural Infrastructure of Cities by Alison L. Bain](https://www.agendapub.com/page/detail/the-cultural-infrastructure-of-cities/?k=9781788214919&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (accessed December 9, 2024). \[8\] [Vol. 13, No. 4, December 2012 of Ethnography on JSTOR](https://www.jstor.org/stable/i40138791?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (accessed December 9, 2024). \[9\] [Berlin: Kulturszene darf doch auf mehr Geld hoffen | tagesschau.de](https://www.tagesschau.de/inland/innenpolitik/berlin-sparhaushalt-kultur-100.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (accessed December 13, 2024). Image credits Cover: "Different feet in the same struggle, we are all affected by the cuts in different ways". Photo by Friederike Landau-Donnelly fig. 1: "Through the clouds that carry our protesting voices, we stay infrastructured together in solidarity". Photo by Friederike Landau-Donnelly *Dr. Friederike Landau Donnelly (\*1989) is a Berlin-based urban sociologist and cultural geographer. Friederike is interested in the intersections between political theory and artistic activism to understand how cultural workers articulate new policies and places of the political. Agonistic Articulations in the ‘Creative’ City – On New Actors and Activism in Berlin’s Cultural Politics was published by Routledge in 2019\. Currently, Friederike is writing on the politics of public art in Vancouver, and co-editing a book of radical theories of space.* *Image: #06 San Francisco 2017/2018, Living Room © Jana Sophia Nolle http://jana-sophia.com/ Instagram: @jana sophie nolle* ### Our solidarity won’t be defunded URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/solidarity-wont-be-defunded/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:53.000Z Following the discontent and mobilizations of artistic and cultural organizations in solidarity with Palestine against the German state's complicity in the atrocities committed by the State of Israel in Gaza and the escalation of further bloody wars in the Middle East, the German state has implemented retaliatory measures aimed at silencing dissent and increasing precarity. Now that *Realpolitik* has breached the comfort zone of the art and culture sectors, will solidarity, cooperation, disobedience, and radical universalism finally guide the people's project of emancipation? The longer we are unable to inhabit a different world, the longer the genocide of the Palestinian people will continue. *​​The return of xenophobic nationalist rewritings of art history, the emergence of new forms of censorship, the cutting of public subsidies, creating new disparities between museums in the same territory, or between the North and South, and the role that multibillionaires occupy in the art world are creating a landscape of fierce and difficult struggles, to which more diverse programming responds in part, particularly in the museums that do not aspire to be universal. Authoritarian racial capitalism, dependency on financiers to make art, the occupation of Palestine and the destruction of its heritage, and current counterrevolutions demand an analytical rigor and leaps of the imagination that an institution cannot carry alone, especially if its workings and economy go unquestioned.* *– A Programme of Absolute Disorder,* Françoise Vergès In November 2023, Berlin's Culture Senate initiated a legal review of the organization Oyoun’s funding to assess whether it could be withdrawn or revoked. The audit concluded that “no violations of criminal law or other applicable law were apparent.” Despite this, the funding was ultimately canceled on technical grounds, with Culture Senator Joe Chialo advocating to develop a new “operating concept.” The decision was based on unfounded accusations of anti-Semitism following Oyoun’s hosting of *20 Years of the Jewish Voice – Celebration of Mourning and Hope*. This event commemorated the 20th anniversary of Jewish Voice for a Just Peace in the Middle East, an Israeli critical organization advocating for measures to resolve the deepening conflict between Israel and Palestine. The event sought to honor the victims of Hamas’ October 7 attacks. Such efforts, however, challenged Germany’s stance of unconditional solidarity with Israel. Despite the gravity of the decision, and an [open letter](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSd0Ni47hWpgKWZduBFe9TcFgfF37QwTj4Ejq97cxeo5HExl%5Fg/viewform?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) broadly signed by citizens, no major Berlin institutions that claim to culturally uplift diversity, inclusivity, and decoloniality took a clear stand against the defunding, regardless of the legal trials that ultimately have proven [Oyoun's integrity](https://www.theleftberlin.com/breaking-news-court-decision-in-favour-of-oyoun-confirms-our-integrity-and-ends-defamation/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). This silence highlighted the deep climate of fear and state compliance woven within the cultural sphere which is deepened by a lack of radical universalism \[1\] among certain agents and institutions that often claim progressive values. To paraphrase Audre Lorde, their silence has not protected them: the cultural scene in Berlin at large has been drastically defunded. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/11-v2.JPG) fig. 1 **The Institutional Crossfire** Only in the past month, two major events, deemed to target individuals and initiatives, shook the art and cultural landscape, revealing the tight relations between control of narratives and identities and funding distribution. On November 7th, the Bundestag approved a measure broadly criticized by many major Jewish voices, the [Antisemitismus-Resolution (Anti-Semitism Resolution)](https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/20241107-german-parliament-approves-controversial-anti-semitism-resolution/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) replicating a discursive and ideological strategy that is central to Zionism; that is to conflate criticism of the State of Israel with anti-Semitism. Further, it singles out people coming from the Middle Eastern diaspora as potential anti-Semites. Beyond the blatant racism and Islamophobia, the resolution, which is not legally binding, creates an opaque legal framework that will make it much easier to refuse citizenship and labor opportunities to those close to the Palestinian struggle and/or directly affected by the current wars in the region. Only a couple of weeks later, on November 19th, the federal government announced substantial [cuts of up to 100% of the budget](https://www.rosalux.de/en/news/id/52500/germanys-2025-federal-budget-is-a-disaster?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) allocated for funding the non-institutional art scene in 2025\. The governing coalition’s fiscal plans will involve a continued decline in spending between 2026 and 2028\. These austerity measures target spaces and initiatives devoted to inclusion and preservation of diversity. Equally, they penalize initiatives that work with cultural education and the promotion of artistic research. This will lead, almost inevitably, to their closure. An example is [Sinema Transtopia](https://sinematranstopia.com/en/news/sinema-transtopia-funding-100-cut-how-can-you-help?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), a transnational space for film culture, art, knowledge, and community, that has developed links between urban space and film as a cultural practice. The consequences of these policies which target, by depleting economic resources and freedom of expression, will worsen the already precarious working conditions of artists and an entire class of migrant cultural workers coming from the Middle East and the Global South, who are not protected by Schengen passports. Their labor is the criterion of their residency permits. They very likely will find themselves in this situation, and, thus, be forced to choose between assimilation to Germany’s structured neoliberal framework or the risk of seeing their visa not renewed. [As ](https://www.theleftberlin.com/nadija-samour-antisemitism-germany-deportations/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[Nadija Samour, Senior Legal Advisor for the European Legal Support Centre, assessed in an interview with Phil Butland for the Berlin Left](https://www.theleftberlin.com/nadija-samour-antisemitism-germany-deportations/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), these measures are paving the road for a wave of deportations. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/9.JPG) fig. 2 These measures are a consequence of a major [German economic recession and the rising cost of living since the beginning of the war between Ukraine (and NATO) and Russia](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2024/mar/18/german-living-standards-plummeted-after-russia-invaded-ukraine-say-economists?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). The industrial sector is facing a crisis and the current government (the truncated SPD coalition) has been pulverized and lost popular support due to its inability to solve economic problems, while at the same time, it bolsters the military-industrial-legislative complex by involving itself in the conflicts in the Middle East and Europe. Forms of fascism looming over German society, which is already advancing in the majority of European countries and the US (before and especially with Trump's re-election), reproduce a grim historical moment, where the rule of imperialist wars defines the rule of the economy. Information is readily available within the public domain that indicates the austerity measures applied by the German state to its cultural class will not impact the army industry, which since 2022, has seen [100 billion euros invested in a “special fund”](https://www.leftvoice.org/as-half-a-million-berliners-protest-war-germany-expands-its-military/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) for defense (on top of the military budget of over 50 billion Euros each year). In this sense, culture and art spaces become the mirror of an [“](https://socialtextjournal.org/free-palestine-strike-moma-a-call-to-action/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[expanded ideological battlefield through which those who profit from war polish their reputations and normalize their violence.”](https://socialtextjournal.org/free-palestine-strike-moma-a-call-to-action/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) The quintessence of these measures of austerity, militarization, and ideological gatekeeping occurred on November 24, during the symposium *Art and Activism in Times of Polarization: Discussion Space on the Middle East Conflict*, organized by the writer Saba-Nur Cheema and the Anne Frank Education Center director Meron Mendel, and hosted at the Neue Nationalgalerie. The ambiguous title of the event already suggested state-conforming and comforting narratives to be promulgated by the organizers and the majority of the participating guests. The event at the Neue Nationalgalerie received severe criticism from individuals and organizations that support the Palestinian struggle, resulting in withdrawals by participants such as the South African artist Candice Breitz, and the British-Israeli architect and author Eyal Weizman. More disturbingly, attendees were subjected to restrictive security measures based on their names and racial identities. Autonomous documentation of the discussions was prohibited, in addition to the racial profiling inherent in such measures – which perpetuate the false notion of dissenting voices as dangerous. Thus, a more insidious problem arises the institution's monopoly on documentation. By controlling how debate is recorded and disseminated, the Neue Nationalgalerie consolidates its authority in stifling dissenting perspectives and reinforcing conformity with capillary Zionism. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/6-v3.jpg) fig. 3 **Assimilation and Precarization as Mechanisms of Censorship** Cultural and art institutions have become sites of silencing, revealing the fragility and aggression of the prevailing system. This fragility is deeply tied to neoliberal strategies of precarization, control, and the assimilation of dissenting voices into the system they seek to challenge. Precarization, marked by unstable employment, low wages, arbitrary dismissals, outsourcing, and eroded social security, undermines workers' quality of life and dismantles the working class's political power. This process strips class of its role as a collective political subject, leaving individuals isolated and powerless. The art system in Germany reflects these dynamics, where the fragmentation of the working class intersects with identity-based agendas promoted by the cultural left. Over time, the white-dominated German art scene has assimilated frameworks such as identity politics, and decolonial theory, presenting these positions as progressive innovations to profit from. Any liberatory potential of such frameworks long has been commodified by the art market and celebrated as the legitimate tools for minoritarian emancipation and the democratization of cultural spaces. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/10.JPG) fig. 4 However, inclusion is conditional. Institutions may amplify minority voices, but in exchange they demand compliance with neoliberal norms, prioritizing symbolic representation over structural change. Renowned art prizes such as the Ars Viva and Preis der Nationalgalerie have featured lists of non-white, women, and non-binary artists as winners. Major institutions such as [Haus der Kulturen der Welt](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/resilient-communities-1/) and the Berlin Biennale have changed their teams and programs, appointing figures from the Global South as directors and curators. However, precarized and tokenized workers must align with institutional terms to secure visibility and support, effectively neutralizing any concrete dissent. While the “empowerment” of marginalized groups and the acknowledgment of suppressed epistemologies are celebrated as reforms, these gestures obscure the deeper reality: dissent is absorbed, instrumentalized, commodified, and stripped of its transformative potential. In this context, economic dependency reinforces power imbalances, allowing institutions to define “emancipation” within limits that serve neoliberal objectives. This dynamic may have advanced individual careers, but it has failed to deliver emancipation, exposing its rhetoric within capitalism as hollow – something exemplified by the ongoing struggles of Palestine. In Germany, precarization and assimilation strategies not only manage identity but also suppress class solidarity. Sara Ahmed's concept of “conditional hospitality” \[2\] aptly describes how institutions extend selective support, demanding compliance as the price of inclusion. Promises of stability and recognition lure potentially disruptive groups into a clientelistic, racialized, and classist structure, deepening divisions between “acceptable” critics who conform and those who resist. The recent mobilization of Berlin’s cultural scene against budget cuts under the [“](https://www.berlinistkultur.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[Berlin ist Kultur”](https://www.berlinistkultur.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) slogan illustrates this dynamic. While concentrating its dissatisfaction on protesting against austerity, the movement has failed to acknowledge the deeper connection between funding cuts and the criminalization of Palestinian struggles – an emblem of broader struggles for class, gender, and racial emancipation. The slogan depoliticizes the issue, obscuring how funding cuts and the Antisemitismus-Resolution work in tandem to suppress solidarity between movements. This weaponization of funding reinforces an exclusionary paradigm: those compliant with state narratives are entitled to protest austerity, while oppositional voices face economic retaliation without full solidarity from the cultural sector. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/7.jpg) fig. 5 **The Ongoing Labor of Emancipation: Solidarity, Cooperation, and Radical Universalism** The question of what to do, and how to organize, amidst the advance of these measures is a burning one. In a context where dissident agents are fragmented and tied to mainstream institutions and the market, it seems important to reevaluate the meaning of solidarity, cooperation, collectivity, and disobedience within art. In this sense, it seems equally important to recognize that there is no longer any illusory comfort zone. In times of urgency such as ours, art and critical thinking can be used as an instrument of denunciation, a tool for social aggregation, and a means of creating an ethics that guides the constitution of a different reality. But those who wish to act critically must be willing to subordinate their interests in the face of socio-political struggles. The search for emancipation and freedom of thought requires an effort to create other grammars, other types of economic organization, new imaginaries and affections, forms of cooperation, and collective work that are established independently of state and private capital, but, above all, that bring together plural groups and agendas under an anti-systemic, solidarity-based, and radically universalist principle. In the times of legalized censorship, torture, and repression during the military dictatorships in Latin America between the 1960s and 1980s, several disruptive initiatives were created independently, and clandestinely, by artists. By adopting guerrilla art tactics these initiatives aimed to consolidate networks of solidarity and communication, but also to denounce and combat the violence of the regimes. As precedents, we would like to mention the action [NO+](https://arte-util.org/projects/no/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (No more) (Chile), a slogan meant to be completed by the citizens of Santiago de Chile articulating their specific demands during Augusto Pinochet's dictatorship. This action, initiated by the Colectivo de Acciones de Arte (CADA), served as a tool to challenge and oppose the regime. It incorporated theatrical and artistic performances as strategies to intervene in everyday life, bridging the divide between artists and spectators. Another remarkable initiative is [Tucumán Arde](https://arte-util.org/projects/tucuman-arde/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (Argentina), where, after the government closed sugar mills and farms in Tucumán, leading to widespread poverty and starvation, the Vanguard Artist's Group collaborated with the CGT of Rosario to develop a campaign that amplified isolated actions through guerrilla and techniques of mass communication. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/8.JPG) fig. 6 Other examples are the foundation of the [Museo de la Solidaridad Salvador Allende](https://terremoto.mx/revista/arte-y-libertad-introduccion-a-una-geopoetica-institucional/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Its origins date back to 1971 in Santiago de Chile, when a project arose to promote the donation of artworks from artistic circles in the Americas and Europe to the *Unidad Popular* (Popular Unity) Government to create a museum for the people of Chile. The belief and support of President Salvador Allende were essential, whereby his understanding of the historical proportion of the project enabled the necessary institutional conditions for the development of this grassroots museological venture. Another remarkable precedent was set by the [boycott of the São Paulo Art Biennial in 1969](https://en.artebrasileiros.com.br/semfoto/boicote-internacional-a-bienal-de-sao-paulo/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) after the 1964 coup which established a dictatorship in Brazil. In the United States, during the heightened racial and class warfare of the 1960s and 1970s, the [Black Arts Movement](https://www.blackpast.org/african-american-history/black-arts-movement-1965-1975/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) was created to institute spaces and means of production for the community of racialized artists at a time when there was practically no space for them in the mainstream. These historical initiatives confirm that even in unfavorable times it is possible to create autonomous spaces and practices. Unlike the 60s, when the world was predominantly polarized by the Cold War, the ideological dispersion and the schismogenesis within leftist and progressive groups are more pronounced today. And so is German society at large, and its artistic and cultural sectors. However, this does not prevent us from believing that it is possible to organize the artistic class collectively in the name of fundamental universal agendas such as freedom of expression and Palestinian liberation. We see that many initiatives are already in the making internationally, and in Germany, too, such as the open call by [Strike Germany to boycott the 2025 Berlinale](https://strikegermany.org/berlinale/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), or the grassroots weekly [People United Tribunals in Berlin](https://www.instagram.com/people%5Funited%5Ftribunal/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). What is happening right now in Gaza is not an event that can be relativized or articulated with rhetorical mechanisms that reduce or obliterate the raw reality of the extermination of a people. When a cultural system accepts this, it assesses its deep dehumanization and implications with hegemonic power. We should understand that disobeying is also to learn that “it happened to them and won’t happen to us” is the syntax of division we inherit from neoliberal competition and class division. Closing with the words of Audre Lorde: “Our future survival is predicated upon our ability to relate within equality.” We hope these words may encourage us to decenter the individual and join among the disorderly agents who are affected (and those who are not) by these authoritarian austerity and censorship measures. And, above all, they may serve to enable us to continue to raise our voices against any genocide committed against any people anywhere. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5-2.jpg) fig. 7 // --- ### Footnotes \[1\] The Fanonian dialectical criticism of racism, colonialism and the selective humanism/universalism of the West has as its horizon the destruction of the ideological, political, economic, and racial signs that configures a hierarchy between whites and non-whites; between colonialist/imperialist societies and colonized societies; between the bourgeoisie and the poor and oppressed population. In this sense, the emancipation of peoples is achieved through violent revolutionary processes that aim to provoke the decomposition of the symbolic and material structures that guarantee the devices of racialization, exploitation and oppression of peoples, in order to finally establish a radical universalism/humanism which includes historically excluded and dehumanized populations. To understand this dialectic, see Black Skin, White Masks (1952) and The Wretched of the Earth (1961). \[2\] This concept is discussed in the book On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life. Sara Ahmed borrows conditional hospitality from Derrida. Whiteness is produced as host, as that which is already in place or at home. To be welcomed is to be positioned as the one who is not at home. Conditional hospitality is when you are welcomed on condition that you give something back in return. The multicultural nation functions this way: the nation offers hospitality and even love to would-be citizens as long as they return this hospitality by integrating, or by identifying with the nation. Image credits Cover: Joshua Schwebel, From the Aesthetics of Administration, 2017, an open invitation to the employees of the Berlin Kulturverwaltung to make the artwork in my exhibition. © Joshua Schwebel fig. 1: Joshua Schwebel, From the Aesthetics of Administration, 2017, an open invitation to the employees of the Berlin Kulturverwaltung to make the artwork in my exhibition. © Joshua Schwebel fig. 2: Joshua Schwebel, From the Aesthetics of Administration, 2017, an open invitation to the employees of the Berlin Kulturverwaltung to make the artwork in my exhibition. © Joshua Schwebel fig. 3: Joshua Schwebel, From the Aesthetics of Administration, 2017, an open invitation to the employees of the Berlin Kulturverwaltung to make the artwork in my exhibition. © Joshua Schwebel fig. 4: Joshua Schwebel, From the Aesthetics of Administration, 2017, an open invitation to the employees of the Berlin Kulturverwaltung to make the artwork in my exhibition. © Joshua Schwebel fig. 5: Joshua Schwebel, From the Aesthetics of Administration, 2017, an open invitation to the employees of the Berlin Kulturverwaltung to make the artwork in my exhibition. © Joshua Schwebel fig. 6: Joshua Schwebel, From the Aesthetics of Administration, 2017, an open invitation to the employees of the Berlin Kulturverwaltung to make the artwork in my exhibition. © Joshua Schwebel fig. 7: Joshua Schwebel, From the Aesthetics of Administration, 2017, an open invitation to the employees of the Berlin Kulturverwaltung to make the artwork in my exhibition. © Joshua Schwebel *Filipe Lippe (b. 1986, Duque de Caxias, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) is an artist, poet, educator and theorist. He is currently based in Berlin.* *Dalia Maini aka DM aka Dalia Maini Troise aka DMT, is a slow thinker and cultural agitator, who writes and edits for and within the undercommons.* ### Jenseits der Polarisierung URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/vagheit-und-vermeidung-in-zeiten-der-kulturkriege/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:38.000Z *Das Symposium „*[*Kunst und Aktivismus in Zeiten der Polarisierung: Diskussionsraum zum Nahostkonflikt*](https://www.museumsportal-berlin.de/de/veranstaltungen/kunst-und-aktivismus-in-zeiten-der-polarisierung/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*“, kuratiert von* [*Saba-Nur Cheema*](https://sabanurcheema.com/home/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *und* [*Meron Mendel*](https://www.meronmendel.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*, fand am 24\. November 2024 statt und bot Raum für Debatten über die Verantwortung politischer Kunst im Nahostkonflikt. Anlässlich der* [*Nan-Goldin-Ausstellung*](https://www.smb.museum/ausstellungen/detail/nan-goldin/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *diskutierten lokale und internationale Teilnehmer\*innen wie* [*Osama Zatar*](https://www.osamazatar.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* [*Ruth Patir*](https://www.ruthpatir.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* [*Julia Scher*](http://www.juliascher.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* [*Remsi Al Khalisi*](https://www.instagram.com/remsialkhalisi/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* [*Leon Kahane*](https://www.instagram.com/leonkahane/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* [*María Inés Plaza Lazo*](https://www.instagram.com/mi%5Fplaza/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* [*Andreas Fanizadeh*](https://www.instagram.com/andreasfanizadeh/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*, Sharon On und Saba-Nur Cheema über Kunstfreiheit, Solidarität und Diskriminierungspraktiken in Kulturinstitutionen.* [*Nan Goldin*](https://www.instagram.com/nangoldinstudio/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *selbst lehnte eine Teilnahme ab. Panels, Impulsvorträge und Simultanübersetzungen auf Deutsch und Englisch förderten den Dialog, doch strenge Sicherheitsmaßnahmen und massiver Widerstand gegen die Anwesenheit von Aktivist\*innen prägten im Otto-Braun-Saal in Berlin eine Atmosphäre der Angst. Die Veranstaltung wurde so zum Sinnbild der kulturellen Spaltung, in der Vorwürfe, Distanzierung und Selbstbehauptung die Sprache des Diskurses auf allen Seiten zu dominieren scheinen.* Ich war die letzte Rednerin, die auf das Symposium “*Kunst & Aktivismus in Zeiten der Polarisierung: Diskussionsraum zum Nahostkonflikt*” eingeladen wurde, fünf Tage vor der Veranstaltung. Nach vielen Absagen wurde noch eine “israelkritische Stimme” gesucht. Absagen liessen sich so zusammenfassen: “Zionisten” wollen nicht mit “Antizionisten” sitzen, soll “Genozid” als Wort vorkommen ja oder nein. Ich schätze die Bemühungen der Kurator\*innen des Symposiums, Saba-Nur Cheema und Meron Mendel, einen Raum für polarisierte Haltungen zu schaffen, sehr, aber das war nun wirklich ein fragwürdiges Casting. Angesichts der im Misstrauen geballten “Shut it Down”-Stimmung, angeführt von der Bewegung [*Strike Germany*](https://strikegermany.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), stelle ich es mir unglaublich schwierig vor, die "richtigen" Stimmen zu sammeln. Ich bin hier keine Expertin wie[ Eyal Weizman](https://forensic-architecture.org/about/team/member/eyal-weizman?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), und kein Opfer von ungerechtfertigtem Canceling wie [Adania Shibli](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adania%5FShibli?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), [Candice Breitz](https://www.candicebreitz.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), deren Platz ich annahm, [Michael Rothberg](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael%5FRothberg?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) oder [Jumana Manna](https://www.jumanamanna.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) diese Woche in Leipzig, oder weitere Intellektuelle, die wegen politischen Äußerungen von Projekten ausgeladen wurden, deren Karrieren zerstört oder denen Preise entzogen wurden. Ich halte diese Polarisierung für zerstörerisch, und die Frage, wie Kunst und Kultur auf die Welt reagieren können, ist dringlicher denn je. Ich bin keine Aktivistin in den ersten Reihen. Aber ich finde Aktivismus systemrelevant: Jede zivilisatorische Errungenschaft, ob die Menschenrechte oder der Wohlfahrtsstaat, ist das Ergebnis von Aktivismus. Das Symposium unterstreicht jedenfalls erneut, dass der Konflikt nicht am 7\. Oktober begann, und ebenso wenig begann der deutsche Antisemitismus-und-Rassismus-Diskurs mit der [Documenta Fifteen](https://documenta-fifteen.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Was jedoch seit dem 7\. Oktober die Spaltungen bis in einen erbarmungslosen Vernichtungswillen hinein steigert, ist der Zwang auf allen Seiten, sofort Partei ergreifen zu müssen – ohne Raum und Zeit, um die Opfer zu betrauern: die Getöteten und Geschändeten des Massakers der Hamas am 7\. Oktober, die 250 Geiseln, die über 43.000 getöteten Kinder, Frauen und Männer in Gaza, und die über zwei Millionen Palästinenser\*innen, die sich in einer humanitären Katastrophe befinden, deren Ende nicht absehbar ist. Selbst wenn der Krieg endet, wird ihnen ein würdevolles Leben auf Jahre unmöglich sein. Gazas Bevölkerung besteht aus traumatisierten, ausgehungerten und von Verstümmelungen betroffenen Menschen, deren gesamtes materielles und emotionales Leben ausgelöscht ist. Wie können wir das nicht in Verbindung damit setzen, dass unsere Steuern Waffenlieferungen im Namen der israelischen Sicherheit finanzieren, die so verheerende Konsequenzen hat, dass Israel sich vor dem Internationalen Gerichtshof für einen potentiellen Genozid verantworten muss? Darüber haben wir alle noch nicht geschafft, ohne Vorwürfe und ohne Spaltung zu sprechen. Der Hass gegenüber Migrant\*innen und nicht-weißen Deutschen hat zugenommen, auch dank der AfD, die in der Instrumentalisierung des Minderheitenschutzes einen Weg gefunden hat, ihre Definition von deutscher Kultur durchzusetzen. Ich spreche hier als Herausgeberin der mehrsprachigen Straßenzeitung Arts of the Working Class. Arts of the Working Class ist eine Zeitschrift für Kunst, Reichtum und Armut, die seit 2018 auf den Straßen Berlins und anderer Städte meist von Obdachlosen verkauft wird. Eine Straßenzeitung, die mit bescheidenen Mitteln versucht, Begegnungen eine depolarisierende Rolle zu geben, und zwar, indem in jeder Ausgabe unterschiedliche Perspektiven zusammenkommen. Aktuell drucken wir 70.000 Exemplare pro Ausgabe und sind damit die Kunstzeitschrift mit der größten Auflage der Welt – trotz systematischen Defundings. Wir befinden uns jetzt unter den wenigen, die sich noch um Dialog bemühen. Arts of the Working Class hat stets eine klare und nuancierte Position vertreten, auch wenn wir intern unterschiedliche Perspektiven haben auf die diskursive Form, in der der Krieg und die Besatzung Palästinas behandelt und oft auch instrumentalisiert werden. Hier kommen wir manchmal nicht zusammen. Unsere Position ist dennoch kollektiv eine eindeutige: Es ist die der Gerechtigkeit und der Selbstbestimmung, unabhängig von Herkunft, Nation, Glaube oder anderen identitären Zuschreibungen. Wir stehen solidarisch mit allen, die in diesen Konflikt hineingeboren sind und die gegen repressive Strukturen anarbeiten, egal ob in Gaza, Jerusalem, in Hebron/Al-Khalil, in Tel Aviv, in Ramallah, in Bethlehem, in Nir Oz, Be’eri oder anderen Kibbuzim. ### ***“Antizionismus ist nicht Antisemitismus”, sagte Nan Goldin in ihrer Eröffnungsrede. Ich möchte anfügen: Zionismus nicht gleich Apartheid, ethnische Säuberung oder Genozid.*** Im Sommer 2024 haben wir uns in der Ausgabe Teams & Antagonisms darum bemüht, quer zu den eskalierten Grabenkämpfen kritische Perspektiven zu entwickeln. [Elisa Fuenzalida](https://www.instagram.com/elisafuenzalida/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) berichtete über den [Palästina-Kongress in Berlin](https://palaestinakongress.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). [Dalia Maini](https://www.instagram.com/shitshines/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) sprach mit der[ Anthropologin Sultan Doughan](https://www.gold.ac.uk/anthropology/staff/-doughan-sultan/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) über die wichtige Rolle, die die Erinnerung an den Holocaust für muslimische Palästinenser\*innen spielt. Mit [Isabel Frey](https://www.isabelfrey.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) und [Michael Sappir](https://sappir.net/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) diskutierte Maini über die Pluralität jüdischer Erfahrungen und die Tokenisierung jüdischer Identitäten in Deutschland. Dafür wurden wir als Genozid-Verharmloser\*innen und Israelhasser\*innen beschimpft. Aber unsere Arbeit begann lange vor dem 7\. Oktober und hat uns bereits zuvor viel gekostet – finanziell und reputativ. Unser damaliger Redakteur [Ido Nahari](https://www.instagram.com/mistergoodnik/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) organisierte im Frühling 2023 ein Interview mit dem Friedensaktivisten [Issa Amro](https://www.instagram.com/issaamro/?hl=pt&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) aus Hebron. Dafür wurden wir im April vergangenen Jahres zum Berliner Senat zitiert. Ido Nahari ist Israeli und Issa Amro ist kritisch gegenüber BDS. Der einzige Grund dafür, dass wir uns vor dem Senat rechtfertigen mussten, war, dass in der Straßenzeitung überhaupt offen über die Besatzung im Westjordanland gesprochen wurde. Wer sich in Deutschland zu sensiblen geopolitischen Konflikten äußert, riskiert, es mit realen, greifbaren Konsequenzen zu tun zu bekommen. Aufenthaltsgenehmigungen oder sogar Staatsbürgerschaften können gefährdet sein, wenn man eine Haltung einnimmt, die als kontrovers wahrgenommen wird. Für jemanden wie mich, die noch keine deutsche Staatsbürgerschaft hat, sind diese Risiken umso größer. Ich komme aus Ecuador. Meine Familie schaute mit Angst auf meine Teilnahme an diesem Symposium, ich habe schließlich seit 17 Jahren ein Leben in diesem Land. Als Herausgeberin riskiere ich Kritik von allen Seiten. Erst recht, wenn es nicht darum geht, Partei zu ergreifen. Der harte Widerstand in den vergangenen Wochen gegen diese Veranstaltung zeigt: Reflexion und Dialog in öffentlichen Institutionen haben ihre zentrale Rolle in der Gesellschaft verloren. Viele betrachten diese Debatte mit Misstrauen. Doch wer den Dialog vermeidet, landet irgendwann bei Gewalt. Mein Wunsch ist es, gemeinsam Formate für Verhandlungsräume zu finden, die Platz für alle Ansichten und Positionen machen. ### **Welche “Rolle” nimmt der “Nahostkonflikt” in der Kunst- und Kulturszene ein?** Ich halte das für eine provozierende Frage. Der Nahostkonflikt nimmt in der Kunst- und Kulturszene deshalb eine so prominente Rolle ein, weil er nicht nur ein lokaler asymmetrischer Konflikt ist, sondern als Symbol für globale Spannungen behandelt wird, die tief in kolonialen Strukturen, Fragen nationaler Identität und der Instrumentalisierung von Menschenrechten verwurzelt sind. Es wird immer schwieriger, über diesen Konflikt überhaupt zu sprechen, ohne dass er dabei von willkürlichen Behauptungen besetzt oder als Proxy für andere Konflikte genutzt wird. So sind der Krieg und die Besatzung zugleich real und symbolisch. Durch die zunehmende Unfähigkeit, über dieselben Tatsachen zu sprechen, entgleitet uns jede politische Dimension. Die Sprache selbst wird zum Schlachtfeld, und alles, was jemand sagt, jedes “Like”, wird unmittelbar instrumentalisiert. Alles wird als Beweis für und gegen alles gebraucht. Wenn wir wissen, dass der Kampf um Deutungshoheit keine Kriege beendet oder Dekolonialisierung bewirkt, warum beharren wir darauf? Die globale Aufmerksamkeit für Leid und Ungerechtigkeit erscheint selektiv. In Deutschland wird diese Dynamik durch ein spezifisches Problem verschärft: das unaufgearbeitete Doppelerbe von Rassismus und Antisemitismus. 92 Prozent aller Deutschen waren nie in Israel/Palästina, wie Meron Mendel im “Spiegel” schrieb. Warum haben dann alle eine Meinung? Die Leerstelle eines gelebten und mit Erfahrung gefüllten Umgangs mit Antisemitismus wird zunehmend von Rechtsextremen und Populisten besetzt, die autoritäre und polarisierende Diskurse normalisieren. Statt sich dieser Herausforderung zu stellen, verharrt die Kulturszene oft in reflexhaften Strategien wie Boykotten oder dem Canceln – symbolische Maßnahmen und moralische Abkürzungen, die selten zu nachhaltigen Lösungen führen, sondern alle Akteure isolieren. Die übersehene Frage ist: Gegen wen richtet sich die symbolische Ebene dieses Krieges eigentlich, und was gibt es mit ihr zu erreichen? Die Kunst- und Kulturszene trägt die Verantwortung, sich solchen verkürzten Logiken zu widersetzen. Das erfordert jedoch die Bereitschaft zur Selbstkritik, da auch notwendige Bewegungen oft an Ego-Konflikten und einem Mangel an strategischer Kohärenz scheitern. Während autoritäres Denken zunehmend salonfähig wird und die Gefahr einer rechtsextremen Bundeskanzlerschaft greifbar erscheint, droht die Kulturszene, sich in symbolischen Kämpfen zu verlieren, statt die Wurzeln dieser Dynamiken freizulegen. ### ***Es geht nicht darum, "pro" oder "contra" eine Bewegung, für oder gegen ein Land oder eine Seite Stellung zu beziehen. Es geht darum, die Mechanismen zu entlarven, die diese Konflikte und unsere Diskurse darüber prägen.*** Deutsche Institutionen dürfen sich nicht als moralische Instanz inszenieren, während sie die politischen und historischen Komplexitäten in ihren eigenen Strukturen ignorieren. Ein Aktivismus, der moralische Eindeutigkeit über Reflexion stellt, riskiert, mehr zu spalten als zu verbinden. Der Nahostkonflikt ist wichtig – aber nur, wenn wir ihn als Teil eines größeren Netzes von Kämpfen und Ungerechtigkeiten begreifen. Wo ist die intersektionale Solidarität gegenüber allen Leidenden geblieben? Der Nahostkonflikt ist wichtig – aber nur, wenn wir ihn als Teil eines größeren Netzes von Kämpfen und Ungerechtigkeiten begreifen. Viele Förderer der US-Bürgerrechtsbewegung waren jüdisch, darunter Holocaust-Überlebende. Die Linke in Israel fühlt sich seit Jahren von der Welt alleingelassen in ihrem Kampf gegen Netanyahu. Wo hat die Linke ihre intersektionale Intelligenz gelassen? Ich wünsche mir, dass wir aus dieser kriegerischen Logik herauskommen, die Positionen in "pro" oder "contra" kategorisiert. Der Kunst- und Kulturszene wird vorgeworfen, sie sei einseitig pro-palästinensisch, da viele Werke auf die Probleme der Besatzung und Menschenrechtsverletzungen hinweisen. Gleichzeitig wird pro-israelischen Haltungen oft unterstellt, dass sie Antisemitismusvorwürfe instrumentalisieren. Beide Reduktionen werden der Realität nicht gerecht. Viele Künstler\*innen und Aktivist\*innen bemühen sich darum, die Komplexität der Situation aus verschiedenen Perspektiven darzustellen, was jedoch häufig missverstanden wird oder in vereinfachenden Deutungen mündet. Dabei muss Polarisierung an sich nicht zwangsläufig destruktiv sein. Sie kann auch Machtstrukturen offenlegen und neue Diskurse anstoßen. Die entscheidende Frage ist, wie wir mit dieser Polarisierung umgehen. ### Jenseits der Polarisierung Die Gegenüberstellung von Institutionen wie der Neuen Nationalgalerie und Aktivist\*innen ist tatsächlich eine falsche Dichotomie, die auf oft simplifizierende Narrative zurückgeht. Diese Einteilung in „mächtige Institution“ und „oppositionelle Bewegung“ blendet die komplexen Wechselwirkungen zwischen beiden aus, die für eine dynamische, konfliktfähige und gerechte Gesellschaft entscheidend sind. Ein Beispiel dafür liefert die jüngste Diffamierungskampagne der Zeitung [Die Welt](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Die%5FWelt?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), die eine klare Trennung zwischen Kunstinstitutionen und politischen Bewegungen forciert. Diese Darstellung konstruiert ein Bild, in dem Institutionen als „neutrale“ Hüterinnen kultureller Werte dargestellt werden, während Aktivist\*innen wie Strike Germany als destruktive Kräfte erscheinen, die diese Werte angeblich bedrohen. Tatsächlich jedoch können solche Narrative nicht nur dazu führen, die Legitimität von Aktivist\*innen zu untergraben, sondern auch Institutionen in eine Verteidigungshaltung drängen, die ihren eigentlichen Auftrag – die Förderung von Empathie, Vorstellungskraft und Gerechtigkeit – beeinträchtigt. Aktivist\*innen spielen eine entscheidende Rolle, indem sie Missstände öffentlich machen und Institutionen zwingen, sich kritisch mit ihren eigenen Strukturen, Förderbedingungen oder narrativen Strategien auseinanderzusetzen. Ein Beispiel ist der Druck, den Bewegungen auf Museen ausüben, um koloniale Sammlungspraktiken oder problematische Sponsoren zu hinterfragen. Ohne diese Kritik blieben viele Institutionen in einem Zustand der Selbsterhaltung gefangen, der Veränderungen blockiert. Gleichzeitig bieten Institutionen wie die Neue Nationalgalerie Bewegungen eine Plattform, die ihre Reichweite und ihre Wirkung verstärken kann. Historische Beispiele zeigen, dass kulturelle Institutionen oft Katalysatoren für soziale Bewegungen waren, etwa durch die Bereitstellung von Räumen für Diskussionen oder durch Ausstellungen, die gesellschaftliche Themen aufgreifen. Es gibt unzählige Beispiele aus der ganzen Welt, die auf die dialektische Interaktion zwischen Institutionen und sozialen Bewegungen hinweisen. ### ***Diese wechselseitige Beziehung ist nicht konfliktfrei – und sollte es auch nicht sein.*** Eine dialektische Interaktion bedeutet, dass Bewegungen Institutionen herausfordern, während sie Bewegungen Raum und Sichtbarkeit bieten, um ihre Anliegen in die Gesellschaft zu tragen. Ein gelungenes Beispiel für eine solche Zusammenarbeit könnte ein regelmäßiges Feierabend-Format sein, ähnlich dem [Lunch-Konzert der Philharmonie](https://www.berliner-philharmoniker.de/en/concerts/lunch-concerts/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), bei dem einmal im Monat ein zentrales Thema wie Arbeitsrechte, Zugänglichkeit oder strukturelle Ungleichheiten in der Kunstwelt diskutiert wird. Diese Treffen könnten kostenlos und informell gestaltet werden, sodass Aktivist\*innen, Kunstschaffende, Institutionsmitarbeiter\*innen und interessierte Besucher\*innen gemeinsam an einem offenen Dialog teilnehmen. Die Gesprächsleitung wäre rotativ: Jedes Mal übernimmt eine andere\*r Gastgeber\*in die Moderation – sei es ein\*e Aktivist\*in, ein\*e Kurator\*in oder ein\*e Museumsmitarbeiter\*in – und bringt dabei persönliche Perspektiven und spezifische Erfahrungen und Dynamiken ein. Aktivist\*innen sollten somit auch von institutionellen Ressourcen profitieren können, etwa durch Zugang zu Räumen, technischer Infrastruktur oder Netzwerken, die bisher sonst verschlossen bleiben. Umgekehrt können Institutionen durch die Zusammenarbeit mit Bewegungen ihre gesellschaftliche Relevanz und Glaubwürdigkeit stärken. Gerade in Zeiten zunehmender Kritik an kulturellen Institutionen wegen ihrer Verstrickung in koloniale oder kapitalistische Strukturen bietet die Zusammenarbeit mit Aktivist\*innen eine Möglichkeit, transformative Prozesse einzuleiten. Ein Verhaltenskodex wäre für und von beiden Parteien zu formulieren. Die vermeintliche Gegnerschaft zwischen Institutionen und Bewegungen finde ich jedenfalls nicht nur übermäßig vereinfachend, sondern auch konspirativ; etwas, was auch Rechtsextremisten gerne normalisieren. Institutionen und Bewegungen spielen unterschiedliche, aber komplementäre Rollen im Streben nach Gerechtigkeit. Ihr Verhältnis sollte nicht als Konflikt, sondern als dynamischer Dialog verstanden werden – ein Prozess, in dem beide Seiten voneinander lernen und gemeinsam gesellschaftliche Fortschritte erzielen können. Um eine Brücke zwischen diesen scheinbar unvereinbaren Positionen zu schlagen, müssen die freien und etablierten Kunstszenen diese Räume ernst nehmen und nicht nur alternative Orte schaffen, in denen Dialog und Reflexion ermöglicht werden. Dies erfordert die Bereitschaft, Komplexität auszuhalten und die Bedingungen für einen offenen, aber kritischen Austausch zu fördern. Nur so können wir dazu beitragen, dass sich unterschiedliche Perspektiven annähern, ohne dabei ihre Integrität zu verlieren. Dafür brauchen die Institutionen aber auch das Vertrauen ihrer Arbeitgeber\*innen, der Politik. Und die wiederum hängt davon ab, dass auch Medien den Raum für eine differenzierte Debatte bieten. Leider gehorchen traditionelle Medien inzwischen zunehmend der polarisierenden Schwarz-Weiß-Logik von Social Media. Das ist ein entscheidender Grund, warum Institutionen zunehmend aus Angst heraus handeln und sich immer weniger weder auf ihre Fachexpertise berufen noch auf die jahrelangen Leistungen, die viele Theater, Museen und Fonds gegen Diskriminierung erbracht haben. ### Aktivist\*innen als unvollkommene Träger des Wandels Bewegungen wie [*Arts & Culture Alliance*](https://www.instagram.com/arts%5Fculture%5Falliance%5Fberlin/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* [*ANGA*](https://anga.live/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *(Arts Not Genocide Alliance)* und *Strike Germany* versuchen, kollektive Aktionen gegen die Normalisierung von Ungerechtigkeit zu mobilisieren. Und auch wenn ich den kulturellen Boykott grundsätzlich für falsch halte sowie das Verunglimpfen der Künstlerin Ruth Patir für unnötig und ungerecht angesichts ihrer feministischen Arbeit und ihres Friedensaktivismus, denke ich, dass Patirs grundlegende Forderungen und künstlerische Praxis unterstützenswert sind, und dass eigentlich jede\*r protestieren sollte, wie er\*sie kann. Bewegungen sind nicht ohne Fehler: Egozentrische Aktionen, Diffamierungskampagnen, interne Konflikte und ein Mangel an strategischer Kohärenz können ihr Potenzial untergraben. Die Tendenz zu reaktionären statt reflektierten Antworten kann Bewegungen taktisch, effektiv, aber strategisch fehlleiten. Die Frage, die sich daraus ergibt, lautet: Unterstützen wir Bewegungen auch dann, wenn wir ihre Taktiken nicht gutheißen? Wenn ja, wie? Während ich an Allianzen zwischen Institutionen und Bewegungen glaube und auch hier dafür werben möchte, halte ich es auch für entscheidend zu fragen, ob ihre Handlungen langfristige Ziele voranbringen oder lediglich eine Katharsis bieten, die als Ersatz für echten, bedeutungsvollen Einfluss dient. Auch hier müssen Bewegungen von innen aus Selbstkritik üben. ### *Dies ist keine Unterminierung von Bewegungen oder Institutionen, sondern ein Aufruf zur Selbstreflexion.* Aktivist\*innen müssen sich fragen, ob ihre Methoden nachhaltige Koalitionen bilden oder potenzielle Verbündete entfremden, ob sie Räume für Dialog schaffen oder bloß Echokammern verstärken. Wir müssen anerkennen, was der Kampf der Rechten gegen diese Form der Solidarität – Intersektionalität – eigentlich delegitimieren möchte: Aktivist\*innen aus zahllosen Gruppen weltweit haben sich dem Kampf für Palästina angeschlossen, von der Schwarzen Emanzipation bis hin zu Vertreter\*innen von trans\*-Rechten. Sie tragen die Erfahrung von Vertreibung und Diskriminierung in sich und verstehen, dass Palästinenser\*innen sich in einen dekolonialen und emanzipatorischen Kampf gezwungen sehen. Dieses Wissen ist wichtig und muss in die Herzen der Kulturinstitutionen zurückkommen, wo es eigentlich bis vor zwei Jahren einen Platz hatte. Ebenso sollte, wer kann, nach Israel/Palästina reisen und die Menschen unterstützen, die vor Ort seit Jahrzehnten für Gerechtigkeit kämpfen. Und Institutionen müssen sich der Frage stellen, warum israelische Künstler\*innen seit etwa zehn Jahren einen schleichenden stummen Boykott wahrnehmen. [Jasleen Kaurs](https://jasleenkaur.co.uk/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) Rede als diesjährige [Turner-Preis-Trägerin](https://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-britain/turner-prize-2024?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) während der Verleihung in der [Tate Britain](https://www.tate.org.uk/visit/tate-britain?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), die live auf dem [BBC News Channel](https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c3e3982dz8ko?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) übertragen wurde, stand sinnbildlich für eine Atmosphäre, die Angst und Eskalation überwindet und stattdessen Raum für Solidarität schafft. Ohne Polizeipräsenz und Sicherheitskontrollen bot die Veranstaltung eine offene Umgebung, die eine positive und inklusive Stimmung förderte. Für ihre Würdigung der schottischen Sikhs und ihre Fähigkeit, „mit unerwarteten und spielerischen Materialkombinationen unterschiedliche Stimmen zusammenzubringen“, wurde Kaur die bedeutendste britische Auszeichnung für moderne Kunst verliehen, die in diesem Jahr ihren 40\. Geburtstag feierte. Ihre Worte zeigen, dass Kunst als Plattform für gesellschaftliche Verantwortung dienen kann und sie erinnern daran, dass künstlerische Arbeit nicht nur kulturelles Gedächtnis erforscht, sondern aktiv zur Gestaltung eines gerechteren und reflektierten gesellschaftlichen Diskurses beiträgt. Nan Goldins und Jasleen Kaurs Worte sind nicht weit voneinander entfernt, jedoch radikal unterschiedlich in ihrem Ansatz und ihrer Ausdrucksweise. Während Goldin den Fokus auf die Verbindung von Kunst und aktivistischem Engagement legt, nutzt Kaur ihre Position, um strukturelle Veränderungen durch öffentlichem Dialog innerhalb großer Kunstinstitutionen zu fordern. Die Kraft von Dialog und Kunst, Brücken zu schlagen, zeigt sich in Projekten, die bewusst auf Konfliktlinien blicken und nach neuen Wegen suchen, diese zu überwinden: ### „Standing Together“ Diese[ jüdisch-arabische Bewegung](https://www.standing-together.org/en?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), gegründet von [Alon-Lee Green](https://www.instagram.com/alonlee/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) und [Rula Daood](https://www.instagram.com/rulaoo/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), verbindet sozialen Aktivismus und politische Strategien, um durch Solidarität und gemeinsame Ziele Veränderung zu bewirken. Ihre Philosophie des Wandels ist klar formuliert und setzt auf langfristige Organisierung und Diversität. Kernpunkte: 1. *Politik der Hoffnung schaffen: Durch kleine Ziele und konkrete Erfolge wird Hoffnung geweckt und Handlungsspielraum sichtbar gemacht.* 2. *Alle Menschen ansprechen: Nicht im Namen eines Volkes, sondern in Vertretung aller Communities – jüdisch, arabisch, säkular, religiös, urban, ländlich.* 3. *Linke Ideen verständlich machen: Klare und überzeugende Sprache, die nicht polarisiert, sondern einlädt.* 4. *Das „Offensichtliche“ hinterfragen: Politische Annahmen entmystifizieren und Alternativen aufzeigen.* 5. *Diversität stärken: Schwerpunkt auf marginalisierte Communities und geografische Peripherie legen.* 6. *Eine Bewegung für alle: Demokratische, partizipative Strukturen fördern.* 7. *Wachsen durch Teilhabe: Mitgliederzahlen steigern und neue lokale Gruppen gründen.* 8. *Die richtige Kultur leben: Transparenz, Offenheit und Inklusion im Inneren der Bewegung verankern.* 9. *Gegen Besatzung und für Frieden handeln: Die Bewegung sieht dies als unverzichtbaren Teil ihrer Identität.* 10. *Solidarität zeigen: Kooperation mit anderen Kämpfen ohne Dominanz oder Aneignung.* 11. *Alle potenziellen Partner ernst nehmen: Niemanden aufgeben, der noch nicht überzeugt ist.* 12. *Strategisch handeln: Prioritäten klar setzen und Chancen ergreifen.* 13. *Bildung und Gemeinschaft fördern: Ein Netzwerk des solidarischen Lernens aufbauen.* ### „Trotzdem Sprechen“ Das Buch [*Trotzdem Sprechen*](https://www.ullstein.de/werke/trotzdem-sprechen/hardcover/9783550203046?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), herausgegeben von [Lena Gorelik](https://www.lenagorelik.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), [Miryam Schellbach](https://www.instagram.com/miryam.schellbach/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) und [Mirjam Zadoff](https://www.instagram.com/mirjamzadoff/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) und erschienen im April 2024 bei Ullstein, liefert einen methodologischen Ansatz, wie wir inmitten von Konflikten sprechen und handeln können. Es ermutigt, nicht vor den Gräben zurückschrecken, sondern sie aktiv zu überbrücken. Kernpunkte: 1. *Unabdingbare Empathie und Solidarität für alle Betroffenen. Antifaschismus, aber mit Manieren* 2. *Rigorose Wertschätzung der Pluralität der Meinungen und Hintergründe* 3. *Pflege von Offenheit und Bescheidenheit für fruchtbare Diskussionen* 4. *Bereitschaft zur kognitiven Flexibilität, um festgefahrene Meinungen zu hinterfragen* 5. *Förderung toleranter und respektvoller Kommunikation* 6. *Unermüdliche Forderung nach struktureller Gleichheit und Gerechtigkeit* 7. *Umfassende Kontextualisierung historischer und aktueller Ereignisse* 8. *Unterstützung und Förderung kritischer Allianzen zwischen verschiedenen Gruppen* 9. *Handeln in Selbstreflexion: Ist es notwendig, Recht zu haben, oder kann ich die Menschen in Ruhe trauern lassen?* Diese sind Beispiele für mich, um die dringende Alternativen zur Spaltung zu formulieren. Wir wollen diese Themen in weiteren Beiträgen vertiefen. --- ### Bildnachweis: © Neue Nationalgalerie / Ali Ghandtschi *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### An Anatomy of Cancellations URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cancelled-culture-symposium-at-spore-berlin/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:37.000Z Convened by [Forensis](https://counter-investigations.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), [Spore Initiative](https://spore-initiative.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), and the poet [Ghayath Almadhoun](https://www.ghayathalmadhoun.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), [*Cancelled Culture*](https://spore-initiative.org/en/programming/participate/cancelled-culture?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) gathered voices from across the art world last weekend to address silencing and censorship in Germany. Over two days, participants, including [*Diaspora Alliance*](https://diasporaalliance.co/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* [*Palestine Speaks*](https://www.instagram.com/palestinespeaks/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* [*ELSC*](https://elsc.support/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*,* and[ *NotInOurNameTU*](https://www.notinourname-tu.org/?fbclid=PAZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAaZe9rBW%5F%5FfN%5FRjOqAbhhoCv8bRctMN%5FJZdxgfugOQD8zKOk8CZ%5F56kNPhg%5Faem%5FU0ZGV65O8ZMfvjDVfA-Bcg&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), engaged with the necessity of fostering spaces for critique free of erasure and criminalization. This gathering unfolded shortly after the contentious [*Art and Activism in Times of Polarization*](https://www.museumsportal-berlin.de/en/events/kunst-und-aktivismus-in-zeiten-der-polarisierung/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) symposium at the Neue Nationalgalerie, curated by [Meron Mendel](https://www.meronmendel.de/?fbclid=PAZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAaZrjYf8SwssAo17QwEE8qo4gyNLbm6eDBLi0x6fzjXM1qGXixL5pzQhzzg%5Faem%5FN5SUC1lL0jUTiIAMAi2wUA&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and [Saba-Nur Cheema](https://sabanurcheema.com/?fbclid=PAZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAaYRZJXJ4dLCeoEvKpz11pqoX%5FpM4Z-cPSwWQ6Xs5FsUV8RUCP-uvv49wu0%5Faem%5FuserJi-5c%5FDHSprE2WJz6g&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Criticized for perpetuating structural biases under the guise of "nuanced debates", the event was accused of prioritizing institutional reputations over genuine solidarity with marginalized communities. Activists highlighted how such fora reinforce white supremacy, patriarchal dominance, and Zionist narratives while suppressing dissent. In contrast, [*Cancelled Culture*](https://spore-initiative.org/en/programming/participate/cancelled-culture?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) sought to create a space for reflection and dialogue, rejecting the instrumentalization of critique. While distrust of institutional platforms is well-founded, this initiative asked how to reclaim discussions from the grip of power dynamics, nurturing spaces for marginalized voices to speak without fear of retaliation. Ironically, its critiques mirrored those leveled against the Neue Nationalgalerie symposium: all panelists shared a singular perspective, placing sole blame for Middle Eastern conflicts on Israel. The panelists are also not necessarily the “Cancelled”, but media figures widely advocating for different platforms: [Deborah Feldman](https://www.instagram.com/deborah%5Ffeldman/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) called herself “too big to be cancelled”, to which [Yazan Khalili](https://www.yazankhalili.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) responded with a request for de-centering herself, [Nicolas Jaar](https://www.jaar.site/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) read out of the fresh-from-the-press book [*Hierarchies of Solidarity*](https://wirklichkeitbooks.com/hierarchies-of-solidarity/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) by the popular duo [Moshtarii Hilal](https://www.moshtari.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and [Sinthujan Varatharajah](https://www.instagram.com/varathas/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). From fragmented trust, we must reimagine solidarity in the cultural sphere. The event, characterized by a calm and inviting atmosphere, celebrated perspectives otherwise neglected in German public discourse. Yet, it is lamentable that such gatherings can only occur in private spaces. The introductory and closing remarks by [Yossi Bartal](https://www.instagram.com/yossibartal/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), [Emily Dische-Becker](https://x.com/emilydische?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), and Ghayath Almadhoun underscored the importance of decolonial struggles and the hope that state-funded institutions might one day facilitate these discussions, even if they cannot guarantee safe spaces beyond a certain limited conception of safety, and that is police control. **Flagging Up the Cancelled** In Germany, the 2024 debate on “cancel culture” diverges sharply from wider international discourse. As Yossi Bartal and Emily Dische-Becker explored, the term conflates grassroots de-platforming with state-enforced penalties for dissent. These dynamics are rooted in historical and geopolitical complexities, creating nuanced forms of repression. Bartal, a Jewish journalist and activist from Jerusalem, shared an early experience of “cancellation” in 2004\. At 17, he found himself deplatformed by a youth center in Bernau over accusations of anti-Semitism – an anecdote that made everyone laugh. For him, this form of cancellation felt organic; a community-driven response in an emblematic leftist space – an anti-deutsch one – asserting its own boundaries. He contrasted this with Germany's state-backed punitive measures, which often target individuals for political opinions. Dische-Becker, a cancelation-geek, Director of [Diaspora Alliance](https://diasporaalliance.co/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and a researcher at [Forensis](https://counter-investigations.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), highlighted how grassroots boycotts have evolved into state-sanctioned repression, particularly against Palestinian solidarity. She linked these shifts to Israeli public relations campaigns aimed at criminalizing dissent, and Germany's adoption of these strategies, culminating in resolutions such as the Bundestag's 2019 anti-BDS (Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions) motion. **Origins of a Culture War** The roots of these dynamics, according to Bartal and Dische-Becker, lie not in Germany, but in Israel. As Bartal explains, Israel’s aggressive rebranding efforts began intensifying around 2009 during Netanyahu’s administration, coinciding with the abandonment of the two-state solution as a viable political horizon. This period saw the Israeli government not only seeking to defend its actions, but actively criminalizing opposition, particularly through anti-BDS legislation. Dische-Becker traces the exportation of these tactics to Germany, where rightwing thinktanks and pro-Israel lobby groups have influenced policy. She pointed to early incidents like the 2009 Felicia Langer controversy and the 2012 attempt to rescind Judith Butler's Adorno Prize as precursors to the broader institutionalization of these measures. Over time, isolated cases evolved into a widespread phenomenon, with individuals being reported for their social media activity or past affiliations, often anonymously. **The Machinery of Repression** The conversation delves deeply into the mechanics of this “snitch industry”, as Dische-Becker terms it. Figures such as Benjamin Weinthal, a journalist for the [*Jerusalem Post*](https://www.jpost.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), have played an instrumental role in shaping the discourse. Weinthal’s method of amplifying minor controversies into ostensible scandals has relied on leveraging respected institutions such as the [Simon Wiesenthal Center](https://www.wiesenthal.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) to add weight to his claims. These efforts were part of a broader strategy financed, in part, by the Israeli Ministry of Strategic Affairs, as Bartal notes. This machinery of surveillance and denunciation found fertile ground in Germany, where city councils, and, later, federal bodies adopted anti-BDS resolutions. The 2019 Bundestag resolution condemning BDS as anti-Semitic was a watershed moment, formalizing restrictions on funding and space for Palestinian solidarity activism. Dische-Becker described the chilling effect this has had, with artists, academics and politicians, facing penalties for their affiliations or statements. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/How-to-Work-together_-series-of-posters-based-on-collective-meetings-asking-this-question-part-of-Debt-exhibition-Qalandiya-International-2018.-Co-curated-by-Reem-Shadid-and-Yazan-Khalili-poster-design-Yazan-Khalili..jpeg) Fig.1 **Chronology of Suppressing Efforts against Palestinians and Palestinian Solidarity Activism:** **2020: The Case of Achille Mbembe in the Ruhr** Invitation and Critique: the Cameroonian philosopher [Achille Mbembe](https://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Achille%5FMbembe?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) was invited to deliver the opening keynote at the Ruhrtriennale arts festival. His invitation sparked criticism from[ Felix Klein](https://www.bmi.bund.de/EN/ministry/commissioners/antisemitism/antisemitism-node.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), Germany’s (gentile-born) Anti-Semitism Commissioner, over Mbembe's alleged support for the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement. Amplification and Backlash: the media and political figures conflated Mbembe’s critiques of colonialism and apartheid with accusations of anti-Semitism. This led to a global conversation about academic freedom, free expression, and the misuse of anti-Semitism accusations to silence discourse. Global Response: scholars, artists, and activists rallied in defense of Mbembe, condemning the misuse of anti-Semitism charges to stifle criticism of Israeli policies and highlighting the urgent need for solidarity in academic and cultural spaces. **2021: The Case of Nemi El-Hassan** Announcement of Career Milestone: Palestinian-Lebanese-German journalist [Nemi El-Hassan](https://www.instagram.com/nemi%5Felh/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) was appointed host of a new science TV show, a career milestone that soon turned controversial. Trigger Incident: A 2014 video surfaced showing El-Hassan attending an Al-Quds Day demonstration, where some attendees made anti-Semitic remarks (though these remarks were not made by her), and were immediately condemned by the organizers. The media reduced the entire event to these remarks, implicating El-Hassan as well. Amplification by Right Wing Actors: rightwing social media influencers, including a banned YouTuber, disseminated the footage, gaining traction in the Springer press and igniting a public outcry. Media Interrogation: tabloid and right-wing outlets demanded El-Hassan’s removal, questioning her ability to discuss science as a Muslim. Islamophobic attacks ensued, and, despite her public apology, she faced professional fallout. Evidence Expansion and Dismissal: further “evidence”, including Instagram likes of posts from [*Jewish Voice for Peace*](https://www.jewishvoiceforpeace.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), led to her dismissal from multiple media outlets, and her career as a journalist was effectively terminated. Impact: the case illuminated the deep-rooted Islamophobia, intersectional biases against women of color, and the weaponization of media narratives to silence dissenting voices. **October 2023: The Case of Adania Shibli and the Frankfurt Book Fair** Literary Recognition Canceled: the Palestinian author [Adania Shibli](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adania%5FShibli?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) was scheduled to receive a prestigious literary award for her novel, [*Minor Detail*](https://fitzcarraldoeditions.com/books/minor-detail/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), which explores colonial violence and memory in Palestine. Cancellation and Justification: the award ceremony was canceled following the escalation of violence in Israel and Gaza, framed as an attempt to avoid “current sensitivities”. No clear connection between Shibli’s work and political events was cited. International Condemnation: writers, scholars, and organizations worldwide condemned the cancellation as an effort to silence Palestinian voices in the literary sphere, undermining the Frankfurt Book Fair’s commitment to free expression. This continues to have no further effect on the event itself. **From October 2023 Onwards: *The Archive of Silence*** Case of the Berlin Literature Festival: a panel on [Edward Said](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward%5FSaid?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)’s legacy was canceled after allegations that a panelist supported BDS. Despite the absence of evidence, the institution cited concerns about potential backlash. Cancellation of Palestinian Film Screenings: several independent cinemas withdrew Palestinian films from their schedules in Hamburg and Cologne, citing pressure from local officials and vague references to the IHRA definition of anti-Semitism, despite the films not being materially connected to BDS. Boycotting Artists with Alleged Connections to BDS: Berlin galleries received anonymous threats for exhibiting artists with perceived pro-Palestinian stances. A show in Neukölln was canceled after sponsors withdrew, citing reputational risks. **The Case of Candice Breitz and the Saarbrücken Museum** Event Withdrawal: the South African artist [Candice Breitz](https://www.candicebreitz.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)’s solo exhibition was canceled, allegedly due to her criticisms of Israeli policies. Public Statement: Breitz publicly condemned the use of “soft laws” to silence political dissent and criticized German art institutions for their role in narrowing artistic freedom and freedom of speech. Cultural Fallout: the incident intensified discussions about the increasing intersection of artistic freedom, political repression, and the growing influence of authoritarianism within the German cultural sector. **October 2024: Heb Jamal and Academic Silencing** Disinvitation from Academic Panel: the Palestinian-American activist [Heb Jamal](https://www.instagram.com/hebh%5Fjamal/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) was invited to speak on a panel about education and equity at a Heidelberg university faculty, but was disinvited under pressure, with the university citing her alleged BDS ties and a post from her from October 2023 claiming that the decolonial struggle is "dirty, (...) but necessary". Impact: Jamal’s disinvitation underscores a broader trend of preemptive censorship in academia, where “neutrality” is claimed as a tool to exclude critical voices, particularly those challenging structural inequities. **November 2024: Frieda Toranzo Jaeger and the Intersection of Art and Activism** Fellowship Cancelation: Mexican artist[ Frieda Toranzo Jaeger,](https://www.instagram.com/priupit/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) whose work explores gender, colonialism, and identity, faced backlash after signing the initial letter of the [Strike Germany](https://strikegermany.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) movement. Institution Distancing: the[ Leopold-Hoesch-Museum](https://www.leopoldhoeschmuseum.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and the [Günther-Peill Foundation](https://www.leopoldhoeschmuseum.de/en/museum/guenther-peill-stiftung?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) distanced itself from Toranzo Jaeger, citing her “controversial statements” and forcing a public mutual agreement. Broader Context: this case exemplifies the risks faced by artists who align themselves with global justice struggles, particularly in Germany, where cultural spaces are increasingly pressured to enforce political conformity. [The Question of Funding (QofF) that was undermined during the time of Documenta Fifteen in 2022, specially for Yazan Khalili’s, positions on the BDS movement and ties to the Khalil Sakakini Cultural Centre in Ramallah, accusations which led to racially motivated attacks on the group’s contribution to documenta. These accusations, as well as their dubious source, have been well documented in the media since.](https://vimeo.com/721702819?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)https://vimeo.com/721702819\[/embed\] **Between Then and Now** Here is a list of recurrent systemic patterns to look at and work against: **Self-Censorship in Cultural Institutions:** a rising trend of preemptive cancellations reflects institutions’ growing fear of backlash, eroding the integrity of cultural spaces as platforms for open discourse. **Marginalization of Palestinian and Allied Voices:** the systematic exclusion of Palestinian voices and their allies, seen in the aforementioned cases, highlights the ongoing struggle for justice and visibility in cultural and academic spheres. **Weaponization of “Neutrality” and “Anti-Anti-Semitism”:** The IHRA definition of anti-Semitism continues to be misused, preventing critical discourse and creating an environment where dissent is suppressed without legal accountability. **Erosion of Cultural and Academic Spaces:** These developments reveal the fragility of spaces of higher education, which have increasingly become arenas of compliance, driven by political pressures disguised as “neutrality” or “sensitivity”. The rise of self-censorship within cultural institutions signals a troubling future for artistic and intellectual freedom in Germany. **Expansion of Cancel Culture:** Public accusations and institutional exclusions have expanded beyond individuals to entire organizations and cultural events, with criticism of Israel becoming a basis for exclusion and silencing. **Institutionalized Soft Laws in Germany:** the IHRA definition of antisemitism is increasingly treated as “soft law”, allowing estate agents to suppress dissent without legal scrutiny, further embedding semi-legal frameworks that silence critical voices. **Proliferation of State Agents:** figures like the gentile-born Felix Klein and Uwe Becker operate without clear legal mandates, enforcing political conformity through threats of preemptive cancellations, targeting voices critical of Israeli policies. **Budget Prioritization:** funding for initiatives targeting alleged anti-Semitism remains disproportionately high, despite widespread cuts elsewhere, further entrenching the political agenda behind such initiatives. **Escalation and Shift in Cultural Policies:** recognition events have been canceled to avoid controversy, and cultural institutions now increasingly reflect compliance with political pressures, rooted in xenophobic and anti-Semitic stereotypes. **Calls for Refusal:** while there is growing demand for resistance and refusal to participate in compromised cultural processes, activists and art workers outside cultural institutions lack the tools needed to challenge the pervasive authoritarian drift, relying heavily on international solidarity. **Beyond Germany** Bartal and Dische-Becker situated these developments within a transnational context. They trace the origins of anti-BDS legislation to the United States, where conservative think tanks first tested such measures in states with minimal BDS activity. This model, aimed at penalizing support for Palestinian activism, has since been replicated in countries including Germany, creating a transnational framework for silencing dissent. What distinguishes Germany, however, is the interplay between its historical responsibility for the Holocaust and its political alignment with the State of Israel. This unique context has enabled pro-Israel actors to frame Solidarity with Palestinians as part of the fight against anti-Semitism, despite criticism from Jewish voices advocating for Palestinian rights. This only emphasizes the moral and intellectual rigidity of Germany’s discourse on Israel-Palestine, which continues to stifle nuanced debate. **God Damn History** There are no random acts, but the farce-loop of history: Ghayath Almadhoun closed the weekend with a call to witness and resist the growing erasure of voices, voices that dare to speak truth in a world where silence is the new norm. In this land of supposed freedom, Almadhoun noted with grave concern, we find the shadows of a more oppressive past creeping back into the present, where voices are stifled not because of what they say, but because of who speaks. His words echoed a sorrowful truth: the same institutions that once purported to celebrate dissent now have withdrawn, allowing the forces of censorship to thrive unchecked. Overall, the symposium is a reminder that the cuts in cultural funding – once seen as largely fiscal decisions – are, in fact, tools of exclusion, wielded to silence the very voices that challenge the status quo. Many art workers continue to choose not to speak out, fearing further punishment. This silence, Almadhoun pointed out, is not a mark of peace, but of fear – a fear cultivated by a climate that chills the very essence of free expression. “Silence is complicity,” he said, urging us to never turn away from the injustices unfolding. With knowledge comes responsibility, and now, more than ever, we must speak. Speak out. Speak with each other. The freedom with which we allow ourselves to speak is a weapon against totalitarianism, a force that challenges oppression and that demands recognition of mutual dignity, and for the unyielding defense of free speech. There was a word I missed throughout the event, and that is: Reconciliation. I realized this when I heard him say: “God Damn History! Fuck the Occupation! Free Palestine!” // --- ### Image Credits Cover, Fig. 1: “How to Work together?” series of posters based on collective meetings asking this question, part of “Debt” exhibition, Qalandiya International 2018\. Co-curated by Reem Shadid and Yazan Khalili, poster design in arabic and english: Yazan Khalili. *Lilo Ruminawi is a poet, playwright, and film director. She has written and directed the experimental short films La Mancha Viva (2014), Perreo Seco (2017), and the documentary essay El Año sin Árboles (2020). She is currently working on the post-production of her first feature-length fiction film, Tzantza, a retro-futuristic western set in the Salar de Uyuni.* ### Family Values URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/family-values/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:10:33.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-34-family-values](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-34-family-values?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- Is our family like a tree, firmly rooted, or like a fan, unfolding in many directions? The notion of family has long been framed as a stable, secure entity. Yet today, family values are shaped by forces that generate profound insecurity— economic, ecological, and social. Drawing from Astra Taylor's insights in The Age of Insecurity, this issue exam- ines how systems designed to create security, like money and property, paradoxically deepen our anxiety and uncertainty. As we approach the end of a year marked by wars and destabilization, we rethink the family nucleus as more than just a biological or historical unit. We explore it through artists like Ayumi Paul, Danh Vo, and Leiko Ikemura, who offer alternative visions of interconnectedness. Taylor’s argument that capitalism is an “insecurity-producing machine” applies here, as the traditional family model is manipulated by power structures to uphold inequality, creating both division and a false sense of safety. Inspired by Japanese graphics from the Edo period (1603–1868), safeguarded at the Langen Foundation— celebrating its 20th anniversary as a family-run art collection—we explore how contemporary artists reinterpret the era’s sustainable practices of togetherness, where human and ecological bonds coexisted in both peace and crisis. Through artists like Michikazu Matsune and Ayami Awazuhara, we see how family ties, like other social structures, are fluid and shaped by their surroundings. Yet, as Taylor notes, insecurity invites solidarity. Even the privileged are not immune to financial or environmental precarity, as Joshua Citarella and Catherine Liu discussed in their conversation on the rise of the new managerial class. As curator Sohrab Mohebbi reminds us, “Art is where we practice freedom,” and that freedom opens new possibilities for collective strength. In this light, artists like Paulina Nolte, Malte Bartsch, and Katrin Mayer explore how expanding our concept of families—and by extension, cities and societies—can offer a path toward resilience. We hope you enjoy this edition, carefully curated to introduce Arts of the Working Class in Japan first as an e-paper and now in print on the streets of Berlin and elsewhere. ***Impressum / Imprint*** **Founders / Publishers / Directors** Verantwortlicher i.S.d . 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Editorial Assistance** Rita Torres **Artistic Project Development & Distribution** Theresa Zwerschke **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph **Proofreading** William Kherbek **Translations** Takashi Arai **Designer** AWC feat. Manuel Bürger **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Circle of Support - Volunteers:** Donald Eubank, Hassoumi Moctar Agali, Amina Zerourou, Ruslana Shabelnyk, Nina Abba, Hannah Lu Verse, anna zrenner, Sophie Franziska Schultz, Kira Schmitz, Nadine Bajek, Cora Pagano, Yasemin Şenkal, Lukas Grube, Duarte Eduardo, Felix Dengg, James Rhys Edwards, Louisa Maria Stank, Sophie Hartleib, Teresa Mayr, Leo Baumgärtner, Katharina Thurow, Annalisa Giacinti, Mia Ribeiro Alonso, Line Lange, Noa Jarri **Druck** Druckzentrum Osnabrück GmbH & Co. KG, Osnabrück, DE **Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse** Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Schillerpromenade 10, 12049 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org **Arts of the Working Class can now be read digitally, too.** Please find our ven- dors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digi- tally buy a copy and additionally the STREAD issue of each month. **Donate** Reflektor Monde gUG Paypal: p@artsoftheworkingclass.org IBAN: DE64 1001 0010 0931 5031 07 ### Flying geese URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/flying-geese/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:35.000Z Thanksgiving, a holiday romanticized as a celebration of unity and gratitude, has long masked the brutal histories of dispossession, genocide, and the systemic erasure of Indigenous cultures in the US. Far from a benign gathering, the roots of this holiday are inextricably tied to colonial expansion and the violent suppression of Indigenous peoples. The narrative glorifies settler perseverance each year while erasing the foundational theft and bloodshed that enabled such "prosperity." To critically deconstruct this week’s festivity of denial is to dismantle the myths of "discovery" and "civilization" imposed by colonialism and recognize the resilience of those who continue to resist the violence of this narrative. Since October 7, 2023, millions have gained a clearer insight into the interconnections of colonialism, ethnic cleansing and capitalist expansion in warfare, despite the algorithmic suppression of dissenting voices. A viral moment featuring Hana-Rawhiti Maipi-Clarke, the young Te Pāti Māori MP, tearing a proposed bill undermining Aotearoa New Zealand's foundational treaty, Te Tiriti o Waitangi, before leading a *Haka* in Parliament, resonated globally. This act underscored the power of collective expression as a rejection of exploitative systems. Inspired by global solidarity with Palestinians and Indigenous struggles, Progressive International’s Arts and Culture Coordinator, Ché Zara Blomfield, has initiated a series of artworks addressing the ties between imperialism and ecological devastation. These efforts mirror the growing recognition of art as a tool for cultural resistance and material reclamation. One of the first artworks to be showcased is the one of Maidu 2 Spirit artist Tyler Eash, who has a path of practices illuminated by the will to weave suppressed histories into defiant narratives of survival and resurgence. Eash, born in unceded Nisenan Maidu territory in northern California, has developed a multidisciplinary practice reflecting Maidu philosophies while navigating the erasure of Indigenous identities. Their work reclaims Maidu existence from the reductive gaze that frames Indigenous peoples as mere relics of the past, demonstrating instead the vibrancy of cultural survival amidst ongoing violence. Through dance, painting, sculpture, and poetry, Eash counters the colonial framework that renders Indigenous experiences "past tense," reclaiming their existence as a revolutionary act. Raised in what they call "subaltern rural poverty," Eash's trajectory includes navigating systemic racism, economic precarity, and cultural alienation. Despite being pressured into assimilation and commodification, they leveraged their privilege in urban design to expose the hypocrisy of colonial projects while fostering a contemporary art practice to process these traumas. This journey—from designing colonial urban paradises to critiquing settler logic through art—represents the dual perspective of the colonized and the colonizer. Eash’s exhibitions, such as *Loreum* and *All the World’s Horses*, juxtapose Indigenous materials with Anglo-colonial detritus, creating works that both challenge and reclaim cultural narratives. Their performance Ínyanam, a modern interpretation of the Ghost Dance, embodies resistance against systemic violence, evoking ancestral resilience. The performance foregrounds the genocidal policies that aimed to annihilate Indigenous Californians—policies whose brutal legacy persists in the socioeconomic marginalization of their descendants. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Tyler-Eash-Flag-for-Dying-Languages-2023-Carved-wooden-snake-acrylic-paint-safety-pin-nails-Marlboro-patch-43-x-18-x-13-cm.jpg) Fig.1 Through works like *Flag for Dying Languages* and *Field / Koyóm*, Eash critiques capitalist commodification while envisioning futures rooted in cultural autonomy and land reclamation. Their photography, such as *After Ceremony for Fallen Sister*, also confronts the silence surrounding the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (MMIW) crisis, amplifying the voices of those erased from mainstream narratives. Eash’s advocacy extends beyond art, addressing institutional systems of violence. They have pushed for the rematriation of sacred sites and land, including efforts to rename *Sutter Buttes*, a mountain still commemorating a colonial enslaver. Such actions challenge historical amnesia, reminding us that colonialism is not a relic of the past but an active, oppressive force. In 2024, amidst a wave of global reckonings, the U.S. government issued an unprecedented apology for the forced assimilation of Indigenous children in boarding schools. Yet, this acknowledgment remains insufficient, as it sidesteps the recognition of genocide—a term that lays bare the intentional destruction wrought by settler colonialism. Eash's work continues to underscore these systemic injustices, linking Indigenous struggles in California to broader global movements against dispossession and cultural erasure. It not only lacks adequate acknowledgment, apology, and reparations, but the history itself has been obscured: “Descendants are tasked with telling a story that many powerful people tried to erase, and it's a story that repeats itself, so we are dangerous to a system of genocide.” With the international art world as a platform, Eash aims to disclose an invisibilized past and support survivors in their right to reparations and land reclamations. For example, Eash has pledged to donate proceeds from the sale of *After Ceremony for Fallen Sister* to the American Indian Education Program in Marysville, California. Eash’s leadership has fostered collective resistance through initiatives like the *Living Land Collective*, bringing together Indigenous and diasporic artists to confront classist and racist exclusions within the art world. Their forthcoming collaboration with Progressive International will further this mission, transforming symbols of colonial control into emblems of Indigenous solidarity. As narratives of resilience take center stage, Eash’s work reminds us that the fight for Indigenous survival is inseparable from the broader struggle against capitalism, ecological collapse, and imperial violence. This month, Progressive International will launch a limited-edition artwork by Eash inspired by the geometric form of stacked security barricades, which resemble a Maidu basket pattern called *Flying Geese*. Of the work, Eash said they “wanted to transform a colonial object of control and authority into an Indigenous symbol of freedom and solidarity.” Thanksgiving reimagined, is not a celebration of colonial myths but an invitation to confront these histories and align with movements for justice and liberation worldwide. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Tyler-Eash-Flying-Geese.jpg) Fig. 2 Visit [Progressive International](https://progressive.international/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) for more information. // --- ### Footnotes Cover: Tyler Eash, *All the Worlds Horses*, installation view Fig.1 Tyler Eash, *Flag for Dying Languages*, 2023 Fig.2 Tyler Eash, *Flying Geese*, a numbered limited edition of 150, printed on premium luster photo paper, 41x51 cm *Ché Zara Blomfield is a curator and writer, and Progressive International’s Arts and Culture Coordinator.* ### Fanning Space and Memory URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/fanning-space-and-memory/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:34.000Z c0da is the current research project and publishing platform (www.c0da.org) of Katrin Mayer, that she recently transferred to an exhibition space at the Badischer Kunstverein, Karlsruhe. Additionally she created a speculative rereading of the standard creation myth of the ‘fan shaped’ city Karlsruhe, according to which Margrave Karl Wilhelm dreamt of a fan and resolved to orient the layout of his palace and city to this radial motif. She speculates that the fan was a genuinely female figure and takes the word \`fan ́ quite literally: in British English, the term ‘fanny’ is a slang expression for vulva. During the 18th and 19th centuries the fan was a telegraphic tool, part of the basic equipment of bodies that were coded as feminine. It was scenarized in literature and art as an instrument of emancipatory and subversive communication. Fragments of this site-specific research narrative ”The fanny Book of Carolsruh” are spread over these pages. // --- ### Footnotes Cover: Katrin Mayer, #c0da comptoir #fanny book of carolsruh, Exhibition view, Badischer Kunstverein, Karlsruhe, 2024\. Photo: Heiko Karn *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### The tragic subject weeps and cries but sheds no tears URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-tragic-subject-weeps-and-cries-but-sheds-no-tears/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:32.000Z *The tragic subject is a sad clown in a dancer’s body.* *The tragic subject is Judith killing Holofernes.* *The tragic subject is the dancing woman in the Tarantino movie.* *The tragic subject is two bodies stuck in a space made of draped velvet curtains.* *The tragic subject is nobody.* *Or everybody in the space between the black velvet curtains.* *The tragic subject is me until I decide to exit the space, and leave the tragic subject behind.* In Louis Schou-Hansen’s first solo show *Tragedy*, which opened on the 11\. October 2024 at *Podium* Oslo, two tragic subjects inhabit a space made of heavy black curtains. A scenographic installation of draped velvet textiles covering the whole exhibition space developed by Schou-Hansen and Karoline Bakken Lund forms the environment of a durational performance in which the performers Thjerza Balaj and Elise Nohr Nystad embody a choreography of movement patterns, coded gestures, and fake tears. While the title might evoke the expectation of a traditional theatre setting, the choreographer and dancer explicitly conceived Tragedy as an exhibition, which puts rigid divisions between exhibition and play, and between artworks and performing bodies, into question. Understanding the durational performance of both dancers as embodied sculptures who deconstruct the linear temporal order of an enacted narration prompts me to consider the objectification of performing bodies alongside an animated understanding of the sculptural practice. Entering the L-shaped exhibition space I quickly understand that this deconstruction of a classical tragedy affects my role as a viewer as well. I get swallowed by a dark void lit solely by a cold neon light installed in the ceiling. The scenography appears as a melange of a fetish club, an early modern theatre, or an uncanny David Lynchean nightmare scenario. Unsure about which space is the stage and which is reserved for the audience, I place myself amongst other visitors along the curtains that cover the surrounding walls. As my gaze glides down the draped velvet and rests at meticulously arranged sculptural folds, I wonder if the claustrophobic feeling emerging inside me is conditioned by the functionlessness of the curtains. What do they cover if there’s nothing to reveal? Instead of promising a scenery for a traditional theatre play behind the curtain, these textiles enclose me and render me as part of the scenario. While a standard modern theatre set up would allow the comfort of taking a predetermined spectator’s role in the dark, with a curtain revealing the gaze through the fourth wall, the installation of *Tragedy* neither offers a fourth wall nor an anonymous audience space. Everyone who enters the space becomes part of the scene. Because in a space where everything is stage, everyone becomes a potentially tragic subject. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.-Louis-Schou-Hansen-Tragedy-2024.JPG) fig. 1 A temporary stage emerges wherever the two woebegone characters claim space for their tragedy and wherever the audience grants them one. Adjusting my seating position constantly to make space for the performers or to get a better view of the next sequence, I am persistently aware of my own body’s place in the room and of the limitation intrinsic to individual perception of never grasping everything at once. Observing the crowd moving out of the way whenever a new scene arises, seems to indicate a common relief in falling back into a distinction between audience and performer, holding on to the comfort of the passive consumption of a tragedy the nature of which no one is fully aware. While both characters' outfits, featuring jeans and tank top, tshirt and sports pants appear casually contemporary, the ruffs around their necks and smeared eye make-up evoke sad 19th century clowns who have crept into the performers’ bodies. As if a clown would enact a performer. As if a stage character would perform a social character, not the other way around. Who are these tragic subjects in this space? Who performs whom and where does one draw the line between the performing and the non-performing body, between reality and fiction – if there were ever any in the first place? “Having recently woken up to the shitshow awareness of their bodies being entirely fictional, Characters 1 and 2 find themselves in a complex state of (sort of) mourning the death of their identities,” reads *Tragedy*’s exhibition text, and this evokes the question of if the characters’ waking up might just be another choreographic trick leading into another performative loop of fictionalization. What is this identity that they’re mourning? What is identity if not fiction? My experience of the show seems to become a quest for the character of these tragic subjects and the origin of their suffering. What I learn about them emerges through witnessing repetitions of embodied references, in which the two nameless figures appear to be stuck in between the velvet folds. *The tragic subject knows no outside.* *The tragic subject has no past.* *The tragic subject exists because I watch them.* Watching one of the characters lying breathlessly on the carpet, her head hidden behind the curtain, makes me think of the famous opera scene in David Lynch’s *Mullholland Drive*. The opera singer Rebecca Del Rio drops unconscious to the floor during her performance of “Llorando.” When she gets dragged behind the curtain by two men, her ghostly voice continues singing disembodied. Her fainting is juxtaposed by the continuation of her voice, where the constructed reality of her stage persona persists without her body. Her existence is produced by the illusion of the show and her audience as much as the tragic subjects exist within the curtain-covered walls of Podium's exhibition space. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3.-Louis-Schou-Hansen-Tragedy-2024.JPG) fig. 2 The movement archive which both characters draw from reveals references to biblical paintings, movie scenes, pop-cultural codes, disciplined dance exercises, and repetitive sex scenes all while simultaneously including seemingly incidental gestures such as adjusting their clothes or brushing their hair out of their faces. An anachronistic collection of sociability, behavioral codes, or a miscellany of determinations are inscribed into the performing body; gestures of desire and pleasure appear to be as disciplined and dreadful as the painful ones. *The tragic subject makes phone calls that are never answered.* *The tragic subject fucks and is getting fucked.* *The tragic subject rests, weeps, dances, repeats.* While the performers' bodies narrate moments of seduction, desire, passion, and longing that never resolve in actual intimacy, a subplot emerges on both characters’ faces, and I wonder if these are the moments where the sad clown takes over. Expressions of despair and mourning, which at no time align with the movements seem to work against the stories being told by their bodies. With both narrations coexisting, or rather forcing against each other, this battle is sequentially overtaken by one or the other expression. As the characters merge into and out of repetitive movement sequences, their choreographies are disrupted by melodramatic collapses into fits of crying before they gather themselves to move on to the next task. *The tragic subject mourns, suffers, collapses.* *The tragic subject weeps and cries but sheds no tears.* *The tragic subject does not feel but perform.* The suffering and mourning displayed in the tragic subjects’ faces, the cause of which remains unknown to the audience, appear as choreographed as the narration told in their movements. Rather than offering an affective resistance to apathetic repetition, the replication of the collapse becomes a choreographed disruption. *The tragic subject wears sad clown ruffles around their necks and stockings with ties.* *The tragic subject wears their emotions on their face.* Their rehearsed, contextless emotions offer a platform for our own emotional projections. Just like the tragedies of ancient Greek theatre, which offered a state of catharsis by the release of repressed emotions emerging from the audience’s unconscious, the performers’ bodies become a green screen for my own melancholia. My identification with the tragic subject mirrors an unconscious reenactment of my tragedy. The tragic subject embodies my everyday struggles, insecurities, and love dramas, and I watch them. What I see in their collapse is what I want them to feel. *The tragic subject lives my tragedy.* Other than the Greek theatre, which would offer the audience a happy ending, moral, or at least a conclusion to their narration, Schou-Hansen’s *Tragedy* doesn’t offer an easy way out. Instead, it draws me deeper and deeper into endless repetitions that become as much alerting as chastening. It leaves me with the uncanny feeling that those coded gestures, the being stuck in repetition, don't end upon leaving the curtain-framed space. *Tragedy* is sassy, funny, mean, and provocative. It’s testing one's endurance to stay with the tragic subject (that might be oneself), provoking an uncomfortable confrontation with the seductive voyeurism of suffering and this mirrors the behavioral codes, patterns, and external inscriptions all of our bodies inhabit. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4.-Louis-Schou-Hansen-Tragedy-2024.JPG) fig. 3 Shortly before the day's durational performance comes to an end both tragic subjects cling onto each other as if to avert their disappearance with the lights switching off. I sit so close that I can see their chests moving with their breath. One of their hands reaches for my phone. As they did numerous times before with their phones, they pick up mine to call an unknown outside that never answers. And, yet again, the call fails. I’m out of battery. They hand it back to me with a mourning face and I think: maybe I should call my mom tomorrow. *The tragic subject calls her mom.* *//* --- ### Image credits Cover: Thjerza Balaj and Elise Nohr Nystad in: Tragedy, Louis Schou-Hansen, Podium Oslo, 2024 © Chai Saeidi. fig. 1: Thjerza Balaj in: Tragedy, Louis Schou-Hansen, Podium Oslo, 2024 © Chai Saeidi. fig. 2: Thjerza Balaj and Elise Nohr Nystad in: Tragedy, Louis Schou-Hansen, Podium Oslo, 2024 © Chai Saeidi. fig. 3: Thjerza Balaj and Elise Nohr Nystad in: Tragedy, Louis Schou-Hansen, Podium Oslo, 2024 © Chai Saeidi *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### Choosing otherwise URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/choosing-otherwise/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:31.000Z *The Heretical Proclamation* is the result of the ambitious commission undertaken by the curators Raisa Maudit and Àngels Miralda to shape the Contemporary Biennial TEA 2024\. The theme positions artistic and curatorial practice as a praxis of resistance towards the dominant ideologies upheld by those in power. The term "heresy" traditionally refers to beliefs that go against religious doctrine; in this context, the term emphasizes how art challenges societal or political conventions. As a proclamation, it suggests a loud, howling, visceral expression of dissent towards a political climate that is becoming more controlling and authoritarian. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Anna-Engelhardt-Mark-Cinkevich-ONSET.jpg) fig. 1 I landed in Tenerife on the afternoon of the exhibition opening, arriving from mainland Spain. As a North dweller, I recognize the seemingly calm Atlantic waters that surround the rocky island, home to the active volcano Mount Teide, or "Echeyde" in Guanche – the language spoken in the Canary Islands until their colonization by the Crown of Castile in the 15th century. Since there are no water refill points in the airport and tap water isn't drinkable here, I find myself buying bottled water in a shop in the Arrivals corridor, where I glance at the headline of a local newspaper: "Canarian President Clavijo travels to Rabat to address the crisis with the Moroccan prime minister". The "crisis" in question is the influx of migrants, with NGOS reporting 4,900 registered deaths at sea along the route between North Africa and the Canary Islands this year alone. Outside the airport, there’s a queue of people, papers in their hands, waiting to be processed through an immigration hell. After a short ride, I stroll around the vicinity of TEA located in Santa Cruz’s old center, wondering about the multiplicity inscribed in this place, and guessing how the exhibition will address it amidst the contemporary tumultuous state of affairs. The exhibition begins with the Mutable Room, a space that functions as an archive where literature about and references for the exhibition can be consulted. It is a place to gather for conviviality and attend the vast public program of formal and informal performances. In thinking about the exhibition’s architecture, encountering a space dedicated to education and sociality as a starting point suspends the expectation of spectacle. The bibliographical archive, indeed, defies the logic of Eurocentric thought and positions us in a very specific mindset, far away from globalized Western thought. In this space, titles such as *Queer Nations. Marginal sexualities in the Maghreb* by Jarrod Hayes mingles with *Inventing the Indigenous* and *The Metabolic Museum* by Clémentine Deliss and Neil Holt, engaging decolonial scholarship, diversifying Western frameworks, and re-thinking the possibilities of exhibition-making. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MAA-DIALLOCorpus-foraminis.jpg) fig. 2 As Raisa Maudit recounts, the curatorial framework that organizes the exhibition and the bibliographical archive stems from artistic proposals rather than having been outlined by the curators. The notion of responsive curation, or response-able practices, is cultivated by paying attention to the rhizomes of different projects and building a narrative that connects the local to wider geographies, re-making colonial maps across them. The participating artists focus on the Canary Islands, North Africa, and Latin America, with particular attention to the Guarani people, as well as Eastern Europe history. The thematic threads that hold the different parts of the exhibition together seem to cover a multiplicity of critical issues: *Tracing Histories, Lineages of the Present; Identities Against the Grain; Rooted into Place; Violence against the Earth;* and *Methodic Transmutation*. But what lies in the cracks between these words? Archiving is a responsibility in both artistic and curatorial practices, whereby choosing past narratives influences how the present is told and recollected. Archiving is a gesture encountered in various artistic proposals, such as those by Miguel Rubio Tapia, Laura Mesa Lima, Victor Leguy, Ariel Kuaray Ortega, and Gabriel Bogossian. Although they store the memories of different agents, whether of a landscape, or material mummies, or the experiences of a fictional ethnographer, the archive remains a container for radical imagination. The physicality of the territory is explored in a dialogue between the works of Carla Marzán and Abdessamad El Montassir. In Marzán’s "La escuché desde la otra montaña" (2024), Canarian soil is used in making sculptures that form both interior and exterior landscapes, juxtaposed with El Montassir’s "Trab’ssahl" (2024), where oceanic horizons remind us that the desert has its rhythm, one that has been altered by war and conflict. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Carla-Marzan-La-escuche-desde-la-otra-montaAa-and-Abdessamad-ElMontasir-Trabassahl.jpg) fig. 3 The exhibition's trajectory is carefully choreographed, fostering dialogues between artworks that generate fruitful conversations. Furthermore, the exhibition is impeccably permeated by the lighting design and wall colors, which reinforce the exhibition's thematic threads and complement the works' aesthetics. Working closely with Carlos Martín Ponz on the installation, a fine sense of craft is evident in engaging these artistic dialogues from a material perspective, such as in the film installations of Ezra Šimek, Anna Engelhardt, and Mark Cinkevich. Within the same space, there is a shift from light yellow to dark red, moving from Šimek’s gender-transitioning ode to Engelhardt and Cinkevich’s horror aesthetics of Russian invasions. As most of the films are exhibited without headphones or other means of isolating their audio, a beautiful merging occurs, as in the case of watching Šimek’s film "Joyful Flame" (2022). The machine-human voices from Izaro Ieregi’s video "(Apuntes para) La ira neumática" (2023) in the room next door merge seamlessly with Šimek’s subtitles: "Suddenly I’m hybrid". ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ezra-Aimek-Joyfull-Flame.jpg) fig. 4 What’s most compelling in this exhibition is its immersive quality and the cinematic approach to exhibition-making. After some time inside the exhibition, other senses are activated. Sound, as noted, in particular, has a prominent presence, as does smell in Šimek’s installation, and in Maï Diallo’s "Corpus foraminis" (2024), which uses soap to reflect on women’s roles in the domestic sphere. Taking on an almost forensic aesthetic, Diallo’s works and Ieregui’s introduce the female body as both other and as a source of pain and power. In Ieregui’s video, human voices emit screams, and cries of rage that become almost mechanical, like an endless train. This experience of the voice contrasts with Al Akhawat’s "+212" (2024), wherein the collective has created a multicultural call shop located in a fictionalized Morocco. Visitors sit and listen to messages left on individual phones. Walls pasted with stickers, love notes, non-mainstream advertisements, and political slogans, surround me as I pick up one of the telephones. On the other end, I hear a voice in a language I don’t understand, but it takes me somewhere South. Then I realize I’m already there, but art institutions sometimes have the power to erase memory. Then another voice says, in Spanish: "I want to grow up, but not to forget." ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Laura-Mesa-Lima-Dos-Moldes-para-un-constructor-y-Al-Akhawat--212.jpg) fig. 5 *The Heretical Proclamation* invites us to occupy a space without grand gestures or high-tech media, where a whispering sound instills both criticality and hope that more than what we have been indoctrinated to believe in and attend exists. Like any structure that challenges the hyper-stimulated gaze of capitalism, the biennial requires time and attention. Its serpentine narrative, both thematically and spatially, reflects the subtle ways soft power operates in our lives. The exhibition concludes with projects interrupted by war as if their discourse were written *in media res*. In Lamia Joreige’s "Uncertain Times. Background for a script" (2024), her handwriting on the wall tells the story of Ihsan Turjman, an Ottoman soldier who lived through the events leading to Palestine’s colonial submersion, an ongoing process with devastating consequences both for humankind and for the land. This narrative is paired with paintings installed behind, allowing us to form our images before encountering Joreige’s. Once again, in an exercise of exhibition remixing, the sound of children's voices from Dejan Kaludjerović’s "Dream Station" (2024) accompanies Joreige’s story, merging these histories of struggle. A large semi-circular structure hosts a near 1:1 scale screening of "Dreams Station", a short film set in an empty train station in Ukraine where time seems frozen in a moment of absence. In the film, the station’s walls are filled with the voices of children, as they are interviewed by the artist about their dreams. I left the Canary Islands, thinking that a lot must be processed and done, but I was determined to sharpen my sensorium to attend to the many forms of societies and cultures shaped by violence, which may be the hardest task art can invite us to undertake. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Carla-Marian-La-Escuche-desde-la-otra-montaAa.jpg) fig. 6 // --- ### Image caption Cover: Al Akhawat, "+212". Photographer: Maria Laura Benavente. Courtesy of TEA Tenerife. fig. 1: Anna Engelhardt and Mark Cinkevich, "ONSET". Photographer: Maria Laura Benavente. Courtesy of TEA Tenerife. fig. 2: Mai Diallo, "Corpus Foraminis". Photographer: Maria Laura Benavente. Courtesy of TEA Tenerife. fig. 3: Carla Marzán, "La escuché desde la otra montaña" and Abdessamad El Montassir, "Trab’ssahl". Photographer: Maria Laura Benavente. Courtesy of TEA Tenerife. fig. 4: Ezra Šimek, "Joyful Flame". Photographer: Maria Laura Benavente. Courtesy of TEA Tenerife. fig. 5: Al Akhawat’s, "+212" and Laura Mesa Lima, "Dos moldes para un constructor". Photographer: Maria Laura Benavente. Courtesy of TEA Tenerife. fig. 6: Carla Marzán, "La escuché desde la otra montaña". Photographer: Maria Laura Benavente. Courtesy of TEA Tenerife. *Cristina Ramos is a writer and independent curator.* ### Bailar entre memorias y afectos URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/bailar-entre-memorias-y-afectos/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:29.000Z En Loja, un contexto que no sólo es fiesta y buenaventura cultural, sino también de desconexión generacional y alienación contemporánea, la obra *Testigos Modestos* del colectivo local "Silencio - cuerpo en movimiento" emerge como una propuesta escénica que atraviesa los límites entre lo íntimo y lo colectivo. Inspirada en constelaciones familiares, objetos significativos y relatos intergeneracionales, esta obra invita al público a reflexionar sobre los vínculos invisibles que nos conectan con nuestros ancestros. "Silencio - cuerpo en movimiento" se define como un elenco permanente de creación e investigación en danza. Bajo la dirección de Gabriela Piñeiros, *Testigos Modestos* desafía las jerarquías tradicionales y rescata lo simbólico a través de encuentros imaginarios. El montaje rinde homenaje a nuestros ancestros mientras cuestiona cómo sus historias moldean nuestro presente. Conversamos con Gabriela sobre las raíces conceptuales, metodológicas y emocionales de esta obra, que invita a reconectar con lo colectivo para imaginar futuros más solidarios. **La obra *Testigos Modestos* afirma poder conectar con los ancestros a través de encuentros imaginarios. ¿Cómo se dan estos y qué significa esta idea en el contexto de su propuesta artística?** La idea parte de una búsqueda profundamente personal y política. Exploré las constelaciones familiares, una práctica que propone entender las raíces de nuestras vidas a través de la historia de nuestros ancestros. En una de esas sesiones, surgió una conexión simbólica con mi bisabuela, y me sugirieron dialogar con ella a través de mi práctica artística. Esa experiencia resonó profundamente en mí y me planteó una pregunta clave: ¿qué tal si pudiéramos comunicarnos con quienes nos precedieron para entender mejor nuestro presente? Esta idea no solo trata de mirar hacia atrás, sino de cuestionar cómo el pasado y las historias que cargamos moldean nuestra posición en un sistema social complejo. No nos limitamos a un análisis personal; el proyecto también interpela a las estructuras más amplias: ¿cómo nos relacionamos con nuestras raíces cuando el capitalismo tiende a despojar nuestras historias de su riqueza comunitaria y colectiva? Trabajé con los bailarines para imaginar respuestas a esas preguntas, escribiendo cartas, bailando, y explorando qué les gustaba o qué les preocupaba a nuestros ancestros. En este proceso, las narrativas individuales se entrelazan con dinámicas históricas y culturales más amplias. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.-Ph-David-Hidalgo-.jpg) fig. 1 **¿Estos ejercicios están relacionados directamente con las constelaciones familiares, o son algo distinto?** Son diferentes, pero nacen de una intención similar: generar un material que esté vivo y conectado con una experiencia colectiva. Trabajo con improvisación estructurada, un método que permite que cada representación sea única, abierta a la espontaneidad, pero enmarcada por premisas que respetan una estructura mayor. Esta metodología no solo facilita la creación artística; también pone en cuestión las jerarquías rígidas que predominan en otros procesos creativos o en la vida cotidiana. Aquí, el cuerpo y sus emociones se convierten en herramientas críticas para resistir la alienación, permitiendo respuestas auténticas al sistema que nos rodea. **Hablar de ancestros implica mirar al pasado para comprender el presente. ¿Cómo construyeron esos cuerpos imaginarios a partir de los ancestros? ¿Qué papel jugaron los objetos y relatos familiares en este proceso?** Los objetos y relatos familiares fueron detonadores clave para el material corporal y simbólico. No buscamos simplemente narrar historias personales, sino entender cómo estas historias se entrelazan con el tejido social más amplio. Esto nos llevó a reflexionar sobre la idea de comunidad, la memoria colectiva y las formas en que el sistema capitalista erosiona estos lazos, promoviendo la desconexión y la individualidad. El primer entendimiento fue que nuestras historias personales no existen de manera aislada: forman parte de un tejido mayor. En este tejido, los conflictos y las luchas de nuestros ancestros son las bases sobre las cuales nos posicionamos hoy. Este reconocimiento no solo es un acto de homenaje, sino también de crítica: ¿qué hemos perdido al adaptarnos a las exigencias del mundo moderno? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3.-Ph-Lian-Palacios.jpg) fig. 2 **En un contexto social marcado por desconexiones generacionales y pérdidas culturales, ¿qué relevancia tiene rendir homenaje a los ancestros desde las artes escénicas?** La relevancia radica en recuperar aquello que el capitalismo moderno ha intentado borrar: las conexiones con lo colectivo, lo ritual y lo simbólico. Elegimos trabajar con ancestros que no conocimos para subrayar que nuestras vidas no empiezan ni terminan en nosotros mismos. Hoy en día, la pérdida de rituales refleja una desconexión profunda con lo que llamo "lo sutil": aquello que no es visible pero que subyace a nuestras emociones, relaciones y estructuras sociales. Al rendir homenaje a los ancestros, estamos desafiando la narrativa dominante que nos aísla como individuos autónomos y consumibles. Estamos afirmando que la memoria y la historia son herramientas poderosas para construir un futuro diferente, más solidario y menos alienante. **¿Cómo se vincula *Testigos Modestos* con las culturas y las historias locales de la comunidad a la que pertenecen?** Nuestra mirada no se centra únicamente en lo "local" entendido de manera tradicional, sino en cómo las dinámicas globales moldean nuestra experiencia. Hoy vivimos en un mundo de hiper-modernidad, donde las identidades locales están atravesadas por procesos globales de explotación y alienación. No buscamos idealizar el pasado ni romantizar lo ancestral. Más bien, cuestionamos cómo el sistema actual redefine lo que entendemos por "local" o "ancestral" para sostener sus propias narrativas. En este sentido, hablamos desde el presente, desde el lugar donde la modernidad nos posiciona como sujetos mestizos, fragmentados, pero también capaces de imaginar otros futuros posibles. **¿Qué esperan que experimente el público con esta obra?** Más que ofrecer respuestas, queremos abrir portales para la reflexión. No buscamos transmitir un mensaje unívoco, sino invitar al público a conectar con sus propias historias y cuestionar las estructuras que las moldean. Nuestra propuesta es una experiencia estética transformadora que pone en crisis la idea del individuo como centro de todo. Esperamos que el público salga reflexionando sobre el tejido invisible que nos conecta y, quizás, más consciente de cómo podemos reconstruir esos lazos en un mundo que constantemente intenta fragmentarlos. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4.-Ph-Lian-Palacios.jpg) fig. 3 // --- ### Image credits Cover: Photo by David Hidalgo. Courtesy of FIAV Loja 2024 fig. 1: Photo by David Hidalgo. Courtesy of FIAV Loja 2024 fig. 2: Photo by Lian Palacios. Courtesy of FIAV Loja 2024 fig. 3: Photo by Lian Palacios. Courtesy of FIAV Loja 2024 *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Ceder y resistir sobre las tablas URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/ceder-y-resistir-sobre-las-tablas/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:28.000Z Con más de cinco décadas de trayectoria, el Teatro Libre de Bogotá ha sido pionero en el teatro colombiano, marcando una huella profunda en la escena cultural y social de la región. Nacido en el contexto del movimiento del Nuevo Teatro Colombiano y vinculado inicialmente a luchas políticas, el grupo ha evolucionado hacia un enfoque profesional que prioriza la calidad artística sin abandonar su esencia crítica. Durante el FIAV - Festival Internacional de Artes Vivas 2024, en Loja, Teatro Libre presentó la obra *En este pueblo no hay ladrones*, una obra basada en el cuento del escritor colombiano Gabriel García Márquez, adaptada para las tablas. AWC conversó con Miguel Diago en Loja, para conocer más sobre su historia, sus desafíos y cómo el concepto de libertad permea su labor como espacio de reflexión, resistencia y conexión humana. **Miguel, cuéntanos un poco sobre el Teatro Libre.** El Teatro Libre es un grupo permanente y estable de trabajo profesional que lleva 51 años de actividad ininterrumpida. Surgió en el contexto del movimiento denominado *Nuevo Teatro Colombiano*, del cual somos herederos. Este movimiento fue impulsado por maestros como Santiago García y Enrique Buenaventura, quienes influyeron directamente en la fundación del Teatro Libre, aunque nuestros fundadores provenían de otro sector de Bogotá. El teatro moderno en Colombia tiene sus raíces en los movimientos estudiantiles universitarios, lo que lo liga estrechamente a las luchas políticas de la época. El Teatro Libre comenzó como un grupo de militancia política vinculado a un movimiento maoísta conocido en Colombia como el MOIR (Movimiento Obrero Independiente y Revolucionario). Sus integrantes, en su mayoría estudiantes de Filosofía y Letras de la Universidad de los Andes, una de las más elitistas del país, decidieron emprender este camino político y artístico. Con el tiempo, el grupo se enfocó completamente en el teatro profesional, despegándose del activismo político directo, aunque conservando en su ADN la convicción de que el arte y el teatro son revolucionarios siempre que sean críticos y significativos. Desde entonces, hemos buscado crear un repertorio basado en los grandes temas de la humanidad, a través de textos clásicos de dramaturgia universal —como los griegos o Shakespeare— y obras contemporáneas propias. Ya no hacemos teatro panfletario, sino que trabajamos para nutrir y cuestionar la vida interior del espectador a través de historias y personajes. El Teatro Libre cuenta con dos sedes en Bogotá: una en el histórico barrio de La Candelaria y otra en Chapinero. Estos espacios también albergan eventos importantes como el Festival Internacional de Jazz y otras actividades culturales, incluyendo nuestra programación regular de repertorio. Un hito importante es nuestra Escuela de Formación de Actores, que lleva más de 32 años formando profesionales. De esta escuela han surgido actores reconocidos a nivel nacional e internacional, quienes hoy en día pueden verse en diversas plataformas. Actualmente estamos en un proceso de renovación, con una nueva generación que asume las riendas del grupo, heredando y a la vez reinterpretando la esencia de nuestros fundadores. Yo, como director, llegué al Teatro Libre en 2017 como asistente de Ricardo Camacho, nuestro director principal. Juntos dirigimos *En este pueblo no hay ladrones*, basada en un cuento de Gabriel García Márquez, que aborda la violencia en los espacios rurales de Colombia y que presentamos en el Festival de Loja. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ladrones11-scaled.jpg) fig. 1 **¿Crees que el teatro puede ser un espacio para la autorreflexión social desde una perspectiva comunitaria? ¿Cómo puede apoyar el proceso de emancipación de estructuras opresivas y hegemónicas en Ecuador?** Las realidades de Ecuador y Colombia comparten muchas similitudes. Ambos enfrentamos desafíos políticos, económicos y sociales similares, como las desigualdades entre el centro y la periferia, y problemas derivados de la narcoviolencia. El Teatro Libre, aunque no se adscribe a un estilo específico como teatro comunitario o de objetos, busca conectar con distintas realidades a través de su programa de formación. Nuestros estudiantes, en su última etapa, realizan giras autogestionadas por diferentes regiones de Colombia, enfrentándose a contextos diversos que enriquecen su práctica y les permiten dialogar con comunidades. Más allá de esto, el teatro en sí mismo es una manifestación profundamente humana y transformadora. Genera procesos críticos que fomentan el discernimiento frente a la opresión y las hegemonías, mientras ofrece a las comunidades oportunidades de expresión y desarrollo. En regiones vulnerables, el teatro puede ser una alternativa frente a dinámicas violentas, proporcionando espacios para la creatividad y el crecimiento personal. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Un-hombre-1024x683.jpeg) fig. 2 **¿Qué significado tiene para ustedes el concepto de libertad en el contexto del teatro?** El teatro es un espacio de posibilidades infinitas, y desde ahí se vive como un acto liberador. Primero, porque rompe con los esquemas tradicionales de trabajo: los artistas no tenemos horarios fijos, dedicamos largas horas al entrenamiento, ensayo y función, lo cual nos desafía constantemente y nos aleja de la rutina. Desde lo social, la libertad radica en la capacidad de generar historias y encuentros que enriquecen el mundo interior del público. Cuando logramos conectar con cuestionamientos profundos sobre nuestra humanidad, estamos participando en un proceso liberador. El teatro nos transforma y nos lleva a reflexionar sobre nuestra posición en el mundo, generando un cambio en nuestra percepción y en nuestra acción. **A lo largo de más de cinco décadas, el Teatro Libre ha mantenido una postura crítica y comprometida socialmente. ¿Cómo ha evolucionado su enfoque hacia el teatro político en respuesta a los cambios en la sociedad colombiana?** El principal cambio está en la profesionalización. En sus inicios, el Teatro Libre era un grupo de jóvenes sin formación formal en teatro, motivados por urgencias políticas y sociales. Hoy, después de más de 30 años, las nuevas generaciones somos egresados de programas profesionales, lo que ha elevado el nivel técnico y artístico de nuestro trabajo. Aunque hemos dejado atrás el teatro panfletario, mantenemos una postura crítica a través de las obras que elegimos y el contenido que abordamos. No buscamos complacencias ni trabajamos con actores famosos; para nosotros, lo esencial son las historias y los temas que tratamos. Obras como las de Gabriel García Márquez nos permiten ofrecer una mirada cruda y crítica sobre la realidad latinoamericana, manteniendo viva la esencia de nuestra misión inicial, pero adaptándola a las tensiones y retos del presente. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ladrones1-scaled.jpg) fig. 3 --- ### Image credits Cover: Courtesy of Teatro Libre. fig. 1: *En este pueblo no hay ladrones,* adapted from the story by Gabriel García Márquez. Courtesy of Teatro Libre. fig. 2: *Un hombre es un hombre*, adapted from the play by Bertolt Brecht. Courtesy of Teatro Libre. fig. 3: *En este pueblo no hay ladrones,* adapted from the story by Gabriel García Márquez. Courtesy of Teatro Libre. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Wem gehört die kunst? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/wem-gehoert-die-kunst-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:21.000Z Es gibt zwei Notenbanken: Die eine verwaltet das Geld, die andere die Kunst. Die eine zählt das Zählbare, die andere das Unzählbare. Die eine kümmert sich um die Stabilität der finanziellen Werte, die andere um die ästhetischen Werte. Die eine sichert das Privateigentum, die andere, was allen gehört. Die eine steht zum Beispiel in Frankfurt (die Europäische Zentralbank) und niemand kann rein, die andere ist das Museum und jeder kann rein und braucht dafür nicht mal unbedingt Geld. Hier, in der Zentralbank der ästhetischen Werte, steht und hängt der ganze Reichtum der Gesellschaft, all das Erbe, das über die Jahrhunderte bestellt, gekauft und erobert wurde, die Kriegsbeuten, die Sammlungen fremder Fürsten, die Kunst kolonisierter Völker, die Meisterwerke der Antike und ihre Kopien. In Deutschland verlangen öffentliche Museen meist Eintritt, aber wer zum Beispiel in Großbritannien lebt, kann einfach von der Straße ins Museum hineinspazieren und Kunst aus 5000 Jahren sehen, Statuen, Einbäume, Rüstungen, Teppiche, Barockgemälde, einfach alles, alles, was über 5000 Jahre Leuten einen Sinn gegeben hat, ist da drin. Die ganze Unmöglichkeit von Gerechtigkeit und Schönheit, die daraus entsteht, ist im Museum. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Interal-System_Paulina-Nolte_Foto_Constanza-MelAndez.jpg) fig. 1 Kunst wird ja oft so behandelt, als sei sie ein Luxus, den man eigentlich nicht braucht, aber das ist ja wohl das Dümmste und Traurigste, was man sagen kann. Das ist, als würde man sagen, dass man keine Träume braucht und keinen Fußball, kein Schach, kein Fernsehen, keinen Sex und keine guten Gefühle, und dass auch niemand eine Kindheit braucht, und dass man keine Blumen in der Wohnung braucht und keine schönen Klamotten und keine guten Menschen und keine Spaziergänge und keinen Fahrtwind, und dass man auch keine schönen Überraschungen beim Essen braucht und dass alle immer nur stumpf ihre Arbeit machen sollen und sonst gar nichts. Aber wofür sollte man denn dann seine Arbeit machen? Es ist ja andersherum, mit der Kunst fängt alles an, und das Ziel sollte doch sein, dass man möglichst wenig arbeiten muss und möglichst viel Kunst um sich haben kann. In einer Zeit, in der es eben genau umgekehrt war, in der wenige Leute Kunst sehen oder Bücher lesen konnten und den meisten gar nichts übrig blieb als kurz zu schlafen und lang zu arbeiten, in der Frühzeit der Industrialisierung, waren es gerade Bilder und Romane und Gedichte, die Leute überhaupt auf die Idee brachten, mehr zu wollen. In „Die Nacht der Arbeiter“ beschreibt der Philosoph Jacques Ranciere, wie um 1830 Schreiner, Schneider und Parkettverleger die Abende in die Länge zogen und den Schlaf zurück drängten, um Gedichte zu diskutieren und Pamphlete zu schreiben, um Zeitschriften zu gründen mit Titeln wie „L’Atelier“, die erste Arbeiterzeitschrift, und damit das Feld zu erobern, von dem sie per Reichtumsverteilung ausgeschlossen waren, das Feld der Kunst, der Muße, der Vorstellungskraft und der intellektuellen Abenteuer. Bevor also überhaupt die Arbeiterkämpfe des langen 19\. Jahrhunderts den Sozialstaat brachten, an den wir heute so gewöhnt sind, und der die Freiheit brachte, sich für oder gegen Kunst zu entscheiden, erfolgte die Eroberung der Freiheit im Ästhetischen, in der Verfügung über die eigene Zeit und die eigene Vorstellungskraft. Im Roman „Die Ästhetik des Widerstands“ von Peter Weiss studiert eine Gruppe junger kommunistischer Widerstandskämpfer in der Zeit des Dritten Reiches den Fries im Pergamonaltar, der die Schlacht der griechischen Götter gegen die Giganten darstellt. Statt konspirativ in Kellern zu sitzen, stehen die Jugendlichen im Museum, statt möglicher Strategien zum Umsturz diskutieren sie die Details der Ausführung durch die antiken Bildhauer und lernen aus ihnen für den Widerstand, statt der Feier des Sieges der Götter sehen sie den Kampf der Unterdrückten gegen die Herrschenden. Über das Studium des Pergamonaltars gewinnen die Jugendlichen das Gefühl, Teil eines Kampfes zu sein, der die Jahrtausende überbrückt und sie mit den Sklaven des Geschlechts der Attaliden im 2\. Jahrhundert vor Christus verbindet. Sie lesen Dante und Kafka, betrachten Goyas „Die Erschießung der Aufständischen“ (1808 – 1814) und Eugène Delacroix’ „Die Freiheit führt das Volk“ (1830), und diskutieren immer den Nutzen für die Revolution. Laufend werden in diesem Megaroman Kunst, Politik, Ökonomie und das Leben Einzelner aufeinander bezogen, womit die Tatsache vorgeführt wird, dass all dies nur aus jedem anderen überhaupt irgendeinen Sinn erhält. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Fairy-Grotto_Paulina-Nolte_Foto_Constanza-MelAndez.jpg) fig. 2 Indem die von Rancière beschriebenen Arbeiter und die Arbeiterkinder bei Peter Weiss sich vor Kunstwerken fortbilden, verändern sie auch die Kunstwerke, holen sie aus der Repräsentation von Macht heraus, welche die Geschichte festschreiben will, holen sie von den Säulen, widmen sie um, machen sie zum Kampfmittel; und so werden die Werke wieder zu einem existenziellen Einsatz innerhalb einer konkreten gesellschaftlichen Situation, wie sie es auch bei ihrer Entstehung waren. Es ist eine Art der Aneignung der gesellschaftlichen Reichtümer, die das Bildungsversprechen des Museums ernster nimmt als dieses sich selbst. Kunst ist schwer zu verstehen. Aber das liegt auch daran, dass sie sich von selbst versteht. Es wird doch niemand daran zweifeln, dass Höhlenmalereien und Gesänge den Menschen der Steinzeit und Statuen und Theater den Menschen der Antike überhaupt erst einen Sinn dafür vermittelt haben, wofür es sich zu leben lohnt und dafür, was man sich alles wünschen und was man erreichen kann. Auch Konzeptkunst, die oft Vorwissen verlangt, weil sie sich auf eine Geschichte vorangegangener Werke oder auf Theorien bezieht, versteht sich im besten Fall von selbst in dem Sinne, dass sie ihr eigenes Gesetz aufstellt. Und dass sie mir einen Weg abverlangt, den ich gehen muss, um mich auf ihre Logik einzulassen, einen Weg, der meist weit schwieriger ist, als eine Fernsehserie zu schauen oder Musik zu hören. Warum sollte ich mich auf diesen Weg einlassen? Weil dieser mühsame Weg, den ich zurücklegen muss, mir einen Souveränitätsgewinn verschafft. Weil er mich ein Stück weit befreien kann von gelernten Gesetzen des Verstehens und mir neue aufzeigen kann. Zu Kunstwerken ins Verhältnis zu treten, verleiht mir eine Freiheit gegenüber den Dingen und macht mich zum Teil eines Gesprächs über Generationen hinweg, in einer Sprache, die immer neu geschrieben wird und welche die kurzlebigeren Sprachen von Alltag, Moral und Politik immer neu herausfordert. Vertraut zu sein mit Werken von Pieter Brueghel, Hannah Höch, Hito Steyerl oder persischer Miniaturmalerei gibt mir das Gefühl, die eigene Familie zu erweitern durch Freunde und Verwandte aus anderen Zeiten und Zusammenhängen, auch wenn das Kennenlernen nie aufhört, weil sie mir letztlich immer fremd bleiben. Ich lerne meine Geschichte kennen und die Geschichten anderer, ich lerne, wie viele Geschichten es geben kann, und wie viele verschiedene Arten, sie zu zeigen. Das mindert die Angst. Man wird geduldiger mit der eigenen Angst. Man ist ja ständig fremden Dingen ausgesetzt. Das Beste am Ins-Museum-Gehen ist dann ja das Aus-dem-Museum-wieder-Hinausgehen: die Sinne geschärft für die banalen Dinge, die auf einmal alle nach ihren eigenen Gesetzen erscheinen, befreit aus der Zweckmäßigkeit. Die Welt auf ästhetische Weise wahrzunehmen, herauszutreten aus den fest gezurrten Logiken der Rationalität, der Bedürfnisbefriedigung und der Moral, ist eine Grundvoraussetzung dafür, sich frei zu fühlen. Klar, das schafft auch der Kinobesuch oder der Spaziergang im Wald. Aber im Museum stehe ich vor Dingen, die schon vor hundert Jahren schon hier hingen und, wenn es nach Plan verläuft, auch noch in zweihundert Jahren dort hängen. Das macht Kunstwerke zu etwas, an dem man Maß nehmen kann und zu dem man das eigene Leben ins Verhältnis setzen kann. Jedes gelungene Werk ist ein Maß: Es ist nicht nach festen Regeln zu verstehen, es erfüllt keine bestehenden Gesetze, es ist sein eigenes Gesetz. Lerne ich dieses Gesetz zu lesen, kann ich damit anders auf die Welt blicken. Und andere Kunstwerke daran messen. Der Weg, den man zurücklegen muss, um in ein Wimmelbild von Pieter Brueghel einzutauchen oder die existenzielle Lakonik der von Felix Gonzales-Torres ausgegossenen Bonbons im Gewicht seines verstorbenen Geliebten zu ermessen (“Untitled” (Placebo), 1991), ist der Freiheitsraum, den ich gewinne. 1791 einigte sich die Französische Nationalversammlung darauf, wie lang ein Meter ist. Das erste Urmeter aus Platin lagert heute in einem Tresor des Internationalen Büros für Maß und Gewicht Sèvres bei Paris. Der Meterstab aus Metall erlaubte die Herstellung von Vereinheitlichung und Vergleichbarkeit. Diese Vergleichbarkeit wird von jedem einzelnen gelungenen Werk herausgefordert. Wer also neue Gesetze schreiben möchte, der kann im Museum anfangen. Wer gute Gesetze schreiben möchte, dem hilft natürlich juristisches Wissen. Aber für gelungene Gesetze braucht er ein historisches und ästhetisches Verständnis dessen, worum es beim Gesetzeschreiben geht, nämlich was es bedeutet, unter Menschen und Dingen zu sein und in der Geschichte zu stehen. Weil Kunst immer radikal konkret ist, schärft sie, viel mehr als Physik oder Mathematik, die Sinne dafür, wie Dinge gemacht sind. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Dream-Devil_Paulina-Nolte_Foto_Constanza-MelAndez.jpg) fig. 3 Klar kann die Beschäftigung mit der Kunst nicht die mit der Politik ersetzen. Aber die Beschäftigung mit der Kunst schafft erst den Raum dafür, sich darüber klar zu werden, was es sich warum zu wünschen lohnt – und wirklich Politik zu machen. Politik ist nämlich mehr als Realpolitik. Politik zu machen heißt im Verständnis von Jacques Rancière nicht, Gesetze zu entwerfen und deren Einhaltung zu überwachen. Diese Verwaltung der bestehenden Ordnung nennt Rancière nur „Polizei“. Politik besteht für ihn in der Änderung der Ordnung des Sinnlichen, die darüber bestimmt, was wie in die Wahrnehmung treten kann. Damit sind die Arbeiter, die den ihnen zugewiesenen Platz von Arbeit und Reproduktion verlassen und Gedichte verfassen, die wirklichen Politiker. Oft werden der Kunst die hohen Preise zum Vorwurf gemacht. Als wären Millionenbeträge ein Zeichen dafür, dass etwas mit der Kunst nicht stimmt, und dass sie so weit von einem sinnvollen Leben entfernt sei wie die Preise vom Durchschnittsvermögen. Inzwischen ist ja kaum noch ein Museum in der Lage, ohne Hilfe von Privatleuten bedeutende aktuelle Werke zu kaufen. Doch kann die Kunst da nur insofern was dafür, als ihre Werke in der Regel eben nur einmal existieren und nur mit sehr viel Können und Glück gefälscht werden können. Das macht sie neben Menschen zu einem der letzten zählbaren Dinge überhaupt. Diese Dinge, die es nur einmal gibt, sind also auch in einem zweiten Sinne ein Maß: für die wenigen ins Unermessliche wachsenden Privatvermögen, die in ihnen ihren Ausdruck finden. Nicht der Wert der Kunst wird auf spektakulären Auktionen in Geld verhandelt, sondern umgekehrt der Wert von Vermögen in Kunst. Letztlich ist Kunst damit die einzige Währung, auf die man bauen kann. Sie spiegelt die Wirklichkeit nirgends so scharf wieder wie auf der Ebene ihres Marktes: Wächst die Ungleichheit, steigen die Preise. Mit der Versechsfachung der weltweiten Milliardäre seit dem Jahr 2000 stiegen die Preise im Kunstmarkt und sank die Zahl der Marktteilnehmer, die mithalten konnten. Die Preise lassen sich also nicht innerhalb der Kunst verändern. Sie sind nur die Symptome. Wer sie verändern will, muss die Welt verändern. *Dieser Text ist eine leicht veränderte Fassung des gleichnamigen Essays aus Arts of the Working Class 1, 2018* // --- ### Image credits Cover: Paulina Nolte, Earthyn, 2024\. Foto: Constanza Meléndez, courtesy of the artist. fig. 1: Paulina Nolte, Interal System, 2024\. Foto: Constanza Meléndez, courtesy of the artist. fig. 2: Paulina Nolte, Fairy Grotto, 2024\. Foto: Constanza Meléndez, courtesy of the artist. fig. 3: Paulina Nolte, Dream Devil, 2024\. Foto: Constanza Meléndez, courtesy of the artist. *Kolja Reichert is the chief curator at K21 of Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen in Düsseldorf. From 2021 to 2023, he was head of the newly created department for discourse at the Bundeskunsthalle in Bonn. Between 2015 and 2020, he was an art critic for the Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung.* ### Looking at structures in ruins URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/looking-at-structures-in-ruins/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:19.000Z Now that societal foundations – economic stability, collective memory, social cohesion, and the ability to forge a future (you name it!) – seem to be disintegrating, Astra Taylor and Katrin Mayer offer parallel but complementary lenses to examine what remains. Where to start? Rather than disrupting dominant narratives (in a reactionary sense), both Taylor, an activist, and Mayer, an artist, engage in their practices of uncovering, reassembling, and reimagining. They make visible the subtle, often insidious mechanisms that erode personal and collective agency. Taylor dissects capitalism’s ability to harness insecurity as a tool for domination, while Mayer’s transgenerational feminist installations depart from the fan as an object of inquiry, expose the hidden labor behind the origins of computing, which is more female than has been accepted. They envelop the issue like a soft, anticapitalist enlightenment bath. Taylor’s writing, gathered as a series of essays in *The Age of Insecurity: Holding Together While Everything Falls Apart*, traces how the neoliberal system has woven anxiety, fear, and economic vulnerability into the fabric of everyday life, ensuring that uncertainty permeates every aspect of our existence. Through manifold examples, Taylor shows us that precarity isn’t incidental but central – a mechanism for control that disproportionately affects those already marginalized. Women, migrants, and the working class are deprived of basic social foundations, turning insecurity into both a structural and personal condition. It is this emotional toll, the slow, insidious erosion of one’s sense of safety and self-worth, that Taylor so piercingly critiques. Resistance, she argues, is not just political, it’s emotional, a fight to reclaim the stability that late, racialized, accelerated capitalism continuously undermines. This is not resistance per default: Taylor traces how the architecture of insecurity not only undermines labor rights and economic stability but also depletes our emotional resilience. This, in turn, creates a kind of self-reinforcing cycle, where fear and anxiety feed into a broader acceptance of inequality and weaken the very notion of collective struggle. Taylor highlights the subtle ways in which this insecurity is nurtured: in the normalization of gig economies, in the creeping erosion of public welfare, in the demand for constant productivity that leaves little room for rest, reflection, or community time. On the other side of this exploration, and of the imperial realm, is Katrin Mayer, whose *#c0da* at Badischer Kunstverein – a solo exhibition as well as a collective call to herstory – looks at another kind of erasure: the elision of women’s labor from the history of technology. Just as capitalism hides its mechanisms of insecurity and social reproduction, the field of computer science has long obscured the vital contributions of women such as Ada Lovelace, Grace Hopper, and the ENIAC programmers. Mayer’s exhibition doesn’t simply restore these figures to their rightful place in history; it challenges the very architecture of how technological narratives are constructed. Through site-specific installations at the Badischer Kunstverein, Mayer creates a dialogue between feminist histories and the physical, spatial realities of Karlsruhe, a city steeped in technological advancement and with a core spatial division that resembles a fan, a symbol of wireless internet, and a female pubic zone. Within different registers layering on top of one another, Mayer focuses in particular grammatures of how patriarchal and technological systems have erased the labor and contributions of women. *#c0da comptoir #fanny carolsruh* approaches all these matters not as a straightforward critique, but as an immersive exploration of these invisibilizations. It simulates the artist’s desk, the internet cafe, and the library corners, on which the pleasure of uncovering truths relies. Using materials including office furniture and wall fragments, Mayer constructs metaphors for the labor and lives that have been obscured, particularly the women who comprise the backbone of early computing. The office relics speak to a bygone era, where women’s work was visible, only later to vanish, as digital labor rendered it invisible. Through her speculative re-readings of Karlsruhe’s urban myths and her invocation of feminist writing traditions like *l’écriture féminine*, Mayer resists the singular narrative of technological genius, replacing it with a mosaic of collaboration and erased histories. By curating environments that blend the digital with the historical, Mayer offers not just a space for reflection, but an active reconstruction of the archives of forgotten labor. The installation draws on contributions from a diverse group of artists, writers, and thinkers, including Anna Cairns, Jasmina Metwaly, Sadie Plant, Romy Nína Rüegger, and others, each bringing their voice to bear on feminist histories that have been systematically effaced from the technological present. Mayer’s spaces ask us to reimagine the workplace, the archive, and the digital space as places where feminist critique can unfold, and where new histories can be written. Both Taylor and Mayer are preoccupied with the same question: *how do we see what has been made invisible?* In Taylor’s case, this means tracing the emotional manipulation of capitalism's ceaseless demands for productivity, efficiency, and self-reliance which mask its inherent inequalities. For Mayer, it means uncovering the hidden architectures of technology, the histories of women’s intellectual labor buried beneath layers of patriarchal storytelling. Both expose systems of oppression that operate subtly and stealthily, yet with devastating consequences. Together, they restore missing threads to the fabric of collective memory, as they share a sense of urgency: the need to make what has been erased visible, to resist what has been designed to be left obscure. // --- ### Image caption Cover: Katrin Mayer, #c0da comptoir #fanny carolsruh, Collage for invitation, Badischer Kunstverein, Karlsruhe, 2024\. Image editing: Ana Aguilera, Code: Anna Cairns, City layout: Stadtarchiv Karlsruhe. *Lilo Ruminawi is a poet, playwright, and film director. She has written and directed the experimental short films La Mancha Viva (2014), Perreo Seco (2017), and the documentary essay El Año sin Árboles (2020). She is currently working on the post-production of her first feature-length fiction film, Tzantza, a retro-futuristic western set in the Salar de Uyuni.* ### Ungovernable families URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/ungovernable-families/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:18.000Z *What becomes possible with a model in which love and relationships are not scarce resources to be hoarded and protected, but instead proliferate beyond the confines of the socially constituted couple and nuclear family?* This is one of the many questions Professor Kim TallBear seeks to answer in her essay *Making Love and Relations Beyond Settler Sex and Family*. She argues that while everyone knows the script for sex, few understand how to break free from settler norms surrounding it. People know how to create families, but the making of kin—non-blood connections—has become erased wisdom. While most belong to a family, few view family as a tool for emancipation from entrenched colonial-capitalist structures. Decolonization, TallBear suggests, is crucial as a project that disrupts the nuclear family by exposing how love, affection, and natality have been appropriated to serve settler colonialism. Decoloniality, however, she asserts, is not an individual choice or action but a web of relations that critically unmake colonial society through a continuum of past, present, and future. Kim TallBear, a citizen of the Sisseton-Wahpeton Oyate in present-day South Dakota and eligible for citizenship in the Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes through her maternal grandfather, was raised on the Flandreau Santee Sioux Tribe reservation and in St. Paul, Minnesota. Her upbringing by her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, alongside many female relatives, profoundly informs her perspective. Drawing from her community’s experiences of dispossession and value erosion, TallBear’s essay examines how the nuclear family has been instrumentalized to affirm the supremacy of America’s colonial system. By “making settler population”, the nuclear family supported U.S. nation-building efforts, substituting Indigenous populations and their relational constellations. This model, enshrined as the Nation-State’s smallest social unit and reinforced by Christianity, created spaces where middle-class values and economics could thrive—spaces that parasitized the land and pre-existing Indigenous communities. Efforts to assimilate Indigenous peoples into the national body saw both church and state evangelize marriage, the nuclear family, and monogamy, promoting these as aspirational models while curtailing Indigenous societies. TallBear examines these historical gaps rigorously, arguing that they dismantled the relational culture of Indigenous communities, particularly her Dakota ancestors, whose social structures encompassed extended kin groups, plural marriages, and support networks beyond blood relations. The well-being that consensual, non-monogamous relationships brought to Indigenous communities starkly contrasts with Western-centric, nation-based societies. TallBear reflects on her upbringing in a pro-kinship, non-natalist community, where kinship and natality didn’t equate to reproducing the middle-class, settler family structure. Her experience prompts a critique of the nuclear family’s hierarchical nature beyond gender or sexuality, as this unit upholds a project of governability and self-regulating, abundance-loving webs of relations. She invites the reader to explore how to disentangle procreation from reproducing the heteronormative, patriarchal colonial status quo. Published as part of Donna Haraway’s *Making Kin Not Population* collection, TallBear’s essay mourns the extended kinship social model, acknowledging that it has been supplanted by definitions that objectify relationships and genders. Even polyamory and queerness, the relational and gender models closest to the pre-colonial abundance, are still shaped by settler sexuality norms and fail to capture the multiple forms of love, solidarity, respect, and rituals Indigenous communities nurtured. TallBear calls for collective resistance to the imposed system of compulsory settler sexuality and family, which continues to replace Indigenous kinship systems with "making population." Ultimately, she asserts that recognizing possibilities for other kinds of intimacies, focused on caretaking and kinship rather than biological reproduction, is the first step toward unsettling settler family and sexuality structures. This essay extends an invitation to view sexuality through the lenses of spirituality and nature, examining how intersubjective relationships in these realms foster mutual connectivity, shared responsibility, and holistic well-being. TallBear challenges us to resist the objectification of intersubjective forces and broaden our focus to include non-human relationships that exist outside of settler capitalism. This reconstitution of de-objectified relations—nurturing, healing exchanges of power, and exploring open, intentional non-monogamy—could pave the way for more just intimacies, including those with non-human kin. Readers who embrace this invitation to disorder and disaggregate established norms may find joy in embracing kinship and caretaking rather than reproduction alone. TallBear contributes a decolonial perspective to a broader discourse that includes works like bell hooks' *All About Love: New Visions*, Sophie Lewis' *Full Surrogacy Now: Feminism Against Family*, and Jessica Fern’s *Polysecure*, all of which advocate for abolishing the dominance of heteronormative family structures. Her work invites readers to think beyond the instrumentalization of family as a source of stability amid capitalism’s crises, a mechanism to control the means of life itself. As I write this in Italy, a country where technologies challenging “natural” pregnancy, like surrogate motherhood, are universally forbidden, and where anti-choice advocates operate within gynecological clinics, reproduction is rigidly regulated. Worldwide, governments that draw labor from women’s bodies often have more agency over those bodies than the women themselves. For those who’ve begun reimagining relationships, whether through relationship anarchy or polyamory, building rich, nonhierarchical connections often encounters capitalism’s persistent scarcity of time. This desire—to nurture relationships before codifying them—reveals a surprising anti-capitalist impetus: making our relationships ungovernable. // --- ### Image caption COVER: Zwei Akrobaten und ihr Pferdeführer, KÔ SÛKOKU (1730-1804) Edo-Zeit, 18\. Jahrhundert Copyright & Courtesy: Sammlung Viktor & Marianne Langen *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### To Ending Colonial Worlds and aesthetic registers of sociality. URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/to-ending-worlds-and-aesthetic-social-regimes/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:16.000Z *Arika’s* Episode 11 *brings together five days of film, music, discussion, and study to consider other ways of existing and conceiving of existence—arrayed against the ecological and social devastations of a capitalistic, colonial worldview that has been obliterating other worlds for over 400 years. Dalia Maini exchanges with Arika‘s co-director and founding member Barry Esson, about the underlying curatorial theme.* **We live in times where political projects that seek to put an end to many worlds reappear repeatedly, in a ghostly form reminiscent of historical déjà vu. What has gone wrong in our historical unconscious for this cycle to keep recurring? And what is the responsibility of art and culture in this?** I question how much trust we should place in the idea of history if it implies a kind of linearity. I resonate with Elizabeth Povinelli’s concept of the “ancestral present.” The catastrophe we are facing is not something looming just beyond the horizon of social and environmental collapse; it is an ancestral catastrophe, both past and present, that has been unfolding for centuries, particularly impacting racialized and Indigenous peoples. Following Elizabeth’s perspective, one issue that might have gone "wrong" in our history is how European Enlightenment thinkers developed ways of understanding the world that legitimized Europe’s practices of total violence against its colonies. In other words, a worldview was constructed to retrospectively justify violence, rather than the other way around. By measuring all forms of existence according to the presumed qualities of this European, ontologically violent, imposed form of existence, racialized and Indigenous peoples—who possess their own “analytics of existence” (in Elizabeth’s terms) that “refuse the Western need to differentiate between things with or without agency, subjectivity, intentionality, or what counts as life”—are cast as having more in common with the land and as being less than human, as “non-life” or “savages,” and thus open to exploitation, extraction, enslavement, or death. Aileen Moreton-Robinson powerfully critiques this dynamic through the concept of the “white possessive,” whereby “the settler state’s gift of self-determination is a demand that Indigenous people mimic the psychosis at the heart of Western liberalism, namely the fantasy of a sovereign body that determines itself, has final say over its use and the use of things within it—that speaks based on its sovereign self-possession.” Western and European art and culture, as they are recuperated into normative society, continue to emerge from this specific notion of subjectivity. They contribute back to its formation: they are both products of and machines for producing subjectivity, personhood, and individuation or for manufacturing consent to be a single person (to riff on Fred Moten riffing on Edouard Glissant). ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Episode-11-Image-2-Beatriz-Santiago-Munoz-Oriana-1.jpg) fig.1 **With the re-emergence of fascism in the Global North, public spaces have become sites where the power of propaganda is violently displayed. How does *Episode 11* aim to critically reimagine these within the arts, particularly when addressing themes of resistance and Indigenous cosmologies?** We don’t claim to reimagine spaces within the arts. Our relationship to "the arts" and to what constitutes public space within them is ambivalent. For us, "the arts" is a site of resources that we attempt, with varying success, to use for our purposes and those of our friends, comrades, and allies. I’m not sure how well we accomplished this, other than knowing we could always do it better. When I think about space, I find Henri Lefebvre’s concept of the "trialectics of space" compelling—the idea that space is produced through the intersection of three realms: the perceived, the conceived, and the lived. I interpret the perceived as encompassing aesthetic registers, feelings, senses, and so forth; the conceived as relating to thought; and the lived as relating to sociality. We aim, within Episodes, to engage with this way of thinking by creating social spaces that include perceived (experiential), conceived (discursive, theoretical), and lived (social, ethical, “political”) elements. We also strive to consider how these registers produce space as we shape the social space of each Episode, which I view as a practice somewhere between inviting, sharing, hosting, fostering openness, and cultivating "access intimacy." ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Episode-11-Image-4-Image-4-Karrabing-Film-Collective-1.png) fig.2 **Indigenous, decolonial, and anti-imperialist voices, people who have suffered and are keeping witness to the dystopian project of Western colonialism, resulting in contemporary imperialism welcome the end of this world if ruled and shaped in such a way. How does the program facilitate the coming of a post-end-of-the-world horizon?** “the participants welcome the end of this world if ruled and shaped in such a way,” I think that’s right. There’s a nice quote about the end of the world by Ailton Krenak. *When I talk about postponing the end of the world, I'm not referring to the collapse of this world. I wish this violent world would disappear at midnight tonight, and that tomorrow we wake up in a new one. However, in reality, we are acting on the prospect of transfiguration, desiring what Nêgo Bispo calls confluences, and not that exorbitant euphoria of monoculture that gathers the crazies who celebrate necropolitics rather than the plural life of the peoples on this planet. Unlike what they are doing, confluences evoke the context of diverse worlds that can affect each other.* This WhatsApp message from Denise Ferreira da Silva also addresses this: *Here are some of the things regarding the phrase “the end of the world as we know it”: it is about the end of the known world, the world state: capital in all its apparitions and the modes of knowing (scientific and historical) that support its colonial (extractive, expropriative, genocidal) practices and propositions and promises (of development, of freedom, etc, which are all contingent on total violence). That means that other modes of knowing and more importantly as other ways of existing and of conceiving of existence (of everything human and nonhuman) must be imagined/ imaginable, experimented/ rehearsed, and supported by any means necessary. The end of the world as we know it would bring the end of ‘world’ itself, and with that of phenomenology and of the thing it consolidates, subjectivity, which is the thing that defines itself in/ as knowledge. To end the world as we know it is to exist otherwise right here/now.* Denise Ferreira da Silva So to answer your question (How does the program facilitate the coming of a post-end-of-the-world horizon?)… I think the things Episode can begin to explore, within the modest capacities we have, include examining different perspectives on what constitutes worlds, ways of knowing worlds, and how the dominant worldview has come to be understood—even down to the level of the subject, as Denise says. This includes considering the impacts of that worldview and the questions it raises for militant practices. We also aim to invite and learn from other ways of knowing the world, or worlds, along with the ethics and commitments these entail, which refuse the status and supposed protection of being a "subject"—that which has been denied to them. This is not to suggest that any particular community (especially communities whose worlds Europe has been dismantling for centuries) bears the responsibility to teach us in Glasgow/Scotland/Europe how to end the world we brought into being; that’s something we have to figure out ourselves. **There is a fundamental distrust in artistic languages today, due to their compromise with neoliberal economic regimes and institutions. Yet, I want to believe we are at a nexus where artists and cultural practitioners are called to rethink the environments they are part of, starting from their very structures and to, as Sylvia Wynter would put it, shape sociogenic forces.** We try to think about the aesthetic registers of sociality—a concept we draw from thinkers like Laura Harris and Fred Moten, among others. So, perhaps instead of focusing on art forms, we want to consider and engage with the ways groups look and wish to be seen, feel and wish to be felt, listen and wish to be heard, move and wish to be moved. I know this sounds poetic; that’s part of the point. These registers reveal a kind of inseparability between aesthetics and our ethical engagement with the world. They provide a way for us to carve out some room to maneuver. We are constantly renegotiating boundaries with the art world, the music scene, the dance and theater worlds, and the structures that support them. We draw resources from these worlds while trying not to be over-determined by their liberal agendas. I’m not sure how successful we are at this; we simply try to remain within the contradictions. As Indigenous thinkers in Brazil have proposed, the epistemic diversity of the world is potentially infinite. The end of certain worlds, brought about by colonialism over the last 400 years, certainly included the attempted eradication of certain ways of knowing the world. As Robyn Maynard and Leanne Betasamosake Simpson discuss in *Rehearsals for Living*— *As Imperialism and ongoing colonialism have been ending worlds for as long as they have been in existence, and Indigenous and Black peoples have been building worlds and then rebuilding worlds for as long as we have been in existence. Relentlessly building worlds through unspeakable violence and loss. Building worlds and living in them anyway.* Thinking about loss: whether or to what extent different epistemologies are truly lost, and for whom they are lost. For example, in Ligia Lewis’s incredible *A Plot, A Scandal*, she is haunted by the spirit of her grandmother, Lolón Zapata, who courted scandal by using her plot of land to practice the Afro-Dominican spiritual tradition of Palo. There are still people who practice Palo today, but perhaps that practice has been “lost” to people like Ligia, whose family has a history of emigration and return. One of the remarkable aspects of Ligia’s film is how she addresses this potential “loss” and explores what it might mean for her to remember her grandmother’s practice. She finds ways to do so under the consuming white gaze and within a system of representation (dance, theater), fully aware that political representation was developed as a regulatory response to the radical anti-colonial insurgency. She poses the question of how we remember and learn to desire something beyond personhood, something other than being represented. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Episode-11-Image-12-Beatriz-Santiago-Munoz-Oriana-1.JPG) fig.3 **The visual load of information delivered on our screens is the primary way we absorb the genocides and ecocides occurring in the world, leading to a sensory overload that obstructs action. In curating a learning environment made up of performances, screenings, workshops, and talks, how do you envision audiences engaging with the experimental approaches presented in *Episode 11*?** We are interested in what we can learn from aesthetic registers of sociality, and how those can support our collective ethical comportment in the world. These registers can be engaged at different levels. Perhaps we are attempting to offer a range of these registers of experience, each supporting different perspectives, understandings, or feelings: a musical performance, a discussion, a study session, or a workshop for a small group. Each of these has a different degree of publicness, personal safety, exposure, or risk; a different sensory, intellectual, or emotional experience; and different ways to move between the local and the global, the typical and the archetypical, the personal and the collective. This back-and-forth between perspectives is something we affirmed by working with Fernando Zalamea and engaging with his thinking on Topos theory. Here’s an excerpt from an essay I wrote on Fernando’s ideas: *Topoi* *A sheaf is a point of view. But we can take all the sheaves on a space—all possible points of view—and integrate them together. This gives us a very powerful structure that was not in the local space (our limited perspective) to start with. This is a topos—a blending of every point of view. As developed by Alexander Grothendieck, topos theory uncovers the variable logics of these spaces of integration produced by sheaves: beyond binaries and polarities, a space of multi-logics built on the mutual inclusion (and not the exclusion) of opposites and the utilisation of relative universals—truths that hold only within certain logics, applied to certain parts of the world. Topoi provide an integration, a point of view beyond the atomization of our world. In their blending of perspectives, they provide a rich metaphor for how we can move beyond the imposition of difference and diversity. As the radical Transfeminist writing of Mijke van der Drift indicates, every new logic creates a new topos and so starts to generate points of view. Topoi establish metaphors for the fight against the monological, and the need for the plurilogical to be enacted in our lives. Beyond the types that are constantly given to us, beyond our diversity, beyond any monological order, there are interesting and beautiful archetypes and a pluriverse of logics. Instead of insisting on resolutions into binary oppositions, we can practise a back and forth, a folding and unfolding that allows us to focus on transits, transformations and a trans-ontology so that the dynamics of the world—structures well beyond what we can experience from our local perspectives—can be included in our thought. Beyond elasticity, plasticity; beyond fixed universals and absolute truths, relative universals and relative truths; instead of objects, quasi-objects and a kind of plastic thinking and being.* In terms of screens and the capture of visuality: I don’t know. When we were speaking with Ailton Krenak the other day, he mentioned emerging technology (perhaps in China) where to purchase a product, you don’t use any equipment—there is no apparatus you hold or object you swipe; you simply show your face. He referred to this as "a terrible metaphor for the end of the world," perhaps echoing how Davi Kopenawa talks about a society obsessed with merchandise. In this case, merchandise, money, the body, and the image have completely collapsed into one thing. At the same time, I often think about the famous Audre Lorde quote about how we cannot dismantle the master's house with the master's tools. Of course, I agree in many ways, but I also consider how that statement is based on a notion of property—who decides what the master's tools are? Did they build them? I think Buenaventura Durruti argued that the working class built our cities (the master's house) and could build others. So, I don’t know. I think contemporary visuality is a compromised set of technologies, but we must think about how we use those technologies to our ends—which, as Ailton says, will not collapse the visuality of our faces with money itself, but maybe could serve other desires. I’m not sure. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-11-14-at-11.34.32.png) fig.4 **It is a joyful challenge to commit to the synchronic labor of, in the words of da Silva, listening to ancestral claims, where "past" and "history" are simply different stages, transmutations, and cosmological interconnections of the present. In what way does Arika's episodicity aim to create a legacy across times and spaces?** We were interviewing Ailton Krenak the other day, and he spoke about this. He discusses the notion of pluriverses and how it is built on the possibility that other worlds are already here, even before we realize the end of this one that persists. He suggests that this dominant, colonial world is built on certain pillars and beliefs, one of which is the imposition of linear time. Instead of a beginning, middle, and end, Ailton talked about understanding that things have a beginning, a middle, and another beginning. And that understanding this can be a poetic gesture, a way to "extinguish this world" (based on linearity, or what Denise, in the essay you cite, would call sequentiality). I am not suggesting that Arika tries to appropriate such indigenous forms of knowledge, but I think they can help us begin to unlearn our own ways of knowing, to start desiring something else, or to desire to be something else—or, indeed, not to desire to be (in the Western sense) at all. We decided to call these events Episodes back in 2012\. The idea was to find a word that we could imbue with our meaning. We take "Episodes" to mean doing things that are episodic and iterative: a process of deepening, with regular collaborators and friends. They have a narrative, but it is not a linear one. It cycles back, goes off on tangents, and starts again. I’m not sure if that creates a legacy, as you say in your question. It’s more that they might be part of an integrative deepening of ways of knowing and doing. *Episode 11: To End the World As We Know It* will take place 13 – 17 November 2024 Venues: [Tramway, Glasgow](https://arika.org.uk/venue/tramway/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) / [Live Stream](https://arika.org.uk/venue/live-stream/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) [Glasgow / School of Art, Glasgow](https://arika.org.uk/venue/glasgow-school-art/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) // **Barry Esson** is co-director and founding member of Arika, a Scotland-based political arts organization concerned with supporting connections between artistic production and social change. Arika produces Episodes, an iterative program of multiformat public events that has addressed abolitionist politics, conceptual mathematics, disability justice, and the Black Radical Tradition, among other themes. --- ### Image Credits Cover: Denise Ferreria da Silva, Still from *Serpent Rain*, 2016, by Arjuna Neuman and Denise Ferreira da Silva fig.1: Beatriz Santiago Muñoz, *Oriana*. Photo by Bleue Liverpool from Oriana by Beatriz Santiago Muñoz fig.2: Karrabing Film Collective, Image from *Mermaids, or Aiden in Wonderland*, 2019, Karrabing Film Collective fig.3: Beatriz Santiago Muñoz, *Oriana*. Film still from Photo by Sara Griffith from Oriana by Beatriz Santiago Muñoz fig.4: Ayreen Anastas & Rene Gabri. Image courtesy Ayreen Anastas & Rene Gabri *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### What if Your Needs Can Never Be Met? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/what-if-your-needs-can-never-be-met/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:15.000Z In my mid-20s, I experienced serious conflicts in two of my most important friendships. The conflict with friend A. was about our intensive working relationship, in which I had more say than she did, and the conflict with friend B. was about a lack of agreement in the arrangement of the shared rooms and an associated situation in which I was having a strong emotional outburst - but of course, it was about much more than that. “You always talk everything up,” was the response of one friend, who from then on would give me the silent treatment in the communal areas of our shared flat. “We always have to resolve conflicts with your way of talking, you leave no room for other methods and you dominate me” - was my other friend's response. This argument also escalated into radio silence, the more she refused to talk about her feelings, the more I begged her to confide in me. I can tell you right away that both conflicts have since been resolved. However, the resolution strategies were fundamentally different and in this article, they are intended to illustrate trends in one of the most active communities on this topic. I was part of a collective together with A. and our situation put a strain on the whole group, which is why we decided to hold a workshop as a cure. A Nonviolent Communication (NVC) scene was just emerging in our city and so we invited Holger, one of the main organizers. In the session, he told us how he had come to NVC. He had often been accused of taking up too much space in conversations - without wanting to. In his search for a solution, he came across NVC - initially through a book in the public library. Almost ashamed, he told us about Marshall M. Rosenberg, who founded NVC as it is practiced and understood today. He was ashamed because Holger didn't like the way he was portrayed as a guru. Nevertheless, he showed us how we can formulate observations neutrally without making value judgments about the behavior of others. He also showed us how our feelings point to deeper needs and that these needs are never anything reprehensible. He helped us to deconstruct accusations and understand what we wanted. And how we can use this knowledge to find solutions that don't put others under pressure. The central theme in NVC is how to ask other people for something without obliging them to fulfill this request. **An example:** **My actual accusation:** You don't allow me to understand you. **What I observe:** You don't talk to me. **My feeling:** Anger, frustration, helplessness. **My underlying need that is not being met:** Understanding and harmony. **One way to formulate the sentence according to NVC:** I can see that you are not talking to me (non-judgmental observation). I want to be understood and for us to get along well (formulating needs). My request to you is that you listen to me and try to understand me (request). In terms of NVC, I have to be prepared for the other person to refuse the request. NVC is based on the fact that I can then satisfy this need elsewhere. This makes it atomistic - as if each person is floating around freely and could also fulfill their needs with any other person. Repeating what you have heard is also part of NVC. This is a recommendable exercise because when our group tried it, we realized that we often didn't listen properly. We were hardly able to reproduce exactly what was said. This is why I hardly ever say anymore that I understand something because I realized that I rarely really understand. What I hadn't *understood* until then, too, was that we had no idea of how we *were supposed* to talk to each other or how to listen to each other properly. After all, there is no lesson on “The ABCs of human conversation” at school. And because there were no rules for communication, all we had left were the toxic or implicit communication strategies from our families, school, work, and university, which quickly reached their limits when conflicts arose. NVC was the legitimate method that A. could accept (in contrast to my insistence that she should reveal herself to me). With stilted language, dissecting and painfully, A. and I followed the strange ritual in which we were supposed to become aware of ourselves and reveal ourselves to each other. We managed it: we overcame our conflict - effectively and quickly. My other conflict with B. was resolved completely inefficiently: it took exactly four years for B. to say a word to me again - and in between there was no contact. Four years was the expiry date of our conflict. After that, it was somehow over. I don't know what happened to her in the intervening years and what conclusions she came to. As much as the NVC opened a door for A. and me, it also marked the wall in the communication between B. and me. We both had no access because she didn't want to reveal herself. In this context, I am reminded of Edouard Glissant, a philosopher and writer from the French-speaking Caribbean, who emphasized the right of the colonized to opacity. They have the right not to be understood, they don't have to perform a soul striptease for their oppressors who want to turn their vulnerability into profit and ammunition for more weapons of oppression. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_9814.JPG) fig.1 Sarri Bater, a researcher and practitioner in the field of conflict transformation in the UK, Sri Lanka, and the SWANA region, writes: “GfK is definitely and largely reduced to white, liberal experiences of feelings and needs, and this is highly disturbing and deeply tragic.” Today, she leads the organization Open Edge, which works at the intersection of conflict and identity politics as well as justice and development, focusing on relationships as the key to transforming systems of violence and beliefs. The team's reasoning is based on NVC, although Bater noted in 2018 that in over 15 years of practicing NVC, she had never seen a focus on systemic conditions and experiences. Unless she brought it in herself. Her text was a reaction to the article *NVC is for the privileged* (2018) by Raffi Marhaba, a trans activist who now works at the intersection of design and social justice. Marhaba criticized the following points: 1. NVC claims that there are universal needs, neglecting the perspectives of BIPoCs, trans people, queer people, and disabled people. 2. because NVC sees people detached from their socio-political context, structurally disadvantaged people are called upon to find solutions to their problems themselves. Although these are caused by others. It thus provides oppressors with an additional tool that enables them to abuse. 3. NVC assumes that all people have equal language access and thus discriminates against people who cannot express themselves as well in a particular language or who cannot speak due to other circumstances. And it hardly takes non-verbal communication into account. 4. the individualistic worldview of NVC obscures dependency relationships - each person appears to be equally responsible, thereby ignoring and underpinning class relationships. 5. the GfK uses practices from the BiPoC community and profits from them without making credits visible. 6. according to Marhaba, GfK falsely claims that it can solve structural problems such as racism. Bater shares many of Marhaba's experiences and believes that this is due to NVC being taught as a tool rather than an awareness. She argues that NVC is so heavily dominated by white feelings and needs because most practitioners come from liberal backgrounds. Although Rosenberg herself did not claim that needs and feelings are universal, and in her experience, this is not the case, needs are often presented in this way in NVC, writes Bater. According to our trainer back then, Holger, there is a definition of needs in NVC: in the inner logic of NVC, they are independent of other people. For example, a need is to give and receive love, but it is not a real need if we talk about wanting to be loved by a certain person. In NVC, it is therefore also not correct to say that it is a need to see the other person happy. Rosenberg's definition of needs was based on the model of Manfred Max-Neef, a Chilean economist with German parents, who, in addressing the class differences in South America (partly due to colonialism), developed a model of universal needs that aimed to align development policy goals with a “human scale”, i.e. with the respective well-being of people and not with a gross national product. In doing so, he wanted to create an argument for a decentralized and self-organized form of democracy free of economic growth concepts. It is therefore important to realize in the debate on universalism that such demands do not always have to have Eurocentric dominance in mind. Bater, on the other hand, criticizes the propagated universalism because structurally disadvantaged people are not included, i.e. because it is mainly produced by the white, liberal GfK community. Bater, who does not have white skin herself, is also a member of the Global North, where “gender-specific and ethnocentric (liberal) truths about the world are propagated as undeniably normal and right” and form the apparent basis of NVC. A scientific study of the universalism debate is lacking because NVC has only been researched selectively, even though it is used today in so many contexts of business, activism, and education. One of the reasons for its widespread success: Rosenberg has been providing vivid concepts since the 1980s (“giraffe and wolf language”). He takes on a peculiar transitory role in which he transitions from science into the everyday world by offering a methodology, but loses scientific backing in the process. The only way I can explain how the sciences are avoiding NVC is that there are reservations about the spiritual part and about taxonomies that cannot be scientifically justified. Perhaps research into NVC is also unpleasant because Rosenberg has unintentionally or intentionally become a kind of messiah figure. What enabled this *(old) white man* to do this? In addition to the obvious practical value of his methodology, it is also his socio-political position that has privileged him globally. His trademark, which is protected in the USA, finances a training center to ensure that NVC is passed on correctly, while at the same time, half-knowledge is increasingly spreading. A mass dimension is thus entering the field of NVC, creating gaps in thousands of blogs and reproductions that lead to the forms of violence criticized by Marhaba. In this widespread half-knowledge, those who are not “yet” able to communicate without violence are also increasingly devalued. But: NVC requires targeted education, concentration, training, and time - resources from which a large part of the global population is excluded. Basic needs, such as water or food, often cannot be met in current systems of domination. It may be painful to become aware of unmet needs, let alone name them because there is no prospect of them being met. Privileged people who practice NVC and can name and satisfy their needs should carefully observe how they use NVC. It is actually part of NVC to check one's own intentions and also the consistency of body language with what is being said, so as not to oppress others through the language virtuosity of NVC. Because whoever has the words has the power and the responsibility. NVC guidelines recognize this interdependence in the parent-child relationship - in practice among adults, exploring structural dependencies in NVC is rarely discussed. Part of such a discussion could be dealing with non-NVC conflict resolution. My friend B's conflict resolution worked. She did not insist on an efficient method, but because she determined the parameters of our interaction, she also had the agency, not me, who overwhelmed her with her power of speech. A respectful addition and rewriting of NVC by other authors would lead to a gradual disempowerment and demystification of Rosenberg as the central figure of NVC, ultimately reconnecting it with communities that have been practicing aspects of NVC for decades and centuries, as well as with the communities that might emerge in the future independent of a centralization on the Global North. // --- ### Image Credits Cover: 宇宙人とは接触しないほうがいい Shimabuku, Man should try to avoid contact with alien life forms, 2014 BankART Life7: Urban Nesting, Yokohama, Japan fig.1: たちどまる Shimabuku, Stop and Think, 2011 "Our Magic Hour," Yokohama Triennale 2011, Japan Collaboration with Shiseido, Kakegawa, Japan ### Virtue hoarders URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/virtue-hoarders/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:13.000Z *This conversation was originally aired on YouTube in the autumn of 2024 as part of a series called “Doomscroll” powered by the artist, thinker, and head of the do.not.research discord Joshua Citarella. It opens with a critique of leftist politics, exploring how elite capture has narrowed its scope, leading to a purported ideological rigidity. Catherine Liu, Professor of Film and Media Studies at UC Irvine, traces the origins of what she refers to as “trauma studies” back to her time at Yale in the 1980s. During that time, professors interested in psychoanalysis and deconstruction expanded the field of literary studies and literary theory to include theories of witnessing and testimony that directly addressed memory and historical violence. She notes that trauma as a concept has become depoliticized and individualized, shifting from the use of a collective, historical lens to a personal narrative — fueled, in part, by the media and prominent figures such as Oprah Winfrey. This shift, Liu argues, has blurred the line between genuine political struggle and personal branding, creating a “trauma economy” that diverts attention from systemic exploitation. She begins by connecting what she considers the trauma industry to the military-industrial complex.* **Catherine Liu:** A lot of books now are called things like *The End of Trauma, No More Trauma*, etc., and if you look at all their techniques, they’re derived from military therapy methods to “cure” Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in soldiers returning from battlefields or bunkers. **Joshua Citarella:** You mention them in your most recent book, *Virtue Hoarders: The Case Against the Professional Managerial Class*. What is the “professional managerial class”? **CL:** Many people refer to it as a professional middle class, mixing professionals and managers. But it was a term that Barbara and John Ehrenreich pioneered, and I think they derived it from C. Wright Mills’s book *White Collar*. They — the PMC — are white-collar workers, usually heavily credentialed, with not just an undergraduate degree but a graduate degree, and they manage other people. Another way of thinking about them is they’re not paid by the hour — they have a salary. Their work is supposed to be more satisfying. Their expertise is highly socially valued, and, in most professions, there’s a professional organization that offers guidelines. For instance, the AMA — the American Medical Association — provides strict guidelines about how a doctor should behave. In my case, it’s the Modern Languages Association, the Society for Cinema and Media Studies, and the Association of American University Professors. These professional organizations were mostly created when the robber barons had taken over the American economy, and you had college-educated elites who wanted to create a buffer zone between this rapacious marketized activity of the Mellons, the Hills, and the Morgans, etc... You had this cadre of people becoming more and more powerful because more people were college and professionally educated. They realized they needed to protect their activities from the pressures of the billionaire class at the time, so those professions that are regulated by a professional organization, like the Bar for lawyers, demand credential elite degrees and have a managerial function in terms of disciplining other workers. Some people ask me, what about nurses and teachers? They have professional degrees. But they don’t manage other people. When they become principals, then they ascend to professional managerial class status, but as professionals, they’re not managers. Another way of thinking about this is what John and Barbara Ehrenreich called the “liberal professions”. They’re part of the culture industry, for people who are more into creative expression. That can also be part of this professional class. **JC:** When I look at the original essay published in *Radical America* in 1977 by Barbara and John Ehrenreich, the definition of the Professional Managerial Class (PMC) includes all sorts of things that I wouldn’t categorize as such today, like nurses, for example. When I think of the PMC now, I think of blue-check journalists on Twitter, people working in NGOs, people in salaried positions. Would it be fair to call them non-productive workers? Is that also part of the definition? **CL:** Yes. They are workers. In the classical Marxist sense, they are workers who produce things the capitalist can resell for surplus value. The professional classes now produce images, styles, and content like this, and manipulate them. So a lot of \[their work\] is about performative, non-productive activity. But if we want to go by the classical Marxist sense, the capitalists are willing to give some of their profits to this class because this class plays a disciplinary function in relation to the rest of the working population. You could think of this class as an intermediate class. They’re larger than ever before in the American workforce — it’s like 25%. In the 1900s, it was about 2-3%. **JC:** The last numbers I saw were about 18%, so that’s significant. **CL:** It depends on how you parse it. You have the 1%, which has the 18-25% doing its bidding to oppress the rest of the population. The 1% decided to pay these people well so they can maintain the status quo and keep the working class down. It’s been really effective, especially on the left-liberal side of the spectrum, because you see the working-class politics of the Democratic Party being eviscerated year after year. I don’t remember in my lifetime the Democratic Party ever having a strong working-class agenda. Everyone says Joe Biden was the closest to enacting \[favorable\] labor policies, but now, who knows what will happen. We have the perfect postmodern candidate in Kamala Harris. If you look at her campaign website, there are few concrete policy positions, just “donate” or “join the movement.” There’s this emptying out of politics, this depoliticization of politics, for this moralizing, performative activity. **JC:** The Biden stuff is weird because my friends who work in the labor movement will say indisputably that Biden has been the best president for labor in my lifetime — and I’m 37\. Even though he’s been the best, it’s still incredibly insufficient. But you know, a little bit is better than nothing; so it’s complicated. We should probably also mention that both you and I are part of the professional managerial class, as university professors, elite thought-leaders, podcast commentators, or whatever the hell it is we do. So, as we’re ripping them to shreds, we should probably acknowledge our own position within this. **CL:** I don’t think it’s so bad to acknowledge our position and criticize it. In my understanding, when I was younger, the difference between a leftist and a liberal or conservative was that leftists have a tradition of being self-critical. We have to always criticize what we’ve done, who we are, where we are, and how we got here, when we lose, and when we win. Because that self-criticism is the spur of progress on the left. If you’re just walking around thinking that everything you’ve done is perfect, then you’re not a leftist. So I really don’t understand why that’s such a problem. Of course, we’re not saying we should do Maoist self-criticism, where you confess and then everyone beats you, but there is a way to engage with it. Nowadays, with cancel culture and the left’s circular firing squad, I don’t think we’re making space for this stuff, and it’s just passive-aggressive. Stop accusing other people. Look at the movement and how it’s been managed and think about how we can expand the base. Think about how we can appeal to more people. American leftists seem to believe that the fewer people we appeal to, the better. It’s never about how we can make the political program more \[positive\] for the largest number of people. It’s always “How can we make something really, really obscure that the fewest number of people will identify with, and we’ll be able to wag our fingers at them,” because that’s the PMC thing — wagging your finger and policing each other. Self-criticism is not about mutual policing, which seems to be the farcical activity of the American left. **JC:** At this point, there’s a clear class dealignment in the American left. There’s a lot of middle-class graphic designers that look like me and are approximately my age, and they constitute what we call today’s left. There also seems to be a rising class resentment towards the PMC — particularly among working people, but also from everyone. And to a certain degree, I don’t blame them. I don’t like people who are richer than me either. I want their stuff too. **CL:** Or they’re telling you that they’re better people than you. **JC:** Or telling you how to behave. There’s a real cultural resentment towards this professed moral superiority, and that’s in the title of your book, Virtue Hoarders. Why do they feel the need for this moral superiority? Why are they hoarding the virtue? What value does that give them? **CL:** Traumatic is a good word for the capitalist mode of production — I'm using it very specifically here because it relates to how this mode of production denigrates, degrades, and exploits the masses who work with their bodies. On the other hand, mental labor is increasingly overvalued by the owners of the means of production. **JC:** You mention that there's a pull towards the far right for many young men. The rise of right-wing populism is happening worldwide, in the US, the UK, Hungary, Poland, Germany, too many countries to name. Is there something about how the left used to be, say, when I was growing up, where it was a space for vulgarity, pissing off the elites, being punk and anti-authority, that has receded in recent years? It seems like many of these young men, who are angry, underemployed, and lack upward mobility, are attracted to far-right ideas. But they’re also drawn to left-wing comedians who are incredibly vulgar and popular. So they seem open to both, even when they disagree on a lot of things. What explains the disappearance of the anti-authority impulse from the left in recent years? How did we get here? **CL:** If you look at the essay by John and Barbara Ehrenreich on the Professional-Managerial Class, you'll see how the values of that class completely took over left-liberal political spaces. That takeover was successful beyond anything they could have imagined. The Ehrenreichs were idealistic about this class, thinking it would eventually say, "We want our meaningful work and non-market values to be universal." But instead, what happened was the PMC said, "We have the material resources, and we want our neoliberal values to become universal, even if they're against the working class's material interests." It’s tied to the triumph of ideological reproduction at a time when institutions are collapsing in legitimacy. The left used to be a place where you could critique that. But now, it’s increasingly conformed to a dominant neoliberal PMC program, partly due to mutual surveillance on social media. Punk culture, for example, could be ephemeral — just one spirited concert. But now, everything is preserved, shared, and meme-ified. There’s a vicious transgressiveness, but less tolerance for real vulgarity, which, for both Marx and Freud, was essential to building solidarity. Freud’s theory of humor was that when we laugh together, we’re laughing at the takedown of an authority figure, like a super-egoic authority. For example, we're not supposed to say "egg", but I know you, so I say "egg", and we laugh because there's a relief from the repression. **JC:** Right and that relates to the unconscious, which you mentioned in your book, for people who are interested. **CL:** Exactly. Let’s not get stuck on "egg". Pick any word you’re not supposed to say and imagine us saying it. I get pleasure from using taboo words in intimate circles, like the "r-word", because it's so forbidden. The problem is, that language policing in liberalism has reached a point where liberalism itself has become the super-ego. **JC:** Is there also an element of intra-elite competition? With the increasing precarity within the PMC or middle class, the stakes of falling out are incredibly high. Is there a career incentive for people to become more cutthroat, eliminate their competition, and secure their upward mobility in these increasingly hard-to-ascend institutions? **CL:** Yes, I’ve heard it described as an intergenerational struggle within the professions. Take, for instance, a young doctor offended by an older doctor saying "ladies". This younger doctor, eager to move up, might accuse the older one of being out of touch, part of a wider pattern of policing the language of previous generations. In the PMC, everyone jockeys to be the most virtuous. From personal experience — my mother was very ill before she passed away — I noticed the older doctors maintained eye contact and delivered hard truths, while younger doctors, who were trained in trauma-informed counseling, often looked down and recited memorized formulas. It was strange. Here was my mom with stage four cancer, and they couldn’t say it straight to my face. The older doctors could, though. This kind of realness, that presence, is being eroded by managerial-speak. Younger professionals are finding it harder to establish authentic relationships with patients because their language and time are managed by HR protocols. It's all becoming algorithmically managed. **JC:** When we look at the history of the left, in the US and Europe, there's the idea of the "long march through the institutions", often associated with the 1960s. At that time, conditions for revolution weren’t great, so left-wing intellectuals retreated into institutions, often higher education. In a positive light, this could be seen as safeguarding these values for the future. But on the flip side, these people developed narrow class interests, got tenure, and comfortable housing, and when conditions improved for revolution, they weren’t keen on jeopardizing their positions. Could we see this as part of the stripping away of Marxist values from the left, turning them into the language of elite academia over time? **CL:** I think that’s a flattering interpretation for many of these academics. Take Judith Butler, who supported Kamala Harris over Bernie Sanders. They were more liberal pluralists and pseudo-radicals who got very comfortable in their position, where they reproduced liberal pluralism. They never really wanted or imagined changing material conditions. But if we want real change now, I think the working class is more ready to revolt than we give them credit for. The issue is, we lack the cadres with expertise. We need leftist engineers to create new infrastructures, and leftist agricultural businesspeople to break up corporate monopolies. Look at Lina Khan, the most controversial figure in the Biden administration. She’s a capitalist, but she understands that monopoly capitalism is damaging, and she’s breaking up those giant conglomerates because competition matters. We need cadres like her in every sector. What we really need is a leftist Project 2025. // *This transcription version was drafted by María Inés Plaza Lazo, in collaboration with Rita Duarte Torres, and copy-edited by Habib William Kherbek. A full version can be heard* [HERE*.* ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ia6m3pIIS2k&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) --- ### Image credits Cover: Deutsches Fächer Museum, Barisch Stiftung, Bielefeld, 2023\. Photo taken by Katrin Mayer for #c0dacomptoir #fannybookofcarolsruh, Badischer Kunstverein, Karlsruhe, 2024. *Joshua Citarella is an artist researching online political subcultures. This interview was first published on September 30, 2021 as a chapter in his podcast series on Spotify.* ### Curatorial insights URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/curatorial-insights-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:09.000Z *This year’s edition of* AWT Focus *is curated by Mami Kataoka, one of Japan’s most esteemed curators. Titled* Earth, Wind, and Fire: Visions of the Future from Asia*, the exhibition explores Japanese contemporary art within evolving artistic practices across Asia and beyond. The conversation offers glimpses into Kataoka's curatorial theme.* **As a curator deeply engaged with contemporary art, how do you see Art Week Tokyo contributing to the broader conversation around the role of art in society today, particularly in Japan?** 「Art Week」のモデルを展開している都市は、アジア圏でもシンガポール、ソウル、台北など増えつつあります。明治維新以降に建てられた博物館・美術館から新しいアートスペースまで既存のインステュテューションやギャラリーなどが多く存在する東京には、すでに特定のアート観客層がいます。「Art Week Tokyo」という形で全体像を示す機会に接することで、多様な関心を持った観客が新しい場所に出向く機会になる、ということは十分考えられるでしょう。美術館には行くけれど小規模でカッティングエッジなギャラリーまでは行ったことがない人達も、バスで簡単にさまざまな地域のアートスポットを訪れることができます。海外の専門家やコレクター層にも親切でしょう。今年で3回目となる「Art Week Tokyo」が、より幅広い東京のアート地図を見せてくれることを期待しています。 **Your work often explores the intersections of technology and art. How do you see these intersections shaping the future of contemporary art in Tokyo, and how are they reflected in this year’s events?** カメラ、ビデオカメラ、コンピューターなどが日常的に使われるようになるに従って、それらはアーティストの新しいツールとなってきました。近年ではゲームエンジンやAIなど新しいテクノロジーを使った現代アートも見られるようになっています。ただし、それらはオールドメディアと呼ばれる絵画や彫刻、ドローイングなどに取って替わるのではなく、表現技術に更なる多様性をもたらしています。新しいテクノロジーそのものを披露した作品ではなく、その技術があるからこそ可能な表現、あるいは技術の歴史や概念を掘り下げた作品、最新の瞬間を人類史や地質学的な時間軸に位置づけるような作品を評価します。その意味では東京に限らず現代アートは新しいものを生み出しながら、同時にそこにある時間や空間の普遍性を意識させるものと言えるでしょう。AIや3DCGを使った作品は「AWT FOCUS」にも出品されますが、テクノロジーとアートに関する考え方もそこに反映されています。 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MamiKataoka.jpg) fig. 1 **Art Week Tokyo brings together a diverse array of artistic practices, enhancing the relationship of art discourses with crafts and food. How do you ensure that the programming resonates both with the interests and necessities of local audiences and an international art community?** AWT BUSのルートは東京の地域別に設計されているため、普段訪問している場所もそうでない場所も流れに乗って訪れることになり、それが新しい出会いを生むのではないかと想像しています。それ以外にもAWT FOCUS, AWT VIDEOなどのキュレーションされたプログラム、アドリアーノ・ペドロサなどを招聘した国際シンポジウムなど、現代アートの初心者から、グローバルなアート界に精通した専門家まで多様な観客にとっても満足感を感じるプログラムになっていると思います。 **In a rapidly changing global art landscape, where interests and formalities increasingly detach from the world’s poly-crises, what role do you believe Japanese contemporary art can play in fostering new forms of cultural exchange and understanding?** 世界の様々な危機は現代アートの表現に幅広く見られています。世界の状況が複雑になればなるほど、現代アートも複雑化していきます。これまでにない勢いでアート界の多様化が進行するなかで、いま我々に問われているのはそうした多様性や複雑さ、思想や宗教の差異のなかで、いかに世界平和を想像できるのか、ということです。AWT FOCUS「大地と風と火と：アジアから想像する未来」では、まさにアジア地域にある古来の思想や宇宙観、さらには世界各地の先住民文化で継承されてきた宇宙や自然との関係性を、現状から未来を想像するためのひとつの提案として考えようとしています。57組の参加作家に大倉集古館からの特別出品も加え、過去と現在から未来を照射します。 **In a city as dynamic as Tokyo, how can Art Week Tokyo serve as a platform for marginalized voices and underrepresented communities?** 東京都内の美術館やギャラリーは、上野を中心とする下町、青山や六本木を中心とする新しい文化エリアだけでなく、各地に点在しています。実際、1400万人が住む東京（23区で980万人）は世界の首都のなかでも広大で、バスのルートを見ると巣鴨、駒込、根津など昔ながらの風景が残っている地域、麻布十番、広尾、恵比寿、中目黒など若者に人気の街、開発の進む新しいエリアなど、東京の多様な風景と歴史を体験することができるでしょう。そうした場所を巡りながら現代アート作品に触れることで、周縁化された声やコミュニティに光を当てた作品との出会いがあることを願っています。 For more info about the **Art Week Tokyo** visit [www.artweektokyo.com](https://www.artweektokyo.com/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) // **Mami Kataoka** is the Director of the Mori Art Museum, Tokyo, and Director of the National Center for Art Research, Japan. From 2007 to 2009 Kataoka was the first International Curator at Hayward Gallery, London. From 1997 to 2002 she was Chief Curator at Tokyo Opera City Art Gallery. She was Artistic Director of Aichi Triennale 2022, Artistic Director of the 21st Biennale of Sydney (2018), and Co-Artistic Director of the 9th Gwangju Biennale (2012). From 2020 to 2022 Kataoka served as President of CIMAM (International Committee for Museums and Collections of Modern Art). --- ### Image Caption Cover: Leiko Ikemura, Stehende I, II, 1991\. Courtesy the artist and ShugoArts. fig. 1: Mami Kataoka. Photo by Akinori Ito. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Drawing rhizomes in Tokyo URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/drawing-rhizomes-in-tokyo/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:07.000Z *Spread across more than 50 venues –connected by bus routes around the city– Art Week Tokyo offers an immersive journey through the intersections of class and power. This interview with Atsuko Ninagawa offers insights into how this year's exhibitions tackle themes spanning forms of social awareness, curatorial labor, and artistic legacies.* **The theme of this year's Art Week Tokyo seems to resonate with the idea of intersecting personal and collective time. How do you see these intersections influencing the narrative of the event?** Atsuko Ninagawa: Art Week Tokyo doesn’t have an overarching theme. Each participating venue is responsible for its exhibition programming, while our special platforms are curated by guest curators. Any thematic correspondences among the programs are more about chance or synchronicity. Like the city itself, Art Week Tokyo is structured to allow each visitor to create their narrative. **In curating Art Week Tokyo, how do you navigate the complex relationship between local traditions and the global art scene? What are the challenges and rewards of this balancing act?** AN: Art Week Tokyo was conceived as a bridge between the local and global art scenes, so it sits at that intersection. A big challenge in Japan is the language barrier. Only a small fraction of Japanese art discourse is translated into English, and galleries don't often prioritize making English-language materials. At the same time, Japanese audiences aren’t following critical discourses in other languages. Our platform makes the local art scene more accessible to global audiences, opening space for negotiations between the two. This benefits everyone, although it requires tremendous effort in translation and contextualization from our team. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ninagawa-Photo-Katsuhiro-Saiki-2022.jpg) fig. 1 **With Tokyo as a vibrant backdrop, what perspectives do you believe the city brings to the global art dialogue, and how have you woven these into the event’s framework?** AN: Tokyo is one of the world’s great cities. While it can be challenging to navigate, it also offers rhythms different from other cities, with pockets of calm amid the crowds. The city’s labyrinthine backstreets, filled with small shops and businesses, are perfect for exploration and discovery. That’s why we bring visitors to galleries in their local contexts rather than centralizing everything in one venue. Tokyo’s homegrown gallery scene has a strong sense of community, with galleries sharing resources and supporting each other. This allows us to show global audiences high-quality art on a more human scale. **Reflecting on your journey through the arts, how has your approach to bringing Japanese contemporary art to a global stage evolved, particularly in the context of Art Week Tokyo? What does this imply for the art practices and discourses you want to engage with?** AN: When I was in university, I wanted to start a nonprofit art institution, but as I learned how the art system works, I became drawn to the flexibility and independence of the commercial gallery model. I never imagined I’d be directing a massive, government-funded, citywide art event. In my gallery practice, I’ve focused on showing artists whose work resonates in both Japanese and international contexts, weaving together historical threads. With Art Week Tokyo, my goal is to prioritize the needs of the entire art scene over my vision. Sharing the diversity of Japanese contemporary art with the world is important because it’s one of our scene’s greatest strengths. **In your view, what is the role of curators in addressing social issues through art, and how have you integrated this responsibility into the programming of Art Week Tokyo?** AN: Art is inherently tied to social issues, so anyone working with art should expect to engage with them. While the curators of our special platforms, like AWT Focus and AWT Video, have full autonomy, we seek people who have something compelling to say about contemporary art’s place in today’s world. This year, Mami Kataoka’s AWT Focus exhibition, “Earth, Wind, and Fire: Visions of the Future from Asia,” offers a deeply personal yet thoughtful exploration of our cultural, political, and societal uncertainties. It reflects our vision of AWT Focus as a space for curators to experiment with new narratives of modern and contemporary art. Meanwhile, Sohrab Mohebbi, the curator of AWT Video, has chosen works that tackle issues like technological disruptions, the climate crisis, and alternative ways of being together. His program, “Between Contrail and Mountains,” is a timely yet poetic survey of contemporary art practices. Both Kataoka and Mohebbi will speak at the AWT Talks Symposium alongside Adriano Pedrosa, curator of this year’s 60th Venice Biennale, and I’m excited to hear them dive deeper into these topics. For more info about the **Art Week Tokyo** visit [www.artweektokyo.com](https://www.artweektokyo.com/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) // **Atsuko Ninagawa** is the co-founder and Director of Art Week Tokyo and Owner and Director of the gallery Take Ninagawa. --- ### Image Caption Cover: Keiichi Tanaami, The Story of Death and Rebirth, 2019. © Keiichi Tanaami, courtesy Nanzuka fig. 1: Atsuko Ninagawa. Photo by Katsuhiro Saiki. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Curatorial insights URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/curatorial-insights/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:06.000Z *This year's edition of* AWT Video *examines art as a space where rituals and collective experiences migrate, adapt, and transform. In our fractured present—where multiple temporalities overlap and sometimes collide—rituals and traditions tether us to various planes of existence, from the cosmic to the digital. The conversation below offers an insight into the curatorial theme of the section.* **Coming from a global curatorial network, how do you interpret the idea of 'international' in the context of Art Week Tokyo, and how does it inform your approach to curating within Japan?** I work within the possibilities and contours of each project. For Carnegie International, I believed it was important to explore what "international" means in the context of the U.S. post-1945 and how this intersects with the notion of the "Contemporary" in art (as in post-1945 art historiography). For AWT Video, I worked with a pool of video works and realized that one way to think about a large grouping of them was how they process multiple (and disjunctive) temporalities—experiencing media fragmentation on the one hand, and climate catastrophe on the other. **In curating for Art Week Tokyo, how do you navigate the nuances of introducing global perspectives into a distinct cultural setting like Japan? What challenges and opportunities have you encountered?** The aforementioned notions of shattered temporalities are among the conditions of living on earth today. How artists respond to these conditions in different contexts can shape new ways of imagining how to live with, process, and respond to the impacts of these conditions in our respective environments. **Your work often involves bringing overlooked or underrepresented narratives to light. How does this mission manifest in your contributions to Art Week Tokyo, and what stories are you most excited to share?** What is important about emerging or overlooked narratives is how they are yet to be absorbed into hegemonic systems. The challenge lies in how representation and subjugation often go hand in hand, and how art can contribute to shifting the imaginary within this context. There is a utopianism involved in this line of thinking, but I don’t think we should abandon it, regardless of how it might be recuperated. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SohrabMohebbi.jpg) fig. 1 **What do you believe is the responsibility of art institutions like Art Week Tokyo in shaping public awareness around the poly-crisis?** I mentioned elsewhere recently that art is not necessarily there to change things but, as Clarice Lispector said about writing, our task is to “try to open \[things\] up somehow.” I think the institutional responsibility is to create this opening up, by following the practices of artists. **Given your experience with the political responsibility of artworks and politically charged themes, how do you integrate these into the Japanese context at Art Week Tokyo? What new dialogues do you hope to create?** The real political act is to exercise one’s freedom, and art is the space (or one of the spaces) where this freedom can be practiced. For more info about the **Art Week Tokyo** visit [www.artweektokyo.com](https://www.artweektokyo.com/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) // **Sohrab Mohebbi** is the Director of SculptureCenter, New York. Previously, he served as the Kathe and Jim Patrinos Curator of the 58th Carnegie International (2023) as well as SculptureCenter’s Curator-at-Large (2020–21) and Curator (2018–20). He received an MA from the Center for Curatorial Studies at Bard College and a BFA in photography from Tehran Art University. He curates the program for Art Week Tokyo in 2024. --- ### Image Caption Cover: Tsubasa Kato, Break it Before it’s Broken, 2015\. Video, © Tsubasa Kato, courtesy of the artist and Mujin-to Production. fig. 1: Sohrab Mohebbi. Photo by Julian Abraham “Togar.” *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Zwischen Dystopie und Kontemplation URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/zwischen-dystopie-und-kontemplation/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:04.000Z *Die Sammlung von Viktor und Marianne Langen umfasst rund 350 Werke japanischer Kunst vom 12\. bis zum 20\. Jahrhundert, darunter religiöse Kunst, Jomon-Keramiken, Meisterwerke der Kano-Schule und Genremalerei des 19\. Jahrhunderts. Die Langens erwarben ihre Stücke direkt in Japan, was ihre Wertschätzung für die ästhetische und kulturelle Authentizität widerspiegelt. Heute wird die Sammlung von Tochter und Enkelinnen weitergeführt. Anlässlich ihres zwanzigsten Jubiläums fand die Ausstellung „Drei Generationen – Eine Leidenschaft“ statt, die den generationsübergreifenden Dialog der Familie zur Kunst thematisiert. Im Gespräch mit Sabine Langen-Crasemann, Sandra von Halem und Karla Zerressen möchte Arts of the Working Class nicht nur die familiären Werte, die die Sammlung prägen, beleuchten, sondern auch die Frage nach der Rolle von Kunst als Mittel der Kontemplation und gesellschaftlichen Reflexion in der heutigen Zeit stellen. Wir wollen wissen, wie der Geist der heutigen Kunstwelt die Sammlung beeinflusst, und was es bedeutet, eine Sammlungsarbeit über Generationen hinweg weiterzuführen – besonders in einer Zeit, die von globalen Umwälzungen und tiefgreifenden ethischen Fragen geprägt ist.* **Marianne Langen betonte die Bedeutung der Schönheit vor dem Marktwert. Wie prägt diese Haltung eure Sammlungsarbeit heute? Seht ihr ähnliche Ansätze in der zeitgenössischen Kunstszene?** **Karla Zerressen:** Besonders bei den japanischen Werken haben meine Großeltern nicht nur nach Schönheit gesammelt, sondern auch nach Vollständigkeit. Mein Großvater hat sich intensiv mit japanischer Kunst und Kultur beschäftigt. **Sabine Langen-Crasemann:** Schönheit allein ist nicht entscheidend. Mein Vater legte zwar zum Beispiel großen Wert auf Farbkompositionen, oft mit Unstimmigkeiten zwischen ihm und meiner Mutter, aber die Qualität war ihm genauso wichtig wie der historische und soziale Wert, den sie tragen. Er hat sich durch viele Museumsbesuche ein aufmerksames Auge erarbeitet, aber auch durch seine Arbeit mit Menschen in Japan. **Sandra von Halem:** Als sie begannen, japanische Kunst zu sammeln, hatten diese Werke keinen großen Marktwert. Japanische Händler waren damals bereit, vieles loszuwerden. Das hat sich heute verändert, da es ein größeres Bewusstsein für Provenienz gibt. **Wie wichtig ist euch dieser ethische Aspekt im Vergleich zu kommerziellen Erwerbsmethoden heute?** **KZ:** In den 50er und 60er Jahren, gab es noch keinen internationalen Kunstmarkt für japanische Kunst, dennoch sammelten meine Großeltern mit großem Respekt vor der japanischen Kultur. **SL-C:** Ein paar Jahrzehnte später haben Experten aus Japan unsere Sammlung begutachtet und waren beeindruckt von der Qualität. Meine Eltern wussten zu erkennen, was künstlerisch und sozial relevant war. **Gab es in eurer Familie Gespräche über Kunst oder bestimmte Werke?** **SL-C:** Kunsthistorische Diskussionen gab es selten, aber der Respekt vor den Werken war immer da. Erst durch die Besuche von Experten wurde uns das volle Ausmaß der Sammlung bewusst. Zum Beispiel wurde ein 23 Meter langes Rollbild nur teilweise ausgerollt, da es so groß war. Solche Stücke wurden eher im Museum in Ascona gezeigt. **Und wie hat die Sammlung eure heutige Arbeit beeinflusst?** **SL-C:** Mein Vater war noch stark in der Firma tätig, als er anfing, japanische Kunst zu sammeln. Später, nach dem Verkauf der Firma, rückte die klassische Moderne in den Vordergrund. Japanische Werke waren eine Zeit lang weniger präsent, bis das Museum in Ascona eröffnet wurde. Das Haus, in dem die japanische Sammlung gezeigt wird, wurde zum zentralen Ort für diese Werke. **SvH:** Die zeitgenössische Kunst, die wir heute sammeln, folgen anderen Prämissen. **Welche?** **KZ:** Es war schon immer ein gesellschaftliches und ethisches Bewusstsein dabei. Die Langen Foundation reflektiert auch die Handelsbeziehungen zwischen Japan und Deutschland sowie die Rolle der Familie in Nordrhein-Westfalen. **Mit wem habt ihr dieses Bewusstsein geteilt?** **SvH:** Früher fanden gesellschaftliche Gespräche in kleinem Kreis statt. Themen wie Wirtschaftswandel und Arbeitskämpfe, die Kunstakademie Düsseldorf und die Studentenbewegung, die Umweltbewegung, sowie die politische Krisen waren dabei wichtig, aber erst mit der Eröffnung der Langen Foundation vor 20 Jahren wurde die Sammlung öffentlich und unsere gesellschaftliche Verantwortung erst greifbar. Auch wenn wir nicht die umfassende Expertise in japanischer Kunst haben, so war uns immer bewusst, dass wir etwas Besonderes in diesem Kontext reingebracht haben. Eine der ältesten Papierrollen, die wir besitzen, ist in einem kleinen Holzbehälter aufbewahrt und wurde damals von Dorf zu Dorf transportiert. **SL-C:** Meine Mutter wollte japanische Kunst in Deutschland präsentieren, da sie hier selten gezeigt wird. Besonders die Wertschätzung für Handwerk und reduzierte Zeichnungen war ihr wichtig. Zugleich wollte mein Vater die Sammlung dem Monte Verità in Ascona schenken. Er hat auch Parallelen zwischen japanischer und europäischer Spiritualität in die Kunst gezogen und ein Buch über 1000 Jahre japanischer Kunst verfasst. ## ***“Viele kommen gestresst hier an, aber wenn sie das Haus betreten, kommen sie zur Ruhe.“*** **Monte Verità war auch ein Ort, an dem die Sammlung sein sollte, was die Verbindung zwischen Architektur, Kunst und Spiritualität aufzeigt. Seht ihr Parallelen zwischen der minimalistischen Ästhetik, die in der Architektur von Tadao Ando sichtbar ist, und den Werken der Sammlung über die Jahrzehnte hinweg?** **KZ:** Ich glaube, meine Großmutter hat sich deswegen auch in Andos Entwurf verliebt. Es ist nicht nur das Äußere des Gebäudes, sondern auch der Gedanke dahinter. Ando wollte, dass der Weg zum Gebäude Teil des Erlebnisses ist, eine Art Trennung von der Außenwelt. Man lässt seine alltäglichen Sorgen hinter sich und betritt das Gebäude mit einem klaren Kopf. Das sieht man auch bei den Besuchern. Viele kommen gestresst hier an, aber wenn sie das Haus betreten, kommen sie zur Ruhe. Der Raum und die Umgebung fordern diese Ruhe förmlich ein. Das funktioniert sehr gut – auch mit der japanischen Kunst und zeitgenössischen Werken wie Troika, einer Künstlergruppe, die aktuell eine umfassende Ausstellung in der Langen Foundation präsentiert. **SvH:** Die aktuelle Troika-Ausstellung hätte meinem Großvater gefallen, weil sie sich mit neuen Technologien und aktuellen Themen auseinandersetzt. Es gibt eine postkapitalistische Kritik, die in der Ausstellung spürbar ist. Es hat etwas Dystopisches, aber auch Kontemplatives. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Sandra-von-Halem-Sabine-Langen-Crassemann-Karla-Zerressen.jpeg) fig. 1 **Besonders der Raum unten mit dem Wasser und die minimalistische Inszenierung. Da passiert nicht viel, aber es entsteht eine unglaubliche Wirkung. Wie im Shintoismus, der stark mit der Natur verbunden ist. Wie könnte eine postmoderne Interpretation der Shinto-inspirierten Werke in eurer Sammlung zur heutigen gesellschaftlichen Debatte beitragen?** **SvH:** Die Ruhe und Reflexionsmöglichkeit ist, was viele Besucher an der Langen Foundation schätzen. Sie sehen die japanische Sammlung und erkennen den Zusammenhang zu zeitgenössischen Werken. Es zieht die Besucher immer wieder hierher, weil sie diese Verbindungen spüren. **KZ:** Es gibt viele Verbindungen zwischen japanischer und europäischer Kunst. Der Einfluss der japanischen Malerei auf europäische Künstler ist gut dokumentiert. Was mich an der japanischen Kultur besonders fasziniert, ist, dass trotz des frühen chinesischen Einflusses durch den Buddhismus der Shintoismus nie verdrängt wurde. Es gab eine Transformation in der Spiritualität, aber der Shintoismus blieb im Kern der japanischen Kultur und ist stark mit der Natur verbunden. Das spiegelt sich auch in Andos Arbeit wider, selbst wenn seine Arbeit vielleicht stärker von ökologischen und architektonischen Debatten geprägt ist. Diese postmoderne Interpretation ist auch in unserer Sammlung und in der aktuellen Ausstellung sichtbar. **Könnt ihr mehr über eure Verbindung zu ökologischen Debatten erzählen, die in der Troika-Ausstellung sehr präsent sind?** **KZ:** Das sind Themen, die schon bei der Ausstellung von Julien Charrière im Fokus standen und jetzt mit Troika wieder aufgegriffen werden. Es geht darum, wie die Menschheit ihren Lebensraum und die Natur zerstört und damit sich selbst. Beide Ausstellungen behandeln diese Themen auf eine subtile, ästhetisch ansprechende Weise. Wenn man sich das Video anschaut, in dem der letzte Baum auf der Erde gefällt wird, wird die Dramatik dieser Zerstörung sehr deutlich – ohne belehrend zu wirken. Es geht darum, mit Besucher\*innen ein Bewusstsein für unsere Krisenzeit zu teilen, ohne ihnen ein schlechtes Gewissen zu machen, sondern einfach aufzuzeigen, was in der Welt gerade passiert. Der Ort hier war besonders für Ando, weil er die Nähe zur Natur schätzte. Diese Wertschätzung stammt von der Insel Hombroich, wo Kunst und Natur eine enge Verbindung haben. Auch das Haus meiner Mutter, das meine Großeltern gebaut haben, liegt inmitten einer wunderschönen Landschaft. Mein Bezug zur Natur ist tief verwurzelt, auch durch meine Kinder, die mich dazu bringen, über ihre Zukunft nachzudenken. **SL-C:** Man kann heutzutage nicht die Augen vor diesen Themen verschließen. In der Kunst zeigen wir diese Themen oft subtil. Die Bilder von den Stürmen von Troika sind schön, romantisch, aber sie weisen auf die Zerstörung der Natur hin. Es ist wichtig, diese Diskussionen anzustoßen, aber ohne erhobenen Zeigefinger. Kunst kann auf Probleme aufmerksam machen, ohne zu belehren. **KZ:** Wir haben keine großen Hemmschwellen, sodass Besucher mit Themen konfrontiert werden, die vielleicht nicht angenehm sind, aber sie denken darüber nach. Wir sind ein privates Ausstellungshaus, was bedeutet, dass wir viele Entscheidungen aus dem Herzen treffen. Das ermöglicht uns Freiheiten, die andere Institutionen nicht haben. **SvH:** Bei der Ausstellung zu unserem 20-jährigen Bestehen haben wir auch gezeigt, was in verschiedenen Kulturen zur gleichen Zeit passiert ist. Die Besucher konnten sehen, wie Kunst aus Japan, Indien oder Ozeanien parallel zur europäischen Kunst entstanden ist. Wir leben gerne mit diesen Fenster zu anderen Lebensrealitäten. **Wie würdet ihr den Beitrag der Sammlung zur Reflexion über soziale Hierarchien und Strukturen zum Abschluss zusammenfassen?** **SL-C:** Kunst ist wichtig für das Wohlbefinden der Menschen, gerade in diesen schwierigen Zeiten. Wenn unsere Besucher das spüren und mit einem Gefühl der Erneuerung gehen, haben wir unser Ziel erreicht. **KZ:** Jeder soll sich hier willkommen fühlen, unabhängig von Alter, Geschlecht oder finanziellem Hintergrund. Wir wollen ein Ort der Diversität und Reflexion für alle sein. **SvH:** In einer perfekten Welt könnte man sicher noch viel mehr tun. Aber für das, was wir hier schaffen, bin ich meiner Familie sehr dankbar. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Studio of Tawaraya Sôtatsu, Edo period, mid-17th century. Courtesy of The Langen Foundation. fig. 1: Sandra von Halem, Sabine Langen-Crassemann, Karla Zerressen. Foto: Susanne Diesner. Courtesy of the Langen Foundation, 2024. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### From Ponto D’Orvalho to Berlin URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/from-ponto-dorvalho-to-berlin/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:03.000Z *Ponto D’Orvalho is a festival that brings together national and international artists and cultural programmers in one of Portugal’s most unique regions—Alentejo. Projects from local to global perspectives converge here, united by a shared commitment to environmental practices and community building. This culturally rich region, steeped in tradition, is anticipated to be the next target for policies that promote growth through gentrification. For three days in rural Montemor-o-Novo, at Freixo do Meio, a variety of workshops, performances, conversations, dinners, and installations unfold around art and nature. These events serve as a reminder that community-led initiatives and sustainable practices are essential to shaping the future of Alentejo. The conversations published here capture insights from artists, organizations, and researchers, showcasing their diverse approaches and experiences as they navigate Alentejo’s shifting dynamics.* ## Cooperativa da Estação da Casa Branca **Rita Torres:** Tell me a little about Cooperativa da Casa Branca. When did this project begin? **Manuel Correia da Silva:** The Cooperative’s activities officially began in 2023\. We established the Cooperative formally prior to that, following a contract we negotiated with the Portuguese infrastructures agency. This agreement, which spans the next 30 years, is a sub-concession of an old village that grew around the Casa Branca train station, still operational in the 1960s. Much of the village is in ruins, so we’re working to develop missing infrastructure as well as rebuild existing structures. Our aim is to repurpose these spaces primarily for social and cultural activities, breathing new life into a village with an aging population averaging 68 residents. Without revitalization, the village could soon disappear. **RT:** You’re a self-managed, community-driven space in Montemor. Do you feel there’s a tradition of such spaces here, or are you pioneers in the region? **MCS:** We’re certainly not the first. In fact, this cooperative stems from the work of Oficinas do Convento in Montemor-o-Novo, which has a long history of cultural initiatives and activism in the region. Casa Branca extends that mission, building on a heritage of community engagement within the rich cultural ecosystem of Alentejo. If you dig a little deeper, you’ll find that cultural activities and initiatives are vibrant throughout this area. **RT:** Collectivity can be a powerful force in political spaces, mobilizing communities. Did you establish this project out of necessity for community mobilization, and has it been effective so far? **MCS:** It’s still challenging to predict the full impact we might achieve. There’s clearly an active community of young people in the area, but we also feel a responsibility to engage the local residents of Casa Branca. This brings a new challenge—physical rebuilding is one thing, but we also need to rebuild relationships. Establishing a rapport between us, the newcomers, and those who’ve always lived here takes time and presence. Our goal is to stay long enough to nurture these connections and activate the spaces meaningfully with that foundation. **RT:** In terms of gentrification in Alentejo, do you feel able to balance regeneration with preserving the region's authenticity, avoiding an unintended occupation? **MCS:** It’s a difficult balance. The gentrification pressures from Évora, Lisbon, and other nearby urban centers are palpable. We hope to contribute positively and, over time, help counter some of the negative effects. Yet, we’re realistic; even our actions may inadvertently bring change, drawing new people and creating reasons for them to stay. Our aim is to approach this growth in the most fair and sustainable way we can. It’s a learning process. **RT:** How do you engage with the community in your work? **MCS:** We’ve come to see that time is the most important factor. We’ve hosted many creative and cultural residencies in Casa Branca, though these tend to be short-term. We need to establish systems that allow people to develop their work over longer periods. Equally important is allowing Casa Branca’s residents time to be receptive to newcomers, which we can’t force. This is why our contract spans 30 years—it gives us the opportunity to work with long-term goals in mind. With the right conditions, these relationships and projects will grow naturally. ## Institute for Postnatural Studies (Yuri Tuma) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Image5.jpg) fig. 1 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Image6.jpg) fig. 2 **Rita Torres:** Why did you come to Ponto D’Orvalho, and how does it connect with your artistic practices? **Yuri Tuma:** The invitation to come here was irresistible. When given the chance to practice or experiment with pedagogical or collective types of workshops, it’s always appealing to do so in a natural rather than urban environment. Especially for me, as I explore collective ways of creating and thinking together. It’s one thing to talk about eco-sexuality, for example, on Zoom or in a building; it’s quite different to discuss it here, where people can actually connect with specific elements—plants, the sun, or other species. When researching sound, this idea of "nature’s silence" often comes up in city conversations. We’re constantly searching for a quiet space, a return to nature. Coming here and exploring the complexity of nature’s silence with others allows me to understand that true silence doesn’t exist in nature. The notion of silence is actually a capitalist strategy that sells well. Many people I talk to are looking for this “advertised” moment of silence outside the city. **RT:** I’ll come back to sound soon, but first, when we talk about nature, the concept often seems self-evident. What’s your understanding of nature? **YT:** One of the Institute for Postnatural Studies’ core principles is to recognize that there isn’t a single concept of nature. Nature and culture are constantly entangled. Your idea of nature depends not only on the culture you grew up with but also on your personal worldview. Nature is infinite. It’s woven with culture, technology, artificiality, politics, economy, social justice, and gender studies—it’s far more than the lush rainforest you might see on National Geographic. **RT:** That’s interesting. I recently read *Techgnosis* by Erik Davis, where he references Bruno Latour, especially his book *We Have Never Been Modern*. Latour discusses the false divide between nature and culture, suggesting that nature is, in fact, culture. Do you feel your platform creates space for the “natural,” or is it more about recognizing this so-called “post” state? **YT:** I don’t think I’m able to create space for the natural. In my practice, I prefer to explore how we can inhabit these spaces. For me, it’s a way to engage with territories through sound, collective practice, and our relationships with one another—which I also see as nature. It’s about creating moments of kinship, care, and sometimes critical discussions. I think these spaces might feel different, maybe more welcoming in a way. **RT:** Latour also wrote, “(...) mixing plastic buckets and animal skin vessels (...) Mixing up times. (...) We have all become premodern again.” Your platform explores post-humanism; do you think the post-humanistic and premodern states can coexist? **YT:** Absolutely. I like the idea of contradictory temporalities coexisting, particularly in Western culture, which typically views time as linear. By merging these super-human-centric categories—postmodern, premodern, post-human, prehistoric—we can break away from this linearity. It helps us see that history isn’t simply an evolution toward our current state but a complex, interwoven way of existing. Things aren’t so clean-cut. **RT:** Your workshop here was about sound ecologies and active listening. What is the focus of your current work? **YT:** I’m exploring various aspects of sound ecologies. Right now, I’m also studying the *phonocene*, an idea Donna Haraway proposed—a possible era where sound and listening are central to our relationships and could foster greater care, empathy, and attention in society. I’m also examining soundscapes and field recordings, questioning how art interacts with the sonic environment. For instance, when we record, are we appropriating sounds that belong to others? If we record a bird’s song and play it in a museum, are we appropriating its culture? Similarly, when AI attempts to interpret whale songs with human-centric definitions, are we truly translating? I’ve recently begun researching *sonic gendering*, exploring how certain sounds are perceived as male or female. What happens when we start considering queer sounds? It challenges the normative ways we perceive feminine and masculine sounds. **RT:** Where do you envision your work with the Institute for Postnatural Studies heading in the future? **YT:** The concept of post-nature is so broad that it can encompass many research areas. Personally, I’m going to continue researching sound—it’s such a vast field. I’m also collaborating with Carmen Lael Hines, another Institute member, on a seminar called *Cyber Witches and Feminist Technologies*, where we’ll explore feminist theory in the digital space with invited guests. Queer theory and queer ecology are crucial to me, particularly in how we apply queer theory to sound, post-humanism, feminism, and fiction. One thing I love about this work is how my colleagues’ ideas inspire and broaden my perspective. Sometimes I find myself thinking about sound through the post-natural landscapes they’re researching, which keeps the work dynamic and collaborative. ## Cru Atelier (Miguel Castilho) & Pietro Degli Esposti ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Image3.jpeg) fig. 3 **Rita Torres:** Tell me a bit about your artistic practice and what brings you here to Ponto D’Orvalho. **Miguel Castilho:** I’m an architect at Cru Atelier, part of Minga, a cooperative based in Montemor-o-Novo. Minga includes various professionals: architects, engineers, farmers, shop owners, carpenters, and more. We came to Ponto D’Orvalho to conduct an introductory workshop on building with earth, using materials borrowed from Oficinas do Convento, an association in Montemor-o-Novo. **Pietro Degli Esposti:** I’m also an architect. Personally, I believe in the potential of bio-based materials. They work in harmony with nature—they don’t try to overpower it but work alongside it, and they’re healthier for the environment. For me, it’s always a pleasure to work with and learn more about these ancient materials, which sometimes feel a bit forgotten. It’s amazing how materials with thousands of years of history can feel so relevant and timeless. **MC:** In workshops like these, people usually leave with a sense that these materials and techniques aren’t distant or abstract. They’re very hands-on and adaptable to the user’s experience. **RT:** In your workshop, you focused on brick-making. Harun Farocki, in his documentary *In Comparison*, says: “I wanted to find an object that had not changed too much in the past few thousand years. This could have been a shoe or a knife. But a brick becomes part of a building and therefore part of our environment. So, the brick appears as something of a poetic object.” The brick, besides being a building unit, becomes a symbolic material as well, a component that, when multiplied, builds walls, houses, and shelters. How important is it to understand this material and its process—something so ancient, yet often distant from us today? **MC:** There’s an Egyptian deity named Sekenet, represented as a brick with a woman’s head, symbolizing the significance of the brick. It was seen as something divine and as a building block of something larger. Working with masonry isn’t just about understanding individual bricks; it’s about understanding how they function in a system. A brick in a masonry structure collaborates with other units and structural components—mortar, reinforcements, beams, or columns. A brick can be a filler or the primary structure, depending on its intended use. Louis Kahn famously said, “Ask the brick what it wants to be, and it will tell you.” So, if a brick wants to be an arch, you have to respect that. **PE:** In Kahn’s story, when someone said an arch was too expensive, the brick still replied, “I want to be an arch.” That was the end of the discussion! In a way, the brick is a foundational element—ancient yet essential. For example, adobe bricks alone aren’t particularly strong. But when combined as masonry, they form a strong wall. Testing one brick alone doesn’t reveal its true strength, but testing them together shows their potential. It’s a kind of metaphor. **RT:** Like people. **PE:** Exactly, like a community. Like a bundle of sticks. **MC:** Before a brick is even a brick, it can also represent a unit of community. Dr. Maria Fernandes, an expert on adobe, shared with me how, in the council of Mira, they organized initiatives for communal adobe building. It’s a way for people to come together, and it speaks for itself. **PE:** Working with these materials and techniques also connects you deeply with local culture. You’re not just learning a construction method—you’re learning part of the community’s heritage. Brick-making in Alentejo differs from other regions or countries. The dimensions reflect the people’s hands, as molds were historically sized for easy handling. In Mali, for example, traditional bricks are hand-molded, often due to a scarcity of wood for formwork, resulting in oval shapes that even bear the maker’s fingerprints. Though each brick may vary, they still serve the same purpose. The brick is a humble yet powerful symbol. If you can make a brick, you can make a wall. And if you can make a wall, you can make anything. **RT:** This idea of communal construction reminds me of the documentary *Os Índios da Meia-Praia*, which is also the name of a Zeca Afonso song. It’s about a community, part of the SAAL projects in post-dictatorship Portugal, who took on building their own houses. There’s an iconic image of people lifting and carrying a house to place it where they wanted. Though they used wood, not brick, it was an incredible moment. **MC:** Yes, I’m familiar with the SAAL projects. They were very significant. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_20241023_122720.jpg) fig. 4 **RT:** How long has Cru Atelier been based in Montemor, and how has your presence impacted the local community? **MC:** Cru Atelier started in 2019\. I’ve been in Montemor for two and a half years, collaborating with local architects on land projects and renovations. **PE:** I feel like my knowledge has grown significantly, thanks to my colleagues and other professionals. I’m very grateful to be part of this network of friends and architects. The collaborative environment at Oficinas do Convento, within the Minga collective, is inspiring and powerful. It’s based on community and shared knowledge, which feels like a meaningful and alternative way of working. I’d be happy to keep moving in that direction. ## Manuel Calado ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Image4.jpeg) fig. 5 **Rita Torres:** We’re in the Alentejo region, near Évora, a site of rich cultural and historical heritage. In your guided tour, you spoke about the uniqueness of this region due to its megalithic monuments. Could you expand on that topic? What drives you to focus your body of work on this region? **Manuel Calado:** First of all, one of the main reasons is that I'm from Alentejo. Secondly, many years ago, when I was still a teenager, I had the fortune of encountering these monuments and being deeply impressed by them. They fascinated me. While such monuments are special all over the world, those here in Alentejo hold a particular significance. They symbolize an attitude we have today towards nature—that we are the masters of it all. We can transform the world, and we’ve made it our mission. This was also the mindset of the people who constructed these monuments. They operated on the conception that nature has flaws that we must improve. However, if nature is "wrong," do we truly have the capacity to transform it for the better? I don’t think so. All the changes we make to natural processes will inevitably have unpredictable consequences, and that's the problem. This also excuses the Neolithic people, who, like us today, didn't fully understand the implications of the changes they were making to the landscape and the world. I think we’re at a crossroads where we realize that technology is advancing too far in many ways, but the idea of reverting to prehistory obviously doesn't make sense. Perhaps we can draw inspiration from some of the solutions we left behind, which could still be useful today. One example comes from the Western practice of anthropology. In the 19th century, there was a belief in the linear progression of cultures, culminating in the so-called "civilized" Western culture. However, in the 20th century, anthropologists began to question this notion, suggesting that all cultures are equivalent. For instance, American cultures have a different worldview compared to African cultures, but neither is inferior—both are valid in their own right. Modern anthropology has gone even further, proposing that we should learn from these cultures while there’s still time. Amazonian natives today, for various reasons, resist this interaction. They recognize that, in today's world, they possess secrets, solutions, and wisdom that could contribute to our understanding of the contemporary world. Of course, I don’t intend to resurrect prehistoric solutions or to live as people did in those times. While it might be beautiful, it’s not realistic. However, we should remember that if we take a wrong turn, we can always backtrack and explore whether the alternative path would yield better results. **RT:** In your article “Sacred Valley of Lucefécit: Loose Rocks for the Construction of a Myth,” you discuss the intersection of popular storytelling practices in the region and its archaeology, and how these myths permeate the constructed fabric of the city. Do you find that archaeology tends to reveal itself as communal? **MC:** Science, wisdom, and knowledge are neither inherently good nor bad; it depends on how we utilize them, and archaeology is no exception. I do view it as communal in the sense that the questions I pose to it and the answers it yields are not for individual consumption. From the outset, I perceive them as collective community issues. In Brazil, for example, the concept of archaeology linked to community has a very particular meaning. An archaeologist won't excavate a site without first engaging with the local community—explaining what they’re doing in their territory and, at the same time, asking what the community knows, facilitating knowledge-sharing between them. **RT:** You taught at the Faculty of Fine Arts in Lisbon. How do you find your study of archaeology relates to contemporary artistic practices, and how do the two mesh and complement one another? **MC:** Rock art represents the earliest instances of pictorial and graphic manifestations. Menhirs are often categorized as architecture by history teachers; however, I don’t view menhirs solely as architecture, but primarily as sculpture. In fact, they are not just sculpture but also statuary and engravings. Menhirs belong to the history of universal art in many ways. On one hand, art has a communicative dimension, whether aesthetic or ideological. Megalithic monuments served as public works that communicated information—when you create a massive, monumental piece, you're showcasing what you’re capable of doing. On the other hand, I see the history of Western art as having two main trajectories. Approximately 70,000 years ago, we have the oldest known engravings and paintings of linear geometric forms—zigzags, squares, circles—which are references to the material world and represent abstract concepts. Subsequently, we see the emergence of figurative art, exemplified by European Paleolithic art with its depictions of horses and bulls. There is a theory in European art, particularly in archaeology, suggesting that these geometric images stem from the central nervous system and altered states of consciousness, hypothesizing that it was from this inner psychological experience that the externalization of such motifs developed. Personally, I disagree. I believe it relates more closely to baskets and handicrafts, which were likely integral to constructing mental frameworks and functionality. Tim Ingold articulates this beautifully, arguing that we can observe the influence of textile arts in etymology—the similarity between the terms text and textile, line and line, is no coincidence. Writing itself developed in horizontal or vertical lines, in a linear and geometric fashion, influenced by experiences in fiber arts, sealing, basketry, and cordage. Meanwhile, geometric art continues to thrive, enduring for millennia. In the Neolithic era, figurative art underwent significant transformation, which I term schematism. The most famous example is the anthropomorphic figure, represented by just a few strokes that convey the essence of a person. This remains within the figurative realm, yet embodies an abstracting evolution. Consequently, menhirs inscribe themselves on this evolutionary path of art history, even mimicking the processes of modern art. Therefore, I believe that the megalithic monuments and menhirs I study are intimately linked to the history of art and the fundamental questions surrounding graphic communication and the history of graphic art today. **RT:** The textile arts are considered one of the most revolutionary techniques of the time, and textiles continue to drive technological innovations even today. For instance, the loom is regarded as one of the distant relatives of modern computation. Ada Lovelace famously compared the Jacquard Loom to Charles Babbage’s Analytical Engine, illustrating how the logic of computing is also influenced by the pattern-making of textile arts, much like you suggest art has been. **MC:** Exactly. For example, the Incas utilized quipus, which served as their method of writing and record-keeping using strings. We have fibers as a basic element of this entire fiber revolution. First, you create the rope, and then all the applications follow. Fiber arts today have diminished in social value—baskets and fabrics are produced by the millions, making it difficult for us to appreciate the importance of this craft on the natural world, its cultural impact, and to understand just how revolutionary it once was. It was a revelation for me to realize that fiber arts, those humble, discrete baskets, played a significant role in shaping our minds. **RT:** As an archaeologist studying primarily the past, I would love to ask you about the future. What would you like to see for the future of Montemor as it grows and changes demographically and architecturally? **MC:** My greatest hope for the future is that the project being developed in Freixo can thrive. We need to regain respect for nature and cultivate humility. We must relinquish arrogance. We need to manage our resources wisely, and then we’ll see how our future unfolds. Just as in Montemor, the world currently requires forests, trees, and respect for them. We need to understand that our lives ultimately depend on restoring a world we have harmed. // *In its 2024 edition, the festival counted with the participation of Adriana João, Andreia Garcia, Antonina Mowacha, Ari.You.Ok, Cru Atelier, Estação Cooperativa Casa Branca, Francisco Alves, Francesca Heart, Tua Madre, Futuros do Passado, Jacira da Conceição, Joana Bértholo, Lara Espírito Santo & George Macleod, Manuel Calado, Mariana Sanchez Salvador, Oseias, Pedro Alves Sousa, Pietro Degli Esposti, Pousio, Rafael Toral, The Gramounce, Violeta Azevedo and Yuri Tuma.* *This year’s edition was supported by CCDR Alentejo, Oficinas do Convento, Convento de São Domingos, Cooperativa Integral Minga, Montado do Freixo do Meio, Município de Montemor-O-Novo, União de Freguesias, O Espaço do Tempo, Umbigo Magazine, Arts Of The Working Class, Aquela Kombucha, Pão da São, Ciclo Vinhos, Nomad PopUp Hotel, Quinta do Olival da Murta, Delta Cafés, and Super Bock.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: “Soil Ecologies” roundtable between Lara Espírito Santo and George McLeod, Francisco Alves, Mariana Sanchez Salvador, Joana Bértholo and Cooperative Casa Branca, moderated by Andreia Garcia, at Freixo do Meio. September 2024\. Photograph by Francisco Fidalgo. fig. 1,2: Yuri Tuma’s workshop “Um Soar Coletivo” at Freixo do Meio. September 2024\. Photograph by Francisco Fidalgo. fig. 3: “Constructive Possibilities of the Soil” workshop, by Cru Atelier and MaTierra, at Freixo do Meio. September 2024\. Photograph by Francisco Fidalgo. fig. 4: António da Cunha Telles, Continuar a Viver ou Os Índios da Meia-Praia, Portugal, 1976 fig. 5: Manuel Calado’s guided tour, “The Origins”, at Freixo do Meio. September 2024\. Photograph by Francisco Fidalgo. BIOS **Cooperativa da Estação da Casa Branca** Cooperativa da Estação da Casa Branca is a cultural cooperative based in the old train station in the village of Casa Branca. It represents a group of people and entities interested in reflecting on the role of culture, sustainability, and innovation in the regeneration and revitalization of desertified and aging rural territories and in laying the foundations for a participatory, collaborative, and empowered collective intervention. **Institute for Postnatural Studies/ Yuri Tuma** The Institute for Postnatural Studies is a center for artistic experimentation to explore and problematize postnature as a framework for contemporary creation. It’s a platform for critical thinking and a network that brings together artists and researchers concerned about the issues of the global ecological crisis through experimental formats of exchange and the production of open knowledge. From a multidisciplinary approach, the Institute develops long-term research focused on issues such as ecology, coexistence, politics, and territories, through seminars, exhibitions, and residencies as spaces for academic and artistic experimentation. **Cru Atelier (Miguel Castilho) & Pietro Degli Esposti** **CRU Atelier** is a practice integrated into Cooperativa Integral Minga, in Montemor-o-Novo, focused on a responsible constructive premise fueled by an in-depth analysis of the ethical, aesthetic, and energetic qualities of materials and local knowledge. The studio seeks to contribute to the deepening and dissemination of construction and architectural knowledge. **Pietro Degli Esposti** is an architect based in Montemor-o-Novo, Portugal, and the founder of the architecture and construction atelier Matierra. His major focus is designing and building with ecological materials, such as fibers and raw earth. **Manuel Calado** was a professor at the Faculty of Letters and Fine Arts of the University of Lisbon, who worked in Alentejo, Arrábida and in the Amazon. Works mainly with megalithism and rock art. Likes to walk the countryside, having dedicated a good part of his time to archeological prospecting. Believes in the importance of public archeology. *Rita Torres is an artist from Portugal, whose work focuses on intersections, subjectivities, eclecticisms, collectivisms, stories and inventions.* ### Carlos Casas URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/carlos-casas/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:01.000Z En un mundo donde lo antropocéntrico domina aún la narrativa, *Bestiari* de Carlos Casas emerge como una crítica delicada y profunda. En el marco de la 60ª Bienal de Arte de Venecia, *Bestiari* se presenta como la exposición de Catalunya, donde Casas nos invita a un recorrido sonoro que desdibuja las fronteras entre lo humano y lo no humano, trabajado con expertos en sonido, guardianes de los parques nacionales de la región, así como la investigación curatorial de Filippa Ramos. La instalación inmersiva que visitamos está inspirada en el texto medieval de Anselm Turmeda “La Disputa del Asno”. Escrita originalmente en Catalan, la fábula como adaptación de Casas busca crear un diálogo profundo y casi litúrgico entre especies, permitiendo al espectador experimentar una conexión más orgánica y física con otros seres vivos. El artista revive dicha fábula desafiando nuestras nociones contemporáneas de control y vigilancia, transformándola en una experiencia que resuena con la melancolía y la esperanza de un barrio urbano en constante cambio (la topografía principal de este número). ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/BESTIARI_STILL_foxS0.jpg) fig. 1 Pero Casas no se limita a exponer la dualidad entre lo humano y lo no humano; más bien la explora con una sensibilidad que deja espacio para el asombro y la reflexión. En la exposición los artefactos de sonido y proyección se convierten en cuerpos que retumban, como los barrios que observa, se resiste a la categorización fácil y celebra la interacción entre sus elementos. Los once paisajes naturales que conforman *Bestiari* son microcosmos de biodiversidad, ecosistemas que, al igual que las calles de Barcelona o Berlín, están llenos de vida, historia y transformación constante. Casas no solo captura estos lugares; los habita, los recorre y los reinventa a través de una narrativa sonora que sigue el ciclo del día, desde el amanecer hasta el crepúsculo. Esta temporalidad es crucial, permitiendo que el espectador viva la riqueza de esos espacios a medida que la luz y el sonido cambian, reflejando la vitalidad y el letargo que caracterizan cada hora. El proyecto también se enfoca en documentar los sonidos de estos espacios para futuras generaciones. El proceso de selección de estos parques y la ubicación de los micrófonos se realizó con la ayuda de ornitólogos y guardaparques. La intención era capturar no solo la riqueza de estos espacios, sino también cómo se están deteriorando debido al cambio climático y la polución. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/BESTIARI_STILLS_20.jpg) fig. 2 La selección de especies en *Bestiari* es un acto de amor y reverencia por el espectro sonoro de las mismas. Desde los infrasonidos del elefante hasta los tonos agudos de las abejas y murciélagos, Casas compone una sinfonía que trasciende la simple observación, conectando al espectador con la vibración esencial de la vida. Como en un barrio donde cada sonido cuenta una historia, el paisaje sonoro de *Bestiario* es un entramado complejo de voces que dialogan entre sí, creando una experiencia multisensorial que invita a la contemplación y al entendimiento. *Bestiari* nos invita a repensar nuestra relación con el mundo que nos rodea, mientras Carlos Casas encuentra una poética del barrio que se extiende a los ecosistemas naturales, recordándonos que lo humano y lo no humano están inexorablemente conectados. La instalación en Venecia representa así mismo un ciclo de un día completo en estos parques naturales, permitiendo al espectador experimentar los sonidos en tiempo real desde la mañana hasta el atardecer. La composición sonora se realizó de manera que los sonidos cambian a lo largo del día, reflejando la vida en estos parques. Este enfoque permite al visitante tener una inmersión total y una conexión profunda con la naturaleza. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/pigs0.jpg) fig. 3 La esperanza del artista es finalmente que este enfoque sonoro ayude a fomentar un respeto y una conexión más significativa con el mundo natural, superando nuestro propio ensimismamiento y promoviendo una coexistencia armoniosa con lo que idealizamos y descuidamos a la vez. Las especies invasivas se convierten en metáforas de la extranjería y la pertenencia, desafiando las nociones tradicionales de pureza y control. Casas celebra esta intrusión, reconociendo en ella una oportunidad para reexaminar las fronteras que hemos erigido, tanto en la naturaleza como en nuestras comunidades. Al igual que un barrio que acoge a nuevos vecinos y se transforma con cada llegada, *Bestiari* nos recuerda que la vida es un proceso de constante cambio y adaptación. El sonido, en la obra de Casas, se erige como la lengua franca del futuro, una herramienta para la conservación, la concientización y el respeto mutuo. Es un medio que trasciende las barreras físicas y mentales, tocando partes de nuestra fisiología y nuestra psique que otros sentidos no alcanzan. En *Bestiari*, el sonido no es solo una representación, sino un acto de comunicación profunda entre especies, un eco de la coexistencia respetuosa que podríamos alcanzar si escuchamos atentamente. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Carlos Casas, Bestiari, 2024\. ©️ and courtesy the artist. fig. 1: Carlos Casas, Bestiari, 2024\. Courtesy Grup FELIS (ICHN, Institució Catalana d’Història Natural). ©️ the artist. fig. 2, 3: Carlos Casas, Bestiari, 2024\. ©️ and courtesy the artist and Parc Natural de Sant Llorenç del Munt I l'Obac. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Talk to your coworkers URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/talk-to-your-coworkers/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:54:00.000Z *The word “archive” might seem like a word from another era, a term reserved for museums, but collectives such as labournet.tv demonstrate the relevance and necessity of archival work today – especially with tools such as the internet and the advent of the “digital footprint”. However, labournet.tv is still much more than just an archive, they are an active lens on the current landscape of workers’ struggles with a mission to record ongoing strikes, workplace conditions, and workers’ voices to provide extra support and visibility.* *By existing online, the archive actively claims a corner of a public space where a significant side of reality, one often treated by mainstream news can be found. Workers, often vilified, simply demand a fair and dignified life in a system where much of our time and energy is spent working to survive.* *Beyond documentation, labournet.tv fosters networks of support and awareness which is where some of the greatest value of their work lies. For example, after filming at the occupied GKN factory in Italy, labournet.tv stayed connected to the workers, helping with organizing tours in Germany and assisting with fundraising. Their mission is about more than just documenting stories; it's about concrete actions and long-term support to make a real impact alongside the films they produce.* *To wrap up our Workers’ Summer with labournet.tv we met with two members of the collective, Iris and Carla, to get a little bit of insight from them about the methods and thought processes of labournet.tv. Their direct insights invite us to understand not just the content of these films, but the people and passion behind them.* **Mia:** How did you two start your involvement in the collective labournet.tv? **Carla:** Back then I was a student. I was frustrated with my colleagues at the university for the lack of political discussion. So, when I saw online the crowd-funding trailer for the film project *The Loud Spring*, I contacted labournet.tv. Besides studying, I did a lot of on-site and side jobs such as working in adult care. I wanted to have a stable political group connected to workplace issues that I could work with and also deal with the topics that I saw on an everyday basis, especially at the elderly care place where I worked. I wasn’t that politicized back then, but then I got a little bit into unions, and, I began talking with my colleagues about what the benefits are and \[our workplace\] problems. I really liked this approach to using film to start a political conversation. So that’s how I joined. **Iris:** In 2017 there was a screening series from labournet.tv called “Cinema Klassenkampfen” and they needed subtitles for an Italian film which I helped with. Since then I always had a soft spot for labournet.tv. I read the newsletters, but at that time I wasn’t involved directly. I was more involved in feminist groups, in Italy, too; everything about climate change or the environment was belittled. When I heard about the film *The Loud Spring*, I offered to volunteer. And then we organized two small tours. I think what labournet.tv does is very important because work is everything. We spend so much time at the workplace and people are always talking about it. They’re always talking about it, but they’re not taking the next step to organize or to address the important issues. Also, \[they typically don’t\] like to bring more difficult topics into this work \[chat\]. So this was missing for me. As soon as I was employed I became part of the union, but they never reached out to me or it was also hard for me to organize something because there was so much resistance and so little interest also, so little commitment. **Mia:** What can you share about the current process for the collective? How does it approach the production of its films today? Specifically, how do you decide on a topic, and what steps lead from that initial idea to the final film? **Carla:** It changes project by project. Now we made a film about strategies against the right in the workplace, and it was quite collaborative, I would say, compared to other projects. Johanna \[one of the two founders\] and I did interviews and editing, another person helped with filming, and Iris did the organization of the screenings and the communications with the different groups. I think Johanna had the initial idea that she wanted to interview one person, and then, from there, it went off, and we interviewed even more people than we thought of in the beginning. Everyone added a little bit. There are also cases in which people ask us to make a video and then just one person does it on their own completely. Like, I just finished a video that I did together with one other person, but it wasn’t discussed so much in the collective how to do it or what to talk about. I think with the bigger projects, like *The Loud Spring*, it’s a bit different because when it started, there were just two people. So Johanna just started it, and then slowly more and more people joined. But it was still the idea of one person who started it. **Mia:** How big is the collective now? **Iris:** It’s five people and it’s more stable, like without fluctuations, for one and a half years now. **Carla:** But, there is a vast network of shadow people, too. Haha! **Mia:** It’s quite common for the collective to be having a film project. **Iris:** It’s the archive, but also– **Mia:** Produces its films and media? **Iris:** Yes, and of course, we can cover only a tiny, tiny part of what’s important, and we are also not commenting much on current news. That’s not something that we do on our social media or videos. That’s not possible. But maybe you also know about this workshop series at the start of September – empowerment, skill-sharing! So there is always at least one project going on. **Mia:** So, basically, somebody in the collective finds a topic they are interested in and then everybody joins in or helps when they can? **Iris:** Yes. We are not all filmmakers, but we support where we can. But maybe after the workshop, we will all be filmmakers. **Carla:** I think it is like this: we do, from time to time, very short-strike films. They are just 2 to 4 minutes. If there is a strike happening we just go there and film, and this always happens very fast. One person hears about it and goes there and films. Ideally, two days later the film is done and uploaded. That always happens without any consultation process, because it always has to be fast, and the idea is to be quick during the ongoing strike and to publish during the ongoing strike. And when we have an idea we want to share with the group or want help with, we take it to the meetings. **Mia:** I also wanted to know a bit about the research process. How do you find films from other groups or filmmakers that you want to present in the archive? **Iris:** I have to say, in my experience, usually, they get in touch with us. With the screenings, with our collaborations, and with the archive selections. Normally it’s them bringing it to us. I am not doing much research. Sometimes I contact some directors, and they seem to be interested, especially if we offer to do the synopsis, the subtitles, and the platforming. But they’re not always interested. The last three films or videos I worked on were offered to us. So it’s usually a collaboration request. **Mia:** How did you find the footage when needed, as for *The Loud Spring*? **Carla:** In the rabbit holes of the internet haha! Everywhere! Some of the content Johanna already had because she had already started the research and there are so many platforms that also publish videos about workers’ struggles and many film databases. **Mia:** What is the philosophy or how do you see capturing images of workers’ struggles and workers’ achievements? Why are these images so effective yet vulnerable? **Carla:** For me, there are two parts to it. One is the archival part, where we keep the old footage and recreate this, “*Bildergedächtnis*”: a memory through the images so that knowledge and social movements don’t get lost. At the same time, the idea is always to connect it to current struggles, to use the footage or the material in our archive and connect them to the present, to make them a tool. If you’re watching the writer's strike films now and seeing what they did three years ago, how they are trying to achieve a new right to strike, workers can use it for their struggles or protests. We want to make the footage from the past a resource of knowledge for the present. Images are more approachable than text. I was thinking about it the other day, that we had this event, like a book circle but with a movie. **Mia:** You talked a little bit about the videos being tools, I would like to hear more about how you think an online archive and its videos – for example, labournet.tv – is a tool for collective empowerment or as a conversation igniter. **Carla:** I think it is important that we not only make the videos but that we also support the groups over long periods. Like, for example, with this Italian company GKN \[an occupied factory\], we made the video one or two years ago – and we are still in contact – now they are doing a tour in Germany to meet people, and some of us are involved in that. It’s also about supporting some groups not only with the videos but also knowing the infrastructure in Germany, if the Italian group wants to come to Germany we can help them, also supporting with raising some funding. Money is always a good way to help, if you know how to raise funds here to support someone and or to help out; it's a very important parallel to the films. To not just have the ideas and the images, but also some concrete specific actions. **Iris:** Yeah, because they know they can trust us and we have no agenda other than being on their side. **Mia:** What is it about the workers’ struggles that makes them so marginalized, so kept in their corners – even on the internet, which is supposed to have everything very easily accessible. Why do you think these are easily lost or forgotten? **Carla:** This is just one perspective, but social movements are very easy to disappear. They are very *fluchtig* \[fleeting\]. They are not stable all the time; structures are not fixed. Let's say there are some strikes, some you win or lose, and maybe it disappear again. People change a lot. People can only do so much. The nature of the struggles we are filming is that there are big ups and downs, which makes it easy for it to get lost again. The videos are a way to preserve it and to show it again and remind each other that something is going on. It’s just a little way to keep something going. **Iris:** Johanna would say something like “There were always struggles and people fighting. They \[the cameras\] just weren’t paying attention.” **Mia:** What do you see as some of the biggest struggles that workers are facing nowadays, based on your work? **Iris:** We went to do a screening – it was in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, and people there said, well it’s rural, so you work in agriculture, where there is not a big culture to organize. It’s not encouraged at all to organize. Also, the unions don’t have a presence. You may have to drive two hours to \[the unions\]. It’s a structural issue. From my personal experience \[at a phone company\], at some point, everyone was working from home. Of course, you could chat on your phone privately, but all other ways were controlled by AI. All the internal chats were not private. Technically, it’s possible to organize, but how? With which communication? We were so isolated. Many types of non-traditional work don’t make the connection, or see themselves as possibly having the power to change something. They don't see themselves as part of a class with shared interests and the potential for collective action. **Mia:** Can you tell me about the new film-in-the-making on the rise of rightwing politics in factory workspaces? **Carla:** The idea came to us to respond to the rise of right-wing parties, forces, and groups everywhere in Europe. It's also a question in the workplace for many people. It explores how to address discussions with co-workers who hold right-wing positions and how these groups organize in the workplace. One example is Zentrum, which started in the car sector and is trying to expand into the health sector. Although they’re not very big, they’re dangerous in the way one of the protagonists in the film said: they are very much the arm into the workplace that the AFD was looking for, a way to enter into the workplace discussion through right-wing groups organizing in the workplace. **Mia:** How do they organize in the workplace? Do they ask around or use specific tactics? **Carla:** They organize by positioning themselves as a union and getting elected into worker councils. They do some union work, but they are just mostly provoking. **Mia:** How are they provoking? **Carla:** They provoke by blocking certain votes or making controversial statements during their speaking time at meetings. They also use their influence to create controversies around issues like the treatment of “*leiharbeiter*”, temporary workers. They argue that temp workers shouldn’t be taken into the company and have the same rights as permanent employees. Sometimes they argue it is because they are not from Germany. It’s just about what we can do about the right-wing against \[its\] influences in the workplace, on an abstract and a specific level. **Mia:** What do you hope people take away from labournet.tv after watching the films and content? **Iris:** Talk to your coworkers. **Carla:** I think that is a good answer. I hope that people leave with the impression that a lot is going on; people are organizing and demonstrating for their rights. If viewers are inspired to think about how they can get involved or organize themselves, that would be a good start. **Mia:** Lastly, which is your favorite film from the archive? **Carla:** I have a few favorites. *The Loud Spring* is one I’ve seen many times – maybe 40 times! Another recent favorite is the film about the occupied car factory in Florence titled *GKN*. It’s a very recent one, and we organized a lot of screenings with it. It’s impactful because it helped spread the news about the occupation and sparked discussions and political action. **Iris:** I also like *GKN* for its drive and hopeful tone. Plus, working on the subtitles and connecting with the people involved added a personal touch to the project. It’s great to see how the film helped the occupation gain visibility and prompted political discussions. \\\\ *Carla joined the collective labournet.tv two years ago. Since then, she has been working on several film projects and events.* *Iris has been living in Berlin since 2010\. Prior, she studied Post-Colonial Literature - as it was called at the time - in Venice. She has worked in fields and call centers. Iris is a certified Social Justice and Radical Diversity trainer. She has a strong dislike for films about bourgeois heterosexual ennui (there are far too many of them).* *Mia Ribeiro Alonso is a writer and collaborates with AWC as an editorial volunteer.* ### An arrow against censorship URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/an-arrow-against-censorship/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:57.000Z *An Arrow Against the Tank* is the title of a conference dedicated to the Sicilian Antigroup, followed by a poetry reading, which was supposed to be held on July 24th in an art institution in Berlin. The event was curated by REPLICA in collaboration with CROSSLUCID. The title of the event draws inspiration from a mimeographed work by Crescenzio Cane, a member of the movement, emphasizing the revolutionary force of small forms of resistance against violent and oppressive entities. In preparing our contribution to the conference, it seemed urgent and necessary to include in the selection of poems for the reading the work A People is a People by Rolando Certa, another member of the Sicilian Antigroup. The poem was read in April 1982 during the second edition of *Encounters among People of the Mediterranean*, which that year had the theme of “Poets for Peace”. The poem by Certa was dedicated to “Palestinian brothers” and expresses the pain of the condition of a colonized people, deprived of their land. The poet showed solidarity with these tormented “brothers”, hoping that one day they may find peace and achieve the social and political self-determination they deserve. Born in 1968 and active in Sicily until the 1980s, the thematic core of the Sicilian Antigroup was the idea of poetry as a revolutionary action nurtured by the members’ desire to involve the wider public by inhabiting public squares and using other tools of “poetic struggle” such as recitals, debates, mural poetry, independent publications, and the use of cyclostyled sheets, as well as wearing brightly colored dresses decorated with their own words. For all the members of the Sicilian Antigroup, poetry was about positioning literature as a tool for reconnecting social groups and fighting for a new society where class privilege and exploitation are abolished, and support is available for marginalized and oppressed cultures and peoples, including the Palestinian people. Their *Encounters among the Peoples of the Mediterranean*, held from 1979 to 1986 in Mazara del Vallo, sought to transform the Mediterranean into a “sea of peace and cooperation”. They believed in the power of cultural exchange and poetic expression to challenge failing capitalist and imperialist ideologies and to foster solidarity beyond borders. The meetings of the *Encounters* were structured to build a research itinerary around poetry and its possibilities to create community. Poetry thus became an “expedient” for building relationships and talking about politics, emphasizing the need to come together and focus less on academic formalisms and the technicalities of poetry. Although it was an important meeting in which prominent figures such as Francesco Manacorda and prized poet Rafael Alberti also participated, it was less of a formal and more of a friendly occasion where everyone had the opportunity to express themselves in their languages in the presence of a simultaneous translator. Each encounter was planned to allow for listening dialectically to the different cultures who are involved in creating a perspective in which the Mediterranean could be considered a sea of peace - even though participants were aware of the historical-cultural crisis they were going through - and a sea that belonged to everyone. The subtitle of the meetings, “Poets for Peace”, made explicit the collective need to give voice to cumbersome historical pasts by turning their gaze towards the attempt to build, by collaborating, a more open and better community. The abstract and totalizing capitalist ideologies they had been affected by, the wars or dictatorships they were subjected to - such as the Colonels' Dictatorship in Greece or the conflict between Israel and Palestine - were just some of the aspects that were discussed at these meetings. In the second edition of *Encounters*, 18 delegations participated. At that moment the first intifada was ongoing. For this reason, the organizers and the conveners tried to bring together, involving the respective embassies in Italy, a Palestinian poet/writer and an Israeli one. The attempt failed, but certainly not due to the will of the conveners. The Palestinian intellectual and activist Wassim Dahmash, publisher of *Edizioni Q*, the only publishing house in a language other than Arabic entirely dedicated to Palestine, who participated to the Encounter, during his speech stated: *\[…\] The very theme of this Encounter prompts me to reflect: is it enough to know each other for the Mediterranean to truly become a sea of peace? The search for what unites us is certainly an important contribution to achieving peace in the Mediterranean. I hope that from this conference ideas and similar initiatives will emerge in all the riparian countries, contributing to a better understanding between Peoples. \[…\] I do not believe there are peace-loving people and war-mongering people. We all want peace. \[…\] My people, the Palestinian people, are also fighting for peace, fighting for their independence. \[…\] Achieving peace means extinguishing the flames of war, and there can never be peace in the Mediterranean as long as one of its peoples, the Palestinian people, is unable to exercise its legitimate rights: the right to self-determination and national independence. Achieving peace, and greater cooperation between the Peoples of the Mediterranean also requires the Palestinian contribution.* Despite the respectful historical premises, the conference *An Arrow Against the Tank* in Berlin didn’t happen due to the rising concern from the hosting institution of the conflation of anti-Semitism and Palestine solidarity. This is an instrumentalized debate in Germany; one that keeps halting any generative conversation and has the consequence of polarizing different groups of people. On the date on which the event was supposed to be held, learning the situation from Antigroup, REPLICA decided to organize the reading anyway, this time in the public space of Monbijoupark, Berlin. During the two-hour session, reading poetry from Palestinian and other poets and, we could sense the level of diffidence and fear projected on us by people passing by, which made us reflect on the relevance of the Sicilian Antigroup's mission to the present. Today, as in earlier years, it is necessary to lay the foundations for a culture that ensures an alliance, and cooperation for emancipation of the oppressed and criticism of dominant ideologies. Poets, writers, intellectuals, scholars, and artists do not necessarily deploy political tools. Nevertheless, they suggest different symbols and approaches with their words and artworks which are necessary to build criticism within society. Such knowledge is also acquired and exercised through a continuous act of love, solidarity, and sisterhood with poetic sentiments. To conclude, we want to share the poem “A People Is a People” (1982) by Rolando Certa: To the Palestinian brothers I have heard your words that swarmed with pain. I heard from your voices The weeping and anguish of mothers for the children killed and crippled and for all the sufferings of your martyred people. A people without a homeland asks for its homes and its fields its cradles and its sky its flower gardens its bread and its freedom. Instead, you are only refugees in Lebanese camps, killed in Lebanon as in Rome, only and solely because you are Palestinians. Is this the justice of men? Is this the fruit of an age-old civilization? I heard, listening to your words, reading in your gaze, anxious and troubled, that you are the victims of this "civilization" of murderers, the derelict brothers who cannot and must not perish. I am ashamed that still women, children, old people and innocent men are killed, guilty of what? Of being Palestinians? When will the slaughter end? Is there a civil conscience that says enough to the massacre? In this situation it is not enough to weep over your tragedy. I curse the murderers. I say that your struggle is holy. They said: a man is a man. All the more today we say: a people is a people. And you don’t condemn a people to death or to exile a people. Only the Nazis consummated genocide. And those who came after? I wish that Christian mercy Western mercy would show its true face here and now, Flood this cruel world, awaken goodness, be a river of justice a sea of love turning this endless night into a sunny, bright, and profound day. For if this were not possible we should think bitterly that on earth there is no peace there is no peace among men. and that Cain in different guises still kills, again and always. And Herod tears innocence apart. Victory will be the day of peace. Revenge calls for more deaths. But you who deny life to life do not even know how to live in this world... in this world where there is room for everyone Where everyone has the right to work in peace To kiss his bride in peace And to see his children grow and smile. I therefore send to my Palestinian brothers a greeting from ancient Trinacria a fraternal and supportive embrace. Will just men know how to put an end to one of the greatest tragedies of present history? I believe that justice often delays but the day comes when it triumphs, the day comes that opens the abyss of condemnation for those who have betrayed the sacred laws of life, and the day also of reparation for those who have suffered and always lost. The Palestinian people will have their homeland will have their homes and their fields and their gardens and they will work and sing and love like other peoples of the world. The Palestinian people are our brothers, our most unhappy brothers today, but also the most heroic, the one that awaits their greatest justice: their homeland and their freedom. // --- ### Image Captions Cover: Antigruppo siciliano, “Incontri fra i popoli del Mediterraneo” (1984). Courtesy of the author *REPLICA is an Italian archive of artist books, founded by Lisa Andreani and Simona Squadrito.* *Lisa Andreani is a curator and art historian. Currently, she is a PhD Candidate in Visual Arts at IUAV University in Venice.* *Simona Squadrito is a professor, critic, editor, and independent curator. She teaches Creative Writing and Phenomenology of Contemporary Arts at MADE in Syracuse, and Methodologies and Techniques of Contemporary Art as well as Latest Trends in Visual Arts at IED in Milan. t She is also co-founder of the KABUL magazine, a cultural association, independent publishing house, and magazine on contemporary art and culture.* ### Act I. A Disarmament URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/act-i-a-disarmament/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:58.000Z Theater of Dis-Operations (Atto I. A Disarmament)*, is a project by Sa.turn that identifies the activation of disarmament processes as the primary urgency of contemporary society, in a historical period where the normalization of violence, the increase in armed conflicts, and the rapid expansion of the global arms market and war industries are at the center of public debate. The exhibition was hosted at ArtNoble Gallery and curated by Arnold Braho with Stefano De Gregori.* **Dalia Maini: What forms of disarmament does the exhibition Theatre of Dis-Operations (Act I. A Disarmament) propose, and how do these extend beyond traditional military contexts?** Sa.turn: The project draws inspiration from Brecht's political theater, early 20th-century Dadaist manifestos, and banned, anonymous publications such as ma l'amor mio non muore... from the 1970s. The stage setup of *Theatre of Dis-Operations (Act I. A Disarmament)* consists of theatrical wings stripped of scenography, symbolizing a ground zero for any possibility. The exhibition includes an agitprop graphic installation, which contains instructions for leafleting, fragments from Critical Art Ensemble fanzines critiquing weapons production (*Useless Technology*), and techniques for creating shelters and producing smoke. We aimed to explore forms of disarmament that arise from the grassroots, targeting the entire apparatus of symbols and structures that underpin the military concept. This includes everything from the flag to the uniform, from the idea of the nation-state to ritualistic and symbolic commemorative practices. **The exhibition discusses "sabotage" as a means of disarming violence. What specific artistic strategies are capable of disrupting or weakening the "war paradigm," and how might these differ from conventional forms of protest or resistance?** SA: In this exhibition, sabotage is primarily related to disrupting regimes of visibility. Reenactment becomes a way of spreading skepticism about war, using the art of masking to ultimately unmask violence through re-staging, allowing for analysis and critique. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5.-Arijit-Bhattacharyya-_The-Blue-Tiger_-2024-Mask-costumes-jute-and-mannequin-230-x-130-x-50-cm-courtesy-the-artist-and-ArtNoble-Gallery.-Ph-credits-Michela-Pedranti.jpeg) fig. 1 This approach is evident in many of the works within *Theatre of Dis-Operations*. For Critical Art Ensemble, the focus is an analysis of U.S. interest in germ warfare in the early 2000s. Gaia De Megni uses stage costumes, medals, and glass rifles, where only the symbols that serve the idea of the military remain recognizable. Arijit Bhattacharyya’s protest costumes are embroidered with motifs, texts, drawings, and political symbols representing cultural axioms related to repressed Bangladeshi communities in India. These artistic strategies are designed for public demonstrations, while Paolo Ciregia’s work depicts the multitude of bodies sacrificed in imperialist wars. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/20.-Gaia-De-Megni-_Afelio-solo_-2024-still-video-Inkjet-print-on-cotton-paper-100-x-57-cm-courtesy-of-the-artist-and-ArtNoble-Gallery.-Ph.-Credits_-Michela-Pedranti.jpg) fig. 2 The project also includes *Atto. II (Riot)*, a performative screening of Giulio Squillacciotti’s film *A War Play* (2024), which follows four characters reenacting an image of war—a visual meta-narrative mirroring daily media portrayals. Additionally, Edoardo Caimi explores violence through noise-sound as a disruptive device. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.-Paolo-Ciregia-CTS-acapture-the-shield_-2024-Scudo-originale-polizia-ucraina-adesivi-rivoluzionari-ucraini-100-x-58-x-10cm-courtesy-the-artist-and-ArtNoble-Gallery.-Ph-credits-Michela-Pedranti.jpg) fig. 3 **The normalization of violence in society is a war strategy. How does the exhibition connect the global arms market and war industries to broader societal systems, and what critique is offered of these economic structures?** SA: We believe it is crucial to question the global arms market using every means available. According to SIPRI (Stockholm International Peace Research Institute), European arms imports almost doubled between 2014-18 and 2019-23 (+94%). As [Maurizio Lazzarato has noted](https://www.machina-deriveapprodi.com/post/perch%C3%A9-la-guerra?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), we are witnessing a transformation of the neoliberal system, turning what's left of the industry into a war industry. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/9.-Agnese-Barbarani-_Oggetti-di-lotta_-2024-Inkjet-print-on-Baryta-Matte-paper-41.3-x-31.5-cm-courtesy-of-the-artist-and-ArtNoble-Gallery.-Ph.-Credits_-Michela-Pedranti-n.8.jpg) fig. 4 The project includes testimonies from political groups actively working to sabotage and challenge the arms trade, such as CALP (Collettivo Autonomo Lavoratori Portuali), documented by Agnese Barbarani. Infinite contributes with synopses of hacked television commercials, presenting anarchist anti-militarist imagery. Stefano Serretta, on the other hand, reclaims archival footage from Italy’s armed struggle in the 1970s, offering an alternative perspective on historical narratives. **What are the considerations in using "desertion" or "dropping out" as forms of resistance?** SA: As [Franco "Bifo" Berardi has written](https://transversal.at/transversal/1203/berardi-aka-bifo/en?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), it’s now essential to give political form to escape. This can be through collective mobilization or experimenting with forms of individual escape from dependency on the market and state—seeking “niches of autonomous survival”, by abandoning work, war, and other systems en masse. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/27a.-Zazzaro-Otto-_Per-fare-un-tavolo-ci-vuole-la-guerra_-2024-mixed-media191-x-175-x-80-cm-courtesy-the-artist-and-ArtNoble-Gallery.-Ph-credits-Michela-Pedranti-2.jpg) fig. 5 In the exhibition, we present two "escape machines" by Zazzaro Otto, where the imagery recalls infancy, a state deprived of political autonomy. In these sculptures, infants are symbolically equipped with every tool and ideology to escape to elsewhere. The exhibition closes with two works by Shadi Harouni. The film *I Dream the Mountain is Still Whole* (2017) traces the story of Iranian Marxist revolutionaries who, when unable to continue their intellectual work, took refuge by exiling themselves in the isolated mountain quarries of Kurdistan. Harouni’s *Last Day of the Bombardments* (1987) reproduces a Polaroid documenting the final moment before the artist and his family left Iran. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/29.-Shadi-Harouni-_I-Dream-the-Mountain-is-Still-Whole_-2017-HD-Video-17_06_-courtesy-the-artist-and-ArtNoble-Gallery.-Ph-credits-Michela-Pedranti.jpg) fig. 6 **How does the exhibition challenge the notion of national identity by presenting "state" and "nation" as symbolic weapons?** SA: In our research, we found references to the concepts of "state" and "nation" in dictionaries, glossaries, and manuals specific to the 1970s (such as Dictionaries of Weapons), which we chose to investigate. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1.-Francesco-Vullo-aFlaga-2024-Reclaimed-steel-blades-iron-shaft-courtesy-of-the-artist-and-ArtNoble-Gallery.-Ph.-Credits_-Michela-Pedranti.jpg) fig. 7 The exhibition opens with Francesco Vullo’s flag, made of hundreds of saws used by northern Italian workers, which does not reference any nation-state but rather reflects a well-defined social class. Similarly, concepts of "state" and "nation" are continually challenged by alternative realities, such as those of the indigenous Zapatista women documented by Thiago Dezan, and Delio Jasse’s postcolonial analysis of stamps from the Angolan revolution. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/18.-DeIlio-Jasse-_Untitled_-2024-fixed-project-slide-variable-dimensions-courtesy-the-artist-and-ArtNoble-Gallery.-Ph-credits-Michela-Pedranti.jpg) fig. 8 **What can we expect from the next chapter of *Theatre of Dis-Operations*?** SA: The project remains open and ever-evolving. We are currently working on a publishing project that will take the form of a counter-dictionary of sabotage practices. As Avery Gordon said, “All that remains is to tame the magician and imagine otherwise.” \\\\ The Theatre of Dis-Operations. (Act I. A Disarmament) *features works by Agnese Barbarani, Arijit Bhattacharyya, Paolo Ciregia, Critical Art Ensemble, Gaia De Megni, Thiago Dezan, Shadi Harouni, Infinite, Delio Jasse, Zazzaro Otto, Stefano Serretta and Francesco Vullo* **Sa.turn** is a curatorial collective founded by Arnold Braho, Stefano De Gregori, and Giordano Cruciani. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Paolo Ciregia, Position #2 (2023). Courtesy the artist and ArtNoble Gallery. Ph credits Michela Pedranti. fig. 1: Arijit Bhattacharyya, The Blue Tiger (2024). Maschera, costumi, juta e manichino. fig. 2: Afelio (solo) (2024), Still video, stampa Inkjet su carta cotone. Performer: Marta Tabacco. Coreographer: Gloria Dorli- guzzo. Assistant director: Giorgia La Pegna. DOP: Gabriele Spallino. Project Manager: Elena Castiglia. fig. 3: Paolo Ciregia, (CTS) “capture the shield” (2024). Scudo originale polizia ucraina, adesivi rivoluzionari ucraini. fig. 4: Agnese Barbarani, Oggetti di lotta (2024). Stampa Inkjet print su carta Baryta Matte. fig. 5: Zazzaro Otto, Per fare un tavolo ci vuole la guerra (2024) Tecnica mista. fig. 6: Shadi Harouni, I Dream the Mountain is Still Whole (2017). fig. 7: Francesco Vullo, Flag (2024), Lame in acciaio di recupero, asta in ferro. fig. 8: Délio Jasse, Untitled (2024), Slide proiezione fissa. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Narrating protests: From Hong Kong to Pan-Asian Solidarity URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/narrating-protests-from-hong-kong-to-pan-asian-solidarity/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:55.000Z *In March 2019 the government of Hong Kong proposed a bill that would have allowed extraditions to mainland China. In November 2019, I was in Hong Kong and spoke to various people who participated in the anti-extradition bill protests. The text below is a report of what I witnessed, as these protests were remarkable for tactics, solidarity, and wideness of outreach.* **The extradition law** In March 2019, protests against the planned extradition law began in Hong Kong and developed into a comprehensive pro-democracy movement. According to estimates by the Hong Kong-based organization Civil Human Rights Front, they reached their highest level in June with 1.4 million citizens being involved. The Hong Kong Special Administrative Region is part of China, but unlike mainland China, the autonomous territory still had some democratic rights in the summer of 2019, including freedom of expression and assembly and an independent judiciary. The planned extradition law would have severely restricted this independence and would have allowed the authorities in Hong Kong to extradite people suspected of a crime to mainland China. For this reason, the protesters demanded the withdrawal of the extradition law and the resignation of Prime Minister Carrie Lam. After the occupation of the Legislative Council on 1 July, the protesters added to their demand for Lam’s resignation a call for free elections. During the protests in November 2019, police violence rose sharply and the authorities arbitrarily arrested around 4,000 people. Further demands were then added including an independent investigation into the police violence, a demand for the release of the detained activists, and a call to stop the labeling of the protesters as “rioters”. After long protests, the Hong Kong government withdrew the Extradition Act in October 2019. As a result of the arbitrary arrests and the police's brutal treatment of the protesters, criticism from the population increased. Although the law was repealed, protests continued concerning issues such as democracy and human rights. These were interrupted by the COVID pandemic, and on June 30, 2020, the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) passed the National Security Law in Hong Kong. The law criminalizes the organization of civil resistance and protests and any criticism of China’s central government. Hong Kong was dramatically changed as a result, the pro-democratic movement was swallowed up in public space by the Chinese central government. Pro-democracy news agencies were closed, and material about civil resistance was censored. Laws have been continuously tightened in Hong Kong since 2019\. In March 2024, a new national security law, known as Article 23, was passed, which severely affects human rights in the city. The provisions of the Article are intentionally vague so that it remains unclear where the red lines run. And, if Hong Kong law contradicts Beijing law, then the law of the People’s Republic of China applies. Around 1.4 million people took part in the 2019 protests and sustained the pro-democracy movement. Like the Arab Spring in 2010 and the Occupy movements in 2011, Hong Kong protesters adopted decentralization and autonomy to encourage every citizen to participate and organize the protests in different ways and to become part of the movement. The guiding principles moving the organization of the protests in Hong Kong were 無大台 (no central stage), 不割蓆 (don’t split), 一個都不能少 (we can’t lose one person), and 兄弟爬山，各自努力 (we keep fighting, each in our way). Protestors communicated anonymously on platforms such as Telegram and LIHKG, the Hong Kong version of Reddit. As several activists had been identified and arrested during earlier protests in 2014 after platforms such as Yahoo China and the online forum HKGolden leaked their users’ data to the authorities, with the switch to Telegram in the summer of 2019, the messenger service was exposed to various DDoS (distributed denial of service) attacks in parallel to the protests, which, according to Telegram, originated from Chinese IP addresses. According to Hong Kong activists, the online forum LIHKG also was increasingly attacked in December 2019 by the “Great Cannon”, the state-operated, cyber weapon of the Chinese government. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/04-hkmaplive_screenshot-2019.jpg) fig. 1 The activists used the online platform LIHKG to plan and coordinate the protests, exchange information about current events, and support each other. Materials, posters, and manuals on public safety were also shared open source, such as, how to protect yourself from tear gas or how to extinguish tear gas canisters, and how to disperse rallies within a few minutes as soon as the police advance. As police violence increased, an anonymous member of the LIHKG community developed the HKmap app which citizens used to track and document police locations and the extent of violence. The app aimed to increase the safety of citizens in public spaces and reduce the risk of arrests. This also increased participation in the protests and the “hit-and-run” tactic emerged. Groups came together to protest and then ran away as soon as the police approached them. With HKmap they followed safe routes and reunited half an hour later in another part of the district. The Chinese central government put pressure on Apple and accused the company of supporting criminal activities. Apple then removed HKmap from the App Store as the app allegedly violated its guidelines. At the same time, the authorities began shutting down the internet network in individual districts to prevent the groups from networking with each other. The activists then switched to mesh networks such as Bridgefly and FireChat, which are also used to coordinate civilians after natural disasters. Mesh networks are not based on mobile communications or Wi-Fi, and cannot be centrally controlled and switched off; instead, each mobile phone becomes a router in its own right, creating a network of connections between all members of a group. With each additional group member, the network and its range expand. The strategies and tools of the pro-democracy movement were all based on crowdsourcing and enabled the mobilization and organization of protests, in which everyone could find a way to participate either on the streets or by coordinating the background. **The Milk Tea Alliance** During the protests in Hong Kong, the Milk Tea Alliance, an anti-authoritarian online movement comprising users from Hong Kong, Thailand, Taiwan, and Myanmar, emerged in parallel. It developed from a tweet by the Thai actor Vachirawit Chivaaree. In April 2020, the actor shared a photo on Twitter in which Hong Kong was implied to be an independent state. His Twitter profile was then flooded by Chinese online nationalists - with the correction that Hong Kong is not an independent nation, but a semi-autonomous Chinese city. Chinese internet nationalists regularly create actions in which pro-Uyghur groups and companies are attacked, as well as Taiwanese and Thai sites, and social media channels that are critical of the Chinese central government. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/02-Signs-Pepe-the-Frog-Joseph-Chan.jpg) fig. 2 In the Twitter shitstorm of April 2020, Chinese users demanded an apology, and Vachirawit Chivaaree apologised, but the debate continued. Thai Twitter users criticised the censorship efforts from the Chinese side, while Chinese nationalists tried to hit Thai citizens’ national pride by insulting the Thai government and sharing photos of the massacre at Thammasat University, in which government troops killed protesting left-wing students in 1976\. But these posts were not taken up as intended: the Thais simply agreed with the insults to their national institutions. This exchange met with extremely positive reactions in Hong Kong and Taiwan. Soon after, their citizens joined the shitstorm and spread content in memes under hashtags such as "Say it louder!". Restricted by censorship and propaganda, the Chinese nationalists did not realize that a large proportion of young Thais were critical of their government. The Milk Tea Alliance, broadly and transnationally organized, operates on two levels: first, by disseminating strategies for coordinating and organizing protests and by documenting human rights violations such as the persecution of the Uyghurs in Xinjiang, the oppression of the stateless Rohingya in Myanmar, and against China building more dams on the Mekong River, which has caused massive environmental damage and drought in countries such as Laos and Thailand. The impact of the alliance became visible in Thailand in August 2020 and in Myanmar in February 2021\. In August 2020, Thai activists took to the streets against the authoritarian monarchy and used techniques that were deployed previously in Hong Kong; they shared footage under hashtags related to the Milk Tea Alliance. Wearing masks and yellow helmets to protect against tear gas and facial recognition systems also became common in Thailand. So did the use of mesh networks to quickly disseminate information to many people within a district. Also, the hit-and-run tactic was used to cause disruption and minimize the risk of being arrested. Transnational solidarity campaigns emerged in the districts under the banner of the Alliance. As the Thai protests grew, the movements in Thailand and Hong Kong supported each other by organizing rallies and holding protest signs to express their support for the others abroad. In Hong Kong and Taipei, they also organized demonstrations in support of the protests in Thailand, as well as crowd-funding to raise money for equipment and legal fees. Something similar happened in Myanmar when the military overthrew the democratically elected government in February 2021 and arrested the controversial pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi. Within a few hours, Milk Tea Alliance hashtags related to Myanmar went viral across Asian countries. These hashtags were not only used to share news about current developments in Myanmar, but also to translate into Burmese protest and organizational strategies from Hong Kong, and material for how to cope with authoritarian oppression. Through these hashtags, the Burmese quickly gained access to the protest tactics and security measures from Hong Kong. Hand signals and gestures that had previously been used in Hong Kong and Bangkok were also used during the protests. The equipment, consisting of yellow helmets and gas masks, was also adopted. The opportunity to connect with like-minded activists in the region through the Milk Tea Alliance strengthened the large-scale pro-democracy protests. Since the protests in Myanmar turned into a civil war, part of the alliance now organizes weekly online- and offline meetings to strengthen networks and cooperation between activists in the region. The Alliance has evolved from a widespread hashtag and online movement to an offline local form of citizen organization with a transnational structure. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/03-Demo-in-Wan-Chai-Mai-2019-Han-Min-T.jpg) fig. 3 Even if the contexts against which the protests are directed are different in the respective countries, they have a pro-democratic orientation in common. Through the cross-national protests, activists also avoid state and military violence, for example by the Thai protesters supporting the protests in Hong Kong without being exposed to repression under the National Security Law, and activists in Hong Kong supporting Thai protesters without being subject to the strict lèse-majesté law, which imposes severe penalties on critics. This mutual solidarity and cooperation not only strengthens the pan-Asian online movement, but also expands the local offline movements in Hong Kong, Myanmar, Thailand, and Taiwan. \\\\ This is the first chapter of the series “Narrating Protest” by Noa Jaari. The column explores different social practices and grassroots movements worldwide and their impact on social change. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: © Airam D. , In June 2019, over one million people demonstrated in Hong Kong against the extradition law and the protests developed into a broad movement. fig. 1: © NJ, Screenshot of the HKmap app from October 2019 which citizens used to document police movements and operations. fig. 2: © Joseph Chan, In June 2019, citizens began using Pepe the Frog protest signs at rallies and demonstrations to draw attention to police violence and the five demands of the pro-democracy movement. fig. 3: © Han Min T. , Pro-democracy and anti-extraction demonstration in June 2019 in Wan Chai on Hennessy Road in the northern part of Hong Kong Island. *Noa Jaari writes journalistic and fiction texts, and researches social and socio-political issues such as social inequalities and grassroots movements, labor and production conditions, education, and poverty.* ### Fail Worse URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/fail-worse/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:52.000Z *The book* Fail Worse *is an intertextual autofiction that critiques modern writing and its trends, particularly the prevalence of autofiction as a genre. The protagonist, who struggles with writing his autofiction, is trapped in procrastination, reflecting on his personal experiences while attempting to critique the broader literary culture. The narrative intertwines personal musings with commentary on societal and literary events, emphasizing the difficulty of creating something meaningful in a commodified world where authenticity, trauma, and art are often reduced to consumable products. The story is set largely in London, with the protagonist navigating the city's changing landscape, exploring themes of failure, alienation, and the complexity of personal identity.* **DM: Your book is the essence of meta. It's a book about literary genres and the books that are your literary references create a literary sphere, so to speak. But also it is a book that focuses on the literary genre of autofiction specifically and dramatises the process of autofictionalizing one own experience, using a satirical accent. Why did you approach this genre in this fashion and at this specific moment?** HWK: I think one of the things as somebody who's reading a lot of fiction, there's this constant flow of books that people read, the “books that matter”. And suddenly everyone was reading this genre of autofiction. It became this aspirational thing in a certain way because it became something that almost everyone I knew who was a writer was working on some variation of. And I found it so pervasive. There would be one book after another that would be described in these terms. The notion of it being metafiction became central for me. It became a question about what makes a book “autofiction”, what makes a book an autobiographical novel, or what makes a book just fiction. I started to kind of think about those questions. I’d never really written a book in the genre of the moment. It all feels very weird to me, so I wanted this weirdness to be the subject for a book, the weirdness and the distance that a writer feels from a sense of where literature is, or where literature is going. And so it became the exploration of that, but it was almost through the distance to the genre, or the distance of what I thought the genre was, or whatever might be thought of as, like, my literary output from that genre, that made me kind of want to engage with it. **This makes me think about the timeliness of literature. And yourself as a character in the autofiction was always untimely, in grasping the moment of inspiration, in dealing with his career, in love relationships, and navigating London’s constant changes. The sense of a time that is always coming but never coming about is very strong in the book and lends a patina of melancholy and vulnerability to the character. He is exposed to time and its spirals. However, the trigger of these states of vulnerability is often atmosphere, not a specific event. This somehow creates a distance between the emotional depth of the character and the reader.** The question of time is really interesting. I think I saw this notion of the timeliness of the book or the timeliness of how one thinks about the time they're in, and this lapse that you're identifying in the story, that the narrator always is coming into awareness of something after it's happened rather than in the right time. I think that is generally how it works. When someone tries to be of the moment, one always ends up kind of looking to the things that are most characteristic of a moment, not to those that are invisible at that moment, but looking back, these “invisible” things, become the only things one sees. And I think that's what maybe I was trying to convey with the writer being out of time. There's a cringe dimension of this writer trying, this main character, or anyone who wants to talk about trying to catch up, to be “of the moment” And the book is one of these attempts, these striving moments to catch up to the discourse, or whatever, and always failing, in pretty disastrous ways. It's something that I've thought about for a long time in terms of how we're always, here I’m quoting a song by the Canadian band Wolf Parade song *Shine a Light*, “You're waiting on a moment that will never arrive”. I feel like everybody is always chasing this moment that will never arrive. And in fact, it can't arrive, because if it does arrive, it won't be the moment. It will just be the quotidian experience of what you're living through. It will never have the glory and glamor of the thing you're living for. And literature is a place where you can kind of play out your dreams, or whatever, your ideal space. Literature allows you to think about how things went wrong and to depict that. **While I was reading I could feel you writing. You managed very well to recapitulate this bumpy process. The moments when the character is about to start to write are always punctuated by distractions, life happening to you, and around you, in a fluctuation. And you use literature, art, and cultural products as a way of grounding yourself/the character. The use of technology and its ways of platforming cultural objects is different too. It is not about distraction and consumption but recollection of the experience.** Interesting point because this question of using art to ground oneself, is an offline, technological act. Literature being offline is part of its history, but it isn't the moment. I mean, a lot of the literary forms that have emerged in recent years have come through YouTube, like Flarf, Instagram poetry, or TikTok stuff. And booktok is, of course, huge. Everything is so impacted by the Internet. One of the things that came up at San Serriffe, where I did a launch event last night was the question of social performativity on social media. I think a big reason why that is the case is because we have full access 24/7 to everyone's consciousness in a way that we never had before, and those forms of relationships are not grounded. Art, most visual art, on the contrary, is *in situ* or the material world. Those experiences separate you from a certain kind of community but perhaps create another. I guess that tension pervades throughout the book, but I do think of it as a very online book in a lot of ways because it's a product of this culture of constant introspection and constant subjection to interpretation by other people. This new kind of material relationship that is created by the social media sphere is, I think, a key driver of why people are interested in autofiction in the first place, and so negotiating that tension is a key theme of the book in a lot of ways. **Personal blogs are the product of internet culture and could be posed as the ancestors of contemporary autofiction. And a certain point everyone felt compelled to share their lives on the internet with strangers. There is this passage at the beginning of the book where the character ponders whether or not to activate a Twitter account and jump into another level of fictionalization: the creation of a brilliant public persona. In seeking outer validation or a community online, the biggest contrast between the possibilities of the internet and the fragility, precarity, and dreadfulness experienced by the character in real life creates a dialectic.** This notion of dialectic is an interesting concept to start with because of that specific thing about the Twitter section, where the narrator is thinking about setting up a Twitter account and ponders the question of how do you present yourself there. I feel like the book is full of these moments of selective forms of exposure or performativity. In those cases, the writer is theoretically planning to do this representation of himself on Twitter. But of course, writing a book is also a performance of the self, especially in an autofictional space, and there are all these sorts of fault lines. And now we do live in a way, like having had autofiction be such a prominent genre, where this expectation of self-exposure has been elevated and valorized, the fusion of the character, and the author. And, of course – I mean, no spoilers or anything – but fictional characters become important as the book goes along because one of the themes that it treats is the way that sometimes it's through fiction that this discovery process we spoke about earlier, happens. Things come into being, or come into realization, through that process. And of course, obviously to speak about autofiction now is also to speak about the place other fiction plays in discursive space. Authors for example Maggie Nelson made a theoretical model coming from an embodied experience and positionality. And there's a standpoint epistemology in Marxist theory, and that's evolved in a lot of different ways, too, but I think we're kind of coming to the point when the discussion about the way that making a stance public will be completely conflated with or understood as your identity or your position. And, the way this position is articulated is assumed to be stable in ways that probably were never expected in quite the same way before, except in highly surveilled and policed societies. But now dynamic that is a characteristic of essentially just being alive now, it means you're in a surveilled space. You're in a highly, highly policed discursive space wherein people have expectations of consistency, where when a person falls you know a person inevitably fails to meet expectations, and to avoid appearing consistent or stable they lose certain parts, or they cut off certain parts of their personality or ways of thinking that are not necessarily fitting in with those social norms. And, in a philosophical space or autotheoretical space, this could be damaging, but in a fictional space, it can be productive and interesting, because you end up exploring how those processes take place through the dramatization process of the novel. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Habib_William_Kherbek_Fail_Worse_Arcadia_Missa_2.png) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Habib_William_Kherbek_Fail_Worse_Arcadia_Missa_3.png) **I see what you mean. The consistency required by authorship and online performativity is inscribed in the fiction of the stable life which then becomes more easily framed, schematized, surveilled, and representable in a social scheme, or a social expectation. But in the book, I could taste a craving for the unexpected or the event that is intangible, yet which creates a short circuit in the stability, a destabilizing force that would mess up your system of references, and redirect your attention to things happening around you. Like the bike episode. And I see that there is a perception of reality that is simultaneously happening.** These parallels take place in the book: people falling from bicycles, and the precarity that is in the financial position of people, are deliberately there to echo each other. But I do think, as you say, this openness to change and the complexity of life sort of creates these ostensibly meaningful patterns, which may not be meaningful. I mean, this is apophenia the belief that things are connected in ways that they aren't, or at least aren’t in any way you could know. Historically, we didn't have the information space that people are in today, before the internet and before social media. Before the internet we had different stimuli; now, it's almost impossible to not see patterns that aren't there and that are completely meaningless. But we're hardwired mentally to see patterns, and it always feels a little bit like we're on the verge of some kind of schizophrenic situation, where you constantly see irreconcilable information, maybe meaningless, but still, you can't shake the feeling that it creates this mental space that to anybody who's dealing with large levels of information, which is almost anybody nowadays, creates a condition is almost dreamlike or hallucinatory. Some of that sensation is something I'm working on within the book. Because, you know, obviously, again, it's a highly controlled environment a novel; you are structuring it out as the writer, and so you can play with those associations. I hopefully, convey some of the emotional experience to the reader through the way that those things are arranged, those parallels, those apparent patterns, those forms of symbolic awareness, or symbolic returns. Those are laid out in ways that, hopefully, more or less effectively, I think, draw the reader in. It is very much an attempt structurally within the book to provoke those things. And how much could one make of those things being connected? I mean, that's where the readerly interest comes in. **The environment of the novel is London, and its constant changes, and how they follow the author and drift in and out of his routine. I am thinking about Elephant and Castle in South London and its gentrification which is very present in the book. This gives the book a very specific situatedness and contingency in navigating the urbanscape of a big metropolis which is constantly shaped by economic and cultural fluxes. The space of London defines somehow the conceptual space of the book.** That's correct. I think this is a great insight into genres such as auto theory because they give you insights into places and atmospheres that do exist. The question then becomes how you apply that insight and how relevant that is to certain kinds of questions. Ultimately that's where the limits of any kind of embodied awareness are. Autofiction legitimates situated and embodied forms of knowledge, and, ironically, that was the biggest hurdle to overcome in the process. **Another aspect of the book that drew me in is the torsion to build a character and a plot to which the reader could relate. And also made me think that everyone can write about everything, can believe that their experience is worth telling in a relatable measure. This is also part of the performativity we were speaking before. My question here is about the subtext of the book, which is a satiric one, the satire of the genre itself. And I am wondering if this was a device to make it more relatable.** I did want this to be more relatable than anything I'd ever consciously written. I started from the most believable, relatable stuff which comes easier in the culture of permanent awareness we live in. Relatability is also a measure and tool of success. The people who break through now are in this space of relatability and spectacle. So it could be you, in that situation, but it is not. And that’s the gap between relatability and spectacle, a gap where a lot of the aspiration and longing that people bring forward towards influencers, big star streamers, and other public people appears. These highly public figures who have huge followings, they're unspectacular in the sense that their daily life is kind of relatable, but then they're put into these situations through their stream, or their program, or through whatever they are influencing that are far beyond the relatable. **But this is not even relatability, I would say it is familiarity. When I see the TikTok videos of influencers and starlettes I see that they all follow a similar template. There is a lack of self-expression in the quest to constantly be part of and reproduce a trend. But this is another tangent I am taking. Which for me is a good sign. Because the book leads me on different planes of observation.** **I wanted to ask you about the relationships you describe in the story. This made me think about an issue raised by McKenzie Wark about the narrative inclusion of others within the autofiction, and how the perception of them could be wrong or misleading. Autofiction writers steal part of their stories from the people surrounding them. I wanted to ask you about the choice of giving names to the characters who are your friends and instead nicknames to your lovers.** That's an interesting point because it is something that I thought a lot about. Why not just give them another name? And one of the main reasons was, I felt like there is an extra privacy layer when there's, like, an intimate dimension. And I think that the idea of using eye color as kind of a distinguishing feature gives an allure which I think the book is kind of working with. It also tells you the level of connection that you would have with the person. With friends, not in a romantic type of situation, I felt like there was a slightly lower bar. Of course, I adopted degrees and hierarchies of how much I wanted to expose certain people in this fictional situation to avoid speculation around anything. **But for me, it's interesting because I think that in the end, by giving nicknames you reached a deeper intimate level, which counterbalances the loneliness that I felt while getting acquainted with the character. Because the relationships of friendship described are present but do not depict a full picture of the person. The character’s lovers instead linger in the memory, and actively participate in this coming back of time past, which supports and deepens the sense of precariety of the character in the movement between Berlin and London.** You bring up this question of loneliness and the characters are always in kind of that state. Some people would say that all literature in Europe is literature of loneliness. But what I would say more to that point, and more to the moment, is I think we're living in an age of supreme loneliness. The capacity for constant connections with people does not necessarily lead to a greater level of understanding or satisfaction in relationships, or even a richer, like, “friendscape” – that’s the term that they used a few years ago to describe people's like social media contacts. This world that we've seen created is perhaps bountiful in terms of numbers, but not as satisfying as they should be, or we’d aspire for them to be. It’s like fast food: you get the immediate hit of sugar, or whatever it is that you want, and then you're hungry an hour later because there are no actual nutrients in it. It's a kind of fast *foodification* of friendship and relationships that I think we live in now. And this is a recipe for a deep kind of loneliness. **Yes, it is. But this is a diffused problem because this is also the problem of culture and its duration. Like, for example, books that were released five years ago are already old, and outdated by the new discursive tchotchke. And time, and its narration, is always ahead of us. That’s how capitalism operates after all. Something very valuable in your book is that the past, in its literary products, is present. It is evoked continuously, in the perception of non-linearity, the coming and going of references, and their cohabitation in simultaneity and the vertigos they induce. Do you spiral as a person?** It does happen to me in life where you have a thought and it won't leave you alone, and then it just gets out of control. The book is just full of those. Some of them, are painted from life, and some of them are things that I thought, but I would say that a lot of the stuff in the book was inflated consciously. But I would say that, yeah, it is, it is a feature of the way I kind of engage with the world, for better or for worse. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Habib_William_Kherbek_Fail_Worse_Arcadia_Missa_4.png) // Fail Worse is published by Arcadia Missa Press and can be purchased [here](https://arcadiamissa.com/product/fail-worse/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). --- ### Image Credits Courtesy Habib William Kherbek and Arcadia Missa Publications. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Letters from Workers: URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/letters-from-workers-3/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:54.000Z The Palestinian artist Noor Abed and the curator Lara Khaldi focus their education platform, *School of Intrusions*, on the body as the primary medium for “intruding” into public and private, and rural and urban spaces. Founded in 2019 in Ramallah, *School of Intrusions* uses the body as a site for collective, participatory experiences. This idea resonates with the second season of *If Body*, a visual arts and performance festival curated by [LOCALES](https://www.localesproject.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (Sara Alberani, Marta Federici, Chiara Siravo), held across various Rome locations this summer, which our contributor attended. This letter reflects on the workshop given by Abed and Khaldi on *School of Intrusions*, which was held on September 14, 2024, at Mattatoio (La Pelanda), and the artist talk at the ex-institute Angelo Mai, both hosted within the Short Theatre’s program and co-produced alongside *If Body*. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Locales-_-School-of-Intrusion-Talk-_-1920-x-1080.jpg) fig. 1 Utrecht, October 1, 2024 Dear Lara and Noor, During your talk at Angelo Mai last September, it wasn’t the first time I heard you reading correspondences to introduce *School of Intrusions* (SOI) to an audience. Letters, emails, and texts seem to be methodologically relevant to your practices. In an email exchange, we can address each other, hope for an answer, and momentarily forget the loneliness and powerlessness we may feel in these turbulent times. The correspondence you shared with us, dated August 2022, imagined a new iteration of the *School* after liberation – a liberation that eradicates the slow yet constant violence imposed by settler colonialism. I wonder, did you foresee the escalation of violence after October 7th that came over the following year? Or the pro-Palestinian encampments that grew up, first in the U.S. and later across European countries, including in Italy? Could you have predicted the surge of police brutality against protestors? During your conversation, you anticipated liberation as coming twenty years from today. “How do we initiate a protest that lasts until a permanent ceasefire is effective?” I paraphrased one of your questions from the *School of Intrusion* workshop organized by LOCALES, the Rome-based curatorial platform. I regret not realizing earlier that the location of your workshop, *La Pelanda* in Mattatoio, was the same space where performing arts workers had begun a[ mobilization](https://www.romatoday.it/cultura/mattatoio-testaccio-protesta-lavoratori-spettacolo-motivi.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) under the slogan “Vogliamo tutt'altro” (“We want otherwise!”) on March 27th. This assembly evolved by interlinking the general atmosphere of cultural stagnation in Italy to the expression of solidarity between the Italian cultural sector and the Palestinian people (1). On May 21st, the same activist group opted for direct action and [occupied MAXXI](https://www.ilfattoquotidiano.it/2024/05/21/blitz-al-maxxi-di-roma-dei-%20lavoratori-della-cultura-e-dello-spettacolo-rompiamo-il-silenzio-sul-genocidio-a-%20gaza/7557092/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), the National Museum of Contemporary Arts and Architecture to signal Italian art institutions' complicity with Zionist politics. They invited the art community to break the silence by taking a stand on the ongoing genocide. From one year to the next, every time I’ve held a piece of watermelon, I think of Gaza, the West Bank – Gaza City, Khan Yunis, Rafah – and now Beirut. Reflecting on these events, I wonder if we’re finally moving toward a permanent state of protest. What will art's role be then, whether in Rome, Venice, or the Netherlands, where we now live? Some audiovisual projects you presented during the SOI workshop offer valuable speculation on this. In *Ma'loul Celebrates its Destruction* (1985), by the Palestinian director Michel Khleifi, a painting revives the memory of the Galilean village destroyed during the 1948 war. The artwork becomes the focal point of an affective geography whose memories travel across generations, twisting the sense of loss that permeates displaced Palestinian families’ histories. The return to the old village becomes a celebration, even if it’s restricted to one day per year, as the commemoration coincides with Israel’s Independence Day. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Lara-Khaldi-Noor-Abed-_-School-of-Intrusions_1080x720-1024x683.jpg) fig. 2 One conclusion from the workshop is that art can condense multiple temporalities, linking past and present resistance across a trans-secular and multipolar decolonial trajectory. In *The Bridge (Al-Jisser)* (2012) by the Subversive Film collective, the team reconstructed the lost images of refugees crossing the Allenby Bridge. The bridge itself was destroyed in 1967\. By assembling fragments from radical non-Palestinian filmmakers and propaganda films, the film enters a timeless memory, repeating the crossing over and over. These images recall the Nakba of 1948, the Naksa, and the uncensored footage shared on social media today. The repetitive nature of these scenes speaks to both horror and resilience, reminding me of the voice of Bisan Owda, who I listen to daily on Instagram. I have visited her profile for updates since she started to chronicle the events of last October. Her updates from the Gaza Strip begin with “Hey, this is Bisan, I’m still alive…” She documents the forms of violence endured daily by the people in Gaza. I’m sure you follow her too. Toward the end of your workshop, we watched footage from AAMOD (Audiovisual Archive of the Workers and Democratic Movement), showing the workers’ pro-Palestine demonstration on September 21st, 1982 in Rome. While some of us were writing letters, others waited for their turn to write. I penned a letter to my 23-year-old cousin, who recently told me he had “no time for Palestine” and that he felt distant from the student encampments organized by his peers. Any collective effort seemed futile to him. I wrote to explore his understanding of “Palestine”. I shared my answer, inspired by Francoise Vergès, who said: “[Palestine is the measure of what we are capable of doing to change the world](https://www.elsaltodiario.com/palestina/francoise-verges-liberacion-palestina-seria-una-verdadera-sacudida-mundo?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)”. I’d love to hear your thoughts on these words. Can we work with them? I heard the protest will begin at 2:00 PM at De Dam Square in Amsterdam this Saturday. Write me back before then, so we can organize a plan to go together. Stay safe, Giulia \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES (1) It is important to note that an increasing number of statements in support of the Palestinian people have been realized in the context of the Italian arts sector during 2023\. Among them, the open letter titled “Italian Arts United for Palestine” disseminated by AWI - Art Workers Italia, Il Campo Innocente, together with Italian Arts Watch, a newly formed platform monitoring Italian art institutions’ actions on this issue. The letter was made public on December 8th, 2023\. Also, it is important to mention the collective statement entitled “NO MOVES TO INNOCENCE” signed by the networks of members, associates, and former collaborators of Lateral Roma, an independent art and project space in Rome of which members of LOCALES are part. The latter constitutes one of the rare examples in Italy of art institutions taking a clear and direct stand in support of the Palestinian struggle. IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2: Lara Khaldi e Noor Abed, School of Intrusions, If Body 2024, commissioned and curated by LOCALES, co-realized with Short Theatre 2024, Angelo mai, Rome, 2024\. Photo Claudia Borgia, courtesy the artist and LOCALES. *Giulia Menegale is an independent curator, art writer, and Ph.D. candidate. She is interested in how artists and cultural producers reform institutions as a collective practice.* ### Cartographing the World After Gaza URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cartographing-the-world-after-gaza/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:51.000Z Navigating an exhibition can move us to become untethered from the linear paths of familiar histories. To get lost in the unspecified. To feel unprecedented connections with others. In Dor Guez Munayer’s *Not Knowing is a Good Place to Start* concrete landscapes and their abstractions do not lose sight of each other, instead maintaining the tension between what is shown and what is not, what traverses intimacies and official narratives, as physical traces disappear into the realm of poetry. It is an exhibition based on journeys, across time, between languages, through mourning, beyond borders, and then returns. “Not Knowing,” explains Guez, “does not signify ignorance, but rather a recognition of the limitations of what we think we know.” In one of Carlier | Gebauer’s most discreet exhibition spaces in Berlin, Guez interrogates the knowledge systems we have inherited, structured by compasses and cartographies, particularly those that uphold oppressive political power and structures. The tension between what is mapped and what remains unmapped serves as a powerful reminder of the gaps left by history and the enduring need to resist simplistic narratives of nationhood, especially in the wake of ongoing tragedies, such as the genocide in Gaza. At the heart of the exhibition are circular "anti-maps" devoid of any human-made markers, names, or identifiable features, symbolizing a pre-human world stripped of political significance. These maps disrupt the traditional rectangular grid, evoking a sense of dislocation and resistance to the linear rationalist mapping that has historically served colonial and imperial powers. By removing any fixed direction, Guez forces the viewer to grapple with disorientation, drawing parallels between mapping the earth and the ways histories of violence and occupation are encoded into these representations. This approach builds on Guez’s earlier series *Amid Imperial Grids*, where he erased human traces – city names, borders, markers of civilization – from early 20th-century topographical maps, rendering them unregulated. These works challenge the political power of maps which were historically used to divide, categorize, and control, and invite us to imagine a world where national boundaries are no longer arbitrary impositions. Guez further connects these abstracted landscapes to themes of belonging and exile, as exemplified by the presence of the plumb bob – an ancient tool symbolizing the human desire to impose structure and order on the natural world, despite the distortions this creates in life and landscapes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DG_2023_Amid_Imperial_Grid_Germany_3.jpg) fig. 1 Orientation comes from where the sun rises – the orient – not magnetic poles. And around these mirroring oracle-like surfaces, orientation becomes an act of contemplating political axes, intersecting the fragility of memory and the material remnants of displacement. Guez, born in Jerusalem to a Palestinian mother and an Arab-Jewish father from Tunisia, interrogates how these intersections can be reimagined and recast through contemporary art. His works emerge from the scars left by migration and exile – traces that linger not only on the body but on the very objects carried through these ruptured biographies. The exhibition revolves around these fragments: archival photographs, objects, maps, plants – each recontextualized to raise questions about visibility, erasure, and the lingering echoes of history. This lingering materializes in Guez’s ongoing photographic series of refugees’ and immigrants’ suitcases. Here, Guez brings together the intimate stories of his family’s displacement: the exile of his father’s family from Tunisia after the Nazi occupation and the forced migration of his mother’s family during the Nakba 1948 as they sought refuge in the basement of St. George’s Church in Lydda. These suitcases, passed down through generations, carry the physical imprints of these journeys. Guez photographs each suitcase meticulously, capturing the six outer faces before flattening them into a single surface – transforming the volume of these objects into a unified plane. The result is an uncanny presence, an “afterlife” of things. These are not mere vessels for possessions; they are artifacts of displacement, bearing the weight of memory and trauma. In *Suitcase No. 2* and *Suitcase No. 3*, every crease, scuff, and tear tells a story of a journey – both physical and emotional. By collapsing these three-dimensional objects to a singular perspective, Guez invites us to confront the limits of what can be contained, both literally and metaphorically. What is packed into these suitcases? What is left behind? What invisible burdens are carried within the visible marks? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DG_2024_Suitcase_02_WID25973.jpg) fig. 2 The sense of impermanence and longing permeates the exhibition, where borders, both literal and figurative, are continually questioned and deconstructed. The exhibition also delves deeper into the political and material layers of Guez’s work through his *Khobiza* series. Khobiza, a wild plant native to Palestine, becomes a symbol of resilience and survival in its gentle manifestation. Historically used as a bread substitute during times of war and siege, khobiza has sustained generations of Palestinians and Jews during times of scarcity. For Guez’s family, who once again found themselves taking refuge in a church during the recent bombings in Gaza, khobiza has become a lifeline, literally and symbolically. In this series, Guez depicts the plant in varying stages, harvested and scattered across the milky photographic surface, its leaves sinking into or emerging from the paper as if suspended in limbo. The image plays with notions of visibility and invisibility, as the delicate textures of the plant’s leaves merge with the grain of the paper, evoking a feeling of fragility and impermanence. The political layers of the work stretch beyond the visible. Khobiza is a plant that grows in abandoned fields and urban ruins, a symbol of survival amidst the wreckage of history. The tension between what is made visible in the image and what remains invisible – both in terms of the plant’s historical significance and its role in the artist’s family’s survival – creates a space where the material and the political converge. It is here, at the border of what can be seen and what has been deliberately obscured, that Guez’s work takes on its most generous form: blossoming. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DG_2024_Khobiza_WID25979.jpg) fig. 3 Last summer, pigeons entered Guez’s studio in Jaffa, building nests in his absence. This seemingly mundane event took on deeper significance when the birds chose to nest on a tall bookshelf, specifically on a biblical dictionary from 1977 written in Hebrew and Aramaic. Guez blurs the line between chance and intervention, offering a moment of quiet reflection with this assemblage now called *Nest*. The birds, like the artist’s own family, sought refuge in a space filled with layers of history, knowledge, and language. The choice of this book, with its charged cultural and religious connotations, infuses the work with a sense of irony and tenderness. Guez does not interfere with the pigeons’ nesting. Instead, he allows the process to unfold organically, transforming his studio into a site of refuge, not just for himself but also for other creatures seeking safety. The sculpture, rather than being a static object, becomes a living, breathing entity, constantly shaped by the unpredictable forces of nature and life. The act of nesting, with its connotations of home and protection, becomes a metaphor for larger questions of shelter and displacement that run through Guez’s work. It’s a subtle yet profound exploration of how the most ordinary of spaces can sustain the weight of history. We are held in a space of reflection, yet Guez’s work does not offer straightforward answers or solutions. Instead, it invites us to confront the ambiguity of not knowing *enough*—about the history of dispossession in Palestine, the legacies of colonialism in the Middle East, or the complex interplay of memory and erasure in the trauma of Jewish people imposed by centuries of persecution, culminating in the violent birth of the State of Israel. The scars, traces, and fragments that fill the gallery are reminders of ongoing struggles for the recognition of suffering—both in Gaza, where lives are continually disrupted, and in other histories of forced migration, occupation, and violence across the world that have been omitted from dominant narratives. These remnants testify to survival and resilience. Perhaps not knowing enough is helpful to those witnessing the pain of others. It is in this disorientation, in the discomfort of confronting what has been silenced or erased, that we begin to see the invisible, hear the voices that have been silenced, and bear witness to histories that are not always our own. Only in this recognition can we reorient ourselves toward a future where these stories are no longer hidden. Erasure and absence run through the exhibition, with black voids occupying much of the image space, forcing viewers to confront what is unseen or unknowable. These voids echo the uncharted gaps between political and national borders, spaces that resist control and appropriation. In a world where maps historically have been instruments of domination and division – especially in Palestine – the absence of familiar demarcations invites contemplation of the violence of colonialism, and the historical process of replacing identities and cultures with supremacist others, as though precision could solve conflict and exclusion. Quite the opposite, Guez seems to suggest with this exhibition: the disorientation of not knowing the limits between “us” and “them” may offer a place to rest. A place to begin. \\\\ *On view until October 26, 2024.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 3: Dor Guez, Khobiza, 2024, archival inkjet print. Courtesy of the artist and carlier | gebauer, Berlin/Madrid. Image © Dor Guez. fig. 1: Dor Guez, Amid Imperial Grid (Germany) #3, 2023\. Archival Inkjet Print. Courtesy of the artist and carlier | gebauer, Berlin/Madrid. Photo © Andrea Rossetti. fig. 2: Dor Guez, Suitcase No. 2, 2024\. Archival inkjet print. Courtesy of the artist and carlier | gebauer, Berlin/Madrid. Image © Dor Guez. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Not a manifesto, an infant cry URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/not-a-manifesto-an-infant-cry/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:50.000Z I was sitting across from my father; he was telling me about the southern border and the mountains in October. The restaurant felt familiar; it was Easter Sunday. I talked to him about liberation, and I’m not sure I knew what I meant. By the end of the meal, the word felt like a shell, emptied of all living things. *(I wanted to lick its walls, count its rings, reside in it.)* *(I wanted to say: I fear the people who don’t believe in an end to this.)* Do you think this is the only realistic way to live: to sit and watch a genocide unfold? I want to know what counts as real to you—just the past and the now? Is that the real we have to linger in, helpless in our wordlessness for what is about to unfold? The glass of water spills, and I want to scream: reality is a process, it extends backwards, it rushes over you, and stretches to the horizon. You can catch its leading edges, hold onto the loose threads, and nudge it toward the mossy alcoves where we will sigh with relief and ask ourselves: where do we go from here? The real has a future, and it is ours to shape. I can’t look at it straight just yet. Do you see? Across your screen and the words on it, across the window and the landscapes that engulf you—do you see what isn’t quite there yet to see? Liberation could be as realistic as any other future. It is in the vagueness of a utopia that its possibilities lie. So no, I do not know what liberation truly means. You’ll have to leave me alone; you’ll have to accept that I have only some ideas—most of them blurry and sun-drenched. I have ideas, and that is enough. Knowing the future and willing it are two different things. We will shape blindly until we carve out greener hills. Utopia is knowing about a better day. (It is also making it possible.) Utopian hope lies between the two—a necessary link, an eel, a rope. This reeks of hope. I know it is currently unfashionable—but I have seen hundreds of children die on my phone. At some point, we need to face the possibility of ridicule and envisage something better, something stranger than this. I have gotten used to the pillage, to the crumbling. Hope needs to be trained until it becomes reflex, until it becomes change. Hope is the ability to think about time also in the future—to find dreams embedded in history, nested in the present. To pluck them from their hiding places and see the reality of them. I sit in the restaurant and see the task: the balancing act of imagining a radically different future, yet grounded in the possibilities of the now, created every second. Our present unfolding, our present ours, our future near! The future is both a tendency we can already foresee and a rupture we cannot expect. And we stand at this tipping point, hopeful because we must be. The hopeful revolt is an expanding one, wider than scared outcries and shrinking worlds. We extend, reaching out two arms across the globe, finding ourselves interlacing fingers in a gentle place. We will claim: we have witnessed the horrors, and now we are as we are, holding hands like this, in a tightening embrace, organizing into a force that can only weave beauty at the core of it all. The world will be unrecognizable. It will no longer produce people like us. We will go extinct, hopefully the last of our kind! And so we have to desire our perishing; we have to destroy what we know and watch the burning with joy! And we will cheer at our own disappearance, thinking about what it enables, thinking about a greater birth. That is our task—the central one. That is hope. Do you understand? We must find the strength to think of a different world. We must be able to will ourselves to become otherwise. This is the project of hope, one against the hatred of what is now, against the fear of what will replace it, focused on what is to come—its leaping heart, its strange landscapes. What a relief, to know we don’t have to see what liberation looks like to know we want it! Utopias are a call to desire, not a map of what should be. There is a promise here to desire better, more consistently, in bigger strokes—and we will go to the forest where you used to watch birds, and it will be quiet. This is not a manifesto. It is not loud enough, not impatient enough with itself. This is not quite an act, yet more of an act than a text. This is an invitation to dare, making an art of excess, of overflowing despair, of turning it into unspeakable beauty. It is a provocation. I am sitting at the restaurant’s table, and I am not hungry. Please, be powerful in your anger. I haven’t slept in months. I am begging without shame: arm yourself—arm yourself with anger and its infant cry. I will use the word "liberation" knowing only its shape. My father said their horror will catch up to them. I finish my plate. --- \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] This text’s ideas are based on Kathi Weeks’ The Problem with Work (2011), starting p. 432. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Pauł Sochacki, Art of War, 2024 Courtesy of the Artist. *Lara Torbay is a Swiss-Lebanese writer and feminist legal scholar. Her writing focuses on the erotic, utopia and diasporic moping.* ### A sense of collectivity is created through struggles URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-sense-of-collectivity-is-created-through-struggles/ Last updated: 2026-09-03T22:39:49.000Z El *Sindicat de Llogateres* (Tenants Union in Catalan) has been instrumental in defending housing rights in Barcelona since its creation in May 2017\. Over the years, the Union has launched various campaigns, empowering neighbors and demanding specific regulations from the administration. It's important to remember that the 2008 financial crisis began in the housing sector. Since the late nineties - and even before - Spain implemented a series of public policies, legal reforms, and economic measures related to land rezoning, mortgages, and credit. While these allowed for an overproduction of housing, they also created a property bubble that eventually burst, causing one of the major crises in the country’s recent history. Although some movements in Spain were already protesting the housing crisis in 2006, for example, V de Vivienda, or recall the famous slogan *No Tendrás Casa en Tu Puta Vida* ("You won’t have a house in your fucking life"), the 2008 collapse emerged as a systemic crisis, sparking a massive wave of protests. La PAH *(Plataforma de Afectados por la Hipoteca* *(The Platform for People Affected by Mortgages))* became one of the leading organizations addressing the impacts of the crash, and, together with others, La PAH was at the origin of Sindicat de Llogateres. One of the effects of this crisis, especially in Spain, was the arrival of large investment funds that purchased vast quantities of properties. As the crisis spread a general precarization of Barcelona and its population. This, in retrospect, allowed for the growth of mass tourism and gentrification as the main economic solutions to the recession. Since its inception, the Union has been active in proposing specific measures to regulate rent prices, such as the mandate that 30% of public housing be included in each new construction. The campaign *Ens Quedem* ("We are staying"), wherein tenants refusing to vacate their apartments continue to pay their old rent, forcing collective negotiations with large investors and vulture funds, is also one of their initiatives. So too was the organizing of a rent strike during the pandemic, and advocacy for a congressional proposal to push the Spanish government to approve a new housing law. Today, Barcelona is populated with nomadic inhabitants and businesses. It is oriented toward tourists who have destroyed the character of the city and many local relationships. The displacement of Barcelona’s population risks making the city resemble Venice, an empty backdrop for seasonal inhabitants who can afford to live there for a few months and consume a fake and generic experience. Over the last thirty years, Barcelona has been transformed by events including the 1992 Olympic Games and the 2004 Universal Cultures Forum, which were operations to position the city internationally and to implement urban transformation, pressuring the city and its citizens to assimilate to neoliberal agendas and global spatial models and products. This year, 2024, we have the America’s Cup and the Manifesta Biennial. The first is a sailing competition that will attract two million tourists, in addition to the 26 million tourists that usually visit each year, in a city of a little more than 1.5 million people, which has endured a severe drought for the past three years. This overwhelming influx implies a huge social and environmental cost. The second event, Manifesta, is a contemporary art biennial that focuses on a different European city and has become instrumental in changing the narrative of that place, using culture to gentrify areas and attract visitors and investors. This year’s edition spreads across 11 other municipalities in the metropolitan region. While Manifesta may not have the same media and public impact as the America’s Cup, it promotes the metropolitan region to an international population, as many are, and will be, displaced or forced to move in the coming years as another result of Barcelona’s mass gentrification process. In light of these predictable consequences, it is known that Manifesta was purchased by the city (for between 6 and 8 million euros, depending on the source on whom one relies) as a concession from Ada Colau’s administration to the contemporary art scene in Barcelona, as she had dismissed them from the very beginning of her tenure - despite the artistic community being one of the most supportive sectors of her mayoral candidacy. Apparently, once Colau became mayor, an advisor told her that contemporary art was a toy for posh people and thus her opinion of art changed. While it is unclear what benefits Manifesta will bring to the local artistic community, given the very low number of participating local artists, and the fact that the usual precarity and structural problems of the arts will continue intact after Manifesta “leaves” to conquer another city in Europe. Carme Arcarazo is the spokesperson of Sindicat de Llogateres and has advocated for an integral housing policy that, while regulating rent, also increases public and cooperative housing projects. We talked with her about the future of El Sindicat de Llogateres and the ways in which the commodification of housing is part of the same extractivist logic that views nature, land, and the city as passive resources to be exploited, and about how to transform the situation and address the housing and ecological crises step by step. **MMX: *Sindicat de Llogateres* has been shaking things up since 2017\. What’s been your proudest moment so far?** **CA:** It's very hard to mention the proudest moment. Usually, we think of victories as the proudest moments, but surprisingly, defeats also come to mind. We had a case with Jua and Livia, who lived in Gràcia. They were refusing a rent increase, which was completely legal at the time, as the owner could raise the rent as much as they pleased, so they decided to stay and keep paying the old amount. The dispute with the owner lasted a long time, and there were many eviction attempts where hundreds of people would gather to protect the building and prevent the police from entering. In the last attempt, the police succeeded - we had hundreds of people organized, but the police entered through the basement and managed to evict the family. We appeared on all the TV news, and Lidia, speaking in front of the camera, said that the only battle that is lost is the one you don’t engage in, the one that you don’t fight. And she fought until the end to show how absurd the situation was, and how we needed rent control to prevent abusive practices. So, I think it is thanks to people like them, who view their own fight as a collective one, that makes the biggest difference. Similarly, we fought a long case with Caixa Bank, the largest property owner in Catalonia, which owned a big part of the publically funded, affordable housing stock under very abusive clauses, implementing rent hikes, and obliging their tenants to have bank accounts and insurance from their own bank. For years, we tried to negotiate and agree on some basic issues - no evictions, no rent increases, maintenance of their buildings, and so on. It was impossible to get them to sit at the table, and we thought it was going to be very difficult because CaixaBank has enormous power in Catalonia. But we decided to take them to court. For the first time, the Union engaged in a trial. We had fifty blocks and more than a thousand tenants, and this summer, in the middle of it,CaixaBank agreed to sell these blocks to the government. So, yes, it takes time, and it’s a constant struggle. We now have in Spain a new law for housing rights, but we will never get to the point where the Union is not needed. We don’t see ourselves purely as a social movement. We are a union, and we are organized because we need to defend our rights. **MMX: So, what’s next on the horizon for the Union?** **CA:** We now have over 3,000 households in Catalonia. We have a membership, which was one of the decisions we made at the beginning, because we wanted to know how many of us there are, and we wanted to have the economic independence to be able to bring for example a vulture fund to court, organize training for our members, and have a strike fund that allows us to support people who dare to strike. So, we want to consolidate this. We are living through a process of property accumulation, and we are talking about large landlords, so we are now organized not by neighborhoods but by landlords, like Blackstone. This is very important, and it gives us the power to leverage by gathering the forces of tenants across the country. It took us a long time to pass a rent control law, and the real estate sector will always find loopholes to try to disobey the law, and they are not afraid of engaging in illegal behavior. So, for us, even though it might not sound very sexy, it's also about ensuring that the laws are respected and our victories consolidated, forcing big landlords to obey. **MMX:** **There’s nothing sexier than structuring a renters' union. It’s impressive the level of organization you’ve accomplished, and how you’ve managed to pressure governments and media to focus on the housing crisis. How do you see your work intersecting with that of environmentalists?** **CA:** It’s a crucial issue, and it’s hardly spoken about. In the UK, part of the housing movement and the environmental movement have diverged greatly, and have actually clashed with each other. We think this is very problematic, and we need to understand that both struggles are connected. Some parts of the housing movement there are in favor of building new housing units, while environmentalists are against it because we know about the ecological impact of construction and how it is responsible for 25% of greenhouse gas emissions. For us, the only way of resolving the housing crisis is by questioning the scarcity of supply, a narrative that is constantly being bombarded at us by the media. Before building more, we should assess the situation and \[see\] how many apartments are used as second or third homes, Airbnb properties, or commercial shops. We should focus on how to use the current stock before building more, which will damage the environment. Our collective struggles are to transform the built environment into something that is not based on private profit, which is a direct confrontation with the same people who are destroying the environment. Rent strikes are also ecological strikes. **MMX:** **What are your views on Manifesta in Barcelona and other forms of cultural institutions that engage in gentrification?** **CA:** When it comes to events like Manifesta, we need to look at it in a broader picture. It’s part of a series of projects that are used to showcase the city in a specific way, and these spectacles are very efficient because they bring investment and media attention to the city. Of course, we know the problem is not art per se; it’s how art is used. The same goes for sports and music. We need to be critical and see how culture and art are being instrumentalized by the capitalist and neoliberal dynamics. And this is not specific to Barcelona, it’s happening all over the world. At the same time, I understand how difficult it is for artists, and I’m sure many of them are aware of this, and they don’t want to be used as pawns. We need to think of alternative ways of organizing cultural events that are aligned with the struggles of the people living in the city. **MMX:** **In Barcelona, we have mass tourism and a rampant gentrification process that turns the city into a playground for the wealthy. Sometimes, this is visible in empty buildings and the concentration of homeless people in certain areas. \[This interview was conducted online, but Michael shows the street where his Free Music School is located, where an old sports hall is surrounded by an encampment of homeless people\]. What specific measures can we imagine to prevent further the destruction of the city?** **CA:** The number of empty buildings and apartments in Barcelona is a highly disputed topic. It's very unclear how many there are. Several studies have been conducted on this. We used to be critiqued for wanting to implement a rent control law, with the argument that it would not be profitable for landlords to rent out their apartments, making it cheaper for them to keep them empty. Of course, this is ridiculous because a common practice among large investment funds is to buy entire buildings and leave them half-empty to increase their value and create a sense of scarcity. This practice has increased over the past few years and has nothing to do with rent control but with speculative strategies that use our cities as a way to make money. In Barcelona, we now have *superilles* (superblocks—large pedestrian areas that consolidate blocks, increase greenery, and control traffic). These are often seen as a reason to raise rents, but we should be able to have both, a right to healthy, breathable environments and rent control that ensures housing is affordable. The way to achieve this is through stronger laws and enforcement. One of our most famous cases, Casa Orsola, is located in a superblock. They want to expel 27 households. So, for us, it is completely necessary to have regulations that allow people to live in their neighborhoods, in the places where they grew up, in this case, the center of Barcelona. **MMX:** **At the assemblies, you are creating a sense of collectivity, and you're doing it by using Catalan as a language for everyone, which is not common in Barcelona as a street language. What are some of the experiences of this way of connecting people from such diverse backgrounds?** **CA:** Yes, this is very important. Through realizing that if we are together, we can win. For example, we've had racist individuals attend the assemblies, and through their engagement, they have come to realize that the enemy is not the migrant - that the narrative of scarcity is false, and that we are all sharing the effects of a housing market designed to profit landlords. The problem is not the person next to you but the one above. For us, it's also key to celebrate our victories - every renewed contract, every person who gets their deposit back. This is a victory for all, which allows us to feel part of a larger community and create class consciousness. While in other parts of Europe, renters' unions have existed since the early 20th century, in Spain, renters' unions were not common, so we are building a new subjectivity that involves many different people. Since the beginning, we have used Catalan in our assemblies, which is relevant because Catalan is a minority language that is under threat. Despite many people not knowing the language, they make an effort, and of course, we switch to Spanish or another language if necessary. But it is very impressive to see how and what people learn by sharing their struggles. **MMX:** **Since the Olympics, Barcelona has organized large events as a way to achieve major urban reforms and to attract investors and tourists. This year, we have the America’s Cup and Manifesta, which are events targeting different publics but perhaps have more commonalities than one would expect. While the America’s Cup attracts an elite sports crowd, Manifesta seems designed to convince locals to move to other cities in the metropolitan region. One of the venues of Manifesta is the Three Chimneys in Badalona (also known as “Chernobyl”), where there is a huge housing development planned.** **CA:** Yes, Manifesta has not been as much in the debate as the America’s Cup, and it's hard for people who are not part of this sector to engage with a contemporary art biennial. But the general opinion of the people in Barcelona towards these large events is starting to change. We have to question who benefits from these events, and, in the case of the America’s Cup, all political parties were in favor, and its effects are already a disaster for the city, with increases in rent prices, QR codes for the neighbors of La Barceloneta to enter their homes, and the privatization of public space. Some people in the cultural sector are indeed sensitive to the housing situation, but gentrification doesn't happen just because some artists move to an area where rent is cheaper. It's an organized strategy to bend public investment, zoning, and fiscal policies in favor of certain economic agendas. In recent years, we've been told there's not enough space in the city for everyone, and that we inevitably have to move to other cities and towns in the metropolitan area. We almost have to apologize for living in the central areas of Barcelona. **MMX:** **Last spring, the union organized an international meeting of renters' unions in Barcelona. What strategies are being shared, and what are the prospects for creating alliances and building solidarity across countries?** **CA:** It was very important for us to meet in Barcelona. In two years we have another big event, it's called The District, a real estate fair where investors from around the world come together to discuss trends and to press for certain policies. For us, organizing an International of Renters in Barcelona was also a response to this provocation, to show them that we are also making international connections and planning future actions across countries, sharing knowledge. We need to have a global tenant strike and share more struggles, so we approved the Declaration of Barcelona and are working on commissions, developing an international structure that is very exciting. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Ro Caminal, Nisyan (Olvido), 2018\. Video instalación. Cortesía de la artista © Ro Caminal. *Carme Arcarazo is an urban and housing researcher at La Hidra Institute and the spokesperson of the Barcelona Tenants Union. She holds a BA in Politics, Psychology, Law and Economics from the University of Amsterdam and a Masters in Urban and Metropolitan Studies from the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona. She has worked as project manager in urban labs both in Mexico (Laboratorio para la Ciudad) and in the Barcelona Metropolitan Area (Coboi lab). She has also been an international observer, coordinating advocacy strategies and accompanying Mexican land defenders at risk. At La Hidra she is currently working on a comparative analysis of rent control policies in Europe and North America for the European Parliament. She is also a member of Urban Front.* *MMX is María Inés Plaza Lazo, a publisher and the founder of Arts of the Working Class, Michael Hart, an artist and trovador who opened the Free Music School in Barcelona this year, and Xavier Acarín, a cultural worker and researcher on urbanism and exhibition practices.* ### Ro caminal URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/ro-caminal/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:48.000Z La artista Ro Caminal opera en la intersección de las ciencias sociales y la investigación, utilizándolas como herramientas o estrategias artísticas. Es en estos cruces, en el borde de los límites, donde encuentra su material, a menudo compuesto de relatos e intrahistorias, surgidos de las voces de los habitantes de paisajes urbanos o de una naturaleza alterada por la intervención humana. El proceso de trabajo de Ro Caminal se caracteriza por tiempos pausados, donde la escucha y la observación predominan sobre el discurso. La escucha, en este contexto, se convierte en un acto político en una era dominada por opiniones rápidas y consumo veloz a través de un *scroll* infinito. Caminal se sitúa en otros lugares y temporalidades, realizando un giro que le permite captar historias que apenas sobreviven a través del relato oral. Estas historias residen en muros y calles, en espacios liminales y en lugares en constante transformación. Las capas de historia marcadas por la violencia colonial, las lógicas de la propiedad o la noción de estado son historias que, por más que se intenten sumergir en el olvido o borrar bajo nuevas construcciones, inevitablemente resurgen. Toda historia de violencia o injusticia histórica puede rastrearse si se sabe mirar y escuchar; estas historias se llevan en los cuerpos, perduran en los muros y columnas de los edificios, y continúan circulando por las calles. Solo hace falta detenerse, observar y percibir lo que nos rodea. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4-Identitee-Voilee.jpeg) fig. 1 A menudo, Caminal ubica sus proyectos en territorios que le son ajenos, pero es precisamente esta condición de extranjera lo que le permite explorar los umbrales del encuentro. Trabaja en zonas con un marcado pasado colonial, donde las capas de identidad persisten y se agrietan; ejemplos de ello son sus proyectos *Si je te vole la mer o L’ordre déchiré en Argelia, y Dystopian Concrete* en Egipto. Además, algunos proyectos se desarrollan en zonas rurales, distantes de los centros urbanos pero influenciadas por la presencia humana y la actividad agrícola, como en "Talking stones" o "Els ocells cantaven malgrat feia fret". Aunque las localizaciones varían según la investigación, el uso del relato oral es una constante para acceder a la información. Vecinas y vecinos, personas mayores, trabajadoras, jornaleros y colectivos obreros aportan sus testimonios a través de relatos orales, anécdotas, rumores y recuerdos, enriqueciendo así las historias locales. Si la tierra pertenece a quien la trabaja, también lo hacen sus historias. En este contexto, Ro Caminal valora estos relatos con la misma importancia y veracidad que los documentos archivísticos o los materiales provenientes de instituciones reconocidas por su objetividad y precisión histórica. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2-Ship-of-fools-HOOK-A-BOAT.jpg) fig. 2 Para Ro Caminal, el objetivo no es solo entender y compartir las historias que configuran el presente, sino también validarlas y ponerlas en primer plano. Son las personas que viven en estos lugares quienes poseen el conocimiento material, una rica cosmología de relaciones, tensiones, afectos y conflictos. Por eso, las preguntas formuladas desde el ámbito artístico buscan visibilizar las conexiones e interdependencias entre diferentes existencias y estructuras, sin necesariamente buscar respuestas objetivas o aplicar métodos científicos. Así como este texto que estás leyendo, este papel, esta publicación que tienes en tus manos, ha sido producido a través de un proceso específico, pero, ¿cómo se ha creado? ¿Cuánto ha costado? ¿Cuánto tiempo se ha invertido? ¿Dónde circula y cómo has accedido a él? ¿Estás en un núcleo urbano o en la periferia, en la ciudad o en el campo? Si queremos aplicar las estrategias que propone Ro Caminal para entender cómo se producen y circulan los textos en eventos artísticos, debemos preguntar a las artistas y curadoras precarias, a las diseñadoras en prácticas y a quienes distribuyen estas publicaciones sobre las condiciones de su trabajo. Y en el marco de Manifesta 15, y considerando que esta publicación se presenta durante el evento, es crucial indagar sobre su circulación. Debemos preguntar a los vecinos y vecinas, así como a quienes se encargan del montaje y la limpieza, y a todos aquellos que, aunque no participan directamente en el arte, juegan un papel indispensable en su realización. También es fundamental explorar la perspectiva de los artistas que no están directamente involucrados en Manifesta 15, para entender cómo perciben esta celebración del arte contemporáneo. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ro_caminal_dystopian_concrete_1-cc5ef063.jpg) fig. 3 \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 2: Ro Caminal, *Ship of fools*, 2016\. Video instalación. Cortesía de la artista © Ro Caminal. fig. 1: Ro Caminal, *Identitée Vo(i)lée*, 2014\. Fotografía. Cortesía de la artista © Ro Caminal. fig. 3: Ro Caminal, *Dystopian Concrete*, 2021\. Video instalación. Cortesía de la artista © Ro Caminal. *Irina Mutt is a writer who keeps on quoting Annie Sprinkle.* ### Chapter 4: workers' summer URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/chapter-3-workers-summer-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:47.000Z *The history of workers’ struggle is the history of the portion of humanity that identifies itself as being alienated from its meaning of economic production and which is subjugated by the wage labor system. It is the history of the emancipation of humankind from capitalism altogether.* *Brought together by a shared interest in making visible workers’ history and labor’s current struggles, AWC in cooperation with labournet.tv, a collective and an online archive of films from labor movements worldwide, has selected a variety of films addressing current and historical working conditions, migration fluxes, and forms of self-organization.* *The selected films, presented on AWC and labournet.tv channels, highlight axes of oppression that cross, situated struggles, and illustrate the interconnectedness between unprotected workers' rights, restrictions on trade union organization, and the extent of exploitation - especially of migrant and women workers.* The fourth and final chapter from the AWC’s selection on Labournet.tv highlights the ongoing struggles faced by women workers in various industries worldwide. Women continue to endure harsh working conditions, wage discrimination, and modern slavery, particularly in sectors where they are overrepresented and underpaid, such as the clothing and cleaning industries. These challenges are often exacerbated by gender-based discrimination, lack of access to secure employment, and limited legal protections. The selected films shed light on workers fighting for their rights and striving for better working and living conditions. From strikes in Paris, where immigrant women protested against unjust subcontracting practices, to global narratives of factory workers seeking independence, and the stories of refugee women in Germany battling bureaucratic obstacles compounded by racism and xenophobia, these films emphasize the critical need for corporate accountability, advocacy for gender and labor justice, and stronger protections for all workers. The first film, *Big Sweep Up in Subcontracting* (2010), documents labor strikes against Accor Hotels that took place in 2002 in Paris, France. Most of the strikers interviewed are women from West African countries (Senegal, Mauritania, Martinique) who migrated to France following their partners or other family members in search of work opportunities and were hired for cleaning jobs as subcontracted labor. They strike against inhumane working conditions and inadequate pay, chanting: “Arcade Betrüger, Accor Komplize! / Arcade fraudster, Accor accomplice!” [WATCH](https://en.labournet.tv/video/5835/big-sweep-subcontracting?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fig-v2.-1.png) Fig.1 The second film, *Ouvrières?* (2012), is a short documentary about women workers in the clothing industry across three continents. The film highlights the exhausting working conditions, long hours, and limited prospects associated with factory labor. Despite these hardships, the majority of the women interviewed emphasize the importance of employment for achieving financial independence, self-sufficiency, and emancipation. “For me, life is impossible without a job,” one worker remarks. [WATCH](https://en.labournet.tv/video/6482/ouvrieres?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-09-30-at-13.29.26.png) Fig.2 In the final film selected, *Women in Exile and Friends* (2020), labournet.tv interviews Elisabeth Ngari from the organization Women in Exile and Friends, founded in 2002 in Berlin, to explore the living conditions of women in German refugee camps. Ngari discusses the lack of job opportunities and integration policies, the precariousness of healthcare, and how bureaucracy hinders access to legal status. “People are blaming refugees, saying they are lazy, that they don’t want to work, that they come here to get social welfare. But refugees, when they arrive, most of them are not even given the opportunity to take German courses,” she says, highlighting how being denied access to the language limits job prospects and, consequently, better living conditions. Furthermore, the lack of privacy and the overcrowded state of the facilities lead to conflict, as well as sexual harassment and violence directed at women. [WATCH](https://en.labournet.tv/women-exile-and-friends?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-09-30-at-13.32.08.png) Fig.3 // labournet.tv is an online archive for films from the labor movement - old and new - from all parts of the world. This collaboration is facilitated by Noa Jaari, Mia Ribeiro Alonso, Line Lange, and Annalisa Giacinti. --- ### Image Credits Cover:WOMEN IN EXILE AND FRIENDS; Berlin, Germany, 2020 Fig. 1: BIG SWEEP UP IN SUBCONTRACTING; Paris, France, 2010 Fig. 2: OUVRIÈRES?; Around the world, 2012 Fig. 3: WOMEN IN EXILE AND FRIENDS; Berlin, Germany, 2020 ### Cosmopolitics URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cosmopolitics/ Last updated: 2026-09-03T22:39:51.000Z In "Cosmopolitics," Constanza Mendoza interviews Julia Risler and Pablo Ares of the Iconoclasistas collective about their use of cartography to challenge dominant narratives. Traditional maps, they argue, are tools of power used to construct singular "truths" that benefit governments and media. Iconoclasistas, however, create "situated truths" through collaborative workshops, where participants from various backgrounds—affected communities, activists, and researchers—contribute to mapping their own stories. The collective ensures their maps are rooted in the community's identity, incorporating local symbols and visual language. The conversation also touches on the importance of localized, micropolitical actions to counteract political polarization. Iconoclasistas' work demonstrates how collaborative cartography can be a form of resistance, offering communities the ability to create counter-narratives and challenge the ideologies imposed by power. **Constanza Mendoza:** I wanted to invite you to talk about the concept of “Cosmopolitics” above all because I was interested in the ways, tools, and processes you activate in your workshops, critically questioning the idea of truth in the development of alternative cartographies. In another interview, you explain how traditional cartography is a key tool that power has used to construct an idea of truth, while you, on the other hand, use similar tools to generate counter-narratives in processes of collective creation. **Julia Risler:** We criticize the idea of truth with a capital letter, that is, as a single, universal truth usually constructed by different dominant powers, such as the state, the media, public opinion, a truth of historical construction that is made in relation to a particular subject. What we work on, in relation to that image, are situated truths, that are partial truths. They are subjective truths that have a lot to do with the information, knowledge, and experiences that each of those who are participating in the construction of that collective knowledge contributes. These are not positioned as a unique story, but rather it is always a partial story and, above all, a subjective story, where what is translated are the specific interests of the participants in relation to the territory and the theme of the workshop. It becomes very clear where people are coming from, with what objectives and for whom. This does not ignore the fact that the map has a truth effect towards the outside that is perceived as something that is really a scientific or technical narrative about a territory. However, the way we work has nothing to do with that, but rather is about questioning the maps that circulate most frequently, the ones we know from educational, cultural, or political contexts. **Pablo Ares:** Maps and graphics appear as something sacred, as if what they say is true, and there is not much we can do about that. It is in eyes of those who see it. We play with that, too, because it increases the message and the political power that the map has, of the sacredness people ascribe to maps. It’s hard to believe that maps still have that aura. **JR:** As if the map really were the territory. **PA:** This is neither good nor bad. People believe in maps, graphs, charts, graphics, and statistics. **CM:** It is fascinating how your work challenges the ideological weight of the production of truth by using collaborative tools to generate counter-narratives. Is this discussed among the participants during the development of the workshops? **JR:** It is something that we always discuss, because I think that there are always very diverse subjectivities. In the same workshop you can have the affected community; the technician who is trying to resolve the issue; activists who are trying to raise awareness in the community; researchers who are speculating; and people who don’t agree that this is even a conflict. So, in fact, we work from very diverse perspectives, but the workshops always have common horizons. They usually have to do with transformative views of a territory and with people who want to make a diagnosis to be able to say: what can we do with this? What \[kind of\] resources does the involved community have? The process is always very corporeal, and people can talk about the territory but can also intervene in that territory in very diverse ways, whether it be in a pedagogical, territorial, social, or cultural way. We always accompany the workshops with small interventions based on presentations we make about the importance of the map. There is the question of ideology in a map (a map is always created from an “interested” perspective), and we work from what Donna Haraway calls “embodied objectivity”. \[1\] That is, the point of view from which we are looking. It’s very important that this is clear. We always return to the famous phrase “the map is not the territory.” We make maps, but the map is going to be put together from the knowledge, experience, and understanding that the participants bring with them and which they manage to express in three, four, or five days of work. There will always be many things left out; that is why the map is always situated and partial. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1-cuerpo_territorio.jpeg) fig. 1 **PA:** The participants are sometimes key people in the community, and, sometimes, there are also community interests that are not expressed in the workshop, but it is important that people know what the map will be used for later. That is, perhaps it is in order to question the government, perhaps not, but people can always dialogue with the government and with institutions, and a map can help them question their interests. There are people who participate, who have a vision, a particular way of seeing, and sometimes they are the ones who lead the workshop. That is, the workshop can be led by these people who are working and who are shaping the map. They give the map content, and these people already know - or at least they already intuit, more than we do - what it will be used for. We may have a general idea, but they already know what the map will be used for. This is what makes it so powerful, that since there are people who know what the map will be used for later, they can appropriate it. They can feel it is truly theirs, and they take it back. It stops belonging to the creators or the institution that promotes it. The people appropriate and distribute it. **JR:** They always use it. They understand that it is a work-in-progress and that the map has to be continually added to. **PA:** They appropriate it. It’s amazing! **JR:** After the workshop, all this information takes shape in the form of a map or any other type of device that we design. This is not the case in all workshops, but it is in some. Obviously, there is a process of our mediation, editing, and curating. Beyond the previously established objectives - what, why, and for whom - there is always our contribution, a graphic, aesthetic proposal, a form of communication, based, a lot, on the sensibilities displayed in the workshop and on what we felt. From experience, we tend to intuit where to go, what to focus on, what type of images, symbology, and cosmovision represent the community so that they feel identified with that tool, and they can take it back and reappropriate it. **PA:** The participants feel empowered, and they keep it going afterwards! In our experience, we realize that if we give someone a greater say, that map will have greater legitimacy. **JR:** Usually these are figures that represent the community, and, obviously, \[these\] have a lot to do with female figures, with the women organizing in the territory and who have established networks. We try to find a historical figure, or some figure that we can stereotype in a good way, whether it be a peasant, a woman from a native village, or a domestic worker related to the workshop. We understand how this can be a singer’s voice to visually represent and to produce this form of identification with the participants in that workshop. Obviously, this varies depending a lot on the composition of each workshop, the process carried out, and the objectives it has. **CM:** The fact that they appropriate it is a sign that the workshop has been a success, right? **JR:** Totally. It is our greatest pride and pleasure to hear people say: “We did the job well, we are pleased, we will take it in this direction now.” A successful objective for us is when the participants make it their own. That is what we strive for. **CM:** It’s not just about making the map; it’s about making it useful. **JR:** That’s the key word, “useful”. I remember the exhibition at the Reina Sofía *Un saber realmente útil (A Truly Useful Knowledge)* which I identified with. For us, it has a lot to do with that. It really is a contribution, a small grain of sand in a process that is already underway in the territory. It’s great when our maps work in that way. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2-MAPAMUNDI.jpeg) fig. 2 **CM:** After so many years working with so many social groups, how do you think more processes of collective imagination could be developed as a transformative force capable of resisting the attacks of the right and the serious political polarization that we are experiencing? **JR:** I do think in terms of political imagination, but very territorialized, very much from the micropolitical point of view in order to create networks, to find elective group and collective affinities, and not the other way around. Not going from big to small, but starting small and moving up, because it really is another world. Not just because we are in 2023, but also because of everything the pandemic left us that we still can’t see. I haven’t read anyone really analysing the subjective and mental health effects which I see a lot in my 20 and 22-year-old students. Mental health, a rejection of the other, a fear of meeting others, the impossibility of building ties, these are all structural issues, and so we must think about them in terms of political imagination, and when this is happening at the grassroots level it is difficult. First, we must do something about this, see if this is really a constitution of a new subjectivity, or just something temporary that must be given space and time. We need to work with both political radicalization and with people who are afraid and who cannot, or who find it very difficult to, connect and establish bonds - not only emotional ones in terms of couples, but also in terms of friendship and in groups. We are in a very complicated moment, so I prefer to return to the micro level, to look at the small things to see what we can do here, how to build here, what to do here. **PA:** I’m more geopolitical. That is, I’m more European, which is why I like maps. For example, there are going to be wars in different places because of the amount of weapons manufacturing there. If they make more weapons, there will be more wars. Yet, there are no anti-war marches in Europe, something that was very common 20 years ago. Back then, we all got together, all types of collectives, anti-capitalists, feminists, indigenous peoples, all the collectives mixed, and we were there together, even if there was some \[aspect of\] “I don’t think like you”. It was the same anti-Vietnam War tradition that continued until not so long ago, but now I don’t really understand what’s happening. \\\\ *The interview and its transcription were originally conducted in Spanish and the translation was done by the A\*Desk team.* --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] In ”Situated Knowledges. The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective” (1988), Donna Haraway defined the term “situated knowledges” as a means of understanding that all knowledge comes from positional perspectives. Our positionality inherently determines what it is possible to know about an object of interest. Understanding situated knowledge “allows us to take responsibility for what we learn to see.” IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Iconoclasistas, Anagrams, 2023\. Schemes to dynamise and systematise workshops. It consists of chains of analogies triggered by a powerful graphic image that facilitates critical reflection on different themes and territories, by affinity or similarity with the central figure. Creative Commons BY-SA 4.0 Iconoclasistas. fig. 1: Iconoclasistas, Salud (Health), 2021\. Map and body diagram that reveal the impacts on the health of communities in different South American regions as a consequence of the existence of extractive industry projects. Carried out from an online training workshop with participants from Latin America within the framework of the “Introduction to the Analysis of Health Processes in Extractivist Contexts.” Organized by INSSA, with the support of the Rosa Luxemburg Foundation, September-December 2020\. Creative Commons BY-SA 4.0 Iconoclasistas. fig. 2: Iconoclasistas, Mapamundi, 2019\. Research that highlights the work of rural and peasant women who produce 70% of the food we eat, and of whom only 13% own the land. Creative Commons BY-SA 4.0 Iconoclasistas. *Iconoclasistas, formed by Julia Risler (1973) and Pablo Ares (1965), specialize in graphic art, workshops, and collective research. Since 2008, they've led global mapping workshops. They won the Curry Stone Design Prize (2017) and BID12 prize (2012).* *Constanza Mendoza (Chuquicamata, 1971) is a Berlin-based visual artist and researcher who uses multi-modal, multi-sited practices to challenge labor division and capital control. Her art aims to produce knowledge, defying the regime of truth imposed by capital ideology.* ### Jokkoo Collective URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/jokkoo-collective/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:35.000Z Jokkoo Collective derives its name from the Wolof word for "connection," a Senegalese language, and their practice embodies this concept. Bringing together diverse energies, aesthetics, and forms of expression, the collective engages with experimental Black music and multidisciplinary creation. United by Pan-African ancestry and futures, Jokkoo Collective connects with global communities of Pan-African creators. Their work is deeply rooted in Africa, where their dreams and loved ones reside. It is the source of their pasts and futures, shaping the core of their creative vision. Jokkoo’s sonic landscapes draw from spirituality, imagination, and the pursuit of freedom. Their music serves as a form of healing for those who feel isolated in what they describe as the "Babylonic delusion"—a chaotic world where privilege silences the diversity of voices. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1-v5.jpg) fig. 1 Their sound transcends national borders, creating a space—existing in the liminal spaces between nations. Jokkoo Collective views music as a web of connections, a map of reflections, fusions, and hybridizations that cross time and space. As members of the diaspora, they constantly wrestle with the concept of belonging, and music becomes a force that fills the voids in their journeys. It is an invisible thread that links them to their people, creating a sacred sense of home, no matter the distance. For Manifesta 15, Jokkoo Collective teamed up with cantdefine.me—a creative duo of African heritage—and Abya Yala, whose audiovisual practice serves as a safe space for imagination. Together, they developed a project with videography and post-production by cantdefine.me, who introduced Jokkoo to the film’s protagonists: Traoré, Nina, and Souleymane, three young people of West African descent living in Barcelona. Jokkoo invited these individuals to guide them through their metal recycling processes and collaborate in recording and repurposing sounds and images from their daily routes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/6-v2.JPG) fig. 2 The result, *Sonido Invisible*, is a two-channel audiovisual installation created in collaboration with Barcelona’s metal-recycling communities—people often denied their basic human rights to work and housing upon arriving in Europe, many of whom come from the African diaspora. This piece glimpses into the friendship and creative collaboration between Jokkoo Collective, cantdefine.me, and the three young individuals. It reflects the merging of worlds: the daily search for value in the city's discarded objects and the creative process of sonic recycling. Together, they explore ways of perceiving, moving through, and transforming the raw materials of the urban environment, celebrating resilience and creativity through their shared work. In *Sonido Invisible*, Jokkoo Collective and cantdefine.me seek to raise awareness about communities denied basic human rights upon their arrival in Europe. They hope to inspire others to take the time to share space, exchange ideas, and foster meaningful connections with these communities. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Jokkoo audiovisual performance at Sonar 2024, Foto credit: serahboo.m, Copyright:CC fig. 1: An event programmed and built by Jokkoo and cantdefine.me, Foto credit: srrahboo.m, Copyright: CC fig. 2: Multidisciplinary collaborative installation and performance in Basel by Jokkoo Collective, Foto credit: Nadia Fistarol, Copyright: CC *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### The return of the political URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-return-of-the-political/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:33.000Z For Hannah Arendt, talking about the concept of community is inseparable from a reflection on *the political*, and so it’s important that when launching a series of articles about communities, to recapitulate some key ideas of her thought. This is even more the case if the current political situation urges us to carry out an interpretation of events, still hungover from the recent Spanish elections and just before other no less important elections, such as in Argentina. Country which has just inaugurated the fourth edition of the Bienal Sur, in which the artist Jordi Colomer, among others, participates with a project in which he reflects on these same questions. It should not be forgotten that Communism was, in fact, a laboratory for imagining the concept of community (it even came to be called on some occasions “the authentic community of women”) and perhaps it is not unreasonable to say that what we recently have been calling practices of pro-common is nothing more than a euphemism. A political community, according to Hannah Arendt, is constituted fundamentally thanks to an act of presence carried out by citizens, which reveals the decisive role of culture and art in making themselves visible. Beyond betting on representation policies, in recent years we have witnessed an unquestionable tendency to group forces and work dynamics in art through various modalities of communities, taking into account what Massimiliano Mollona has called *Art/Commons* (co-production, participation, mutualism, and the valorization of reproductive work), with **documenta fifteen** being perhaps the culmination of an entire cycle. Spain had its fundamental laboratory in the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía. We are aware, however, that political scientists, such as Michael Hardt or Loretta Napoleoni, have warned that certain forms of decentralized organizations within collaborative networks have become the dominant form of organized work, which should make us reflect on the proximity of the creative community to entrepreneurship. In fact, we have already seen how on occasion the cultural industry exists within the center of the new economy. This *cultural shift* has been taken as an excuse to justify the emergence of certain conservative positions from within the left itself (as is the renewal of a certain red fascism) that denounce the separation of the creative sphere from the reality of the working classes, at the same time as they promote conservative populist discourse that has ended up supporting the narrative of the extreme right. If we take into account other contexts, such as Italy, where the majority of the cultural and intellectual sphere has ended up giving up its political commitment to the public sphere and abandoning society to its fate in the hands of the extreme right, a self-critical reflection from within the creative class is needed to take into account the necessity of thinking about forms of diverse communities incorporated into more sectors of society and that represents a decisive break with **exclusive snobbery**. This is even more important when a kind of exacerbated nihilism and radical exhaustion have led many of us (artists, curators, designers, academics) to mistakenly think that stopping the advance of the extreme right is impossible. This reflection, however, cannot be subsumed within this new left-wing conservatism but instead must be articulated in complete antagonism. In 1993, the political scientist Chantal Mouffe published *The Return of the Political*, first inspiring battles and then laying the foundations for a political project with which many of us grew up. We learned then that *the political* is an essential dimension of antagonism, unlike politics which refers to the different activities aimed at organizing human coexistence, what Chancellor Otto von Bismarck called “the art of the possible.” Now, at a time when we are rethinking forms of community, perhaps it is time to reimagine the art of the impossible. \\\\ This text was originally published on [a-desk.org](https://a-desk.org/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: “Shibboleth”, Doris Salcedo at Tate Gallery, 2007\. Creative Commons Licence BY-SA 2.5, NM Nogueira. *Diana Padrón is a curator, professor, and cultural critic. She is a member of Management Team of Sant Andreu Contemporani (Barcelona). She explores Critical Theory to uncover contemporary forms of ideology, control, and power.* ### A Sonic Envisioning URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-sonic-envisioning/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:32.000Z Last August, Berlin Atonal presented **OPENLESS**, a new compact format of three days of performances, concerts, and premieres. Each night unfolded around curated themes: *The Less Deceived*, *Transcriptions*, and *The Clearing*. In this edition, OPENLESS decentralizes the primacy of gaze and reclaims listening as an active gesture: that of sonic witnessing. As I step into the main hall of Kraftwerk, silence fills the air. I say it out loud—I didn’t expect this. The space is mute, thickening the waiting. At 8 pm, the lights turn off, plunging the space into complete darkness, like a massive concrete theater. The opening performance of the first act leaves the audience staring at an empty stage, deprived of any visual support. The aim is to displace the ears in space, reorienting attention toward listening and sustaining it—an invitation to try. As sound diffuses, passages and paths unfold through sonic textures and field recordings. The piece is *Białowieża*, an acoustic documentation by field recordist Chris Watson and blind sound recordist Izabela Dluzyk. Deriving from the geopolitical implications of the Białowieża forest in Poland, a recent crossing point for migrants from the Middle East, Africa, and South Asia seeking entrance to the EU, the piece sonically immerses the listener in a stratified ecosystem. Non-human witnesses take the stage, bearing testimony to the brutality of border policies and policing. ***The opening act makes the intent clear: Who is witnessing this stream of oppression? And how can these injustices be sonically envisioned?*** ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.-openless_forensis_bill-kouligas_ph.helenamajewska_8670.jpg) Fig.1 Historical fragments and collective threads weave together in the following performance, conjuring up ghosts and activating asymmetrical translations, inviting reflection on the present. Forensis (Forensic Architecture), in collaboration with Bill Kouligas’ PAN, presented *The Drum and The Bird*, an immersive auditory experience examining the relationship between lost ecologies and colonial exploitation. Premiering at OPENLESS, this work explores Germany’s colonial past in Namibia, focusing on the genocide of the Nama and Ovaherero peoples and the historical significance of Shark Island, the 20th century’s first concentration camp. Through intergenerational testimonies, *The Drum and the Bird* unfolds both human and non-human perspectives, examining the exploitation of land, natural resources, and forced labor. The lack of photographic evidence from Germany's occupation (1893-1908) is counterbalanced by oral testimonies from the descendants of survivors and victims. Their voices visualize the island's erased architecture and landscape, resonating as repositories of enduring loss, a sonic dispossession, as Forensis puts it. The wind’s soundscape dominates the piece, recalling its weaponization by German settlers as an instrument of exhaustion and torture. Becoming progressively unbearable, the wind’s noise disturbance transposes the heavy sonic impact from the island to the performance space. Halfway through the performance, figures appear, standing on an uplifted ramp behind the empty stage, as messengers. They start to speak, but interference makes their words hard to distinguish, questioning the signal's relevance. Imperial violence is sonically retraced on Kraftwerk’s concrete surfaces. The space holds the audience auditorily accountable for oppression, displacement, and dispossession. Sound withholds trauma, triggering memories. The tension between flux and interruption, disturbance and utterance, noise and signal, plays a significant role in this first act. Holding space for noise is holding space for historically erased voices and subjectivities—reclaiming space for rage and reparation. With Kenyan artist Lord Spikeheart closing the evening, this takes on a cataclysmic intensity. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1.-130_openless_ph.helenamajewska_family-ndiaye-rose.jpg) Fig.2 Acoustic reminiscences confront the audience with their political role and the power of memory in shaping experiences, often in contradiction. Through the program, the audience confronts processes of forgetting and recurrence on both individual and collective scales. The second evening, *Transcriptions*, expands on modes of remembrance and sonic inheritance, focusing on rhythmic traditions and their contemporary translations. The legacy of legendary Senegalese percussionist Doudou N'Diaye Rose and Sabar drumming culture serves as the starting point, generating dialogic moments with contemporary electronic sonorities. Rose, a key figure in Sabar drumming—a traditional Senegalese percussion form closely tied to Wolof culture—developed an extensive archive of over 500 rhythmic patterns. The Family N'Diaye Rose opens and closes the day, interacting with other artists and the audience. The re-enactment of the Tannabier, a street-based traditional celebration, reintroduces a collective, social element to the listening experience. Here, Nkisi's *Mythe Ou Réalité* stages a dialogue with Rose through rhythmic patterns, improvisation, and ritualistic approaches. Despite the dialogue between the first and second days, each night feels like a circular sonic ecosystem. Each ending is an interruption leading to another act. This curatorial choice blurs the boundaries between enclosure and openings. The final evening, *The Clearing*, stands out as more autonomous, with time stretching into emotional, inward landscapes. Here, more than ever, space becomes a listening chamber, shaped uniquely by sound and light. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3.-openless_helge-mundt_studiomundt_1172792.jpg) Fig.3 Over three nights, space stretches and shrinks, materializing a forest in Watson and Dluzyk’s field recordings, a domestic haven in Saint Abdullah, Eomac, and Rebecca Salvadori’s footage, and an island in Forensis/Forensic Architecture and Bill Kouligas’ investigation. The rhythmic interludes of The Family N'Diaye Rose break the linearity, inviting a more interactive use of space, and introducing multi-tempo and multi-activational stages. While the format enhances focus on the experience of listening, it simultaneously reinforces frontal, stage-audience linearity. In contrast, these moments propose a deeper understanding of how sound organizes, reshapes, dismantles, and assembles witnesses, histories, and shared spaces. Atonal's OPENLESS loads its most political intentions on its first day, merging site-specific performance, sound design, and journalistic inquiry. Decentralizing the ear from familiar scores while bridging human and non-human sonorities, OPENLESS discloses the affective, relational, and political quality of sound, allowing for a plurality of narratives where individual perspectives reinforce collective experiences. Listening is reclaimed as an active gesture of presence, expanding perceptual possibilities of understanding sonic encounters. // --- ### Image Caption Cover: Lord Spikeheart, Ph. Helena Majewska Fig.1 Forensis (Forensic Architecture) in collaboration with Bill Kouligas, Ph. Helena Majewska Fig.2 The Family N’Diaye Rose, Ph. Helena Majewska Fig.3 Nkisi, Ph. Helge Mundt *Federica Nicastro is a writer and cultural producer based between Milan and Rome. Her research focuses on text-based formats, performance, sound, and the spoken word.* ### Field Report URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/field-report/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:30.000Z Independent Space Index 2024 kicked off in Vienna on a Thursday evening at the end of May, with 52 of the network’s 90 listed spaces opening their doors to the public over one weekend, rather than the appointment-only or irregular opening hours by which many normally operate. Anticipation ensued. Plotting an itinerary was made significantly easier by the free printed brochures distributed throughout the city, recognizable by the blurred red and white oval halo repeat pattern across their covers. This was in addition to a clever website to help those uninitiated in the ways of Vienna (myself) navigate neighborhood clusters and state which spaces had events on which days. Based on these guides, Thursday night offered a smooth 6th District run, with the exhibition *Autorn* opening at WAF, a film screening and book launch at Salon für Kunstbuch, and the exhibition *Mermaid & Seafruit* at Ve.Sch. Respective friends, fans, and social circles can arrive, linger, depart, refuel at Mcdonald's, then re-arrive at leisure, text friends along the way, or look at Instagram to see what’s up and make a plan to unite at the next space. Most locals know that Ve.Sch is where finales typically occur on Thursday nights in Vienna, and where the cocktail mixing of the owners’ (probably extensive) repertoire of hobbies turned skills, can be experienced. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3_VeSch_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2024.jpg) Fig.1 Earlier in the day, I visited one space that I had been looking forward to visiting for the first time, Prosopopeia. The name refers to a rhetorical device in which a speaker or writer communicates by speaking as another person or object. This project space was initiated by Inga Charlotte Thiel, who came across the American-based artist JJJJJerome Ellis while working at PW Magazine and later invited him for this exhibition. The multiple J’s in Ellis’ first name refers to the stutter he lives with and which his works often are informed by, incorporating it into his written and visual poetry as well as his performances. Working not despite but rather because of his stuttered speech, Ellis contests the “social regime of fluency”, finding another rhythm through spoken word within which time is created by the moments in between. I thought of Fred Moten saying: “Anyone who can’t help but deviate can pretty much tell me anything.” A sequence of photos of the artist in the woods references the idea of a “clearing” in the forest where one happens upon a meadow, analogous to clearings as “ever-present clarity” as the exhibition text notes or moments of silence during a speech when one is trying to figure out the next word. On a perpendicular wall to the photos, poems formed in scores rather than stanzas are hung without frames. The soundtrack to the exhibition of Ellis’ meandering images is a spoken word performance emanating from speakers near a corner with a short shelf holding an intuitive selection of books. It was refreshing not to gauge any formal or obvious concept behind the book selection, instead, I felt a sense of reflected pride in recognizing some friends’ publications, as well as relief in finding authors and titles that I had searched for in Vienna but could not locate. With JJJJJerome’s language punctuating the background, the opportunity to sit and peruse the shelf to the beat and unexpected breaks reflects an intimacy only an independent art space can evoke. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/8_Prosopopoeia_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2024.jpg) Fig.2 Accurately self-described as a bookshop, host, and exhibition space, Prosopopeia is located within a Gemeindebau, the name given to Vienna’s social housing, with the artist and neighbors forming parts of the same milieu. To make use of available and affordable space in Vienna as an opportunity for offering literature and printed matter otherwise unavailable in the city is just one of the myriad ways independent spaces provide alternatives within the social system. This kind of space repurposing serves the city’s changing demographic of artists, writers, readers, and scholars, or, in other words, comrades and peers. While I was sitting near the window engaging in the aforementioned texting well before dusk, a friend approached and we chatted about her new, bigger, studio space. “So I’m going to become a painter now,” she laughed. The time and space provided by Vienna’s relative affordability make it possible to develop long-nascent art practices. In some other major cities’ artistic scenes such as in New York, and even now in Berlin, continuing an art practice often means figuring out how to commercialize it in another industry. Vienna’s infrastructure also makes it possible for people to come into art later in life, and to understand the artistic side of their work in other fields, or to develop practices quietly without the pressures of chasing visibility for the sole purpose of selling work. The fluidity of artistic practice and space in Vienna encompasses literal mobility. Sophia Hatwagner’s space called VAN opened in 2020 inside a gifted Dacia. With a constructed white cube inside a minivan, Hatwagner could have her own mobile space while attending to her new daughter, thus playing with and circumventing the restrictions of the white cube and the need to regularly attend openings as required for building an artist’s social and cultural capital. Part institutional critique, part experiment with temporal and financial modes, the exhibitions the space holds vary widely in form and content. This is reflective of VAN’s concept of privileging mobility over fixed identity. Understood as a “nomadic” space, VAN rejects any stable form, and instead embraces an independent space’s loose requirements, with no demands to adhere to material promises. It can morph according to a moment’s needs, as a response or a survival skill, without imposing what art should look like and where it should be found. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3_Van_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2024.jpg) Fig.3 For the festival artist, Stefan Pani presented *(Curatorial Exile)*, through which a meta-narrative appears to critique the ideology that lies beneath the white cube. The work is part of his larger project *Post-Innovation*. According to Pani’s Post-innovative staging, “the core of the curatorial agenda, as well as the individual contributions is to generate relevance through value production in the realm of autonomous spaces,” Pani is referencing Boris Groys’ concept of artistic innovation. Pani’s ‘individual contributions’ are those made by three fictional artists, whose roles seem to be to amplify the meta relationship of the white cube in a van, as well as to raise questions of authorship. With the aid of a text revealing a sequence of events that make up Post-innovative Staging, including the introduction of a rag and an identical van, the presumed curatorial text of *(Curatorial Exile)* raises an inevitable question: at which point does the institutionalization of new spaces, which demand both their independence and aesthetic autonomy, become apparent? Could this also allude to the festival’s potential institutionalization of the decentralized scene? Vienna’s independent scene is not exactly fringe, but rather a network running in parallel with, and occasionally running into, the city’s institutionalized and galleried art world. Still, like in any network, with the social aspect comes cultural codes that you either get or you don’t, or which you learn over a process of initiation and rehearsal from each others’ networked positions. In general, Vienna’s independent space scene has evolved not solely to subvert the closed bourgeois circuits of the art world, but also by incident, by way of finding loopholes through which to bypass imposing societal orders, hierarchies of dominant values, politics, and culture. Through proverbial handshakes, the handing over of keys, and the trusting of someone else to lock up, networks are built on trust and word of mouth, where aesthetics, rhetoric, and spatial organization are linked more to chance and informal communities than to established forms of gatekeeping. Being discreet is a necessity when the figures of friend, lover, colleague, collector, or gallerist are regularly interchangeable. Yet unlike other art worlds, the independent space scene does not appear to discriminate based on social status. As a friend, an established artist in Vienna for 20 years, put it, “Everyone talks about each other, but everyone likes each other.” These are the deliberate acts of organized creativity and conscious interactions that make a scene desirable in the first place. It is not premised on immediate exclusion, but rather on a built trust, and such trust has to be earned. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1_WAF_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2024.jpg) Fig.4 Trust also has to be given, which is the case in Laura Hinrichsmeyer’s show *Autorn* at WAF, a space that shows the work of emerging artists in Vienna. Without the guise of theory to mediate or dress up the work, the show, which features textured paintings and an elevator sculpture revealing the floor beneath the space, trusts both the artist as well as the viewer. So much so that the exhibition text, written by Leonie Huber, plays with this notion, asking, “my role is unclear: am I part of this grouping or did I join later?”, and “\[Could I\] speak for you and claim that we are sharing the same experience\[?\] An offer of identification that is an invitation to be rejected.” To look at work and read a text risking formats questioning their very existence is freeing, as it feels unencumbered by stakes that might exist in other art scenes, where anything outside of expectations renders the work illegible. After all, how do we make sense of avant-garde movements if art is only allowed to be talked about or understood the way self-proclaimed experts who studied, but never experienced, tell us it should be? The desire to pin down the existence of something, especially in art, is an age-old pastime that has taken on novel forms from corporate branding to epistemological hegemonies, yet it remains one that an organization such as an independent space can unconsciously or actively evade. Salon für Kunstbuch, for example, is the artist Bernard Cella’s project of collected books. Behind a sliding wall in the main visitors’ space is another storage space. On the opposite side, an open space behind the table of cake slices that Cella has also made is yet another room for storing books that looks and feels more like a studio. Cella’s practice, which reflects the collection and is also reflected within the collection, engages forms such as photography and installation, yet cannot be categorized, though labels such as participatory art and institutional critique have been applied. Salon für Kunstbuch is not a bookstore; it’s closer to an archive, though it is also possible to purchase from the collection, many of which have been published by the Salon itself. Other books exist for inspiration, almost all of them considered rare, reflecting the genuine passion of its collector. This becomes evident when speaking with Cella who is eager to share his knowledge and the stories behind a given title’s place in the greater collection. One has a feeling that there is some internal methodology to locating any of the 6000 books held in the space that is unbeknownst to anyone except Cella, who has an apparent propensity for constant reorganization and rearrangement of the collection’s layout, which by the look of one wall, includes being arranged by cover color. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_SalonFuerKunstbuch_IndependentSpaceIndex_Vienna_2024.jpg) Fig.5 While the independent space has the potential to subvert typical demands made by the institutionalized or commercial art substructures, it can also hold space for artistic positions left out or unfitting within these structures’ prescribed conditions. In March, school, a space for performative screenings located in the 5th district, screened Marwa Arsanions’ *Who is Afraid of Ideology?* (2019) an ongoing series of films about forms of self-organization and resistance against exploitation and repression within structures of patriarchy, the state, and capitalism. This series was conceived in the context of a simultaneous exhibition at Kunsthalle Wien at Karlsplatz, Denise Ferreira da Silva and Arjuna Neuman’s *Ancestral Clouds Ancestral Claims* (2023). Unable to hold the series at the Kunsthalle, school was asked by the exhibition’s curator to host Arsanios’ series. In the past, school has also taken on a curatorial role for art institutions such as Belvedere 21, with their film program *Über das Neue* (2023), screening films from artists such as Hannah Black, Firas Shehadeh, Belinda Kazeem-Kamiński, Friedl vom Gröller, Anahita Asadifar, and Jumana Manna. On the Friday evening of the Independent Space Festival, school screened Huda Takriti’s film, *Fluid Grounds* (2023), a film reflecting on France’s colonial past by following digital practices of remembrance and contestation of the French settlers in Algeria known as pieds-noirs. Today, people who identify as part of the pieds-noirs use platforms such as Facebook and Instagram to circulate images and connect through nostalgia over a shared sense of birthright in Algeria during French colonial occupation before Algeria’s independence in 1962\. The exhibition is not merely a documentation of the pieds-noirs' online activities and different ideologies. Rather, seen through Takriti’s exploration of memory as premised on the gaze of colonial oppression, the exhibition’s film and photo collage ultimately question these images’ subsequent historiography. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/17320011.jpg) Fig.8 Such a nuanced approach to interpreting imagery seems only possible in a space that likewise intuits its existence based on current relevance and an active community dedicated to engaging in topics that might be shut down elsewhere. In fact, of the independent spaces I visited, the school was the only one taking a defined political position. While decolonization is talked around in Vienna, there is no developed discourse on its applications. The country though, is by no means clear of oppression – where the topic is ready at hand in its capital cities just by way of the social interactions existing every day on the streets. Or maybe it is because the Viennese are used to the good life and want to keep it that way. With no desire to conflate the Viennese elite with the working class or the immigrant population in Austria, a newcomer such as myself can only hypothesize this glaring blindspot. However, for many, the lack of this kind of discursive cultural or artistic production can lead to an accusation of Vienna being provincial, slow, or left behind. Then again, to immediately glom on – with no self-reflection – to the global West’s liberal discursive production would reinforce the cultural hegemony of cities in countries with histories of colonization. For school to now exist in its 13th year based on an inner knowledge that there are critical topics in danger of not being addressed at all, or which are at risk of falling into capricious hands, cements its essential position within Vienna’s constellation of independent spaces. That position exists not because it is trying to hold on to it, but instead, because the position is used to create space for urgent conversations that otherwise would not exist. \* \* \* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/17340036.jpg) Fig.7 On an independent space high, and feeling inspired to see more than I could digest, I drifted through the city on my bike, going toward the 2nd, then to the 20th, then back through the 1st. What makes its decentralized art scene so accessible, in part, is Vienna’s size. In other cities with seemingly bigger art scenes, people often move only within limited familiar circuits. Knowing that no bike ride would exceed 40 minutes, I felt uninhibited by distance, with a piqued curiosity to go beyond what would normally be on my radar. The bike rides in between also afforded time to reflect on what conditions, exactly, enable a decentralized art scene. Does naming an independent space an Independent Space in fact centralize the concept under this very title? I thought about how after George Maciunas named Fluxus some members felt he undid the very meaning of Fluxus. How is it possible, then, to bring attention to a loose network of artists and spaces whose very existence is premised on impulse and not necessarily obeying the functions of an organized festival? Is external visibility necessary or important to a scene that operates mostly within its own circles, where the artists are also the audience and the founders, and ostensibly, the PR forces, of the spaces? Or is the Vienna independent scene destined to remain insular, where dissolution is inherent before any space gets absorbed by a system that would remove the very fluidity that defines it? If the role of the independent space is to distance itself from art with the capitalist entanglements, to which it has become intrinsically and paradoxically bound, how do we locate its position in the legacy of informal artistic networks? The weekend ended softly, with no festival-wide finissage, or defined location of where to hang. This is very much in keeping with the scene’s tenets: spontaneous, and based on mood. I pedaled on my bike, casually running reds on Sunday evening as the weather finally began to clear, to Loggia, a final stop to see the last day of their exhibition Ringen. Among meticulous drawings referencing histories of wrestling, Ringen featured a video about jiu-jitsu in Texas with an actual jiu-jitsu mat placed before the screen and touched on a subculture that, when framed in the art exhibition context, abstracts masculinity through a tender gaze while evoking an improvised choreography. As the curator’s tie-dyed T-shirt read: keep jiu jitsu gay. It was a pleasant feeling to end the weekend with and I left ready to ride into the sunset. But then a text message appeared from a colleague who had also finished a weekend of independent space touring: We found a place to go, you can eat and drink, and smoke there. Independent Space Index 2025 will take place May 30 - June 1, 2025\. You can find more information about the initiative at [www.independentspaceindex.at](http://www.independentspaceindex.at/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) --- ### Footnotes Cover © Nikola Hergovich Fig.1 Ve.Sch © Flavio Palasciano Fig.2 Prosopopeia © Flavio Palasciano Fig.3 VAN © Flavio Palasciano Fig.4 WAF © Flavio Palasciano Fig.5 Salon für Kunstbuch © Flavio Palasciano Fig.6 school © Flavio Palasciano Fig.7 © Nikola Hergovich *Cecilia Bien is a writer and researcher living in and working in Vienna AT.* ### The color of energy. URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-color-of-energy/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:29.000Z The art market might be crumbling, but curators continue to keep every relationship afloat. This, at least, has been my takeaway from Vienna, where I find myself wearing two hats this season: one as curator of *Crime as Ornament* at Crone Gallery, part of the *Curated by* project, and another as a media partner of the fair. The second hat feels most comfortable, as I wander through the sections curated by Francesca Gavin and Bruno Mokross. Here, galleries intertwine seamlessly with remarkable artworks by local talents including Nanna Hauser, Sebastian Schachinger, and Evy Jokhova. In moments like these, it becomes clear that curation remains a vital force—guiding, connecting, and weaving narratives even amid uncertainty. This brings me to *The Color of Energy*, an exhibition inside the fair as a “Statement”, curated by Mirela Baciak, who similarly employs her curatorial vision to address the urgent flows of energy in our contemporary world. The exhibition features fifteen local and international artists, each using color as a metaphor to explore global crises: the red of heatwaves (and blood), the green of grass (and money), and the black of soil (and oil), and pollution. This conversation with Baciak, fellow hyphenate worker and the director of the Salzburg Kunstverein, centers on this exhibition, where art not only reflects but actively engages with the pressing issues of our moment, from climate anxiety to the legacy of settler colonialism. **AWC: This exhibition is the most political you can get at an art fair, without tokenizing the artists these days, I would say. You are referring to the common points where a struggle suddenly generalizes, but you use abstraction instead of generalization, which I consider remarkably refreshing here at the viennacontemporary. But this is, of course, only my reading. Can we reflect together on the chapters of the show and discuss them further?** **Mirela Baciak:** The **Color of Energy** reflects my wish to offer an understanding of different energy flows and how they make our world go round. I have been working on this two-part show for over a year and my primary interest came from the need to grasp fossil politics. I was initially inspired by the way oil spills, if you see one on the street next to a petrol station, and the sun hits it, you can see how it reveals and holds within it different colors. I think that every energy source holds a spectrum that is complex and complicated. It’s not just that green signifies good or black signifies bad. Another important inspiration was the film *The Color of Fear* by Lee Mun Wah. So in a way, the aim of the show is to also pluralize our associations, and reflect the debate on energy and unsustainability through the medium of the exhibition. **AWC: I think the primary colors of energy within the context of this exhibition are people, money, and geopolitics. As you said, it’s more about pluralization than synthesis. How energy is maybe not just a metaphor — can you deepen that notion a bit more?** **MB:** Yes. For example, we operate with references including the [**Ed Hawkins**](https://edhawkins.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *Warming Stripes*, which represent rising global temperatures. But now those colors — especially the deep reds — are somewhat outdated because we’ve already surpassed the point they represent. For me, thinking in color is, of course, metaphorical. Red can be the color of rising temperatures, but it’s also the color of blood. Green, often seen as the color of renewable energy, is also the color of money. The whole exhibition plays with these associations without being too literal. Take [**Katrin Hornek**](https://www.katrinhornek.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)**'s** *Testing Grounds*, for instance. The work is part of her ongoing research on nuclear testing, and you can see these small turtle sculptures, each of which holds an iPhone. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1-Katrin-Hornek-Testing-Grounds-VCT-STATEMENT-ENERGY_viennacontemporary2024_c_kunst-dokumentation-com.jpg) fig. 1 **AWC: This particular work goes beyond words in some ways. The turtles are used as carriers of messages because their shells, or carapaces, are strong enough to symbolize the ability to bear nuclear waste. Katrin received emojis and messages via WhatsApp featuring them from various scientists during her research. The whole thing is quite fascinating. And turtles are also major victims of industrial fishing.** **MB:** Exactly. These turtules are archives of nuclear fallout, symbolizing both the resilience and susceptibility of nature to human endevors. And they’re situated in what looks like a Zen garden here, which introduces a spiritual element that contrasts with the messages carried by the turtles. Another work which touches upon nuclear energy are the large-scale paintings of [**Veronika Hapchenko**](https://importexport.art/veronika-hapchenko-cv/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), an artist from Ukraine, now living in Poland. She explores the theme of radiation in these paintings, but also the figure of the engineer and the artist. The USSR-born artist Ivan Lytovchenko who was the artist behind the famous mosaics on the buildings on Lenin Avenue in Pripyat \[offers one example of that duality for Hapchenko\]. The expansive diptych *demeter, after Ivan Lytovchenko* reflects a once-utopian vision that tragically culminated in the catastrophic Chernobyl disaster of April 26, 1986\. Hapchenko describes the mosaics as prophetic, encapsulating the transition from energy to ecological concern, while highlighting Lytovchenko’s connection to governmental influences within the Pripyat region. Another painting is called *Engineer*, the neon touches bring to mind something nuclear, something we can’t quite see. **AWC: It also feels like a nod to the invisible forces that shape us.** **MB:** Yes, and similarly, [**Sara Bezovšek**](https://sarabezovsek.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)**'s** work plays with this idea. She uses found footage — memes, scenes from movies, excerpts from daily news related to climate change — as a way to explore climate catastrophe. I refer to this work as the credits at the end of the world. The work begins with techno-utopian images but quickly shifts to images of burning forests and a more dystopian view. Sadly, some of the images we see in the work could have been a live stream of what we have just experienced in Austria and neighboring countries due to the heavy floods. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3a-Sara-Bezovsek-www.s-n-d.si-filmstill.jpg) fig. 2 **AWC: Is that quote, “Nothing like the end of the world to put things in perspective,” from a specific film?** **MB:** I’m not sure. It’s a mix of sources, but that’s her point — these images have no authors, they are taken from our daily algorithmic present. The piece also exists online, you can access it through the QR code in the exhibition booklet. (link on footnote) **AWC: That’s great — so I can listen to the soundtrack online too?** **MB:** Yes, the soundtrack is fantastic, and it’s all accessible online. **AWC: So the exhibition is preparing us for dystopia — or dreaming of it?** **MB:** If it could… I hope it might contribute to the building up of the resilience that we need and will need more of, but, as I said, all that we can see in the work is already happening. **AWC: Can we now jump into the featured works by Judith Fegerl too?** **MB:** Yes. [**Judith Fegerl**](http://judithfegerl.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) literally works with electricity. The series *full spectrum* which is produced especially for the show depicts a series of electric shocks. Initially, solar panels in the studio capture the sun’s energy, which is then used to immerse the stainless steel canvases in electroplating baths, completing the artistic process. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4-Judith-Fegerlleft-right-full-spectrum-Linda-Lach-middle-Endless-Memory-Dilation-VCT-STATEMENT-ENERGY_vct-2024_c_kunst-dokumentation-com.jpg) fig. 3 **Judith Fegerl:** Hi, I’m Judith. Yes, I use solar electricity from the panels in my studio to create these works. The electricity interacts with the material in an electrolytic bath, making its mark as pure energy. **AWC: Hi, I’m María Inés. A pleasure to meet you. So, these works show different moments of energy accumulation.** **JF:** Exactly — each piece represents a different moment in the process. **AWC: As Pure Energy. Beautiful.** **MB:** There’s also a touching piece by [**Shubigi Rao**](https://www.shubigi.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), titled *These Petrified Paths*, based on her research into the geopolitical and environmental intricacies of the Armenia-Azerbaijan conflict. She’s been documenting the devastating effects of a largely unreported war on the land — much of it is unusable, as even grass can no longer grow there — and its connections to global oil politics, which are influenced by the interplay between Russian and European energy needs. The film also intertwines these themes with the concept of knowledge as a form of energy. She equates the transmission of knowledge, particularly through generational wisdom and practices such as lace-making, to the transfer of energy. These practices, conducted by elder women and shared in intimate, communal settings, underscore the vital role of cultural continuity and oral traditions in sustaining community identities and resisting the erasure of history. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5-Shubigi-Rao-VCT-STATEMENT-ENERGY_viennacontemporary2024_c_kunst-dokumentation-com.jpg) fig. 4 **AWC: What’s happening in one of the videos where the image seems to be pulled offscreen?** **MB:** That’s a glitch — it’s distorting the image just as these forces distort the landscape. And here is [**Linda Lach**](https://lindas-archive.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)**’s** work; she’s a young artist from Poland. She studied physics before she turned to arts, which you can see. Her interest lies in understanding how fragile or sensitive data is maintained and protected, drawing parallels to ecosystems and homeostasis. For example in *Endless Memory Dilation* she uses levitating human milk which introduces a biological element that contrasts with the industrial feel of metal and glass, creating a dialogue between the organic and the inorganic. **Linda Lach:** Hi. I'm Linda. **AWC: Hi! What an impressive central work you have placed here with a cup of levitating milk!** **LL:** *(Smiles)* Yes, well, as you may notice, I'm working at the intersection of art and science, questioning what it’s like to have a connection between human beings and machines, between humans and technology in such a way that I’m looking at technology without setting any goals for it. Not pushing it into some state where it should work properly. For example, with this levitator I’m using, I just wait — seeing if everything’s okay; and if the temperature is right. Technology shouldn’t be forced. I’m not against science, as a human being, I just observe. Waiting isn’t a waste of time. It’s a form of resistance. **AWC: I wonder how, or maybe you can explain to me, how this form of resistance manifests in your work, particularly in this levitator piece. You mentioned waiting as a form of resistance, and that’s quite compelling.** **LL:** Yes, since I’m a former physicist and familiar with programming, I’m also keen on studying GPUs (Graphics Processing Units) for my own use. GPUs are parts of a computer that make high volume data processing more sustainable. Essentially they are a type of peripheral brain for the computer. So when I talk about ‘sharing memory,’ in a GPU, memory is distributed in multiple places, not in one single spot. If you have information, it gets spread out, like word after word after word. When memory is shared, you have the full sentence. If it’s not, you only get fragments. That’s why I reuse information over and over in my artistic practice, making charts from the data I learn each day. I repeat this process to create a statement or a sentence, and this repetition represents an axis of my practice. **AWC: So this is like the culmination of a practice or exercise?** **LL:** Exactly, learning about GPUs and how they handle shared memory in computers. **AWC: Please excuse my ignorance, but what exactly is a GPU?** **LL:** It’s a general-purpose processing unit. It handles high throughput memory and data processes in computing, essentially. **AWC: I guess the materials are also quite important here for making that process tangible, as you’re using oxygen tubes, right?** **LL:** Yes, and also breast milk. The use of breast milk is significant in the context of balance — it sustains a newborn for several months. **AWC: Is it a search for equilibrium, or a form of balance?** **LL:** Both. I’m always searching for something that connects me to technology in a calm and gentle way. That’s why I use translucent materials, so you can see through them without being overwhelmed. It’s present, but not overt. This layering effect, translucent material on translucent material, allows light to refract and create clouds or drops, making it appear foggy yet intriguing. **AWC: Can you share more about the dialogue between you and the machine when this memory software produces sentences?** **LL:** Right now, I'm trying to learn with something called “Perplexity”, which is like a more advanced version of ChatGPT which doesn’t hallucinate. Every day, I ask questions like, “What would extend battery life?”Then, I record what I’ve learned from it and create the final information. **MB:** There are actually two more works in this Chapter. *Goliath, Draugen and Maria*, from [**Liv Bugge**](https://www.livbugge.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), a Norwegian artist whose practice centers on Norway’s oil and what it does to Norwegian identity. One of the new works she made for this exhibition is a series of postcards tracing different representations of oil and how it is represented in art history, but also in fairy tales, etc… Liv mapped the three main oil fields Draugen, Goliath, and Maria into these clay sculptures. There’s also a video with excerpts from a somatic experience session Liv did with a group of Norwegian women, giving them crude oil and recording their interaction with it and what memories it evoked. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/6b-Liv-Bugge-Goliat-Draugen-Maria-filmstill.jpg) fig. 5 Last, but not least we have [**Guan Xiao**](https://www.k-t-z.com/artists/31-guan-xiao/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)'s expansive installation called *The Sunset*. It features a lightbox that animates the hues of a sunset sky, alongside two whimsical, creature-like sculptures crafted from polyurethane-coated wood, car rims adorned with the Google logo, and artificial floral decorations. For Guan Xiao, the surface of the lightbox serves as an interface where the tangible and intangible, as well as the online and offline worlds, intersect. And juxtaposed with Guan we have [**Ursula Mayer**](http://www.ursulamayer.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)**.** These are younger works by Ursula Meyer from 2014, I dug them from her studio apartment. These sculptures blend glass with cast animal organs such as hearts and tongues. Mayer, like Xiao, provokes reflection on the interfaces between humans and machines, inviting viewers to reconsider the boundaries and connections among these entities. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/7-Guan-Xiao-The-Sunet-VCT-STATEMENT-ENERGY-2024_c_kunst-dokumentation-com.jpg) fig. 6 **AWC: Like the colors of Instagram. These flowers, are they real or fake?** **MB:** This is all artificial nature. These plastic flowers, branches — they’re not real. The material is noted in the booklet. Even the sun in the lightbox isn’t real. **AWC: What a ride, thank you, Mirela, for making energy intimately necessary and scary as it can be.** **MB:** Please come to see the second chapter in Salzburg. It might be even scarier. \\\\ *VCT STATEMENT: The Color of Energy* *Co-Produced with Salzburger Kunstverein* *Curated by: Mirela Baciak; Curatorial Project Assistant: Erka Shalari* *Chapter I: The Color of Energy: Sara Bezovšek, Judith Fegerl, Ursula Mayer, Veronika Hapchenko, Katrin Hornek, Sophie Jung, Linda Lach, Shubigi Rao, Guan Xiao, Liv Bugge | viennacontemporary, September 12–15, 2024* [https://www.viennacontemporary.at/en/vct-statement-the-color-of-energy-2/](https://www.viennacontemporary.at/en/vct-statement-the-color-of-energy-2/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *Chapter II: The Color of Energy: Bertille Bak, Edson Luli, Oleksiy Radynski, Agnes Scherer, Shubigi Rao, Emilija Škarnulytė, Ursula Mayer, Guan Xiao, Sophie Jung | Salzburger Kunstverein, 21 September–24 November 2024* [https://salzburger-kunstverein.at/colorofenergy](https://salzburger-kunstverein.at/colorofenergy?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *With the kind support of ERSTE Foundation* *Supported by Trampoline, Association in Support of the French Art Scene, Paris* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Veronika Hapchenko, demeter, after Ivan Lytovchenko, 2023, acrylic and ink on canvas, 160 x 335 cm, courtesy the artist and ING Collection. fig. 1: Katrin Hornek, testing grounds \[Atoms for Peace\], 2024, 7 Messengers (usable objects): Smartphones with programmed interface in individually processed concrete, latex, and polyurethane casts; Basin: Bending plywood, pond liner, marble gravel, 5,5 x 1,6 m. In collaboration with Karin Pauer, Sabina Holzer, and Zosia Hołubowska. Exhibition view, The Color of Energy, VCT STATEMENT: ENERGY 2024, photo: kunst-dokumentation. fig. 2: Sara Bezovšek, [www.s-n-d.si](http://www.s-n-d.si/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), 2021, filmstill, courtesy the artist. fig. 3: Left and right: Judith Fegerl, full spectrum, 2024, brass, copper-plated with solar energy, each 86 × 66 cm, 2024\. Courtesy the artist and Galerie Hubert Winter. Middle: Linda Lach, Endless Memory Dilation, 2024, glass, human milk, steel, aluminium, levitator, 160 x 190 x 40 cm. Courtesy the artist and wanda gallery. Exhibition view, The Color of Energy, VCT STATEMENT: ENERGY 2024, photo: kunst-dokumentation. fig. 4: Left: Shubigi Rao, Linear AyB, 2023, Full HD digital film, colour, single channel, 04:56 min, courtesy the artist. Middle: Shubigi Rao, Watermarks, 2023, photoprints on Hahnemuhle photo-rag 300g/m2, courtesy the artist. Right: Shubigi Rao, Untitled, 2023, video on CRT TV, sound, 01:02 min, courtesy of the artist. Exhibition view, The Color of Energy, VCT STATEMENT: ENERGY 2024, photo: kunst-dokumentation. fig. 5: Liv Bugge, Goliat, Draugen & Maria, 2021, HD video, 23 min, stereo sound, color, courtesy the artist. fig. 6: Guan Xiao, The Sunset, 2012, LED light box, artificial flower, colored metal, rims, resin, lightbox: 308 × 158 × 10 cm, small sculpture: 50 × 45 v 40 cm, large sculpture: 80 × 55 × 55 cm, courtesy of Mercedes-Benz Art Collection. Exhibition view, The Color of Energy, VCT STATEMENT: ENERGY 2024, photo: kunst-dokumentation. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Decolonization must occur in the spheres of power knowledge and being. URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/decolonization-must-occur-in-the-spheres-of-power-knowledge-and-being/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:26.000Z The first time I heard the words “reparation” and “restitution” together was back in the 1990s when the Chilean state sought a “legal”, clean, and conflict-free solution to the grave impacts of crimes against humanity committed during the civilian-military dictatorship. The methods used neither repaired, nor - even less - restored the radical damage that institutional violence had caused to society and to those directly subjected to that violence. The wound, and the lack of truth or justice, remains a social fracture. Today, these two words speak to me of the deep colonial wound in the country that remains open. As the researcher and writer Helios F. Garcés points out, it is not possible to decolonize (e.g., the museum, the state, our territories) without first transforming the current colonial, patriarchal, capitalist system. Therefore, restitution and reparation are themselves acts of social transformation towards a just and oppression-free society. Engaged in local anti-racist and anti-colonial struggles, particularly focusing on the critical analysis of anti-Roma activities, Garcés collaborates with activists and debates decoloniality within the Spanish government and beyond. Helios is a colleague with whom we continually engage in these discussions. Below is a transcript of a brief conversation wherein he shares his views on the “reparation and restitution” debate. **Nancy Garín:** From your perspective, and considering the processes and debates you have been involved in over recent years, both within the Spanish government and in other territories, what is your view on the ongoing debates regarding the idea of “reparation and restitution” for the colonial process? **Helios (Ilyas) F. Garcés:** I think that, for several reasons, the current debates on “reparation and restitution” within the context of the Spanish government function, at least for now, as mere noise; although they might generate necessary horizons later. Let me explain. First of all, and this is the fundamental point from which we should always start, it is absolutely impossible to repair or restore, even minimally, the incalculable damages derived from centuries of persecution, dispossession, exploitation, and genocide. The empire, with its colonies, enslavement, and corresponding forms of structural and institutional racism - part of the very nature of the emergence and maintenance of capital - has caused immense harm to certain communities and their territories. Secondly, the claim that, in territories like ours, where the existence of racism has not been politically recognized, apart from isolated statements, it is possible to have a serious, consequential debate on reparation and restitution, is absurd. I am not trying to delegitimize the noble and valuable desires of many comrades who belong to the broad spectrum of anti-racism struggles in the Spanish government and who wish to have this debate. For myself, I have used the term “reparations” on many occasions. However, I must warn that if I have done so, it is to help provoke a philosophical and political shift at a time when the ideology of “integration and inclusion” (which is nothing more than a friendly version of the ideology of integration) continues to dominate the political horizon of our situation - including on the left - when addressing the problem of race. Lastly, the debates on “reparation and restitution” within a capitalist society can be completely appropriated by neoliberal reasoning, which is also present in certain forms of anti-racism. Obviously, I am not opposed to the idea of reparation, but as countless voices of Black and Indigenous radical thinkers have warned, for example Abya Yala and the USA, I maintain that the best reparation is the construction of a society beyond capitalism, imperialism, and racism: a society in which survival does not depend on exploiting, oppressing, and dispossessing other peoples. Is this idealistic? If justifying the fundamental horizon of the anti-colonial struggles that gave rise to the fight against racism is idealistic, then yes. Fortunately, more and more Roma (*gitanos*) clearly perceive this horizon and, as ancestrally-oppressed peoples within Europe, do not allow themselves to be hypnotized by the seductive siren songs sung by social democracy. Social democracy (and this is clearly seen regarding the genocide of the Palestinian, Congolese, Sudanese, and Haitian peoples) continues to depend on the genocide of other peoples, the plundering of their wealth, and the gradual destruction of the planet. However, to tame the potential rebellion and emancipation that reside in critical self-organization, and to fully integrate the Roma people into capitalist society, social democracy generates enormous sums of crumbs and symbolic speeches, whose implementation is handed over to racist governments and organizations that legitimize an unjust status quo concerning people of other colors. There is no reparation or restitution possible in the current context, not for the Roma people. The only possible reparation and restitution is the abolition of the current situation and the creation of a truly just one for the people of the earth and the earth itself. **G.:** Within the field of art, and regarding recent gestures in Europe, the US, and Canada to return objects from museums and archives, it is evident that these actions are often orchestrated by central governments. In many cases, the rules are designed so that the return is never actually fulfilled. On the other hand, numerous institutions in Western countries are implementing ideas and practices to “decolonize” museums. What do you think about all this? **F. G.:** Actually, the answer to this question takes us back to the first question. As you said, it is a planned staging. The concern about whether a museum can be decolonized makes us confront the initial problem. Museums exist within a specific society; therefore, there is no decolonizing a museum without decolonizing the society it is embedded in. Does this mean that the governments of the Global South, and especially the people \[of these countries\], cannot claim certain reparative gestures? I would never say that. The governments of the Global South, and the people who fight for their sovereignty against imperial hegemony, have every right to pressure the institutions of the Global North to return what was stolen from them, including objects from their museums. However, the perspective I promote is much more ambitious from an ethical, economic, and political point of view. We dream of decolonizing the modes of production that dominate our economic system. We dream of decolonizing the power relations that dominate our political world, both locally and globally, including governments and their institutions. And we dream of decolonizing our colonized inner reality. We dream, knowing this reality is not only plausible, but that it is the only possible reality if we want a truly just world. And we dream while working to make it a reality. Although the situation is not very promising, the struggles of people in the Global South and within the empire itself - such as the anti-imperialist solidarity, especially by students in the US and Europe with the Palestinian people - show that there is hope. **G.:** What would the process of “decolonizing” museum institutions, in terms of possible reparation and restitution in art and cultural spaces, look like for you? And what would it mean to decolonize (if such a thing is possible) our epistemological framework of art and culture? Do you think it’s possible? **F. G.:** There is a conclusion, which I consider terribly wrong, derived from the ideas in the two previous answers, with which I connect this third question. Some might think that until a profound decolonization of the power structures supporting our social model is achieved, epistemological decolonization would be impossible. I don’t believe this. What I believe is that these two processes - material and epistemological decolonization - are intimately connected, including in the art world. Advocating for a politics of decolonization inherently implies making changes in the epistemological field. There is a desire for a just society free from oppression, dispossession, and exploitation. There is a desire to break with the imperial monologue and its oppressive logic because there is something in our communal conscience that rejects the implied omnipotence of such narratives. From my point of view, as the most insightful proponents of decolonization have argued, decolonization must occur in the spheres of power, knowledge, and being. Whether or not this is possible in the art world, and specifically within museums, must be considered with this understanding. \\\\ This text was originally published on [a-desk.org](https://a-desk.org/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Assembly of Espectros de lo Urbano, 2020\. Courtesy Nancy Garín © Espectros de lo Urbano. *Helios (Ilyas) F. Garcés is a writer and independent researcher who focuses on anti-racist and anti-colonial movements, race politics, and anti-Roma discrimination. He authored "Religion v/s Revolution: Malcolm X, Muslim of Liberation" (2023) and many other works.* *Nancy Garín Guzmán is a journalist and art historian focusing on critical thinking, new pedagogies, archives, memory, and decolonialism. She works with Península, Contraimaginarios, Equipo re, and Espectros de lo Urbano, and teaches at PEI/MACBA.* ### Neighborhood Watch URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/neighborhood-watch/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:10:54.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-33-neighborhood-watch](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-33-neighborhood-watch?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- The term "glocality" is often paraded as a beacon of progress, a concept that seamlessly blends the local and the global. Yet, this ideal often conceals the deep-seated inequalities and systemic violence that prevent cities from being cohesive networks of beings. In cities such as Barcelona and Berlin, where privilege and exclusion glaringly define their structures, the notion of "glocality" masks the harsh realities faced by those marginalized by capitalism’s relentless advance. The romanticized notion of cultural blending too often ignores this quiet but clear devastation. We have exchanged gazes and ideas with the Berlin-and-Barcelona-based editors of A\*Desk, Montse Badia, and María Muñoz, to refresh once again our commitment to critical dialogue achieved through a polyphony of multi-situated voices. The issue, titled "Neighborhood Watch/Ojos de Barrio”, examines annual and biennial events such as Manifesta 15 and Berlin Art Week 2024 to take their collectives into account for how art becomes a tool for finding cracks in the monolith of urban wealth accumulation, where communities can breathe and flourish and neighborliness counterposes the aridity of profit and gentrification. It’s an invitation to recognize that scarcity is one of the main modus operandi in the arts, by navigating the brutal intricacies of its most sordid form of attention specular to capitalism. A\*Desk, deeply embedded in Barcelona’s cultural fabric, has long been a haven for critical revision and resistance to the alienation of culture against the backdrop of gentrification. Thus, AWC (re)visits and translates previously published essays and conversations from A\*Desk’s online platform which refuses to carve out spaces of plural belonging, but rather defines them. We want to query a few things with you, reader, in between the cities: how do we navigate fractured realities? How do we build resilient communities against the tides of gentrification and displacement? How does art actively reshape, not merely reflect, the spaces we inhabit? These are not abstract musings - they are the lived experiences of the artists and art workers featured in this issue. Their work is a testament to the power of art to reveal and resist, to nurture connections, and to root us in a shared struggle for dignity and belonging. Indeed, the collaboration between A\*Desk and Arts of the Working Class is more than an intersection of ideas - it’s an opportunity to rethink the indispensable roles of independent realities within the cultural system and to envision new ways of connecting and supporting one another in our differences. We are committed to extending the invitation, as Arts of the Working Class begins to leave its mark on Barcelona’s cultural landscape hand in hand with A\*Desk, and in complicity with Michael Hart, our new partner in crime, and the members of his Free Music School, a wonderful gathering place for the dwellers of Poble Sec. Let us use perennials, art fairs, and gallery weekends not just as a means to observe, but to become active in shaping a more historically and politically engaged collective consciousness as an expression of the arts' unresolved social role. Only then can art stop being merely a reflection but a powerful force for transformation, grounding us in our shared struggle and collective hope. Social change may be only a few blocks away from you if you wish to engage. *This issue features Abolitionist Jelly, Alba Feito, Amelie Jakubek, Amr Amer, Ana Alenso, Anonymous, CHTO DELAT INTERNATIONAL, Calla Henkel and Max Pitegoff, Carlos Casas, Carlos Delclós, Carolina Campos, Center for Plausible Economies, DMT, Dalia Maini, Dani Gasol, Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley, Diana Padrón, Désiré Feuerle, Eli Cortiñas, Faltas, Fito Conesa, Gisela Chillida, Federico F. Giordano, Gitschiner 15, Glòria Guirao Soro, Grayson Earle, Helios (Ilyas) F. Garcés and Nancy Garín Guzmán, Iconoclasistas and Constanza Mendoza, Inés Plasencia, Irina Mutt, Jeremy Deller, Jokkoo Collective, MMX (María Inés Plaza Lazo, María Inés Plaza Lazo, María Muñoz-Martínez, Michael Hart, Miralda, Montse Badia, Nuria Güell, Pilar Cruz Ramón, Rico Zyrrano, Ro Caminal, Sara Ouhaddou, Selma Selman, Shibboleth, Taína Cruz, Tracey Snelling, and Xavier Acarín), ver.di.* ***Impressum / Imprint*** **Founders / Publishers** Verantwortlicher i.S.d . 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor-in-Chief** Dalia Maini **Guest Editors** Montse Badia and María Muñoz-Martínez (A\*Desk) **Artistic Project Development & Distribution** Theresa Zwerschk **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph **Distribution Assistance** Miguel Angel Espinoza **Proofreading** William Kherbek **Translations** Léa d Allexandre Kurt Hollander Huda Zikry **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Circle of Support - Volunteers:** Hassoumi Moctar Agali, Amina Zerourou, Ruslana Shabelnyk, Nina Abba, Hannah Lu Verse, anna zrenner, Sophie Franziska Schultz, Kira Schmitz, Nadine Bajek, Cora Pagano, Yasemin Şenkal, Lukas Grube, Duarte Eduardo, Felix Dengg, James Rhys Edwards, Louisa Maria Stank, Sophie Hartleib, Teresa Mayr, Leo Baumgärtner, Katharina Thurow, Annalisa Giacinti, Mia Ribeiro Alonso, Line Lange, Noa Jarri **Druck** Druckzentrum Osnabrück GmbH & Co. KG, Osnabrück, DE Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Schillerpromenade 10 Berlin [hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org](mailto:hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org) Arts of the Working Class can now be read digitally, too. Please find our vendors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digitally buy a copy and additionally the STREAD issue of each month. **Donate** Paypal: p@artsoftheworkingclass.org --- ## In this issue - [Where is the kinky journey leading to?](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/where-is-the-kinky-journey-leading-to/) - [Welten erschaffen, Welten organisieren, mit anderen teilen](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/welten-erschaffen-welten-organisieren-mit-anderen-teilen/) - [The return of the political](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-return-of-the-political/) - [Jokkoo Collective](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/jokkoo-collective/) - [Cosmopolitics](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cosmopolitics/) - [A sense of collectivity is created through struggles](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-sense-of-collectivity-is-created-through-struggles/) - [Ro caminal](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/ro-caminal/) - [Carlos Casas](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/carlos-casas/) ### Chapter 3: workers´ summer URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/chapter-3-workers-summer/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:24.000Z *The history of workers’ struggle is the history of the portion of humanity that identifies itself as being alienated from its meaning of economic production and which is subjugated by the wage labor system. It is the history of the emancipation of humankind from capitalism altogether.* *Brought together by a shared interest in making visible workers’ history and labor’s current struggles, AWC in cooperation with labournet.tv, a collective and an online archive of films from labor movements worldwide, has selected a variety of films addressing current and historical working conditions, migration fluxes, and forms of self-organization.* *The selected films, presented on AWC and labournet.tv channels, highlight axes of oppression that cross, situated struggles, and illustrate the interconnectedness between unprotected workers' rights, restrictions on trade union organization, and the extent of exploitation - especially of migrant and women workers.* The third chapter from the AWC selection on labournet.tv focuses on the self-organization and transformation of the economy by workers. In these labor disputes, the workers go beyond merely pointing out poor working conditions and disproportionate power relations—they actively reshape and redefine them according to their needs and ideas. Providing various examples from Italy, Greece, and Argentina, the selected films illustrate how workers can transform production and highlight the individual steps and struggles necessary for this process. The stories depict the processes of self-management, the collective exploration of needs-oriented working conditions, the development of democratic structures, the transition to ecological production, and the constant challenges and changes that accompany these efforts. The occupations and takeovers featured in the films were not short-lived episodes; instead, they led to long-term changes, offering insights into what an alternative society could look like and how we might achieve it. The first film, “Das autonome Hafenarbeiterkollektiv CALP” (2022), focuses on the autonomous port workers' collective CALP in Genoa. Since 2011, this collective has been organizing against fascist groups and advocating for better working conditions at the port. Among other achievements, they fought to ban the transport of weapons and war goods through the port of Genoa. In the film, José Nivoi, the collective's spokesperson, explains how they blocked arms shipments to war zones and provides insights into the legal situation regarding the transport of war goods in Italy. [WATCH ](https://de.labournet.tv/das-autonome-hafenarbeiterkollektiv-calp?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Chapt.-3-Calp-Italy-labournet.tv-.jpg) Fig. 1 The second film, “Taking Over the Means of Production – A Look at VIO.ME” (2019), shows how the factory's workforce organizes work and ecological production independently. VIO.ME is part of an alternative economy that prioritizes the needs of workers and their working conditions over profit. "The capitalist economy does not aim to build a functioning economy; it seeks to make profits," says one of the workers in the film. [ WATCH ](https://de.labournet.tv/die-produktionsmittel-uebernehmen-ein-blick-auf-viome?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Chapt.-3-Viome-Greece-Unicorn-Riot.jpg) Fig.2 The third film, “Mate, Clay and Production” (2003), explores the worker-controlled ceramic tile factory FaSinPat (formerly known as Zanon). The cooperative is located in the southern Argentine province of Neuquén and was occupied and taken over by its workforce 21 years ago, similar to many other factories in Patagonia. FaSinPat, which stands for Fábrica sin Patrones—Factory without Bosses—became a symbol of Argentina’s new social movements due to its consistent grassroots democracy, radical demands, and spirit of resistance. Originally, the workers sought the nationalization of the factory, but it ultimately became a cooperative. FaSinPat invests part of its profits in local projects, such as the construction of a hospital, and sources raw materials, like clay, from the indigenous Mapuche community. In the film, members of the cooperative discuss production, and their daily struggles, and share their experiences and ideas. [ WATCH ](https://de.labournet.tv/video/5913/mate-ton-und-produktion?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Chapt.-3-Zanon-Argentina-AK-KRAAK.jpg) Fig. 3 // labournet.tv is an online archive for films from the labor movement - old and new - from all parts of the world. This collaboration is facilitated by Noa Jaari, Mia Ribeiro Alonso, Line Lange, and Annalisa Giacinti. --- ### Image Caption Cover: "Das autonome Hafenarbeiterkollektiv CALP” (2022) Fig. 1 José Nivoi says: ‘We blockade weapons because this is clearly an ethical and moral issue. Going to work and using our working time to load weapons that will kill thousands of people in states \[where\] we will never seem crazy to us.’, © labournet.tv Fig. 2 Makis works in self-managed production in Thessaloniki (Greece) and produces ecological cleaning products, © Unicorn Riots Fig. 3 The factory has legally belonged to the workers since 2009, © AK KRAAK ### AWC/NK Open Call URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/awcnk-open-call/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:20.000Z \- Update: The opportunity to inhabit the space with us is directed towards Berlin locals! - Arts of the Working Class (AWC) is thrilled to announce the opening of its new space in Berlin-Neukölln (NK) at Schillerpromenade 10\. It is dedicated to supporting artists who are on low-income, who have been defunded, and/or come from a migration background, as well as writers and publishers in need of short-term to mid-term workspace. Our goal is to foster a welcoming community where collective work, culture, and artistic practices can thrive in an environment that values respect, plurality, and equality. We have been able to move in thanks to the generous support of the Schöpflin Foundation. **About** The AWC space—including our headquarters, office, archive, and exhibition room—will serve as a hub for our vendors, contributors, partners, and the wider community. Regular exhibitions, workshops, and events will be organized in alignment with Arts of the Working Class's editorial work and in collaboration with the local community. These activities are designed to foster dialogue and exchange, enriching the collective cultural production. **Available Spaces** - **Individual Room:** Suitable for one person; available for up to six months (September 2024-February 2025 / March-August 2025). - **Collective Room:** Accommodates up to five members; available for up to six months (September 2024-February 2025 or March-August 2025). **Facilities and Amenities** Each room is equipped with desks, lamps, and Wi-Fi. We provide wooden chairs and benches, but you are welcome to bring your own comfortable seating. The office is on the ground floor and fully wheelchair accessible. Two bathrooms and a small communal kitchen are also available. The space is offered free of charge under the principles of the commons: users are expected to care for the space and to contribute to the community's well-being. AWC retains overall responsibility for the space. While it is free to use, donations—whether in time, effort, or any currency—are encouraged to help to sustain the initiative. **How to Apply** To apply for an individual or collective room, please submit a single document including: - **Introduction (up to 250 words):** tell us about yourself and your work. - **Proposal (up to 250 words):** describe your intended use of the space and how it aligns with AWC's mission. - **Room and Timeframe Preference:** Indicate your preferred room (e.g., individual or collective) and timeframe (e.g., September-February or March-August). **Eligibility** **This opportunity is open to:** - Low-income or defunded artists, writers, and publishers - Community builders, activists, and cultural workers - Individuals or collectives from marginalized communities **Deadline for Applications** Please submit your application by **September 6.** Applicants will be notified by **September 13.** For inquiries or further information, please contact us at dm@artsoftheworkingclass.org. **We look forward to welcoming you!** ### Chapter 2: WORKERS’ SUMMER URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/chapter-2-workers-summer/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:18.000Z *The history of workers’ struggle is the history of the portion of humanity that identifies itself as being alienated from its meaning of economic production and which is subjugated by the wage labor system. It is the history of the emancipation of humankind from capitalism altogether.* *Brought together by a shared interest in making visible workers’ history and labor’s current struggles, AWC in cooperation with labournet.tv, a collective and an online archive of films from labor movements worldwide, has selected a variety of films addressing current and historical working conditions, migration fluxes, and forms of self-organization.* *The selected films, presented on AWC and labournet.tv channels, highlight axes of oppression that cross, situated struggles, and illustrate the interconnectedness between unprotected workers' rights, restrictions on trade union organization, and the extent of exploitation - especially of migrant and women workers.* This second chapter from the AWC’s selection on labournet.tv focuses on today's globalized economy, where the exploitation of migrant workers remains a pressing issue. Despite advancements in labor rights and regulations, many companies continue to prioritize profit over human dignity, leading to widespread abuses, especially affecting those at the bottom of the production chain. The COVID-19 pandemic has further exacerbated these conditions, with migrant workers often being the hardest hit. The short films selected for this chapter underscore the urgent need for stronger labor protections, greater corporate accountability, and international solidarity to combat the exploitation of migrant workers. The stories from China, Spain, and Germany serve as a stark reminder of the ongoing fight for workers' rights and the critical importance of addressing these injustices in our interconnected world. The first film, "China Blue," (2005) explores the working and living conditions of three young female migrant workers in China who work in a jeans factory in Shaxi. The factory owner, a former city police chief, also shares his perspective. Through the work culture of the jeans industry and the propaganda pushed on its workers, the film subtly raises questions about China’s political regime. [WATCH](https://en.labournet.tv/video/6326/china-blue?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/china-blue.png) fig. 1 The second film, "Migrant Workers’ Struggle in a Sea of Plastic Foil," (2017) highlights the plight of migrant workers in Spain, who, burdened with the responsibility of providing for their families, had not been paid for two months. In response, they organized themselves with the agricultural workers' union SOC-SAT to demand their rights. On March 7th, the cooperative Juarez y Maldonado S.L. retaliated by firing 22 employees for their trade union actions. [WATCH](https://en.labournet.tv/migrant-workers-struggle-sea-plastic-foil?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Migran-Workerss-Struggle-in-a-Sea-of-Plastic-foil-.png) fig. 2 The final film, "Migrant Harvesters Strike in Germany," (2020) focuses on the labor conditions of migrant workers, primarily from Romania, employed on asparagus and strawberry farms in Bornheim, Germany. It narrates their struggle against low wages, harsh working conditions, and the complete lack of welfare, sparking protests against exploitation. [WATCH](https://en.labournet.tv/migrant-harvesters-strike-germany?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/MIGRANT-HARVESTERS-STRIKE-IN-GERMANY.png) fig. 3 // labournet.tv is an online archive for films from the labor movement - old and new - from all parts of the world. This collaboration is facilitated by Noa Jaari, Mia Ribeiro Alonso, Line Lange, and Annalisa Giacinti. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Still from CHINA BLUE; Shaxi, Guangdong province, China; 2005. fig. 1: CHINA BLUE; Shaxi, Guangdong province, China; 2005. fig. 2: MIGRANT WORKERS' STRUGGLE IN A SEA OF PLASTIC FOIL; San Isidro, Andalusia; 2017. fig. 3: MIGRANT HARVESTERS STRIKE IN GERMANY; Bornheim, near Bonn, Germany; 2020. ### How resilient is a symbol? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/how-resilient-is-a-symbol/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:17.000Z It is 17:30 on Friday the nineteenth of July 2024, the Opening Day of the annual Rundgang of the Universität der Künste Berlin. While the official opening ceremony is still in full swing at Straße des 17\. Juni, the first visitors are lining up in front of Hardenbergstraße 33 to be granted entrance to the exhibitions of the Fine Arts, Architecture, and Media & Design Faculties. Although the crowd is still small, metal barrier fences and door staff indicate the large number of spectators that are expected, and the measures taken in response. The annual Rundgang is a moment of representation, a platform for students to share their work with the public, but also a celebration and a spectacle that, every year, attracts a huge audience. Visitors come for several reasons, to get a glimpse behind the doors into the workshops and studios, to discover new talents, or just for the cheap beer and fun parties. Or, most likely, a combination of all the preceding. Entering the building I am immersed in a soundscape of chatter, clattering shoes on stone floors, and distant audio sequences from (as yet) unlocatable artworks. As I make my way through groups of students involved in final preparations and crowds of early visitors, I ruminate about an approach to this text that pays tribute to the multitude of efforts, ideas, voices, and media that are assembled in this exhibition. The attempt to capture a show like this can neither be one of completeness nor one that lives up to the individual depths of engagement that are on display. So where to start? What to highlight? With more than 30 courses divided into the four departments of Fine Arts, Design, Music, and Theatre and around 4.000 students, UdK is one of the largest art schools in Europe. For the Rundgang weekend, every student gets the opportunity to share an insight into their practice with a wider public at one of the nine locations of the university spread throughout the city. While this approach offers visitors a great opportunity to get an overview of the learning environment of UdK and the students’s doings, it also comes with limitations, for example, a deficiency of presentation space, and the necessity to condense one’s practice into a single artwork. It might make sense to consider students’ works more as symbolic representations through which one can only grasp a partial, superficial impression, signifying a deeper engagement that lies beneath but can’t be shown. Beyond this individualizing tendency of presenting artistic positions, a compelling subplot emerged from seeing how multiple works and actions during the Rundgang reacted to the limitations, with collaborative art practices and collective actions invested in reforming the school’s infrastructure and connecting their works to an outside, beyond the walls of the institution. A symbolic act in the context of the school’s exhibition might, therefore, also gain another connotation. One that preconditions transformation and demands change. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-08-14-at-16.20.01.png) Fig.1 Under the title “Algorithmic Cultural Vandalism” Pietro Lugaro & Alessandro McNelly developed a collaborative project engaging with the technological deconstruction of symbols as a perpetuation of colonial logics of cultural extractivism. As part of the newly founded department Design & Computation, shared between TU and UdK, their project consists of a database of hundreds of different cultural, spiritual, and ethnic symbols drawn together from the internet and detached from their contexts. Asking how colonial tools of categorization and measuring are perpetuated and multiplied under the guise of technological progress, their work stretches a catalog of cuts to the point where the bare line becomes the starting point for new symbolic prototypes. A programmed robot arm translates shapes of the database’s symbols into new drawings that are co-created with visitors of the show. Equipped with a brush and ink, both the robot’s and visitor’s arms take turns assembling lines and forms on a piece of paper. As my hand draws a wobbly line across the sheet, I wonder which archive of symbolism impacts my creation, and which capacities my line contains to transmit the symbol’s initial meaning, even as it becomes detached and deconstructed. Rather than considering the confrontation of algorithmically (robot) and improvisationally (human) produced shapes as binaries, this co-creation links the different symbolic orders in which both “hands” are embedded, opening our communal drawing towards each order’s respective visual, cultural, and historical codes. If, following Jacques Lacan, we argue that everything we produce and express is understood to happen within a symbolic order, which is structured like a language, and is bound to all the codes and meanings that sediment in it, then the question arises of how these orders resonate in the process of detachment and de-linking and how they come to form new meanings. From which symbolism do we draw in developing our own (visual) languages? How is the development of an artistic expression impacted by those symbolic orders that condition our imaginations? How resilient is a symbol? And how is resilience carried by symbols? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3_Daria-Kozlova_What-we-lost-in-the-Water.jpg) Fig.2 Daria Kozlova’s graduation film “What we lost in the water” uses symbolism through digital renderings against historical erasure. Not by reconstructing the facts, but by creating a new form of remembrance through a fictional narrative. A body floating on the water, a half sunken cross, two figures rising like the eagle from the ashes, the water itself as an agent. The animated film, (produced in collaboration with Anna Ivchenko, Wren Bisley, Oleksii Voitikh, Annkathrin Kluss, Arvin Afsharnejad, Daria Maier, Oleksandr Sirous), is anchored in the history of the Ukrainian village Kherson, which was flooded in 2023 as a consequence of the Russian blow-up of the Kakhovka Hydroelectric Power Plant dam. The water stored in the Kakhovka Reservoir then flooded the settlements downstream, endangering the cooling of the Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant units. Kherson had been part of the USSR regime’s enforcement of a cotton-growing industry in the South Ukrainian area, which for decades dominated the region’s agriculture and ecosystem. Daria Kozlova’s film agitates against what has been systematically rendered invisible by opening a tale around the water as an entity that carries the curse of contamination as much as it floods an infrastructure of repression and control. “What we lost in the water” urges us to consider which images, narratives, and visual languages to lean on and how to animate them to keep memories alive and in constant motion rather than conceptualizing them as a closed chapter, framed and concealed. “This artist stands in solidarity with the students in Gaza, who no longer have a place to study. All universities in Gaza have been destroyed by Israel” is written on an A5-sized card, which I find placed next to multiple artworks in the exhibition. Understanding these cards as symbols of solidarity reveals symbolism’s potential as a disruption that might resonate in the perception of the viewer. What does this symbolic gesture achieve? It forms a crack in the widespread presumption of the Western Art School as an ivory tower of aesthetic production otherwise disconnected from the struggles of students elsewhere. Instead of being read as ending in the gesture itself, these cards refuse the perception of a homogenous student body. They contain the potential to precondition action and demand the acknowledgment of the students’ societal roles as artists affected by, and opposing, the systems surrounding them. Forming a unity in rejection, by using their platform to disobey a state of denial, finds resonance with Anne Boyer’s Essay “No”: “Some days my only certain we are this certain we that didn’t, that wouldn’t, whose bodies or spirits wouldn’t go along.” (1) At which point is refusal considered an act of disobedience and when is it considered as artistic practice? Can it be both? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-08-14-at-16.09.09.png) Fig.3 In their collectively produced video essay, “I don’t even know where to begin” the students of Professor Josephine Pryde take on the task of exploring the generative capacity of refusal by enacting it as a mode of artistic production. Collected found footage - some of it taken from films, circulating online videos, as well as deeply personal material - is arranged in a 4-channel video installation intersecting with questions, such as: *Where is the harmony in the dissonance?* *As artists, what are we responsible for?* *Have you lost friends due to your opinion?* *Is the university a free forum?* *How often do we think of the killed?* (2) These questions were posed by members of the class in a group meeting in April 2024\. Questions that were neither intended to be answered nor to be posed as statements but to hold a space for the speechlessness resulting from the urgencies of the present. Building upon the continuing conversation that emerged from this meeting, their collective work refuses the framing of individual artistic creation by assembling material that reflects the complexities in which the students are embedded. “Oh weep. I am resourceful. Never fear, I am resourceful. I am an artist and inventive. Behold, I am resourceful. The semester was shredded by the logic of war. The corridor meanwhile cleared.” (3) This is written in the accompanying text entitled “Then the Professor a Poem” by the class's professor Josephine Pryde. Approaching refusal not as a passive withdrawal but as a generative force links with Fred Moten and Stefano Harney’s conceptualization of a refusal that enables possibilities for sociality and communal acts outside of the hegemonic constraints of existing (institutional) power. In *The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning and Black Study* (2013) refusal can be understood as both a practice of critique and the development of other forms of knowledge transmission and relationality. The student’s decision to share the transit space of a corridor as a site for exercising their disagreement with things as they are, for me, contains both critique as a practice and an opening towards the Otherwise, which leads me back to Anne Boyer: *But even the greatest refusialists of the poets might be somewhat ironic deployers of that refusal, for what is refused often amplifies what is not. The no of a poet is so often a yes in the carapace of no. The no of a poet is sometimes but rarely a no to a poem itself, but more usually a no to all dismal aggregations and landscapes outside of the poem. It’s a no to chemical banalities and wars, a no to employment and legalisms, a no to the wretched arrangements of history and the tattered and Bannon-laminated earth.* (4) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5_ClassPryde_I_dont_even_know_where_to_be_2024.jpg) Fig.4 A similar approach could be seen in the screenings curated by the lens-based class of Professor Hito Steyerl. Here the students’s *No* to displaying their own work contains a *Yes* to dedicating their platform to films that capture voices and realities otherwise rendered invisible in public discourse. The three documentaries “This rain will never stop” (2020) by Alina Horlowa, “Gaza Calling” (2012) by Nahed Awwad, and “Of Land and Bread” are screened daily in the darkened space of the classroom. I enter the space on Saturday afternoon, halfway into “Of Land and Bread”. The documentary captures the “Camera Project,'' initiated by the Israeli human rights organization B’Tselem in 2007\. The organization distributed video cameras and provided training for Palestinian volunteers in the West Bank, to document their life under the Israeli occupation. The video footage offers visual evidence of B'Tselem’s reporting on human rights violations in the occupied territories. Capturing scenes including nightly military raids of private domestic spaces, and everyday settler provocations, along with conversations and interviews, the film is a selection of the Camera Project’s archive edited by the filmmaker Ehab Tarabieh. “Of Land and Bread” accounts for the unmediated perspective of those whose everyday life is conditioned by oppression and violence and for the subversive potential of the camera as an instrument for self-determination. The decision to show a film like “Of Land and Bread” in the context of an art school environment sheds light on the students's reflections on the tools and skills they acquire through their artistic training. Understanding how these tools might not only serve to master an aesthetic discipline but can be taken outside of the institution, shared, and made productive in support of forms of resistance and direct action is where critical aesthetic education becomes applied and emancipatory. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_6158.JPG) Fig.5 On a wall, I found a poster reading “ACCESS NOW!”, the same poster a group of students was holding up at the opening celebration, lined up on the side of the ceremony, to whom it seemed like only passing attention was paid. The group Quip\* the system! ACCESS NOW criticizes the ableism and audism anchored in the institutional structures of UdK. Their demands for a structural change regarding sustainable accessibility measures include the creation of permanent full-time positions for accessibility, external mentoring, accessibility training for lectures and staff, more diversity in higher education policy areas, and the active involvement of those affected by discrimination in remediation processes. Reminiscing about the action groups I was part of during my art school studies, where it often felt as if you were hammering in vain with blunt chisels against the rock-hard structures of the institution, I find an even greater appreciation for the relentless effort this group appears to put into demanding reform of the ableist constraints inherent in educational structures. ACCESS NOW does not simply address the many points of exclusion that the academic system and art school structures perpetuate but proposes strategies of change, which seems like an extremely generous act: offering their own knowledge and investment to their institution to adapt. Through my whole tour around Hardenbergstraße one painting has continued to remain with me, and so I find myself ending up in front of it again. The painting “Umzug” by Media Esfarjani shows three persons carrying an uprooted tree trunk on which a half-hidden figure with branch-like limbs is clinging tightly. The red of the trunk matches their hair and the rooftops of houses in the hilly green landscape in the background. Their blue half-heeled shoes step on the lower edge of the painting as if the canvas itself were the ground on which they walk. Resembling the formal languages of Socialist, Christian, and Surrealist paintings, Esfarjani’s work constructs itself by drawing from a symbolism loaded with historical baggage, obscuring and actualizing it. Placed within a system of signifiers, codes, and meanings, her work takes on the task of carrying the baggage of historicity just as her protagonists carry the tree trunk. A baggage that is neither refused nor fully obeyed in this image. But rather taken on with a clear direction – like the resoluteness found in the eyes of the tree carriers. While I sit on the church bench positioned on the left side of the picture and follow the figure’s gaze which points straight out of the painting towards a destination remaining unknown to the viewer, I wonder if this destination is shared by the painter herself. When the bands start playing in the courtyard, my engagement with the exhibition tails off with crowds filling the space. I leave the building while the spectacle is at its peak with an empty stomach and a full mind wondering about the artists's creations of signifier chains and about ways to confront the dominating symbolic orders of the current state. Answers to how to deal with the symbolism that shapes one’s position within a system of images and (visual) languages, might not so much be found in a binary of refusal and acceptance, destruction or reproduction, but rather in the ways to lean onto or against them to make them speak for one’s cause, or against the way they’ve been determined in support of hegemonic power. Taking on the task of using the resilience of symbols as a new formulation of willfulness mirrors the Yes contained in Anne Boyer’s No (and vice versa): “Transpositions and upendings refuse and then reorder the world. And so, too, poetry manages a transposition of vocabulary: a refusalist poet’s ‘against’ is an agile and capacious ‘for,’ expanding the negative to genius and the opposite of to unforeseen collapses and inclusions.”(5) // --- ### Image Captions: Cover: Media Esfarjani, Umzug, 2024, 260 cm x 120 cm, Oil on Canvas © Media Esfarjani. Fig.1 Pietro Lugaro & Alessandro McNelly, Algorithmic Cultural Vandalism, 2024, Installation View © Theresa Zwerschke. Fig.2 Daria Kozlova, What we lost in the Water, 2024, Installation View © Daria Kozlova. Fig.3 © Theresa Zwerschke. Fig.4 Class J. Pryde, I don’t even know where to begin, 4-Channel Video Installation, Corridor, 2024 © Class J. Pryde. Fig.5 Quip\* the system. ACCESS NOW! Action Group, ACCESS NOW! Poster, 2024, © Theresa Zwerschke. Footnotes: (1) Anne Boyer, No, in A Handbook of Disappointed Fate, (Brooklyn: Ugly Duckling Presse, 2018), p. 10. (2) Transcript from Class J. Pryde, “I don’t even know where to begin.”, 4-channel video installation, UdK Rundgang 2024. (3) Josephine Pryde, “And then the Professor a Poem”, Posterprint, UDK Rundgang 2024. (4) Anne Boyer, No, in A Handbook of Disappointed Fate, (Brooklyn: Ugly Duckling Presse, 2018), p. 13. (5) Anne Boyer, No, in A Handbook of Disappointed Fate, (Brooklyn: Ugly Duckling Presse, 2018) p.16. *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### Against the Weaponization of Art and the Moralization of Military Conflicts URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/against-the-weaponization-of-art-and-the-moralization-of-military-conflicts/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:16.000Z Christopher Nolan’s *Oppenheimer* (2023) features a scene depicting one of those perfect moments when a clear contradiction between ethics and morality is revealed, namely when the Manhattan Project group discusses launching the first nuclear bomb. The fear that grips their research is that using an atomic bomb against Nazi Germany could unleash the destruction of the world in an unperdictable, but possible chain reaction. While the project’s team had to first ensure that the scenario of complete planetary annihilation is out of the picture (literally), the scientists displayed a higher regard for the ethics of saving the life of our planet against the morals of defeating evil: if the risk of total annihilation were not discarded, then the bomb could not be used to deter or defeat the Nazis. Thus, it would have been logical to accept an eventual Nazi victory against the horizon of a total annihilation of life on Earth. For them, a future humanity set on the enslavement of the world and the genocide of Jews, queers, disabled people, and Romani would still be preferable to no humanity, let alone no flora and fauna on earth at all. In the movie, we witness, for a brief moment, scientists visualizing the major consequences of their work and their direct shaping of the world - as catastrophic as that might have been. Confronting a fully weaponized science in a moral war against evil, and the loss of control over the results of their work, they cannot help but cast their refusal to build the bomb as an ethical stand in defense of life in general versus building the destructive bomb by moralizing the war against the Nazis, confronting multiple dilemmas which haunted not only Openheimer, but everybody else involved. The comparison between the creation of the atomic bomb and art production might seem like a stretch at first, but let’s not forget, that we are confronting a desolated moral battlefield of leftists left to themselves, while fascists profit from their enemies’ fragmentation. Art workers thus face a kind of uncertainty and loss of control of their work and what it proposes that is taking place through the curation of specific interpretations of meanings, or by institutionally-endorsed aesthetic decontextualization. In this pro-Israel vs. pro-Palestine *cul-de-sac*, or pro-diplomacy versus pro-war in the Ukraine context, art workers, too, face a conflict between an ethical stand for humanity versus a moral one in favor of a particular subsection of humanity. Although the relationship between war and art may seem less direct, in a world dripping in blood from the ongoing wars in Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan, and elsewhere, the active nodes of our “global art world” find themselves deep in the feedback loop between these conflicts and locally staged culture wars. Who is there to deny the invisible, but undeniable, force from political interest of pro-Israeli lobbies or Pro-Palestinian activist groups, pushing the arts and media to take sides, requesting artists, curators and institutions to clarify their position and to utilize their cultural capital to join in the battlefields. This is hardly an unexpected consequence in a world that is constantly being reshaped by social media and, increasingly, AI where ongoing global conflicts help people make sense of the local culture wars and then our local context in return is utilized like a lens to make further sense of the world's geopolitical complexities. Not only has this feedback loop been structuring the political grammar of the last couple of years, but it has also given rise to an ambition of moving art beyond the mere discourse of moralization, or even the noble ambition of using it to make an ethical intervention, instead it reproduces the conditions of war within the realms of art and culture towards weaponizing the art itself. Let’s not name any names, but those who are tripping around the world to participate in, or cancel, shows according to particular political affiliations, as well as all who witness these unfortunate acts, know best which events, institutions or individuals represent examples of the art world wars. Since art has not been able to shake its strong belief in the existence of absolute goods and truths versus evil lies, it is understandable that artists and art workers strive to join the “good” side of the conflict with which they identify. Little do they know that compared to the 20th century, in today’s world, it’s even harder to find the good sides, and that the only thing that separates the conflicting sides is their different degree of wickedness, misrepresentations and distortions which themselves fluctuate on a daily basis. For those artists who were never interested in the question of politics, these conditions are a perfect excuse to further recede into silence by removing themselves from debating or taking sides in conflicts, but artists who are known for engaging with politics end up avoiding stepping on the landmines laid between the two sides only by putting their foot in their mouth. The restless spirit of the times requires us to go back and examine the mother of all political art, kept within the vault of Walter Benjamin's theoretical legacy. For Benjamin, the aestheticization of politics is when politics itself becomes an art form, often this tactic is used by authoritarian regimes to control and influence the masses through spectacle and emotions, whereas the politicization of aesthetics takes place when art becomes a political tool used to raise awareness, critique societal issues, and inspire social change. Benjamin's argument from his essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (1936), has been used over the last nearly hundred years to warn against the potential dangers of aesthetics replacing politics, and, conversely, as a blueprint for the production of politically engaged art to make matters worse. His other essay “The Author as Producer”, written during his exile in Paris in 1934 and published posthumously, has been used to advocate that politically correct art can, regardless of its formal qualities, self-justify its aesthetics: *“\[A\] work that shows the correct political tendency need to show no other quality.” Conversely, “\[A\] work that exhibits the correct tendency must of necessity have every other quality.”* In the art world, these particular statements have functioned more or less as religious teachings are used in communities of faith, justifying, if not also encouraging, the political positioning of art. However, with the art world engaged in a war with no clear lines defining good and evil or truth and untruth, the distinctions between aesthetic politics and political aesthetics have collapsed only to the benefit of dogmatisms, ideological fortification, and propaganda from all sides. The weaponization of art and political activism by artists, curators, and institutions can be seen as a symptom, but also the cause, of something larger: the righteousness with which 21st century humans exercise their values. Today we are led to believe in the absolute evil of our enemies; thus, we are convinced that we can risk escalating local conflicts and compare them to world wars regardless of how this can potentially cause irreparable damage to the culture we form, destroying ties in the form of a (socially) nuclear confrontation. This is why the sooner art and artists begin revisiting their age-old assumptions about their political function and begin acting as agents of doubt rather than conviction, the sooner they can salvage themselves and the fruits of their labor from becoming mere weapons of war rather than agents and tools for understanding and transformation of the world, and making life more tolerable. \\\\ *Mohammad Salemy is an independent Berlin-based artist, critic and curator from Canada. He holds a BFA from Emily Carr University and an MA in Critical Curatorial Studies from the University of British Columbia. Together with Patrick Schabus, he forms the artist collective Alphabet Collection. Salemy is the Organizer at The New Centre for Research & Practice.* ### How Art can Incorporate Use URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/how-art-can-incorporate-use/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:14.000Z *In conversation with Dalia Maini, the artist Rebecca Moccia assesses her exhibition* The Loners*, at Cripta747 in Turin and explores the themes illuminated by her ongoing research on the effect (and affects) of work relations and individualism on citizens and communities.* **Can you introduce your ongoing research, and what brought you to the concept behind the exhibition *The Loners?*** **RM:** With the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic I increasingly experienced an unexpected sense of loneliness. Being a human in this destructive global political-economic system, and also being a part of the artistic sector, I felt the need and, at the same time, the difficulty of creating real communities, of responding collectively to serious and urgent problems at a large or small scale. This feeling was accompanied by a sense of helplessness and powerlessness. It was the year 2020, or perhaps 2021, in the midst of one of the lockdowns, I heard on the radio about a ministry related to loneliness for the first time. It was a speech by the Minister of Loneliness, Baroness Barran, addressing British citizens confined at home, and announcing a significant investment in the government fund dedicated to reducing loneliness. I immediately felt that this news touched on the exposed nerve of a contradiction I wanted to investigate, even though I didn't yet fully understand its origin and meaning. In particular, I wondered about the form and origins of a feeling like loneliness that seems pervasive, and, simultaneoulsy, inherently hidden which was suddenly brought to global attention due to the pandemic. It is a feeling that I had seen discussed using interpretations and words that suddenly no longer seemed convincing to me. Therefore, I began the *Ministry of Loneliness* project, a three-year investigation across Italy, England, the United States, and Japan; an exploration both at an artistic, and – in line with my practice – a physical level. It is a journey that started by exploring the crucial influence of spaces, the material world, and the various networks of relationships between bodies and political-economic contexts, as to how loneliness emerges and is experienced. After working, for instance, on the bureaucratic and parliamentary structures that contribute to the shaping of lonely subjectivities (the corpus of works exhibited in my solo show, *Ministry of Loneliness \[1\]*, in the exhibition *The Loners*, curated by Elena Bray and Iacopo Prinetti at Cripta747, I focused on electoral architecture, on the dynamics of voting as the main relationship today between citizens and politics, marking a new step in my research. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4_Rebecca-Moccia_The-Loners_Cripta747.jpeg) fig. 1 **In the exhibition at Cripta747 you articulate the relationships between labor, democracy, and loneliness? How do you intertwine those?** Starting in 2021, I began to work on a personal archive of voting booth images from different countries, both by trying to reach the actual voting sites in the countries I visited, and through online and offline documentary research. From these images, I developed a kind of taxonomy of voting booths to highlight the lonely and constitutive approach of the liberal system of political representation, and of democracy, and to trace the material particularities and specific forms of these temporary architectures. In the project’s core idea, the booths were divided into different typologies (e.g., "free-standing", "multiple", etc.) and these were associated with equally human types. As a result, I took several elements from this research, and these were translated into five sculptures in the Cripta747 exhibition space: the loners, and hybrids between voters' bodies and neoliberal structures. Meanwhile, two megaphones mounted on one of the sculptures broadcast an audio work created in collaboration with the sound artist Renato Grieco. The same composition has been released, in the context of the exhibition, as a limited edition record, *Rebecca Moccia&Renato Grieco Ministry of Loneliness Theme*, published by Paint it Black. The sound, croaking through the speakers, further intensifies the perception of the atmosphere of liberal bureaucratic apparatuses. With this project, I intended to reflect on the peculiar loneliness of our time; a "political loneliness" as defined by Jennifer Gaffney, who analyzed Hannah Arendt's thoughts on the matter (Gaffney, J. *Political Loneliness: Modern Liberal Subjects in Hiding;* Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2020). It is a kind of loneliness that is formed when the ultimate act of citizenship becomes a hidden, anonymous vote in the ballot box, or a secret disenchanted abstention, alienated from real political participation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5_Rebecca-Moccia_The-Loners_Cripta747.jpeg) fig. 2 **It can be argued that loneliness is a capitalist-induced state that makes citizens more obedient. Amidst the wholesale alienation of the contemporary subject, how do you think that artistic practices can restore social and political agency, beyond the symbolic realm?** As you said, the ideal citizen of neoliberal capitalism is the autonomous, self-sufficient individual. So we have been led to believe that pain – in all its various manifestations including feelings of loneliness – only concerns the individual and their ability to be resilient, to ‘make it on their own”. Suffering and the need for care have been increasingly privatized and psychologized over the years, and, as a result, anytime we have been tormented by fears and insecurities, or needed support and didn't get it, we have had to blame ourselves, our inadequacy, our insufficiency, rather than attributing responsibility to society. I believe that this vision of loneliness as something that relates to the personal, to the individual, rather than as a political issue, is, first of all, cultural, and I believe that art practices can act on this level by creating sensory knowledge. Through my research and work, I try to present a counter-narrative of loneliness, despite the more stigmatizing representations of this emotional state. This interpretation acknowledges the birth and material roots of these feelings and recognizes them as a product consistent with and functional to the capitalist socio-economic model and its reproduction. My hope is that, by redirecting this collective pain to its true cause, we can turn it into a means of empowerment, a tool for struggle. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/7_Rebecca-Moccia_The-Loners_Cripta747.jpeg) fig. 3 **Do you feel you have explored loneliness enough, or will we see a new declension? What comes next for you?** I am currently working on a further manifestation of the project, which will be exhibited in the Italian Pavilion at the next Gwangju Biennale this year, in an extended, site-specific presentation of all my research on loneliness. This is thanks to an invitation from the Italian Cultural Institute in Seoul. In fact, I am leaving soon for South Korea, where I will work with students from the Seoul Institute of Arts in a workshop based on research on loneliness among Korean young adults and the collaborative production of texts and images. I honestly feel that this research, so intimate and meaningful, could still be pursued in the course of my practice, in parallel with my other projects. However, in the future, I intend to extend my analysis to other types of neoliberal emotional distress. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/10_Rebecca-Moccia_The-Loners_Cripta747.jpeg) fig. 4 **Which components of your artistic practice make you feel loneliest? How do cultural institutions facilitate this feeling? Or, on the contrary, if they offer support, what form does that take?** I feel lonely as an art worker every time I do research, create works, ask for fees, resources, contracts or endeavor to express myself freely. And I face precariousness, lack of recognition, exploitation, and competitiveness all around. And it is sometimes difficult and overwhelming to continue with my practice under these conditions. I live and work in Italy and this happens frequently. In this context, I don't see much support from institutions, as most of them actively promote untenable working situations. There is a lack of regulation in artistic work, and an unfair distribution of resources, funds, and opportunities. SI have found support from my fellow art workers and my local community of loved ones, friends, and comrades. I am a member of an association of art workers, AWI, Art Workers Italia, founded to raise awareness in the sector of the need to achieve fair and decent working conditions for all, and to provide concrete support in ethical, political, legal, and contractual issues. Since we founded AWI 4 years ago, we have learned a lot together. We have started on a real journey to know our rights and to learn how to defend them. I feel much less lonely among AWIs. **To more forms of unionizing amongst art and cultural workers then!** \\\\ --- ### NOTES \[1\] Curated by Chiara Nuzzi at Fondazione ICA Milano, 2023 BIO Rebecca Moccia is an artist whose transdisciplinary practice explores the materiality of perceptual and emotional states that can emerge from specific social and spatial dynamics. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Rebecca Moccia, The Loners, 2024, Installation views at Cripta747, Torino. Photo credits Sebastiano Pellion di Persano. Courtesy the Artist and Cripta747. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Chapter 1: WORKERS’ SUMMER URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/chapter-1-workers-summer/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:13.000Z *The history of workers’ struggle is the history of the portion of humanity that identifies itself as being alienated from its meaning of economic production and which is subjugated by the wage labor system. It is the history of the emancipation of humankind from capitalism altogether.* *Brought together by a shared interest in making visible workers’ history and labor’s current struggles, AWC in cooperation with labournet.tv, a collective and an online archive of films from labor movements worldwide, has selected a variety of films addressing current and historical working conditions, migration fluxes, and forms of self-organization.* *The selected films, presented on AWC and labournet.tv channels, highlight axes of oppression that cross, situated struggles, and illustrate the interconnectedness between unprotected workers' rights, restrictions on trade union organization, and the extent of exploitation - especially of migrant and women workers.* We open AWC’s selection from labournet.tv with a focus on the landscape of contemporary labor conditions and struggles. Since the 1970s, with the inception of neo-liberalism as the dominant ideology, there has been an increased curtailment of workers' rights and conditions achieved through labor offshoring, wage suppression, exploitation of shift labor, and the weakening and vilifying of labor unions and other forms of resistance. These histories draw the outlines of the picture we have today: dock workers in Hong Kong working 24 to 48-hour shifts with no breaks in dangerous conditions; delivery app workers employed by companies maneuvering their shift system and exploitation of migrant workers to avoid unionizing and legal striking; strikers met with police intervention and violence, unprotected by basic worker rights. Each of the films was selected from the labornet.tv archive deepens the collective narrative of popular unrest and striking. History tells us that striking is a crucial tool for the empowerment of workers. A way to demand rights, and, above all, to develop self-consciousness as cohesive groups standing together for common demands. Striking and labor laws reveal the core principles of an epoch's labor-capital dynamics, indicating whether society prioritizes worker protection and fairness, or company interests. Following this thread, the first movie “The Year of The Beaver” (1985) is a documentary about the strikes of a mostly migrant and female workforce from the Grunwick film processing factory in Northwest London in the late 1970s. The film captures this transitional time in the history of the English working class as the country was moving into the advancing liberalization of the economy culminating in the election of Margaret Thatcher, and a changing cultural disposition on labor issues. It was a time of the deregulation of companies and the financial sector for maximum wealth accumulation, a philosophy that is inherently anti-union as unions and increased labor costs disrupt the desired growth cycles. The consequence of this was increasingly heavy police interventions against strikers, mass arrests, media vilification and political defamation of workers, the refusal to recognize union groups, and the devaluation of labor power. The results of which we still see today along with a continuation of similar “reforms”. As expressed by the narrator in the film, looking back at the battles and changes of the period; “\[We came\] to see Grunwick \[strikes\] not as something that is in the past, but a model for capitalism's future. To see how a strike for the most basic trade union rights, supported by all the official structures of the labor movement, could come to be so easily defeated.” The speaker couldn’t have been more right in his predictions about the future as we look at the labor struggles of today. [WATCH ](%20https://en.labournet.tv/video/6528/year-beaver) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screen-Shot-2024-08-06-at-11.38.58-AM.jpg) fig. 1 Next, we move on to "Speech Duygu Kaya" (2023) a film about extremely topical issues, which documents a protest that came before the Berlin-Brandenburg labor court in 2023 challenging the striking laws in Germany. The strike in question was organized specifically in support of the workers for delivery apps such as Gorillas and Flink, and against their dismissal of workers for striking for better conditions. The film unpicks the structure behind the labor market of the gig economy and sheds light on outdated German labor laws, which do not protect workers' interests and have not adapted to changes in the industry. In the case of the emerging “platform economy” of gig and shift work with digital service companies, employers do everything they can to prevent unionizing and paying liveable wages. As explained by the organizer Duygu Kaya, “The transitions in these workplaces, the temporary contracts, the frequent turnover, the dependencies, such as \[of\] residence, visa, etc., do not make it possible for long-term unionizing.” Without a way to unionize, the workers become subject to extreme exploitation with no protection. They are forced to fight against their employers with huge legal resources and find no support from the government. This was the case when the Gorillas workers tried to sue the company for wrongful termination citing a constitutional right to strike. [WATCH](https://en.labournet.tv/speech-duygu-kaya?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-08-09-at-13.15.58.png) fig. 2 Our third pick "Dockers Strike in Hong Kong" (2013) gives visibility to the strikes in 2013 of dock workers in Hong Kong who are in charge of managing a vital shipping container port. These ports and harbors have become the icons of modern global capitalism. With extremely high turnover quotas to meet global demand, the owners of the harbor don’t leave a minute's rest for workers while money can be made. Along with devastatingly bad working conditions - the dock workers hadn’t received a raise in the 10 years prior, despite inflation having reached 4% by 2013\. Hired by subcontracted companies, the management claimed no need to negotiate the demands of the strikers, especially after the economic crisis generated by the SARS outbreak. The employers deployed rhetoric to their workers such as “We all have to share the pain”, and “We are all on the same boat”, as they justified taking 10 dollars per shift away from the workers to compensate (themselves) for the bad economy. Nevertheless, the 200 workers demanding better wages and working conditions gathered with beautiful and dedicated solidarity. The film offers a classic example of the current reality, where profits and capital are ever-growing while wage and labor sectors are left with the bare minimum and workers scarcely protected. [WATCH](https://en.labournet.tv/video/6548/dockers-strike-hong-kong?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) // labournet.tv is an online archive for films from the labor movement - old and new - from all parts of the world. This collaboration is facilitated by Noa Jaari, Mia Ribeiro Alonso, Line Lange, and Annalisa Giacinti. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Still, Speech Duygu Kaya, 2023 fig. 1: Still, The Year of The Beaver, 1985 fig. 2: Still, Dockers Strike in Hong Kong, 2013 ### Openless by Berlin Atonal URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/openless-by-berlin-atonal/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:11.000Z **15 World Premieres and Eclectic Line-Ups Announced** **Berlin Atona**l is thrilled to unveil the 2024 edition of its iconic festival, ***OPENLESS***, set to take place on **August 23**, **24**, and **25**. This year's event promises an extraordinary lineup of world premieres and groundbreaking performances spread across three dynamic nights at the historic Kraftwerk powerplant, the vibrant Tresor/Globus complex, and the intimate OHM club. **Featured Artists and Performances:** - **A Forbidden Distance:** Saint Abdullah, Eomac, and Rebecca Salvadori (World Premiere) - **Białowieża:** Chris Watson and Izabela Dłużyk (World Premiere) - **Canzonieri featuring Lara Damaso & Lord Spikeheart** (World Premiere) - **CS + Kreme** (World Premiere) - **Datashader** (World Premiere) - **Basslines:** Demdike Stare (World Premiere) - **The Drum and The Bird:** Forensis (Forensic Architecture) in collaboration with PAN / Bill Kouligas (World Premiere) - **Family N’Diaye Rose** (World Premiere) - **In uno spazio immenso:** Grand River and Abul Mogard (World Premiere) - **Holy Tongue meets Shackleton** (World Premiere) - **Kelman Duran + FRANKIE (Franziska Aigner)** (World Premiere) - **LABOUR and the Family N’Diaye Rose** (World Premiere) - **ALL TENETS INTERACTED AND KINETICS REMAINED OCEANIC:** Lamin Fofana (World Premiere) - **Mythe ou Réalité (Cheikh Anta Diop):** Nkisi (World Premiere) - **Sphaîra:** Sara Persico and Mika Oki (World Premiere) - **Quiet Husband** (World Premiere) Additionally, the festival will feature performances by: 2K88, Aircode, Al Wootton, Animistic Beliefs, Assyouti, bela, Carrier, Doctor Jeep, Ehua, Falyako, KAMELIIA, Laurel Halo, Lee Gamble, LYDO, Nawaz b2b Woody92, Special Request, Yao Bobby & Simon Grab, Zohar OPENLESS 2024 is set to redefine the avant-garde music scene with its innovative and immersive performances, creating an unparalleled sensory experience. Tickets for each concert night and club program are now available. Combo tickets provide access to both Kraftwerk and Tresor/Globus venues for the respective day, while OHM will operate on a door-only policy with no pre-sale tickets. For more information and tickets, visit [OPENLESS](https://berlin-atonal.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). // ### Wenn die "Antifa" uns nicht sein lässt URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/wenn-die-antifa-uns-nicht-sein-laesst/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:10.000Z *Der folgende Text ist eine bearbeitete, leicht aktualisierte Version eines Gesprächs zwischen Isabel Frey und Michael Sappir mit dem Titel "When Antifa is the Enemy”, der 2021 in Jewish Currents veröffentlicht wurde. Angesichts der vehementen Zunahme antidemokratischer Maßnahmen, die die deutsche Regierung nach dem 7\. Oktober ergriffen hat, hält es die AWC-Redaktion für notwendig, die Instrumentalisierung des Anti-Antisemitismus als deutsches Schuldmerkmal weit vor dem Anschlag zurückzuverfolgen. Die Verantwortung dafür geht teilweise auf die politische Fraktion der Linken zurück, die sich „Antideutsche“ nennt, und gegenüber Israel zum einen bedingungslose Unterstützung proklamiert, den Zionismus zum anderen als integralen Bestandteil ihrer antifaschistischen Politik betrachtet und sogar das Recht beansprucht, zu definieren, wie sich Juden im Rahmen der Kritik an der israelischen Regierungspolitik zu positionieren haben. In der Praxis führt diese Tendenz zu einigen widersprüchlichen Haltungen: Selbsternannte Anarchisten schwenken die israelische Flagge oder auch Antifa-Gruppen, die bei Protesten "Fuck the police" skandieren und parallel in den sozialen Medien Memes von israelischen Kampfjets posten, die über Auschwitz fliegen.* *In Wien wurde Frey von der lokalen Antifa Gruppe öffentlich als auch auf Social Media angegriffen und des Antisemitismus beschuldigt, u.a. wurden dabei ihre Zitate aus dem Zusammenhang gerissen, nachdem sie darüber gesprochen hatte, dass Juden und Jüdinnen unabhängig von ihrer Identität von weißen oder Klassenprivilegien profitieren könnten. Inmitten dieses Durcheinanders sprach Frey mit Sappir, einem jüdisch-israelischen antifaschisten und sozialistischen Aktivisten, der in Leipzig lebt und etwas Ähnliches erlebt hat: Ein linker Klub hatte seinen Vortrag über die Geschichte der jüdischen Linken im Vorkriegseuropa abgesagt, weil in der Veranstaltungsbeschreibung vom "deutschen Imperialismus" die Rede war, und er an anderer Stelle das Recht des Boykotts Israels verteidigte. Michael Sappir beschloss, sich mit anderen jüdisch-israelischen Linken in Leipzig zu organisieren und gründete im März 2021 ein neues Aktivist:innenkollektiv namens JID (ausgesprochen Yid), kurz für "Jüdisch-israelischer Dissens". Kurz danach trafen sich Sappir und Frey über Zoom, um über die Gründung von JID zu sprechen, über ihre Erfahrungen von der antideutschen Linken gecancelt zu werden, als auch über ihre Perspektiven auf jüdische Identität in Deutschland und Österreich.* **Isabel Frey:** Welche Erfahrungen hast du mit der Antideutschen in Leipzig gemacht? **Michael Sappir:** Als ich 2019 von Tel Aviv zurück nach Leipzig zog, wollte ich unbedingt in die politische Arbeit einsteigen. Schließlich ging ich zu einem offenen Treffen einer lokalen Antifa-Gruppe, wo ich plötzlich mit Einladungen zu Vorträgen konfrontiert wurde, die mit zionistischen Parolen wie "Israel: Die einzige Demokratie im Nahen Osten“ betitelt waren. Ich war schockiert, und es dauerte ein Jahr, bis ich zur politischen Arbeit zurückkehrte. Je mehr ich sie kennenlernte, desto mehr sah ich, dass diese Gruppen, die sich Antideutsche nennen, nur kulturell zur Linken gehören, politisch aber nicht mehr. Im Sommer 2020 schloss ich mich dann einigen Israelis an, die mit anderen in Leipzig eine Demonstration gegen die Annexion des Westjordanlandes an Israel organisierten. Kaum hatten wir die Demo beendet, kamen die Teilnehmer:innen - viele von ihnen Palästinenser:innen und Syrer:innen - auf uns zu, um sich zu bedanken. Sie erzählten uns, dass sie von lokalen Antifa-Gruppen körperlich angegriffen worden wären, wenn sie versucht hätten einen solchen Protest zu organisieren. Das war die erste Veranstaltung, aus der der Jüdisch-israelische Dossens (JID) entstand. In Leipzig wurde die linke Szene traditionell von antideutscher Politik dominiert. Aber es gab auch viel Unwissenheit über Israel und Palästina. Als Israelis dachten wir, dass wir etwas bewirken können, indem wir deutschen Linken Zugang zu unseren Erfahrungen verschaffen. Wir wollten, dass sie verstehen, dass es nicht so einfach ist wie "Israel und die Juden gegen all die Bösen". Das ist nicht nur sehr vereinfachend, sondern entmenschlicht auch Juden und Jüdinnen, weil es uns die kollektive Menschlichkeit abspricht, die schließlich darin besteht, dass wir unterschiedliche Meinungen, innere Konflikte und Differenzen haben. **IF:** Der politische Mainstream in Deutschland und Österreich ist philosemitisch. Juden und Jüdinnen werden auf diese pseudotolerante Weise fetischisiert und es wird angenommen, dass sie einheitliche Interessen haben. Was denkst du unter diesen Bedingungen darüber, sich zu organisieren? **MS:** Ich denke dabei an das Konzept des "Gedächtnistheaters", auf das ich zum ersten Mal durch den Dichter und Schriftsteller Max Czollek kam. Jüdische Politik ist im heutigen Deutschland durch das "Gedächtnistheater" strukturiert, indem wir zwar nicht direkt zum Schweigen gebracht, aber uns dennoch sehr spezifische Rollen zugewiesen werden - alle im Zusammenhang auf das Dreieck Israel, Antisemitismus und den Holocaust. Ich finde es wichtig zu betonen, dass die Antideutschen dabei ein Symptom für etwas Größeres sind, diese größere Dimension, wie die Gesellschaft mit jüdischen Menschen umgeht und wie uns das einschränkt. So reagierte JID, als mein Vortrag von einem linken Kulturzentrum abgesagt wurde. Der Vortrag sollte sich eigentlich um ein Buch von Alain Brossat und Sylvie Klingberg drehen: »Revolutionary Yiddishland: A History of Jewish Radicalism«. Über die Geschichte der jüdischen Linken in Europa, das mich persönlich inspirierte, weil es zeigt, wie marginal der Zionismus für die Juden und Jüdinnen der Arbeiter:innenklasse im Vorkriegseuropa war. **IF:** Ein Grund weswegen ich durch meine Rede bei der Hanau-Gedenkfeier in Wien in Schwierigkeiten geriet, war, dass ich als Jüdin über meine Klasse und weißen Privilegien sprach. Doch im österreichischen Gedächtnistheater können Juden und Jüdinnen nur die am stärksten unterdrückte Minderheit sein. Ich stelle mir vor, dass JID wahrscheinlich noch mehr mit dieser Erwartung kollidiert. **MS:** Ja, obwohl das israelische Verhältnis zu Macht und zur Opferrolle komplizierter ist. Auf der internationalen Bühne propagiert Israel die Vorstellung von Juden und Jüdinnen als ewige Opfer der Geschichte; das ist ein entscheidender Aspekt, wie Israel sein Vorgehen verteidigt, insbesondere wenn es kritisiert wird. Aber parallel sagt die Dialektik des Zionismus: „Wir waren diese historischen Opfer. Wir wurden fast zerstört – und unsere Antwort darauf ist, eine starke Militärmacht zu sein.“ Die antideutsche Linke steht vor einem ähnlichen Widerspruch, wenn sie die militärische Macht Israels feiert, weil sie dabei die Macht Israels auch nicht leugnet. Es gibt einen Aufkleber, den die Antideutschen gerne in Leipzig anbringen, auf dem in Blau und Weiß „Am Yisrael Chai“ (übersetzt “das Volk Israel lebt“) steht, mit dem Mossad-Logo darauf und einer Drohung an Antisemiten: „Euch wird der Mossad holen.“ Als ich das per WhatsApp an eine Gruppe linker israelischer Freund:innen schickte, fragte eine:r von ihnen: „Ist das so ein Nazi Ding, soll damit Paranoia gegen Juden verbreitet werden?“ So lesen wir diese Sachen – die Fantasie von Israels internationaler Macht kommt uns antisemitisch vor. **IF:** Als JID Anfang 2021 mit seiner Webseite online ging, stand da: „Wir alle haben unterschiedliche, oft ambivalente Beziehungen zu den Bezeichnungen ‚jüdisch‘ und ‚israelisch‘“. Und dass ihr euch nicht unter einem nationalen oder ethnischen Banner organisiert. „Dennoch“, fügtet ihr hinzu, „haben wir uns bewusst dafür entschieden, unsere Identität zu betonen, weil uns die Diskussionen über Antisemitismus und 'Israelsolidarität' auf besondere Weise im Bezug auf unseren Hintergrund betreffen, und auch, weil unsere Herkunft es uns erlaubt, dort unsere Stimme zu erheben, wo andere gewaltsam zum Schweigen gebracht werden." Für mich klingt das fast so, als hätten ihr keine andere Wahl gehabt. **MS:** Wenn wir keine jüdischen Israelis wären, könnten wir in der philosemitischen Atmosphäre in Deutschland überhaupt nicht über Israel/Palästina sprechen. Wenn wir über Palästina sprechen, versuchen wir, unsere privilegierte Stellung als Juden und Jüdinnen zu betonen – und dass wir uns zu diesen Themen auf eine Weise äußern können, die den Palästinenser:innen nicht möglich ist. Die Leute hören uns zu, weil wir jüdisch sind, aber das bedeutet oft auch, dass sie die riesige palästinensische Diaspora in Deutschland ignorieren. Dennoch haben viele Israelis, die nach Deutschland ziehen, ein ambivalentes Verhältnis zum Zionismus und zum Judentum. Viele von uns haben festgestellt, dass wir uns nicht mehr so ​​identifizieren wollen. Als ich zum ersten Mal nach Deutschland kam, wollte ich einfach nur ein Deutscher werden - zu den „normalen Menschen“ gehören. Aber mit der Zeit wurde mir bewusst, dass ich meinen Hintergrund niemals ändern kann und dass es auch nicht nötig sein sollte. Da der Diskurs über Israel in Deutschland unmittelbar mit dem Diskurs über Antisemitismus verbunden ist, ist es wichtig zu zeigen, dass wir uns mit Antisemitismus auseinandersetzen. Der Antisemitismusbeauftragte der Bundesregierung, Felix Klein, wurde einmal in einem Interview mit Hanno Hauenstein für die Berliner Zeitung gefragt, was er von antizionistischen Israelis in Deutschland hält, die sich gegen die israelische Politik aussprechen, und er sagte, er würde sich wünschen, dass wir sensibler mit der historischen Verantwortung Deutschlands für den Holocaust umgehen. Das ist so eine Chuzpe. Wir haben uns entschlossen, unsere Gruppe Jüdisch-israelischer Dissens zu nennen, um deutlich zu machen, dass wir von Antisemitismus betroffen sind und um zu zeigen, dass Zionismus nicht die einzige Antwort darauf ist und nie war. **IF:** Ich mache mir manchmal Sorgen, dass bestimmte Teile der jüdischen Linken im Kampf gegen den Antisemitismus so sehr auf die Defensive setzen, dass sie vergessen, ihn tatsächlich zu bekämpfen. Aber inmitten des zunehmenden Antisemitismus von Rechts müssen wir eine Strategie finden, um den Antisemitismus offensiv zu bekämpfen, denn wir befinden uns in einer verletzlichen Position. Das Absurde an den Situationen, in denen du und ich uns im deutschsprachigen Raum im Allgemeinen befinden, ist, dass jüdische Linke von nichtjüdischen Linken des Antisemitismus beschuldigt werden. Für mich sind diese Vorwürfe eine Weise, unsere jüdische Identität zu verunglimpfen, und zu sagen, dass wir die "falsche Sorte" von Juden sind. Ich frage mich immer wieder: Sind diese Anschuldigungen selbst eine Art von Antisemitismus? **MS:** Ich denke, es ist ein Ausdruck von Antisemitismus. Es sind Nicht-Juden, die entscheiden, welche Rollen Juden und Jüdinnen spielen dürfen. Aber ich vermute auch, dass es nicht sinnvoll ist, dies öffentlich als Antisemitismus zu bezeichnen. Wenn man gegen die Instrumentalisierung des Antisemitismusvorwurfs vorgehen will, muss man sehr vorsichtig sein, wenn man Anschuldigungen erhebt. **IF:** Sowohl in der israelischen als auch in der jüdischen Diaspora-Erfahrung in Europa ist der Zionismus dazu übergegangen, fast die gesamte jüdische Identität zu erfassen. Es scheint als führe ein Weg, um das rückgängig zu machen, über die Auseinandersetzung mit der Geschichte der Diaspora. Es muss nicht unbedingt jiddische oder revolutionäre Geschichte sein, aber über die Geschichte innerjüdischer Klassenkonflikte, ethnischer Unterschiede, Dialekte und diasporischer Kulturen zu lernen könnte jüdischen Linken helfen, die Komplexität des jüdischen Lebens zu erfassen. All das wird ausradiert - nicht nur von der Antideutschen, sondern auch im Post-Holocaust-Erinnerungstheater in Deutschland und Österreich. **MS:** Was du ansprichst, ist eine Pluralität jüdischer Erfahrungen. Es gab viele verschiedene jüdische Kulturen – die frühen Zionisten sahen insbesondere in der Pluralität der jüdischen Sprachen eine Bedrohung für die Etablierung des Hebräischen als gesprochene Sprache. In Israel gab es in den letzten Jahren ein wachsendes Interesse an Diaspora-Sprachen wie Jiddisch, Ladino und Judäo-Arabisch gab, diese Pluralität bedroht niemanden mehr. Aber ich denke, in der Diaspora ist es immer noch eine gute Möglichkeit, unsere Identität neu zu definieren, ohne dass sich alles um Israel dreht. \* **ENG** *The text below is an edited, slightly updated version of a conversation between Isabel Frey and Michael Sappir titled “When Antifa is the Enemy” published in 2021 in Jewish Currents. In the fast upsurge of anti-democratic measures adopted by the German government after October 7th, AWC editors consider it urgent to trace back the weaponization of anti-antisemitism as a German–guilt trait way before the attack. The responsibility goes partially to the political faction of the left called Antideutsche, which proclaims unconditional support for Israel and considers Zionism an integral part of their antifascist politics, and even claims the right to define how Jews should position themself within the critique of Israeli government policies. In practice, this tendency leads to some contradictory stances: self-proclaimed anarchists waving the Israeli flag or Antifa groups chanting “fuck the police” at protests while posting memes of Israeli fighter jets flying over Auschwitz on social media.* *Frey faced the ire of the Antideutsche in Vienna, where she was publicly attacked by the local Antifa group, who, falsifying quotes and ripping others out of context, posted public statements on social media that accused her of antisemitism for speaking about how Jews could still benefit from white or class privilege, ignoring her Jewish identity. Amid this mess, Frey talked with Sappir, a Jewish-Israeli antifascist and socialist activist living in Leipzig who experienced something similar: A left-wing cultural center canceled his talk about the history of the Jewish left in pre-war Europe because of a mention of “German imperialism” in the event’s description as well as his defense, elsewhere, of the right to boycott Israel. Michael decided to organize with other Jewish-Israeli leftists in Leipzig, launching a new activist collective in March 2021 called JID (pronounced Yid), short for “Jewish-Israeli Dissent.” Soon after, Sappir and Frey got together on Zoom to discuss the launch of JID, their experiences of being “canceled” by the Antideutsche left, and their perspectives on Jewish identity in Germany and Austria.* **Isabel Frey:** What has been your experience with the Antideutsch in Leipzig? **Michael Sappir:** When I moved back from Tel-Aviv to Leipzig in 2019, I was eager to get into political work. I ended up going to an open meeting held by a local Antifa group, where I was suddenly confronted by invitations to talks with Zionist slogans as the titles, like “Israel: The Only Democracy in the Middle East.” I was shocked, after this, it took me a year to return to political work. The more I got to know them, the more I saw that these groups called Antideutsche are only culturally part of the left; their politics are not anymore. Then, in the summer of 2020, I joined a few Israelis who got together with others in Leipzig to set up a demonstration against the annexation of the West Bank to Israel. As soon as we finished the demo, participants—many of them Palestinians and Syrians—came up to thank us. They told us that if they had tried to organize a protest like this, they would have been physically assaulted by local Antifa groups. This was the first event on the way to *Jewish-Israeli Dissent* (JID). In Leipzig, the left scene was traditionally dominated by Antideutsche politics. But there was also a lot of ignorance about Israel/Palestine, and as Israelis, we thought we could make a difference by giving German leftists access to our experience. We wanted them to understand that it’s not so straightforward as “Israel and the Jews versus all the bad guys.” Not only is this just simplistic; but it also dehumanizes Jews because it denies us the collective humanity of having different opinions, internal struggles, and disagreements. **IF:** The political mainstream in Germany and Austria is philosemitic. Jews are fetishized in this pseudo-tolerant way and assumed to have unified interests. How do you think about organizing under these conditions? **MS:** I think about this challenge through the concept of the “theater of remembrance,” which I first encountered through the poet and writer Max Czollek. Jewish politics in contemporary Germany is structured by this “theater of remembrance,” in that we’re not exactly silenced but, rather, given a few very specific roles to play, all in relation to the triangle of Israel, antisemitism, and the Holocaust. I find it important to emphasize that the Antideutsche are a symptom of something larger, this bigger dimension of how society treats Jewish people, and how that boxes us in. That’s how JID responded when my talk was canceled by a left-wing cultural center. The talk was just going to be about *Revolutionary Yiddishland: A History of Jewish Radicalism* a book written by Alain Brossat and Sylvie Klingberg about the history of the Jewish left in Europe, which was inspiring to me personally because it shows how marginal Zionism was for working-class Jews in prewar Europe. **IF:** Part of why I got in trouble for my speech at the Hanau commemoration in Vienna was that I was speaking as a Jew about my class and white privilege. Yet in the Austrian theatre of remembrance Jews can only be the most oppressed minority. I imagine that JID, as Jewish Israelis, probably clashes even more with that expectation. **MS:** Yes, although the Israeli relationship to power and victimhood is more complicated. On the international stage, Israel propagates the idea of Jews as history’s eternal victims; this is a crucial part of how Israel defends its actions, particularly when facing criticism. But at the same time, the dialectic of Zionism says, “We were these historical victims. We were almost destroyed—and our answer to that is to be a strong military power.” The Antideutsche left faces a similar contradiction when they celebrate Israel’s military might because they do not deny that Israel is powerful. There is this sticker that the Antideutsche like to put up in Leipzig, which says “Am Yisrael Chai” in blue and white with the Mossad logo on it, and a threat to antisemites that “we’re going to get you”. When I sent this to a group of leftist Israeli friends on WhatsApp, one of them asked: “So is this like a Nazi thing to spread paranoia against Jews?” That’s how we read this stuff—the fantasy of Israel’s international power comes across to us as antisemitic. **IF**: When JID launched its website in early 2021, you wrote: “We each have different, often ambivalent relationships with the labels ‘Jewish’ and ‘Israeli,’” and that you would have preferred not to organize under any national or ethnic banner. “However,” you add, “we made a conscious decision to emphasize our identity, both because the discussions of antisemitism and ‘Israel solidarity’ affect us in specific ways related to our background, and because our background allows us to speak up where others are violently silenced.” To me, it almost sounds like you didn’t have a choice. **MS:** In Germany’s philosemitic atmosphere, if we weren’t Jewish Israelis, we wouldn’t be able to speak up at all about Israel/Palestine. When we talk about Palestine, we try to stress our privileged position as Jews—that we can speak up about these issues in ways that Palestinians cannot. People listen to us because we’re Jewish, but that often means they’re ignoring the huge Palestinian diaspora in Germany. Still, many Israelis who move to Germany do have an ambivalent relationship to Zionism and Jewishness. Many of us have discovered that we don’t want to identify that way anymore. When I first moved to Germany, I just wanted to become a German—to be one of the “normal people.” But with time I grew to understand that I can never change my background and that I shouldn’t need to. Because the discourse about Israel in Germany is connected to the discourse about antisemitism, it’s also important to show that we care about antisemitism. The German national antisemitism commissioner, Felix Klein, was once asked in an interview with Hanno Hauenstein for Berliner Zeitung, what he thinks about anti-Zionist Israelis in Germany speaking out against Israeli policies, and he said he wishes we would be more sensitive to Germany’s historical responsibility for the Holocaust. That is such chutzpah. We decided to call our group *Jewish-Israeli Dissent* to make it clear that we are affected by antisemitism and to show that Zionism is not and never was the only answer to it. **IF:** I do sometimes worry that certain parts of the Jewish left are so much on the defense in the fight against antisemitism, that they forget to actually fight it. But amid the rising antisemitism on the right, we do need to find a strategy to get into the offense of fighting antisemitism, because we are in a vulnerable position. What’s so absurd about the situations you and I found ourselves in, and in the German-speaking world more broadly, is that Jewish leftists are being accused of antisemitism by non-Jewish leftists. To me, these accusations are a way of denigrating our Jewish identities, of saying that we’re the “wrong kind” of Jew. I keep asking myself, are these accusations themselves a kind of antisemitism? **MS:** I think it is an expression of antisemitism. It’s non-Jews deciding what roles Jews are allowed to play. But I also suspect it’s not useful to publicly call this out as antisemitism. If you want to work against the instrumentalization of accusations of antisemitism, you’ve got to be careful when you do levy the accusation. **IF:** In both the Israeli and diaspora Jewish experience in Europe, Zionism has come to subsume nearly all of Jewish identity. It seems like the way to undo this goes through engagement with diaspora history. It doesn’t necessarily have to be Yiddish or revolutionary history, but studying histories of intra-Jewish class conflict, ethnic differences, dialects, and diasporic cultures could help Jewish leftists lay claim to the complexity of Jewish life. All that gets erased—not just by the Antideutsche, but in the post-Holocaust theater of remembrance in Germany and Austria. **MS:** What you are talking about is a plurality of Jewish experience. There were many different Jewish cultures—the early Zionists saw specifically the plurality of Jewish languages as a threat to establishing Hebrew as the spoken language. While in Israel there was in recent years a growing interest in diaspora languages like Yiddish, Ladino, and Judeo-Arabic, this plurality doesn’t threaten anyone anymore. But I think that in the diaspora, it’s still a powerful way to reimagine our identities without it all being about Israel. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Unknown Author, Children's drawing after the racist arson attack in Mölln, 1992\. Aus dem DOMiD – Dokumentationszentrum und Museum über die Migration in Deutschland, Köln. © and courtesy the Böhler & Orendt. *Isabel Frey ist Senior Artist für Ethnomusikologie an der Universität für Musik und darstellende Kunst Wien, jiddische Sängerin und jüdische Aktivistin für soziale Gerechtigkeit und einen gerechten Frieden in Israel-Palästina. Sie lebt in Wien, Österreich.* *Michael Sappir ist Journalist und Rechercheur. Er ist in Westjerusalem aufgewachsen und war eine längere Zeit in Tel Aviv politisch aktiv. Er hat in Leipzig Linguistik und Philosophie studiert und lebt zurzeit in Berlin.* ### Against state hegemonic cultural imagination URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/against-state-hegemonic-cultural-imagination/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:08.000Z In an article published on *European Alternatives* entitled “The Lost Art of Organizing Solidarity”, the researcher and activist Alvaro Oleart proclaims that “In 2024, the time is ripe for more structural movement building, cohering fragments and transforming them into a broader transnational and decolonial political project.” Living in Germany, where the hegemony of state ideology or *Staatsräison* is imposing an iron curtailment upon the articulation of solidarity with Palestinians throughout cultural institutions and public spaces, I found myself in agreement. Over recent months, Germany has enforced a severe regime of cultural censorship, becoming both the target and the epicenter of countermovements, which demand, within their specific fields of operation, a clear positionality of discomfort concerning the genocide in Gaza. The narrative that regards Germany’s complicity with the State of Israel’s actions as a trauma response to the Holocaust, the profit-seeking by German weapons firms, and geopolitical interests in the Middle East are largely unrepresented in the mainstream narrative. In light of these perspectives, the pledge of support to the State of Israel transcends German guilt, rather it lies in a remorseless history of suprematist and economically-concerned genocides that have crossed three continents now, ranging from Tanzania to Namibia, to the majority of continental Europe, to the contemporary Middle East. In the self-proclaimed “philo-Semitic” leftist cultural environment, we find a space financed by genocide-complicit state capital, accompanied by anti-antisemitism neo-McCarthyism. Such performative allyship has become an obstacle to understanding the core nature of the Israel-Palestine conflict. Cultural Institutions have found themselves unready to include cultural products and artworks critically engaging with actions by the Israeli state, and, more generally, with Germany's colonial past. Thus, we find Palestinian rights movements, and individuals operating within the cultural field preoccupied with a double struggle: that of visibilizing deliberately obscured Palestinian experiences, and of bringing attention and resistance to the climate of undemocratic cultural suppression adopted by Germany. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ANGA_No-To-The-Genocide-Pavilion-22.jpg) fig. 1 Germany’s cultural operations follow the so-called “reformist turn”, which has seen Western, white-dominated, nationally-funded cultural institutions including, in education, exhibition making, public programs, unrepresented communities, and marginalized minorities, as an attempt to show how much inclusivity and respect informs the contemporary capitalist system. However, the reformist turn commodifies community and institutionalizes diversity through assimilationism, creating recognizable social patterns to be supervised and domesticated by good post-colonial subjects. All so that museums, cultural centers, schools, and academia can profit by funneling “new practices” into old hierarchical structures, and, by doing so, advancing the institution without undermining its social supervisory function. The struggle within the cultural environment worldwide, with Germany as a prime example, rightly lays its foundation in this deeper sense of dissatisfaction with the instrumentalizing and show-and-tell methodologies of institutions, highlighting their inability to embody structurally what they preach in terms of decolonial togetherness and the prioritization of the voices of the most marginalized peoples living in the shadow of Western cultural dominion. Imagine how a Palestinian artist, who has found refuge in Europe and who does not have a land to go back to, feels when their cultural heritage is not only effaced and destroyed by occupation but also that their work is labeled as “racist” by Western cultural institutions. Imagine the feelings of a Jewish artist who tries to speak in solidarity with Palestine but who is blocked in advance because do not comply with the narrative of the “good Jew”, by whose leave Germany has expiated its guilt. Imagine how everyone else, even those who may not come from Jewish or Muslim heritages, but who still regard the complicity with war crimes and judicially established “plausible genocide” as unacceptable, feel about the climate in which they operate. Whether the genocide occurs in Palestine, delineating how it is depicted, spoken about, or culturally oriented should be one of the priorities of cultural institutions that have capitalized on ostensible decolonial discourse over the past decade. And which, in these historically painful moments, should be listening to what those most impacted have to say, rather than reinforcing the *status quo* and elitist cultural convictions. The *a priori* suspicion and the expulsion of everyone who feels compelled to speak up - or just to open up to the topic - from acceptable discourse has triggered a chain of gestures of public disruption, including cultural boycotts by cultural workers who see their identities as being tokenized and essentialized by German rules of (selective) cultural hospitality. The cultural system, ruled by principles of “freedom of expression”, entrepreneurship, and economic optimization of the few available public resources has responded even more introvertedly and unaccountably - doing the bare minimum, yet making statements about how culture “should not be weaponized” - all the while weaponizing anti-Semitism as the rationale for the silencing. However, whether art should be a-politicized, very politicized, intrinsically sensible to the *polis*, a form of militant joy, or simply an exercise in style, the structures that uphold it can never be untouched by cultural policies and forms of policing. Imagine when the cultural institution, the ultimate benevolent host, receives rejections of hospitality from an invited cultural practitioner - usually someone starved for attention and institutional validation - and the motivation they offer for their stance is that they feel uncomfortable about the silence of the cultural institution in the face of genocide. Imagine, then, that the institution does nothing to open a conversation; imagine the institution fails to introspect, but instead assumes the role of the victim. Imagine a cultural institution complicit in a new Inquisition. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ANGA_No-To-The-Genocide-Pavilion-21.jpg) fig. 2 That’s the reason why the many forms taken by the Palestine solidarity movement in Germany and internationally have become devices that expose a broader dominant mindset that replicates the same dynamics as border regimes infused by capitalist accumulation, ruling-class moralism, and white supremacy within and beyond cultural frames. Alvaro Oleart, building on the work of Michael Hardt and Toni Negri, therefore, has conceptualized the political imaginary of the “decolonial multitude” (Oleart, 2023) as a means to emphasize and encourage a decolonial component that transect and leads every movement, whereby the anti-colonial frame exists not merely as a theoretical construct devised and imposed from above, but as a live context that prioritizes the experiences and the voices of those impacted by the rapaciousness of the colonial system. Following the legacies of grassroots worker-led movements, we see that culture workers - as workers - possess the tools to organize from below and for the sake of egalitarian redistribution, against oppressive and unbearable conditions in order to thrive in unions and collective counter-actions. But this social memory of agency as workers seems to be erased by those tasked with replicating bourgeois cultural standards, those who keep attacking the efforts of cultural workers to revindicate a form of sovereignty against the oppressive structures of distribution. Collectives such as Strike German, an international call to challenge German gatekeeping of cultural production, and ACAB ( Arts and Culture Alliance Berlin), which seeks to challenge surreptitious and anti-constitutional implementations of discriminatory clauses in public undertakings that conflate anti-Semitim with anti-Zionism, provide examples of this structural assessment of targeting. Alongside, and in conversation with, these two German-situated movements emerged the international movement ANGA ( Art No Genocide Alliance), which, on April 17th, the third day of preview days of the 2024 Venice Biennale, organized an action in front of the Israeli Pavillion. The action was an outgrowth of the absence of dialogue and negotiations by the fascist-leaning Italian Minister of Culture, Gennaro Sangiuliano, after the rejection of an open letter initiated by ANGA requesting the exclusion of Israel from the participating nations that collected more than 24.000 signatures. For ANGA, and the international community it represents, the presence of a Pavillion which inevitably represented the state responsible for tens of thousands of intentionally murdered Palestinian civilians, created an impossible competition with the symbolic horizon sought for art. In this impossibility of comparison, in the impossibility of cohabitation between the horror of the genocide and the vain hope of market-based artistic practices, Strike German, ACAB, and ANGA are challenging the very imperialist structures that have alienated them. Above all, they are creating a network of solidarity between art workers from different life paths and backgrounds, otherwise left atomized by cultural institutions. Imagine, then, if spaces of cultural and artistic possibility, as defined by the state, could be freed from the elitist occupation of culture, and be grounded in collective endeavors like those named above, which are by no means perfect, but which try to articulate collective approaches to reinterrogate cultural institutions’ self-embellishing colonial narrative. This is the imagination to which we could attend, in concert with the collective of art workers united, and other collectives in dialogue with each other to project and diffract this imagination towards a broader political horizon. This imaginary, and the people who act upon it, are the future tense. *Imagine…* *\\\\* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2: ANGA in Venice Biennale 2024 - Courtesy ANGA. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### On Commemorating the Holocaust as a Palestinian Muslim URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/on-commemorating-the-holocaust-as-a-palestinian-muslim/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:05.000Z **ENG** One morning just before the trip to Auschwitz, a teacher entered the social workers’ office and complained about a student called Muhammad. He would ask the teachers if he could wear his Palestinian keffiyeh, and if he could bring his Palestinian flag to the memorial site, adding that he had heard Israelis would do that. He also required prayer time, if necessary at the memorial site, especially as the visit was to go on all day. The social workers described Muhammad as a troubled kid: His father was a Palestinian refugee from Lebanon, and his parents were divorced. The teacher then leaves the office and a moment later a young man enters the room. “Please sit down, Muhammad! I would like to introduce you to Sultan,” says Majd. Ahmet, Majd, and I sit around Muhammad’s chair, staring at him; he does not look up. He just looks down at his shoes. Majd explains that we would all be very happy if he joined the trip. He says that Muhammad would be a great participant and also important for my research, since I, too, ask questions about historical responsibility among young people with diverse backgrounds. Muhammad looks up and brings himself to say, “Well, if it’s okay that I bring my Palestinian flag,” just to look down again. “We’ll see about this as we go along,” says Majd. Ahmet clarifies that “flags are a general problem at the site. They are generally not allowed, but some bring Israeli flags. No one can bring a German flag. It is a highly charged site, and Poles as well as Jews have very sensitive reactions to seeing a German flag at Auschwitz.” Angela, seemingly angry, exclaims that: *This is exactly the problem with German guilt! A German person is simply guilty and cannot articulate herself anymore. She is just supposed to feel guilty. But what are Israeli flags doing there? That does not seem to be a problem, even with all the politics and violence going on in the Middle East! But as a German you are not in a position to say anything against that.* It was unclear whether Angela meant that no one is telling Israelis not to bring flags, or that no one is daring to stand up to violent Israeli policies. Or whether Angela simply wanted to state that the “no flag rule” should be more consistent and applied to all flags. By stating that he would bring a Palestinian flag, Muhammad made us understand that there was a problem with the kind of Holocaust commemoration framed as a trip for “humanity” and yet allowed for - only very specific - expressions of state-nationalism. The Israeli flag in Auschwitz, although a national symbol, also demonstrated that Jews survived the genocide in a state-form. It could be seen as an expression of victory, and as a positive *telos* for Jewish life. As such, it could offer some relief from German fascism, perhaps a repair. Muhammad’s addition of the Palestinian flag was a reminder that Palestinians were connected to this history in tragic ways and that the story was not over yet. Muhammad’s visible presence as a Palestinian in space, a space that Majd continuously construed as a memorial for universal humanity, pointed to the difficulty of Palestinians being a part of this “humanity” along with everyone else. Muhammad’s provocation was connected to a larger question of Palestinian belonging which could bring the “afterlife” of the human into the present. The proposed performance of Palestinianness at the Auschwitz Memorial disrupts the neat organization of a linear progressive history that promises to belong *qua* humanity (Abu El- Haj 2015). The notion of belonging has attached itself to national history with regard to migration in Europe. Calls for integration of new citizens act as an “appeal to history as the mold of the nation,” official memory in the service of molding an emotional bond with the nation; and by doing so foreclose other histories and forms of life (Geschierre 2009, 25). Peter Geschierre warns of such efforts, by pointing out how history in the service of the nation becomes “a condensed version, more or less fixed,” proving precarious and controversial. He questions these culturalist pleas as a “return of memory- history,” a history shaped by strong emotional appeal and is fixed in meaning. Yet memory-history is not simply internalized and related to in homogenous ways. Memorial sites as spaces that extend and consolidate secular governance in public are vulnerable to disruption when a dominant memory-history is contested as not representing certain groups, realities, and experiences (Preciado 2020). Saidiya Hartman deploys the concept of the afterlife to point out enduring inequalities and persistent racial relations in the contemporary US. Hartman’s contention is that living in the afterlife of slavery is to live in a future created by it (Hartman 2008,133). This future, she points out, “is the ongoing crisis of citizenship.” A crisis generated by the disparity between its “sublime ideal of freedom” and the “facts of blackness” (Ibid.). By bringing traditional and national material objects, such as the keffiyeh and the flag, as evidence of Palestinian existence in lieu of a narrative into the memorial site, Muhammad points to a multifold crisis of citizenship within and outside of Europe. The genealogy of this crisis involves Jewish communities in Europe before the Holocaust, who were not incorporated in emerging nation-states after the fall of the Christian empires (Katz 1998; Nathans 2004). Palestinians as a people without a state live in the future created by European nation-state building, one that prompted Jews to settle in historical Palestine. The Auschwitz Memorial then, does not simply foreclose other memories and rituals from entering— but indeed it provokes them. Memorials also offer the ground for older and counter rituals to take new shape. Hendrik Kraay (2004) describes how monuments in nationalizing Brazil were regularly subverted by indigenous processions, turning ossified official memory into sites of ongoing lively contestation - not by putting up counter-statues, but by entering the space and performing embodied ritualized practices at odds with Catholicism and the European aspirations of the elites. Muhammad’s request replicates what some Israelis perform as ritualized practice at Holocaust Memorial sites. His announced performance is a refusal to be pacified by memory-history. For Palestinians, as many of my interlocutors have reported, the events of the Nakba (English: catastrophe) in 1948 remain an ongoing experience of expulsion from Palestine, one exacerbated by mechanisms of silencing in Europe, specifically in Germany (El Bulbeisi 2020). Hence, Palestinian protests provide ways of reconnecting with the experience of catastrophe; memorializing this in public when there is no official site to attach these memories to. Palestinian community organizers explained to me that each new wave of violence in Palestine reminds them of their earliest experiences of violence as Palestinians and connects them with their parents’ and grandparents’ narratives of displacement. Although there is a vast literature remembering the Palestinian condition (Sa’di and Abu Lughod 2007), many of these stories circulate either within the intimate space of the family or in literature, occasionally through theater, but rarely in public spaces (El Qasem 2018). The denial of their forced expulsion from their homeland speaks of the precarious legal status in which Palestinians live (Tize 2020; Esmeir 2003). The Nakba is difficult to delineate as a single event in history, not least because expulsion from Palestine remains a reality to this day (Bashir & Goldberg 2019; Khoury 2019, xiii). The notion of “Nakba” thus refers not only to the spectacular violence of 1948, but also to the enduring circumstances of living as stateless persons, which has shaped all Palestinians (Feldman 2007). In the current predicament, displacement, and the hopes of return which remain ongoing. Protest, therefore, offers an opportunity to push against what Palestinians see as “the ongoing Nakba” (*an-Nakba al-mustamirra*). In Germany, the Nakba, as a foundational memory for Palestinian people, is considered detrimentally opposed to Israel’s existence as a Jewish homeland, since Germany’s purpose of existence (*Staatsräson*) is tied to the state of Israel (Anonymous 2020). This leaves Palestinians in Germany in a difficult predicament, for they remain dispossessed of a citizenship that could acknowledge their experience. As the Palestinian experience is intimately tied up with the fate of European Jews, it complicates the secular teleology of the Holocaust as leading to more just and liberal nation-states. In the absence of official Palestinian sites of memory, protests can at once point to a specific incident such as the commemoration of martyr deaths, as Lori Allen points out (2006), or a specific past event in history, such as May 15, the official Nakba Day organized by the Palestinian Authority, as Amahl Bishara writes (2023). As such, the protests take the shape of lived, embodied and restless memorial spaces, desiring a place in which this experience can be laid to rest. Palestinians as a desiring collective memorialize their displacement in the absence of any viable state sovereignty, official history, and canonized literary tradition (Embaló, Neuwirth & Pannewick 2001). Muhammad’s proposed protest disrupted the linear narrative and became something akin to a threat, for both Angela and Majd, exposing their ethnic positioning, as a white Christian German and a Palestinian Muslim German. Given the broader historical context and contemporary politics, these positions could not simply melt into a “common humanity”, but exist within ongoing tensions over the meaning and effects of the Holocaust for Palestinians, Muslims, Jews, and Christian Germans. This tension echoes throughout Europe, but it has severe repercussions for Palestinian belonging in Germany because it poses a challenge to a post-Holocaust morality, (Sa‘ed Atshan and Katharina Galor 2020). Muhammad’s entrance into the conversation as a Palestinian Muslim also brought to the fore the different stakes in commemorating the Holocaust at Auschwitz for different peoples. For Majd, the Holocaust needed to be understood beyond nation-state projects and ethno-religious particularity. The universalist approach to the Auschwitz visit carried two related rationales: First, verbally, it affects naturalization into German nationhood, even when one is already a citizen, but still marked as Middle Eastern and Muslim. In other words, such framing made Holocaust commemoration accessible despite being differentiated as not Christian-German. Secondly, it translated a form of German guilt into universal responsibility, which could be shared collectively. During the actual trip, however, there were certain moments when it became clear that not everyone was a part of German nationhood. On the way to Auschwitz, we - that is, 20 students, Majd, Ahmet, two teachers and I - shared the bus with a Berlin youth volunteer organization. Their group included retired patrons and benefactors. One of these, a former employee of the Foreign Office, was looking for the “Palestinian organizer”. The man directly addressed Majd, expressing fascination to see a Palestinian organizing a school trip to Auschwitz. Majd nodded, said that he had to look after a student, and disappeared from the conversation. During our first evening in Kraków, a teacher asked why Majd always ordered hot chocolate but never beer. Majd vaguely responded that he does not like to drink. The teacher asked, “Is it because you are Muslim?” Majd nodded and disengaged from the conversation. **ARABIC** إحياء ذكرى الهولوكوست كفلسطيني مسلم بقلم سلطان دوغان في صباح أحد الأيام قبل الرحلة إلى أوشفيتز، دخل أحد المعلمين إلى مكتب الأخصائيين الاجتماعيين واشتكى من طالب يدعى محمد. كان يسأل المدرسين إذا كان بإمكانه ارتداء الكوفية الفلسطينية وإذا كان بإمكانه إحضار العلم الفلسطيني إلى موقع النصب التذكاري، مضيفًا أنه سمع أن الإسرائيليين يفعلون ذلك. كما كان يطلب أيضًا وقتًا للصلاة، إذا لزم الأمر، في موقع النصب التذكاري، خاصةً عندما كانت الزيارة ستستمر طوال اليوم. وصف الأخصائيون الاجتماعيون محمد بأنه طفل مضطرب، فوالده لاجئ فلسطيني من لبنان ووالداه مطلقان. ثم غادر المعلم المكتب وبعد لحظات دخل شاب إلى الغرفة. "تفضل بالجلوس يا محمد! أود أن أقدمك إلى سلطان"، يقول مجد. نجلس أنا وأحمد ومجد ومجد حول كرسي محمد ونحدق في وجهه، وهو لا ينظر إلى الأعلى، بل ينظر إلى حذائه. يشرح مجد أننا جميعًا سنكون سعداء جدًا إذا انضم إلى الرحلة. يقول إن محمد سيكون مشاركًا رائعًا ومهمًا أيضًا لبحثي، لأنني أنا أيضًا أطرح أسئلة حول المسؤولية التاريخية بين الشباب ذوي الخلفيات المتنوعة. ينظر محمد إلى الأعلى ويحمل نفسه ليقول: "حسنًا، إذا كان لا بأس أن أحضر معي العلم الفلسطيني"، لينظر إلى الأسفل مرة أخرى. يقول مجد: "سنرى بشأن هذا الأمر بينما نمضي قدمًا". ويوضح أحمد أن "الأعلام مشكلة عامة في الموقع. فهي غير مسموح بها بشكل عام، لكن البعض يجلب الأعلام الإسرائيلية. لا يمكن لأحد إحضار العلم الألماني، فهو موقع مشحون للغاية ولدى البولنديين وكذلك اليهود ردود فعل حساسة للغاية عند رؤية العلم الألماني في أوشفيتز". تصرخ أنجيلا، غاضبة على ما يبدو، وتصرخ قائلةً هذه هي بالضبط مشكلة الذنب الألماني! فالشخص الألماني ببساطة يشعر بالذنب ولا يستطيع التعبير عن نفسه بعد الآن؛ من المفترض أن يشعر بالذنب فقط. ولكن ماذا تفعل الأعلام الإسرائيلية هناك؟ لا تبدو هذه مشكلة، حتى مع كل ما يجري في الشرق الأوسط من سياسة وعنف! ولكنك كألمانية لست في وضع يسمح لك بقول أي شيء ضد ذلك. لم يكن من الواضح ما إذا كانت أنجيلا تقصد أن لا أحد يقول للإسرائيليين ألا يرفعوا الأعلام أو أن لا أحد يتجرأ على الوقوف في وجه السياسات الإسرائيلية العنيفة. أو ما إذا كانت أنجيلا أرادت ببساطة أن تذكر أن "قاعدة عدم رفع الأعلام" يجب أن تكون أكثر اتساقًا وأن تطبق على جميع الأعلام. من خلال تصريحه بأنه سيحضر علمًا فلسطينيًا، جعلنا محمد نفهم أن هناك مشكلة في هذا النوع من إحياء ذكرى الهولوكوست الذي تم تأطيره كرحلة من أجل "الإنسانية" ومع ذلك سمح - فقط بشكل محدد جدًا - بالتعبير عن قومية الدولة. على الرغم من أن العلم الإسرائيلي في أوشفيتز كان رمزًا قوميًا، إلا أنه أظهر أيضًا أن اليهود نجوا من الإبادة الجماعية في شكل دولة. يمكن أن يُنظر إليه كتعبير عن النصر وكغاية إيجابية للحياة اليهودية. وعلى هذا النحو، يمكن أن يوفر بعض الراحة من الفاشية الألمانية، ربما إصلاح. دفعت إضافة محمد للعلم الفلسطيني إلى التذكير بأن الفلسطينيين كانوا مرتبطين بهذا التاريخ بطرق مأساوية، وأن القصة لم تنتهِ بعد. أشار حضور محمد المرئي المقترح كفلسطيني في المكان الذي دأب مجد على اعتباره نصبًا تذكاريًا للإنسانية العالمية، إلى صعوبة أن يكون الفلسطينيون جزءًا من هذه "الإنسانية" مثلهم مثل أي شخص آخر. كان استفزاز محمد مرتبطًا بسؤال أكبر عن الانتماء الفلسطيني الذي يمكن أن يجلب "ما بعد" الإنسان إلى الحاضر. إن الأداء المقترح للفلسطينية في النصب التذكاري لأوشفيتز يعرقل التنظيم الأنيق للتاريخ التقدمي الخطي الذي يعد بالانتماء من حيث هو إنسانية (أبو الحاج 2015). لقد ارتبط مفهوم الانتماء بالتاريخ الوطني فيما يتعلق بالهجرة في أوروبا. تعمل الدعوات لدمج المواطنين الجدد كـ"نداءٍ إلى التاريخ كقالبٍ للأمة،" أي الذاكرة الرسمية في خدمة تشكيل رابطةٍ عاطفيةٍ مع الأمة، وبذلك تستبعد تواريخ وأشكال أخرى من الحياة (Geschierre 2009, 25). يحذّر بيتر غيشير من مثل هذه الجهود، بالإشارة إلى أن التاريخ في خدمة الأمة يصبح "نسخة مكثفة، ثابتة إلى حد ما"، مما يثبت أنه غير مستقر ومثير للجدل. ويشكك في هذه المناشدات الثقافية بوصفها "عودة للذاكرة-التاريخ"، وهو تاريخ يتشكل بجاذبية عاطفية قوية وثابتة المعنى. لكن الذاكرة-التاريخ لا يتم استيعابها ببساطة والارتباط بها بطرق متجانسة. فالمواقع التذكارية - كمساحات توسع وترسّخ الحوكمة العلمانية في الأماكن العامة - عرضة للاضطراب عندما يتم الطعن في الذاكرة - التاريخ المهيمنة باعتبارها لا تمثل مجموعات وواقع وتجارب معينة (بريسيادو 2020). تحشد سعيدية هارتمان ما بعد الحياة للإشارة إلى أوجه عدم المساواة الدائمة والعلاقات العرقية المستمرة في الولايات المتحدة المعاصرة. وتدّعي هارتمان أن العيش في ما بعد حياة العبودية هو العيش في مستقبلٍ صنعته (هارتمان 2008: 133). وتشير إلى أن هذا المستقبل "هو أزمة المواطنة المستمرة". أزمة يولّدها التباين بين "المثل الأعلى للحرية" و"حقائق السواد" (المرجع نفسه). من خلال إحضار الأشياء المادية التقليدية والوطنية مثل الكوفية والعلم كدليل على الوجود الفلسطيني بدلًا من السرد في موقع النصب التذكاري، يشير محمد إلى أزمة المواطنة المتعددة الأوجه داخل أوروبا وخارجها. وتتعلق أنساب هذه الأزمة بالمجتمعات اليهودية في أوروبا قبل الهولوكوست، التي لم تُدمج في الدول القومية الناشئة بعد سقوط الإمبراطوريات المسيحية (كاتز 1998؛ ناثانز 2004). يعيش الفلسطينيون كشعب بلا دولة في المستقبل الذي خلقه بناء الدولة القومية الأوروبية التي دفعت اليهود للاستقرار في فلسطين التاريخية. إذًا فالنصب التذكاري لأوشفيتز لا يمنع ببساطة الذكريات والطقوس الأخرى من الدخول - بل إنه في الواقع يستفزها. وتوفر النصب التذكارية أيضًا الأرضية لطقوس قديمة ومضادة لتتخذ شكلًا جديدًا. ويصف هندريك كراي (2004) كيف أن النصب التذكارية في البرازيل المؤمّمة كانت تُقوّض بانتظام من قبل مواكب السكان الأصليين، محوّلةً الذاكرة الرسمية المتحجّرة إلى ساحات تنازع حيوي مستمر - ليس من خلال وضع تماثيل مضادة، بل من خلال دخول الفضاء وأداء ممارسات طقوسية مجسّدة تتعارض مع الكاثوليكية والتطلعات الأوروبية للنخب. يكرر استفزاز محمد ما يؤديه بعض الإسرائيليين كممارسة طقوسية في المواقع التذكارية للهولوكوست. إن أداءه المعلن هو رفضٌ للرضا بالذاكرة - التاريخ. بالنسبة للفلسطينيين، كما أفاد العديد من محاوريّ، تبقى أحداث النكبة9 (النكبة) في العام 1948 تجربة مستمرة من الطرد من فلسطين التي تفاقمت بفعل آليات التكميم في أوروبا، وتحديدًا في ألمانيا (البلبيسي 2020). ومن ثم، توفر الاحتجاجات الفلسطينية طرقًا لإعادة التواصل مع تجربة النكبة، وتخليدها علنًا في ظل غياب مساحة رسمية لإرفاق هذه الذكريات بها. وقد أوضح لي منظمو المجتمع الفلسطيني أن كل موجة جديدة من العنف في فلسطين تذكرهم بتجاربهم الأولى للعنف كفلسطينيين وتربطهم بروايات آبائهم وأجدادهم عن التهجير. على الرغم من وجود أدبٍ واسعٍ يتذكر الحالة الفلسطينية (سعدي وأبو لغد 2007)، إلا أن العديد من هذه القصص يتم تداولها إما في الفضاء الحميمي للعائلة أو في الأدب، وأحيانًا المسرح، ولكن نادرًا ما يتم تداولها في الفضاء العام (القاسم 2018). إن إنكار الطرد القسريّ من وطنهم يعبّر عن الأوضاع القانونية غير المستقرة التي يعيشها الفلسطينيون (تيزي 2020؛ إسمير 2003). من الصعب تحديد النكبة كحدث واحد في التاريخ، لأسباب ليس أقلها أن الطرد من فلسطين لا يزال واقعًا حتى يومنا هذا (بشير وغولدبرغ 2019؛ خوري 2019: xiii). لا يشير مفهوم النكبة إلى العنف المذهل الذي وقع عام 1948 فحسب، بل يشير أيضًا إلى الظروف الدائمة للعيش كأشخاص عديمي الجنسية، والتي شكلت جميع الفلسطينيين (فيلدمان 2007). في المأزق الحالي، لا يزال التهجير وآمال العودة مستمرة. وبالتالي، فإن الاحتجاج يوفر فرصة للدفع باتجاه ما يعتبره الفلسطينيون "النكبة المستمرة". في ألمانيا، تُعتبر النكبة، كذكرى تأسيسية للفلسطينيين، معارضةً بشكل سلبي لوجود إسرائيل كوطن يهودي، لأن هدف وجود ألمانيا (Staatsräson) مرتبط بدولة إسرائيل (مجهول 2020). وهذا يترك الفلسطينيين في ألمانيا في مأزقٍ صعب، لأنهم لا يزالون محرومين من المواطنة التي يمكن أن تعترف بتجربتهم. وبما أن التجربة الفلسطينية مرتبطة ارتباطًا وثيقًا بمصير اليهود الأوروبيين، فإن ذلك يعقّد الغائية العلمانية للهولوكوست باعتبارها تقود إلى دول قومية أكثر عدالة وليبرالية. في ظل غياب مواقع رسمية فلسطينية للذاكرة، يمكن للاحتجاجات أن تشير في آن واحد إلى حادثة معينة مثل إحياء ذكرى موت الشهداء، كما تشير لوري ألين (2006)، أو إلى حدث ماضٍ محدد في التاريخ مثل 15 أيار/مايو، وهو يوم النكبة الرسمي الذي تنظمه السلطة الفلسطينية كمهرجان حاشد، كما كتبت أمال بشارة (2023). على هذا النحو، تأخذ الاحتجاجات شكل مساحات تذكارية حية ومتجسدة ومضطربة، راغبةً في مكانٍ يمكن فيه دفن هذه التجربة. يقوم الفلسطينيون كجماعةٍ راغبةٍ بتخليد ذكرى تهجيرهم في غياب أي سيادة دولةٍ قابلةٍ للتطبيق، وتاريخٍ رسمي، وتقاليد أدبيةٍ مقدسة (إمبالو، نيويرث وبانيويك 2001). لقد أخلّ احتجاج محمد المقترح بالسردية الخطية وأصبح شيئًا أقرب إلى التهديد، بالنسبة لكل من أنجيلا ومجد، وكشف عن تموضعهما العرقي الخاص بهما، باعتبارهما مسيحيين بيض - ألمانيين، وفلسطينيين - مسلمين - ألمان. وبالنظر إلى السياق التاريخي الأوسع والسياسات المعاصرة، فإن هذه المواقف لا يمكن أن تذوب ببساطة في "إنسانية مشتركة"، بل كانت موجودة ضمن التوترات المستمرة حول معنى الهولوكوست وآثارها بالنسبة للفلسطينيين والمسلمين واليهود والمسيحيين الألمان. يتردد صدى هذا التوتر في جميع أنحاء أوروبا، ولكن له تداعيات خطيرة على الانتماء الفلسطيني في ألمانيا لأنه يشكل تحديًا لأخلاقيات ما بعد الهولوكوست، (سعيد عطشان وكاترينا غالور 2020). كما أن دخول محمد في النقاش بوصفه فلسطينيًا-مسلمًا أعاد إلى الواجهة الرهانات المختلفة في إحياء ذكرى الهولوكوست في أوشفيتز. فبالنسبة لمجد، كان لا بد من فهم الهولوكوست بعيدًا عن مشاريع الدولة القومية والخصوصية العرقية والدينية. حملت المقاربة العالمية لزيارة أوشفيتز مبررين مترابطين: أولًا، من الناحية اللفظية، كان ذلك بمثابة تجنيس في الأمة الألمانية، في حين أن المرء كان مواطنًا بالفعل، ولكنه كان لا يزال موسومًا بأنه شرق أوسطي ومسلم. وبعبارة أخرى، جعل هذا التأطير إحياء ذكرى الهولوكوست متاحًا على الرغم من تمييزه على أنه ليس مسيحيًا ألمانيًا. ثانيًا، ترجمت شكلاً من أشكال الذنب الألماني إلى مسؤولية عالمية يمكن مشاركتها بشكل جماعي. ومع ذلك، خلال الرحلة الفعلية، كانت هناك لحظات معينة اتضح فيها أنه لم يكن الجميع جزءًا من الأمة الألمانية. في الطريق إلى أوشفيتز، تقاسمنا - أي 20 طالبًا، مجد وأحمد ومعلمين اثنين وأنا - الحافلة مع منظمة تطوعية شبابية في برلين. كانت مجموعتهم تضم رعاة ومتبرعين متقاعدين. كان أحد هؤلاء، وهو موظف سابق في وزارة الخارجية، يبحث عن "المنظم الفلسطيني". خاطب الرجل مجد مباشرة، معربًا عن انبهاره برؤية فلسطيني ينظم رحلة مدرسية إلى أوشفيتز. أومأ مجد برأسه، وقال إن عليه الاعتناء بطالب واحد، واختفى من المحادثة. هذا النص هو مقتطفات محررة من كتاب "الرغبة في النصب التذكارية. اليهود والمسلمون وإنسان المواطنة، نُشر في الأصل في المجلة السنوية لعلم اجتماع الدين. المجلد 13 (2022) السيرة الذاتية سلطان دوغان محاضرة في جامعة غولدسميث، جامعة لندن. بصفتها عالمة أنثروبولوجيا سياسية، تخصصت في الحكم العلماني للأقليات المهاجرة كمشكلة دينية في أوروبا. مشروع كتابها الحالي بعنوان "تحويل المواطنين: العلمانية وسياسات ذاكرة الهولوكوست بعد غزة" يستند إلى عمل ميداني في ألمانيا، ويقارب المواطنة كممارسة وتقنية للتحول العلماني. ينصبّ تركيزها الرئيسي على كيفية قيام ممارسات ذاكرة الهولوكوست والخطابات حول معاداة السامية بإضفاء الطابع العنصري على مجتمعات الشرق الأوسط باعتبارها مسلمة. وتستكشف كيف يتم نشر ذاكرة العنف في المؤسسات التعليمية التي تمولها الدولة في ألمانيا لتدريب المواطنة كوسيلة لتراتبية المعاناة والانتماء مع ما يترتب على ذلك من عواقب وخيمة على مجتمعات المهاجرين المعاصرة وحصولهم على الحقوق القانونية والسياسية. وتركز كذلك على الممارسات الأرشيفية للمهاجرين ومساحات النصب التذكارية والمتاحف لأغراض الإصلاح في ظل استمرار عنف الدولة والشرطة وتأجيل العدالة. وهي منسقة برنامج ماجستير الأنثروبولوجيا والممارسات المتحفية في جامعة غولدسميث. \\\\ *This text is an edited excerpt of “Desiring Memorials. Jews, Muslims, and the Human of Citizenship.” originally published in* Annual Review of the Sociology of Religion*. Volume 13 (2022).* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Ahlam Shibli, untitled (*Occupation no. 23*), al-Khalil/Hebron, Palestine, 2016–17, chromogenic print, 40 x 60 cm. The house of the Hashem and Nisreen Azzeh family, Othman ben Affan Street, Tel Rumeida, al-Khalil, December 4, 2016. The three children of Hashem Azzeh—Younis, Khaled, and Hanan—together with their cousin Ahmad. They are watching a technician install a television set, donated by a Danish solidarity delegation. Hashem Azzeh was killed by the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) on October 21, 2015, poisoned by tear gas that was used in a clash between young Palestinians and Israeli forces. Courtesy of the artist, © Ahlam Shibli. *Sultan Doughan is a lecturer at Goldsmiths, University of London. As a political anthropologist, she specialized in the secular governance of migrant minorities as a religious problem in Europe. Her current book project, tentatively entitled Converting Citizens: Secularism and the Politics of Holocaust Memory after Gaza, is based on fieldwork in Germany and approaches citizenship as a practice & technology of secular conversion.* ### Falastin: A Digital Monument URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/falastin-a-digital-monument/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:04.000Z **Dalia Maini:** How does Collecteurs operate, and how has your trajectory shifted since October 7th? **Evrim Oralkan:** Collecteurs functions like a digitally crowd-sourced museum, where artworks can be viewed, discussed, curated, and archived by anyone online, free of charge. Collectors, artists, and galleries can add artworks to our platform. Our community extends beyond an artwork’s owner, to curators, art workers, and basically anyone with visitor accounts. We anchor ourselves as The Museum of Private Collections and through collaborative exhibitions with curators, artists, and collectors, Collecteurs invites dialogue and context online. Collecteurs also offers users an extensive library of courses. Many of them are free. Our trajectory did not change after October 7th. We are a Public-Benefit Corporation and, therefore, our focus has always been on benefiting the public. We have connected with our community in a deeper way and formed a volunteer group to counter the effects of censorship and suppression in the art world. The group held its first meeting in December 2023 and has been meeting every week since then. The biggest priority, in terms of needs, from the group was new funding models. We will roll out two new features in August on the Collecteurs platform to help with this. One is a “Support” feature, where users can create one-time and/or ongoing support campaigns. Users will be able to share exclusive content and provide additional perks to their supporters while receiving financial support. We will also roll out 1-on-1 video calls with experts. The calls will be in 30-minute sessions for a desired fee by any user on the Collecteurs platform. It is clear that museums and arts institutions have failed us miserably. But we believe in the future. The art world is forming a new community in response to the suppression and censorship we are experiencing. A community that will take control of cultural production, take care of its own, and will not allow art workers to be used by the ruling class. We are committed to preparing the infrastructure and supporting this new future. **DM:** “Falastin” is the latest project by Collecteurs, described as a digital monument, it provides an exhaustive educational environment for those unfamiliar with Palestinian history and heritage. Why do you call this a “digital monument” and how does this encourage people to speak up for Palestinian rights? **Àngels Miralda:** A monument in the traditional sense is usually a commemorative sculpture in a public space around which people can gather to remember a certain person or historical event. Falastin is a collective exhibition with contributions from over 300 volunteers who form part of our global online community, and it pays homage to the Palestinian people whether they advocate for their liberation through politics, culture, or popular resistance. It is a growing archive that combines artistic work with a historical timeline that contextualizes the ongoing genocide being perpetrated by the State of Israel and its allies today. Our hope is that this exhibition, and our online activity, encourage more people to share information, get informed, and to do whatever they can wherever they are in the world to work towards an end to the contemporary processes of colonization and to provide reparations, and justice for Palestinians. **DM:** Why digital? **EO:** Digital, meaning online, allows us to have a global reach. As the mainstream media keeps the history of Palestine inaccessible, our group decided to make the history of Palestine accessible to countless people around the world, allowing for art to make an impact not after the fact, but right now, when it can make a difference. The online format, combined with collaborative posts on Instagram allowed us to reach so many people while educating them about the history of the region. **DM:** Platforming is contrary to censorship, and censorship is the weapon used to erase experiences from the present and undermine their projection into the future. What makes “Falastin” a living archive of these voices? **ÀM:** Another advantage of something being digital is that it is not in a closed form. At the moment we are working chapter by chapter, but artists and events can be added, modified, and interlinked. This is important because of the highly censored nature of the content we are working with. Palestinian voices and history have been subjected to decades of colonial erasure under the Zionist imperative to justify a false idea of a “terra nullius”, as was implicated in other settler-colonial regimes before it, including the United States. The exhibition aims not only to identify this strategy but to amplify the message of Palestinians and their allies to our growing online community. **DM:** What is the temporal and geographical span narrated within its chapters, and which threads do you weave? **ÀM:** Chapter I began with Napoleon and the final decades of Ottoman rule in the Middle East. The 19th century was a transformative time in which the previous world order was quickly shifting into something more recognizable today. At this time, the idea of a nation-state was manipulated by colonial regimes to achieve their goals. The timeline is a history of Palestine starting from the origins of Zionism which is concurrent with the origins of many different European fascisms. Such ideologies became very convenient for British and US interests in destabilizing and colonizing the Middle East. The geography so far has been tightly linked to Palestine itself but will spread to the surrounding region in Chapter III when we will address the sprawling Palestinian diaspora spread throughout the Arab world to as far away as Chile. We have already linked the suffering of dispossession and land theft to the ongoing pain of native communities of what is today known as the “United States” (which refers to the 50 states with colonial-drawn borders that cut across the territories of diverse tribal communities) through the inclusion of Indigenous artists such as Edgar Heap of Birds. This is a powerful thread that connects the British model of settler-colonialism, erasure, and the brutal military tactics used to achieve it against two very different indigenous populations. **DM:** In exemplifying the condition of settler colonialism, Palestine’s occupation is at the epicenter of intersectional movements for liberation. How can art forms support the cause and the decolonial values it carries? **EO:** What is essential at this moment is for art to act now and not after the genocide is over. In my opinion, art forms are able to invoke emotions and inspire people to take action, especially within the format of conceptually tight online exhibitions. “Falastin” is an online exhibition that is enhanced with historical information. I believe, in the future, there will be many more examples of this format. **DM:** What, in your opinion, does the post-October 7th reaction of cultural institutions tell us about the internalization of prerogatives of power within and beyond the arts? **EO:** As mentioned earlier, cultural institutions failed us. I do not believe they will receive the same level of attention and respect from the public in the future. The power structures and control mechanisms embedded in these institutions were always there for the ones who could see it. Now, the masks are off and everything is exposed. It seems like every institution out there has a mechanism to silence people. Are we going to try to change or reform them in the future? I don’t think there is any use in that. We need to build a new art world and direct our energy there. **DM:** Your platform tries to unlock the doors of art collecting and institutional gatekeeping and offers a public space for these discussions. What other ways do you hope to achieve these aims? **EO:** Our mission has been to bring to light unseen artworks in private collections and give the public access to them through contextual presentations. This is the core of the platform. We no longer rely only on collectors to source the works. We are offering artist accounts as well. At this moment, we are fully committed to creating an alternative art world. Long live the new art world! The one that will take care of its participants and not the ruling class. \\\\ ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Falastin-Logo-Design-by-Mouneer-Al-Shaarani.png) fig. 1 BIO Collecteurs, also known as The Museum of Private Collections, is a Public Benefit Corporation dedicated to democratizing access to the world’s private art collections. Functioning as a digital museum, the platform extends its services beyond collectors to include artists and galleries, facilitating a collaborative ecosystem where art can be digitized, managed, and exhibited. This initiative empowers collectors, artists, and galleries alike, offering them the tools to showcase their artworks to the public without the financial burdens associated with establishing costly physical spaces. Evrim Oralkan is one of the founders of Collecteurs, the world's first collective digital museum. He is personally involved with all aspects of the platform. Evrim is also a founding board member of Ethics of Collecting, where he contributed to creating the world's first Code of Conduct for Contemporary Art Collectors. Àngels Miralda is editor-in-chief at Collecteurs and an independent writer and curator. She has collaborated in different ways with the platform since 2018\. Miralda wrote for Artforum from 2019-2023 and is currently curating the upcoming Contemporary Biennial of TEA, Tenerife. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Emily Jacir \\ Lydda Airport (film still), 2009\. Installation with single channel film and sculpture. Courtesy of the artist. © Emily Jacir 2009. fig. 1: Logo Design by Mouneer Al-Shaarani. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Carmen will always be free URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/carmen-will-always-be-free/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:02.000Z Air squeezed out through the palms of a soft clap, echoing in the cathedral. They were sweating on the screen. *La gran mentira de la muerte* (2024), a 40-minute multichannel sound and film installation by Wu Tsang, muses in solitude. The penumbra of the space, enhances the strangeness of French and Spanish romantic eras, rendering them all the more intriguing against the backdrop of contemporary times. One step outside the venue, dancers are still dancing to flamenco, skaters are everywhere, and kids are dancing to dembow and reggaeton for TikTok videos. It’s, July but it was nice and cool in the Capella of MACBA in Barcelona, just beside the public toilets of the skate square. It's also free entry/. I hope you can see it. It was beautiful. It moved me. The installation was minimal; a screen touching the floor, an intense soundscape full of bass and claps, and the flamenco singing as the trumpets cheer on the bullfight. A tiny smoke machine pumps out myrrh-scented steam behind the screen, as they do at mass honoring the *spiritus sanctus*’s passion and death. Or it might be the smoke from the tobacco factory from the staging of Carmen in Schauspielhaus Zürich, of which this work is an iteration. Also, the ghost of Carmen, the heroine of the eponymous opera piece by Georges Bizet, played here by Tosh Basco, follows us in this work. The story presented in the film installation unfolds in just a few spoken sentences: “Come to me” is one, said by two protagonists, the flamenco singer and the dancer. Accepting the invitation, I edge closer to the screen. The actress has blood on her teeth. Her knuckles create a rhythm on the wooden table. It looks like it hurts. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fig.-1.png) fig. 1 When Wu Tsang gave her press conference before the opening, she told us about when she first started her research on Carmen, the opera. She went to Sevilla, where a city tour guide showed her a side ally and said: “\[t\]hat's where Carmen ran around the corner and was stabbed to death by her jealous lover!” Wu told us that she had to ask: “But isn’t Carmen a fictional character?”. History and fiction blend here in the creation of the barbaric and the perpetuation of violence on the female body. Carmen is a fictional character, of course, I don’t know her personally, but I feel like I know her, she is a symbol of this continuity. The film by Wu Tsang it’s not a report of what happened to Carmen, it plays with ambiguity by being something between a poem, a dream, a flamenco romance, a bullfight, and a grove of orange trees. We follow a group of performers; Rocío Molina José, El Oruco, Yinka Esi Graves, Tosh Basco, and a bull. One of my favorite scenes is when the camera takes the perspective of the bull, slicing through the pink capote de brega of the matadora, Vanessa Montoya. The cinematography is epic. I feel like I am the bull in this scene proudly facing my murderer. “I don’t love you anymore. You love me still and that is why you want to kill me.”\* Carmen says in the novella by Prospera Mérimée, on which Bizet based his opera. The bull, the sacrificial prey of male fantasies of dominion, is Carmen’s spiritual stand-in in the film. Draped in my Palestine football shirt, with my Arab face, and flamenco hairstyle, I delve into the murder of women and the conception of the barbaric as untamed menace. Listening intently, I realise I embody this fictionalized threat. The artist told us that, while creating the work, together with “Moved by Motion”, Tosh Basko asked the dancers what death looks like in flamenco, and that the reply is what we see recorded on the screen. Recording, by definition kills the live act, Wu told us, and since she has worked collaborating with live artists, performers, and musicians throughout her career, the title of the show at MACBA *La gran mentira de la muerte* (The big lie of death) is logical: death is a lie. I thought that made sense, because, by recording, you don’t kill the liveliness of the characters, you give them a new life, a new meaning, another context, a trace of the records. We need those records. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fig.-2.jpg) fig. 2 Later, after I visited the show, I talked to the grandchild of Federico Garciá Lorca about how to archive his work. She said she doesn't want to make a relic out of him. She doesn’t want his house to become a museum of “the genius” behind glass vitrines. I thought I would have loved to see Wu recording Lorca, as she did Glenn Copeland, not killing them in the archive, but letting them live as inspiration. Carmen is one of those tales, received by the “Universal Broadcasting System”, as Copeland might have put it. We receive and we connect and make sense (and new sense) of it. I think it's a beautiful thought that things go into circulation in the universe. “Carmen belongs to nobody and everybody. She is everything her creators feared, and everything they desired. What was a threat to them is an inspiration to us,” Wu says. Who tells the story, and for whom, is important though. I am happy to see Carmen, whose feminicide has been repeated on the stage since 1875, freed from a white male narrator. To liberate Carmen from a male gaze means also to liberate her earthly powers, which represent more than lust and sexuality. Carmen is this apotheosis of femininity, and how femininity is a synonym, under the heteropatriarchal scrutiny, for everything nonrational. She is an embodiment of the barbaric, wilderness; her weapon against the regime of rational dominion is her freedom. Freedom that needs to be tamed and oppressed. The disembodied understanding of Carmen in Tsang’s work makes room for the understanding of how her body is also the body of society. Carmen is a freedom fighter and a martyr. Carmen is the person who chooses sacrifice. "Never will Carmen submit. Free she was born, and free she will die!", and these words resonate throughout the world. \\\\ Quotation from the novella \*\*Carmen (1845), Prosper Mérimée. EXHIBITION The exhibition is on show at MACBA Barcelona until 03.11.2024. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1: LA GRAN MENTIRA DE LA MUERTE, WU TSANG, 2024\. PHOTO ©JAIME TUÑÓN GARCÍA. fig. 2: VIEWS OF THE EXHIBITIONS "LA GRAN MENTIRA DE LA MUERTE" (THE BIG LIE OF DEATH). PHOTO: MIQUEL COLL, 2024. *Dina El Kaisy Friemuth is an artist whose works deal with the interrelation of collectivity and belonging. Her practice revolves around the creation of conversational environments, the amplification of queer and racialized voices, as well as decolonial and institutional critique. Her work is manifold, often in collaboration with other cultural workers, and includes disciplines such as curating, writing, installation and video.* ### Flipping the Coin(ed) URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/flipping-the-coin-ed/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:53:01.000Z *A collective exercise for* [*EASA 2024*](https://easaonline.org/conferences/easa2024/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *led by María Inés Plaza Lazo, Founder of Arts of the Working Class, María Berrios, Director of Curatorial Programmes and Research at MACBA, and the artist Michael Hart. In collaboration with the* [*ANTART*](https://easaonline.org/networks/antart/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *convenors, Alex Ungprateeb Flynn (UCLA), Francesca Cozzolino (EnsAD), and Giuliana Borea (Newcastle University).* *MACBA - Wednesday, July 24, 7:30pm - 9:00pm* Arts of the Working Class is a multi-lingual street journal that examines poverty and wealth, art, and society. Published every two months, street sellers earn money directly and vendors keep 100% of their sales. As a medium and platform, the newspaper creates special and sustainable connections between artists, workers, academics, urbanists, and cultural and social institutions from different countries and languages with the most vulnerable members of society: those deeply affected by extreme poverty and the disabled create ways of participating and accessing the kinds of agency assigned to groups and individuals within the safe spaces of the cultural production industries and academia. This pursuit not only creates new means of communicating and behaving around and through art, but also for direct redistribution of cultural capital: being space – material, immaterial – for participation in content production, discussion and dissemination. Participants of this workshop are invited to consider the terminologies and methodologies of their forms of research towards the end of entering into dialogue with research practices beyond the academy. What could that look like? How might we flip the coin to consider an anthropological and curatorial revision of art within grassroots meanings and systems? Led by AWC, María Berrios, and Michael Hart, the workshop proposes ways to do and undo research in a manner which constructs dialogue with people informally working on the streets. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **Group 1** Question: As an anthropologist observing the precarious conditions of art workers and academics, how would you transform your findings into an immersive art installation that highlights the systemic injustices they face? Task: Design an interactive art installation – any scale imaginable – that not only tells the stories of academics' and art workers’ daily struggles but also critiques the economic and social systems contributing to their precarity and their alienation from localities. Consider how to provoke thought and inspire action among audiences. **Group 2** Question: If your research were a form of protest, how would you perform it to not only disrupt public complacency but to spark conversations about the exploitation of art workers and academics on a global scale? Task: Develop a concept for a multilingual protest performance that uses your research to challenge societal norms and expose the harsh realities faced by art workers and academics. Outline the roles, settings, and audience engagement tactics that will make the performance impactful, thought-provoking, and as accessible as possible. **Group 3** Question: How can the intersection of art and anthropology be used to critique and transform local perceptions of poverty and inequality, especially in the context of the current polycrisis? Task: Create a series of art interventions outside of museums and universities. Choose 2 institutions, at least, (there is no upward limit for possible targets) that leverage anthropological insights to address poverty and inequality. Focus on how these interventions can raise awareness, provoke critical thought, and mobilize community action against systemic injustices. **Group 4** Question: Imagine creating a documentary that combines anthropological and artistic methods of observation to expose the lived experiences of those facing precarity in the arts. What stories would you prioritize – involving local or international networks? – and how would you ensure their ethical representation? Task: Plan an experimental documentary. Highlight the voices and stories of precarious art workers and academics, emphasizing their resilience and resistance to their disassociation from social realities. Develop a strategy for ethical storytelling that respects the dignity of participants and challenges viewers to confront uncomfortable truths. Try to focus the frame of the documentary on specific neighborhoods. **Group 5** Question: If you were to organize a pop-up event that radically blends anthropology and art, how would you ensure it reconnects the voices of art workers and academics to neighborhoods and drives collective action into localities as well as international networks? What speaks for the temporality of this event? What speaks against it? Task: Design a pop-up event that serves as a platform for art workers to share their experiences and collaborate with anthropologists. Outline activities and discussions that foster solidarity, critique systemic issues, and propose actionable solutions. **Group 6** Question: Envision a platform (digital or other) that not only showcases the outcomes of street-based anthropological and artistic research but also functions as a tool for activism. What innovative features would you include to engage and mobilize participants? Task: Conceptualize a platform (digital or other) that combines your project’s findings with diverse elements designed to educate, engage, and mobilize viewers around issues of precarity and the polycrisis. Think about multimedia integration, interactive discussions, and calls to action. // --- ### Image: MIPL/AWC *As a sociologist, editor, and curator, María Berríos’ work focuses on contemporary art and culture in Latin America, with a special interest in collective cultural experiments and Third World movements during the 1960s and 1970s. She is the cofounder of the editorial collective vaticano chico and has been invited as a guest lecturer to many academic, cultural, and independently-managed institutions in Europe and Latin America. Her most notable curatorships include Desvíos de la Deriva at the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía (2010) with Lisette Lagnado; El cuerpo del arquitecto no es el de un solo hombre at MAVI (2017) with Amalia Cross; the 11th Berlin Biennale (2020-21) alongside Renata Cervetto, Agustín Pérez Rubio, and Lisette Lagnado; and En la selva hay mucho por hacer, Museo de la Solidaridad Salvador Allende (2022-2023). Berríos currently serves as director of Curatorial Programmes and Research at MACBA.* *María Inés Plaza Lazo is the founder, editor, and publisher of Arts of the Working Class (AWC). She develops curatorial and communication strategies for other individuals and institutions. She grew up in Guayaquil, Ecuador, and lives and works in the streets of Berlin and the world. Together with Paul Sochacki, she founded AWC, a street journal addressing poverty and wealth, and art and society, which they edit and publish with Alina Kolar. AWC contains contributions by artists and thinkers from different fields and in different languages. It speaks to and with the working class, meaning everyone, and it reports on everything that belongs to everyone. Anyone who sells this street journal earns money directly. Vendors keep 100% of the sales.* *Michael Hart is an American photographer and producer living in Barcelona, Spain. He was born in New Orleans, Louisiana in 1981 and grew up in a suburb of Fort Worth, Texas. Hart’s photography has been published in Artforum; The Boston Globe; Contact Quarterly; El Pais; The Guardian; Haaretz; The Juilliard Journal; Les Inrockuptibles; The Movement Research Performance Journal; The New York Times Style Magazine; PAJ: A Journal of Performance and Art; Time Out NYC, The Village Voice; Volt Magazine; and The Wall Street Journal. Since 2008 he’s been touring internationally, working as the assistant to the American Choreographer Trajal Harrell, producing performances and performance exhibitions at The Barbican Centre; CCS Bard Galleries; Centre National De La Danse; The Hammer Museum; MoMA; MoMA PS1; Montpellier Danse; MUDAM Luxembourg; Museu de Arte do Rio; New York Live Arts; Palais de Tokyo; Sala Hiroshima; and The Walker Arts Center. In Barcelona he produces performances and events at Espai Erre; Espacio Práctico; Sala Hiroshima; Monkey Town: Barcelona, and La Poderosa.* ### Deadlines, Conferences, and Other Disasters URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/deadlines-conferences-and-other-disasters/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:58.000Z My laptop, I swear, is staring back at me. It’s challenging my gaze - which is edging on the stink-eye that I’m famous for - to a duel. The question is who will blink first. Will my page disappear as the screen dims, reminding me of the time that has lapsed since my fingers last stroked the keyboard? Or will I tame the points I’m gathering, and the constellations I’m drawing between them, finally be able to herd these bits and pieces into a clear beginning and ending? In two days I’ll fly to Barcelona, and, in three, the European Association of Social Anthropologists will kick off its eighteenth biennial conference: [*Doing and Undoing with Anthropology*](https://easaonline.org/conferences/easa2024/theme?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*.* The theme is loose - a riff on “how do we live together?” It takes an inventory of the multiple emergencies and threats that define contemporary life - from climate change and supply shortages to mass migration and political polarization. Emergencies that force individuals and communities to think on their toes about what can be “done” alongside what needs to be “un/done”. But also about how academic disciplines - Anthropology in the case of this conference - produce and reproduce themselves. The last year of my undergraduate degree I took a seminar with Charmaine Nelson - the first tenured Black professor of Art History in Canada. “Every project you ever work on,” she told us, “does two things at once.” The first, we learned, is that it advances your research, whatever subject your essay spotlights and studies. The second is that it shapes your field. It confirms, or challenges, the baggage your academic discipline carries and that with which it continues. Is a clue obvious? You already know that my paper is not yet drafted. And now you know that I’m not an anthropologist. Art History led me to Cultural History, and now I research eating and ecology, restaurants and representation, how human appetites shape worlds, and the futures they story. The “with” in the conference theme captured my attention. It softens its aim, creating a safe space for anthropology. Although it critically reflects on the discipline’s state, which, as an outsider, it is not my place to comment on, it also enrolls Anthropology as an accomplice at large. “Doing and undoing *with* Anthropology”, rather than “Doing and undoing Anthropology”. The panel I’m participating in moves this question from land to water. A colleague and collaborator, Karin Ahlberg, together with Jasmine Iozzelli and Emma Cyr, has convened the two part lecture “Claiming the Sea, Seaing Anthropology: more-than-human mobilities, fluid laws, and ocean grabs”. It asks: what does “a view from the sea with a focus on the major movements unfolding in our oceans” - human and non-human mobility, sea grabs, and their concomitant regulations - teach “about sedentary, capitalist and colonial legacies and logics in anthropology and beyond”. This question rocks back and forth in my mind as I write, as I draft, as I delete, as I rewrite. I know that I’ve made it sound like I’m afraid of a blank page. For the record, I’m not. I’m a wordy writer, so wordy that I edge on flamboyant (never precious though, at least I hope not), and I consider nothing sexier than someone with a vocabulary as lush as velvet (mine is rather thin, so I need to dress it up with punctuation and rhythm, with repetition and other similar tricks). This is to say that with me editors often complain about excess, rather than drought. They shear my texts, asking me to add words only for clarity, never for bulk. But here I am still collecting notes for the paper I’ll present in Barcelona, a paper titled “Tuna Troubles”. I’ve rehearsed the content twice before. And, yet, each context has been different; so I’m back to measuring the dimensions of this new frame, draping and stretching my notes. This is nothing new. Instead, the script that I’m following is rather standard: you promise to present a paper, but then you don’t write it. You put it off, attending to bigger fires, deadlier deadlines. But you think about it. Constantly. The paper, or the promise of it, becomes the kind of beep, or hum, or buzz. Faint enough to tolerate, but loud enough to notice, like a dishwasher that whirring, or a taxi that treads up and down the street searching for an address. A proposal is essentially a promise. “Do you have a deadline?” I once asked a roommate when I walked in on her polishing her sneakers with a toothbrush. “Tomorrow,” she replied. Perhaps this is why academics joke about the club of scholars, composed largely professors with the immunity of tenure, who draft papers while on planes. Of senior academics who try to stuff 60 slides into 15 minutes and then fake surprise when they run out of time. This is the promise that I made when I submitted my conference application: “Tuna Troubles” will present a view from a ranch, which is another way to say a cage, located off the coast of Malta. This “sea view” will take a deep breath to bob above and then snorkel below the water’s surface, to swim clockwise in the company of Atlantic bluefin, to hitch a ride on what feels like an underwater merry-go-round that rewrites the song “Hotel California” for the Anthropocene. The lyrics jumble. Instead of “pink champagne on ice”, there is tuna frozen in such a flash that it still counts as fresh, but the same doubts remain: what is heaven versus hell? Steely knives. The master’s chambers. Checking out without being able to leave. Doubts become questions about the multiple meanings of more-than-human mobilities and how profit-driven practices, for example, tuna ranching, try to tether bluefin to one place while conservation-conscious regulations, that follow the meridian 45° west, attempt to adhere to a line that fish and currents and water alike all ignore. In dialogue with how the logics of capture that fuel contemporary ocean grabs adapt colonialism’s script to water, “Tuna Troubles” weaves together an intimate study of what the poet Pablo Neruda calls a “torpedo from the ocean depths, a missile that swam” with scholarship about how regulations make, and unmake, do and undo fish and their relationships with water. The distance between a proposal and a paper is long. Conferences breed connections, yes, but they also facilitate the transactions that both obey and seek to dismantle the hierarchies that rule academia. To do and undo and then do again... In the playwright and television writer Julia Cho’s [love letter](https://www.nytimes.com/2024/05/21/magazine/conferences-creativity.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) to conferences she calls them her “secret to creative rejuvenation”. She likes to fall under a conference’s spell and how it gifts her space to reimagine routine, an escape from the “overwhelm and numbness” of everyday commitments. “A conference has a singular focus,” she writes, which grants her the permission to do the same. Time is measured differently for the two or three days she spends at a conference: “\[i\]t’s structured but expansive.” Conferences, Cho argues, build a “space outside of time.” Whether or not Cho leaves her writing to the last minute, she does not disclose. But she does recall one conference where Anne Lamott said of writers and writing, “\[s\]top not doing it.” // The image that illustrates this piece is from the project: *Unknown City Beneath the Mist. New images from Barcelona’s peripheries.* The exhibition on show at MACBA, Barcelona is a critical and civil inquiry that sees photography as a counter-discourse to advertising. The project includes thirteen commissioned works, some of a transversal character spanning different neighborhoods, and others constructed as field studies of a more specific nature. Their focus is also varied, with some purely topographic, while others address social issues. For more information visit this [link](https://www.macba.cat/en/press/unknown-city-beneath-the-mist-new-images-from-barcelonas-peripheries/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Carmen Secanella, Paseo por la marina, 2023. *L. Sasha Gora is a cultural historian and writer with a focus on food studies and contemporary art. She received a PhD from Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich and the Rachel Carson Center on the subject of Indigenous restaurants in Canada. Before joining the Center for the Humanities and Social Change at Ca’ Foscari, she was a Lecturer at LMU’s Amerika-Institut and spent spring 2019 as a visiting scholar at the University of California Berkeley.* ### Grafting, sowing, revolting URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/grafting-sowing-revolting/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:56.000Z According to Marx, primitive accumulation, beginning with enclosures and the consequent expropriation of land from peasants, was a key phase in the emergence of capitalism. The transformation of the labor relationship between peasants and land helps us understand the origins of the contemporary abstraction of labor, and, similarly, offers a territory of analysis from which new forms of anti-capitalist economic models can emerge, and thrive. Driven by new class consciousness, since the beginning of 2024, farmers have engaged in widespread strikes and protests across European countries, leading to significant changes in the EU's green policies in advance of the European Parliament elections of this year. Despite comprising only 4.2% of the EU's workforce, and contributing only 1.4% to its GDP, farmers have a substantial impact on EU policy, particularly in rural areas where significant discontent with distant policymakers and deep-rooted concerns about cultural identity are proliferating. These protests highlight the political power of farmers and underscores the fact that the consequences of politics, often considered largely an urban affair, profoundly affect rural communities and their economies. Against this political and discursive backdrop, Katalin Erdődi and Aleksei Borisionok - the curators of the Biennale Matter of Art, organized for three editions now by tranzit.cz - are interested in looking into the shifts happening in the countryside as a driving force of social change. The Biennale, running until September in Prague, grafts the rural and the urban as sociogenic spheres, articulating the role of peasant communities in defining the identities of post-Soviet countries. To emphasize these connections, the majority of the Biennale’s exhibition and public program takes place in the National Gallery Prague, the former Trade Fair Palace, a gem of Czech functionalist architecture that served the Prague Sample Trade Fairs company, and, after the Second World War, housed various foreign trade companies. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/45-Zahajeni-Opening-Biennale-Matter-of-Art-2024-HQ3A0113-c-JonaIsI-VeresIpej.jpg) fig. 1 #### The Sonic and Symbolic: Voices of the Land My first encounter with the Biennale was a sonic one, composed of the joint melody created by Hungarian Peasants in Atmosphere and the Czech Lada Choir. The chants, performed by singers dressed in traditional clothes moving through the venue, were enmeshed with the sounds of modular synthesizers and other instruments. The sounds evoked hard work and solidarity in the fields and featured ballads about the lives of women, emphasizing the role of orality in the transmission of rural knowledge and in the empowerment of women. According to Silvia Federici, the body of the woman, as the machine of social reproduction and unpaid care labor, is another locus of primitive accumulation. Women's roles are ubiquitous in the exhibition, calling attention to feminist social epistemologies, wherein attunement to, and care for, the land are major aspects of community building and resistance to the stranglehold of patriarchal extractivism. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/16-Vystava-Exhibition-Biennale-Matter-of-Art-2024-HQ3A9281-c-Jonas-Verespej.jpg) fig. 2 An example of this women-land alliance is found in Pinar Ogrenci’s installation *Resisting Forest* (2019), which narrates the Black Sea women's struggle to defend their land from the construction of a thermal plant in Gerze, Türkiye, and a hydroelectric power plant in Aslandere. Armed with wooden sticks, these women stood against the police and the occupants of the plant. They used their sticks as sound instruments to amplify their demands. The sound of the sticks resonates in the high-ceiling hall of the National Gallery, and accompanies a video work where women share their experiences. In the video, one of the participants says, “The \[investors\] are welcome to sit and eat with us, but not to steal our streams.” Their stories touch upon abuses of power and the process of criminalization, with one woman recounting how her son was targeted and jailed by police as an indirect way to stop their protest. #### Historical and Contemporary Struggles The history of workers’ struggles is part of the history of human emancipation from domination and subjugation. We see that decolonization and land sovereignty movements carried out by indigenous communities worldwide highlight the tight relationship between cultural belonging and physical territory, and how extractivism operates in severing this bond. This is evident today in the Palestinian people's struggle to defend themselves against Israeli settler colonialism, for example, where land and self-determination are central issues in the conflict. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ3A0509.jpg) fig. 3 The acknowledgment of the condition of oppression by the oppressed group is a central theme in *These Conditions* (2022-2023), a multichannel installation by Adelita Husni Bey. Part of the artist's broader engagement with Augusto Boal’s concept of the Theater of the Oppressed, the work on the show follows a workshop held by Husni Bey with essential workers during the COVID-19 pandemic. During the workshop, they processed and exorcized their fears engendered by a system that does not provide, in return for their necessary labor, basic social security. Along with the video documentation, graphic red and black images narrate historical pandemic-induced workers’ uprisings, such as the Peasant’s Revolt in England in 1381, and the Gravedigger Rebellion during the Italian plague in 1631, to chronicle the relationship between pandemics and social change and workers’ roles. As pandemics affect human health, they are also enmeshed in ideological projects and social redistribution, which do not leave the subject of land untouched. As we saw during the COVID-19 pandemic, many workers from Eastern European countries were employed, due to the lack of domestic workforce in countries including Germany, often with bare minimum protections to work in the fields for vital food production. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ3A9425.jpg) fig. 4 The quality of farmers' and peasants' lives and work is often determined by the economic fluctuations and crises produced by global markets. As mentioned by Erdődi in the exhaustive Biennale reader *Sowing Unrest*, the time is ripe for establishing a more solid “rural internationalism” among countries, especially post-Soviet ones. This urgency is expressed in Tomáš Uhnák's multimedia installation *The Spectre of Peasantry* (2024), in which the artist reflects on the lack of identification of Eastern European, and specifically Czech, farmers with international peasants' movements such as La Via Campesina. The movement initiated the United Nations Declarations on the Rights of Peasants and Other People Working in Rural Areas (UNDROP) to fight for peasant and land rights. Sheltered by a cozy wooden structure, the installation explores, through a series of interviews with Czech farmers, with Asia Dér, Tamás Kaszás, and Asunción Molinos Gordo and in collaboration with Adam Čajka, Ramona Duminicioiu (Eco Ruralis, Romania), and Anna Kárníková, what it means to be a “peasant” in the minds of Eastern European farmers, linking their situated needs with broader demands. The distortion of peasantry and rural life into an unrealistic imagination is problematized by Asunción Molinos Gordo in her work *El Fellah Ando Fes* (The Peasant Has a Hoe). She reveals how the work of peasant farmers in Jordan has changed by updating children's calligraphy exercises which recounted the life of farmers. The school exercises depicted old anecdotes and did not consider the new hardships of working the land. The artist displays these exercises and by twisting words and syntax positions them in realistic landscapes, *where the land is dry, and farmers do not want their children to work it when they are grown.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ3A8844.jpg) fig. 5 #### Revindicating Rural Identity The red thread running throughout the exhibition is a question of revindicating a rural identity, obstructed by the mirages of capitalism, and the romanticization of the nature-culture dichotomy. This concern reflects a prolonged struggle for Eastern European countries, which are haunted by the unprocessed memory of the Soviet period, and which are still searching for ways to disentangle their future from capitalist horizons. The Biennale encourages them to begin with the land and its cultures as ways to elaborate on the traumas of the past while remaining wary of the false promises of grandiosity offered by Western capitalism. A poetic example of this process is offered by Alicja Rogalska’s installation *Flowers of Resilience* (2024). The work is a two-part collaboration between the artist, Platforma Vykvet, an initiative that grows flowers in Czechia, and florists of different generations. They recount how their work was done during the ostensibly Socialist era, and how the Velvet Revolution had changed the perspective on flower design from sober compositions to more dramatic visuals. Flowers, for Rogalska, become powerful channels through which to provide an account of history, as well as to keep tradition alive and reflective of social changes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ3A0408.jpg) fig. 6 While Rogalska’s main admiration is for carnations, Kateřina Konvalinová and Judita Levitnerová care for sheep and work in wool production. During State Socialist times, new technologies, such as the “Art Protis” technique, where fleece wool is stitched by a machine onto a fabric backing after being layered by artisans’ hands, were developed to create cheap tapestries at an industrial scale. The artists are interested in the changes in the textile and sheep wool industry that took place after the socialist era. Since 1989, wool lost much of its market value, and the Art Protis technology has become outdated. In a tender installation, *Rusty Sheep Dreaming* (2024), the artists embrace but also question the idea of “uselessness’, offering a soft shelter for visitors to rest in where they can listen to stories emerging from pastures, and processes of herding, and shearing. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ3A9172.jpg) fig. 7 The layers of meaning created by the artworks on show are organized using a set of symbols, connecting them to a specific glossary that evokes rural/labor relationships: a raised fist, water irrigation machinery, rakes, roots, flowers, hammers, haystacks, protest signs, and minerals. This choice seems to expand on the traditional Communist hammer-and-sickle iconography, depicting a variety of tools and environments related to labor, and creating a continuum between the farm and industry workers’ struggles instead of a sharp dichotomy. Whether the first tools of labor were those deployed to work the land, these tools have been slowly subtracted by the invisible hand of the market. This process of alienation is beautifully illustrated by Giorgi Gago Gagoshidze in *The Invisible Hand of My Father* (2018). The film portrays the artist’s father, who, following the Soviet Union's collapse, sought work in Western Europe amid Georgia's ensuing economic crisis. An accident, caused by the precarity of Western work conditions, cost him a hand. The video uses the lost hand as an example to speak about an unequal economic system that exploited the post-Soviet economic crisis to access cheap labor. By bringing about practices situated and traditional to Eastern European countries, the Biennale encourages, at the crossroads of the socialist past and capitalist present, a soft reflection on what it would mean to ground national identity into land knowledge. Additionally, it underlines the importance of growing these national-specific cultural identities along with workers’ consciousness and necessities. From this situated consciousness, every worker can shift the paradigm of what it means to “work” and see themselves as actively producing society rather than mere servants of profit, along with societies of more than human agents. \\\\ *The exhibition and the accompanying program will run until 29 September.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Exhibition view, Biennale Matter of Art 2024 opening night, 13\. 6\. 2024, National Gallery Prague – Trade Fair Palace © Jonáš Verešpej. fig. 1: Performance of the Lada Choir, Biennale Matter of Art 2024 opening night, 13\. 6\. 2024, National Gallery Prague – Trade Fair Palace © Jonáš Verešpej. fig. 2: Pınar Öğrenci – Resisting Forest, 2019, exhibition view, Biennale Matter of Art 2024, National Gallery Prague – Trade Fair Palace © Jonáš Verešpej. fig. 3: Adelita Husni Bey – These Conditions, 2022–2023, Biennale Matter of Art 2024, exhibition view, National Gallery Prague – Trade Fair Palace © Jonáš Verešpej. fig. 4: Tomáš Uhnák with Asia Dér, Tamás Kaszás, Asunción Molinos Gordo, The Spectre of Peasantry, 2024, Biennale Matter of Art 2024, exhibition view, National Gallery Prague – Trade Fair Palace © Jonáš Verešpej. fig. 5: Asunción Molinos Gordo, El Fellah Ando Fes (The Peasant Has a Hoe), 2013, exhibition view, Biennale Matter of Art 2024, National Gallery Prague – Trade Fair Palace © Jonáš Verešpej. fig. 6: Alicja Rogalska – Flowers of Resilience, 2024, Biennale Matter of Art 2024, exhibition view, National Gallery Prague – Trade Fair Palace © Jonáš Verešpej. fig. 7: Giorgi Gago Gagoshidze, The Invisible Hand of My Father, 2018, Biennale Matter of Art 2024, exhibition view, National Gallery Prague – Trade Fair Palace © Jonáš Verešpej. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Ahlam Shibli URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/ahlam-shibli/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:52.000Z There is timeliness in Ahlam Shibli’s body of work, and it is not just because of Gaza. Every photograph is about Palestine, but not merely as visual shorthand for complex narratives about the ongoing genocide, but rather as a carefully woven thread uniting the struggles of migrant workers, refugees, orphans, discarded veterans, and those living in confinement in the world’s largest open-air prison. Shibli’s photographs are always exhibited next to a text which the artist redacts herself, meticulously referring to those depicted, and the social concerns she brings up, by showing what she sees. Shibli doesn’t expect people to read all that is written beside her images. She studies the context of her own images, and does everything possible to make what she sees and what is depicted, accessible for everyone. The full texts and works are accessible on her website, if one is interested in going deeper. This meticulous interplay of image and text in the exhibition at Luma Westbau, curated by Adam Szymczyk and Vassilis Oikonomopoulos, offers a balance between the brevity and the depth of her shots and words, reflecting Shibli’s intention to engage audiences without overwhelming them with excessive information. This is similar to how she interacts within a room. She is always attentive to the people around her, no matter who they are. Her concise captions allow for expansive narratives. Her texts adapt to the levels of immersion a space can afford, whether she uses language or imagery. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ahlam-Shibli_Belonging_6.jpg) fig. 1 At Luma Westbau, I found an empty room from a Polish children’s house, *Dom Dziecka* – the literal translation she uses for an “orphanage”, as it’s a less stigmatizing collection of words. The image swallowed me into it, notably the fabric hanging from the wall in the back, next to a single bed, depicting horses, galloping free. Both as a space and surface, the room connects to a horse race in Jericho she photographed in the nineties. The images zoom in on figures in the distance. Shibli must be standing on one of the sand hills, and then have gone down for other shots of the men racing through the desert. It seems so compellingly quotidian, but the photos are not merely a display of events she witnesses; they are a testament to the power of visual storytelling, beyond the ambit of photojournalism. They confront and challenge our perceptions of history, memory, and collective identity through their compositions. It encourages composition where it doesn’t feel welcomed, such as images of war remembrance, of solitude in confinement, of care labor. Shibli produces series that transcend mere documentation; they become a critical survey of postwar trauma, migration, identity, and historical injustice. By juxtaposing disparate yet interconnected subjects — for example, displacement and belonging, or race and colonialism — Shibli confronts uncomfortable truths, acting as a mirror to a hidden reality, where layers of meaning and history are embedded within each frame. Her collaboration with Szymczyk stretches back over twenty years, underscoring a profound artistic trust. That shared energy vibrates throughout the exhibition rooms, where the autonomy in formal and curatorial decisions have been based on mutual reflection. That same energy enhances a visual power when witnessing the series in a room. Szymczyk knows he cannot change much of what Shibli is determined to do. “There are artists for \[whom\] you, as a curator, can only be a good companion,” he told me in Zürich during the opening days of the show. Shibli’s photographs are not only series in that sense, they are also sequences. Shibli would not change the sequence for each exhibition, because, for her, the works comprise a single, thoroughly conceptualized presentation. “I did ask for his opinion,” she said when I visited her in Berlin, where she and Ulrich Look, her life companion, live. “For instance, I had a plan for how to install the texts, but wouldn't add them before talking with him about it. I put the work and the words together on the floor and examine\[d\] them with Adam. He would then come and say, ‘this here is too dense.’ Or, he would suggest solutions for the walls I would then take.” The sequences are in different rows, as if the scenes would appear simultaneously. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ahlam-Shibli_Belonging_60.jpg) fig. 2 This took me by surprise. I looked at the walls at first assuming a rather documentary approach to history and local politics, and I bored myself with that thought. A second glance is always worthwhile, however, especially with challenging arrangements such as Shibli’s. They foster a continuum where each photograph contributes to a larger, cinematic exploration of the lives of others, without circumscribing them, prompting viewers to reconsider their understandings of history, politics, and human resilience in relation to the marginalized or misunderstood. “I don't like empty walls,” Shibli said, and I found myself sharing her impatience with the lone image. “Cartier-Bresson saw th\[e\] moment that cannot repeat itself. I’m more about the representation of the issue and less about the moment that doesn't repeat itself.” As one navigates among Shibli’s images, particularly those depicting everyday life under occupation in al-Khalil/Hebron, and the forms of cultural resilience amidst adversity, there is a profound sense of witnessing history in the making. But this is not the same as the videos shared on Instagram by Issa Amro, a pacifist and activist based in this city where all the calamities of the *apartheid* are concentrated. He shows Israeli settlers throwing stones at visiting passers-by in the Old Market, military groups terrorizing Palestinians at the checkpoints subjected to unnecessary waiting times, and gazes (and weapons) that could kill. Shibli’s photographs do not capture these moments frozen in time, but the enduring spirit of communities navigating the complex socio-political landscapes to which she has the possibility to leave from and return. By focusing on the hidden and the discreet, as the art historian John Berger once wrote about Shibli's photography, she offers a testament to the enduring spirit and complexities of her subjects. Drawing on the metaphor of nomadism, Berger posits that Shibli's approach to photography is about foreseeing, passing through, and looking back. It's a perspective that values movement and observation over arriving at fixed conclusions or static representations. She is an example of quiet resistance and profound insight, positioning herself within the broader context of Palestinian history and their struggle for visibility and recognition. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/For-Sulta-Doughan_Ahlam-Shibli_Occupation_23.jpg) fig. 3 In “Occupation”, Shibli explores the contrasting ways in which hiding can be seen, both as a subversive act by those in power, and a survival strategy for the powerless. This background sets the stage for understanding the dichotomy between civilian rule for Israelis and military rule for Palestinians. The photographs capture the impossible daily lives of families; the evidence, traces, places, and people who have remained obscure or forgotten. In his text on Shibli, Berger aligns with these experiences, which are unfamiliar to him, but which he can understand, as someone who observes the value of what is not immediately apparent. Shibli's avoidance of generalizations is visible in the series “Belonging” she recently produced in Arles. By focusing on specific individuals and their stories, she challenges oversimplified narratives that often serve the interests of the powerful. Her photography, thus, becomes a nuanced counterpoint to mainstream representations that often ignore (or consciously distort) the realities of Palestinian life. Shibli's belief in the departed being "elsewhere" rather than lost to history reflects a perspective of continuity and resilience. Her photographs of residences, which appear hauntingly empty, convey a sense of absence that is not merely about physical space, but also about memory and presence. Shibli's photographs contrast with mainstream media images, noting that her work does not cater to passive consumption. Unlike images that quickly convey events or exceptional moments, Shibli's photos demand deeper contemplation and engagement. They resist instant assimilation, requiring viewers to confront their viewing habits and engage in deliberative interpretation. Abu Hashhash observes a neutrality and aesthetic lightness in Shibli's photographs, as she depicts seemingly mundane moments devoid of obvious historical or visually sensational content. What she pursues, over and over again, is making us reconsider what constitutes significance in photographic representation. \\\\ *The exhibition runs until September 8, 2024* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Ahlam Shibli, untitled (*Occupation no. 21*), al-Khalil/Hebron, Palestine, 2016–17, chromogenic print, 26,7 x 40 cm. Old house of the Sufyan al-Ja'abari family, al-Tullab Street, al-Khalil, January 25, 2017. Sufyan breeds pigeons and goats in his family's old house. The settlement Giv'at Ha'avot adjoins the family house and includes the Israeli Ja'abrah prison and police station. Both are used against Palestinians as well as Israeli activists who oppose the occupation. Courtesy of the artist, © Ahlam Shibli. fig. 1: Ahlam Shibli, untitled (*Belonging no. 6*), Arles, France, 2022–23, chromogenic print, 26,7 x 40 cm. Courtesy of the artist, © Ahlam Shabbily. fig. 2: Ahlam Shibli, untitled (*Belonging no. 60*), Arles, France, 2022–23, chromogenic print, 26,7 x 40 cm. Courtesy of the artist, © Ahlam Shibli. fig. 3: Ahlam Shibli, untitled (*Occupation no. 23*), al-Khalil/Hebron, Palestine, 2016–17, chromogenic print, 40 x 60 cm. The house of the Hashem and Nisreen Azzeh family, Othman ben Affan Street, Tel Rumeida, al-Khalil, December 4, 2016. The three children of Hashem Azzeh—Younis, Khaled, and Hanan—together with their cousin Ahmad. They are watching a technician install a television set, donated by a Danish solidarity delegation. Hashem Azzeh was killed by the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) on October 21, 2015, poisoned by tear gas that was used in a clash between young Palestinians and Israeli forces. Courtesy of the artist, © Ahlam Shibli. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Sarah Lucas URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/sarah-lucas/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:53.000Z Fotografiada desde arriba, una (joven) Sarah Lucas, sentada desnuda en un inodoro, mira por la ventana con una expresión seria y algo enigmática. En su regazo, la cisterna de ese mismo inodoro, negra y brillante, cubre su vulva y pecho. En otra imagen, adopta una pose típica de un hombre cis con los brazos extendidos sobre sus rodillas, ocupando el espacio, con las piernas abiertas hasta los bordes de la imagen, guiando la mirada del espectador hacia su área genital en el centro de la foto, donde yace una calavera. En otro retrato, sostiene dos grandes pelotas frente a su pecho plano con ambas manos. En estos trabajos fotográficos, la artista reproduce el gesto peripatético del genio; el artista masculino, que se convierte en una escultura temporal en interacción con objetos cuasi auráticos, que ha dispuesto junto a su cuerpo leído como femenino. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ8-SL4625F_Human_Toilet_II_high_quality.jpeg) fig. 1 ¿Qué nos dice el cuerpo envejecido de Sarah Lucas y su cuerpo joven que hoy sigue siendo considerado icónico? "Sense of Human" (Sentido Humano), la exposición de Sarah Lucas en la Kunsthalle Mannheim, ofrece una visión general de una figura importante del arte contemporáneo. Sarah Lucas se hizo conocida en los noventa como una Young British Artist; como una persona que ofrece una visión general de las luchas de clases de los británicos, pero que más bien se apodera de ellas. Las luchas de clase nunca son mostradas, excepto en sus autorretratos como encarnación de la resistencia y a su vez, como espejo de un mercado del arte aurático y especulativo que en los años 80 fue radicalmente antifeminista. La implícita lucha de género y clase en la obra de Sarah Lucas cuestiona desde hace tres décadas las relaciones tradicionales de poder en la sociedad, aunque su trabajo no se ha pronunciado abiertamente a favor de una interseccionalidad de estas luchas. Sus autorretratos utilizan el humor y objetos cotidianos para perturbar la mirada masculina y la objetivación de las mujeres. Este enfoque está alineado con su contemporánea Judith Butler y su concepto de la performatividad de género, que postula que las identidades de género se construyen a través de actuaciones sociales repetidas y no por características físicas. La performatividad de género es un tema central en la obra revolucionaria de Butler "Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity" (1990). ¿Representa el cuerpo joven de Sarah Lucas una “masculinidad femenina”? ¿Cómo se puede interpretar la obra y la persona de Sarah Lucas hoy? A finales de los noventa, el académico Jack Halberstam acuñó el término "Female Masculinity" y proporcionó un ejemplo del concepto de performatividad de Butler. Halberstam argumenta que el género no está vinculado al cuerpo biológico, sino que funciona como una prótesis que conlleva privilegios sociales; es decir, no solo el cuerpo masculino es privilegiado, sino también la performatividad masculina. Según Halberstam, las categorías de identidad "son un resultado directo de la tiranía del lenguaje—una estructura que fija artificialmente a las personas y cosas en su lugar." Sarah Lucas también separa las masculinidades del cuerpo femenino, haciéndolas visibles como construcciones. Las complejas intersecciones de clase, raza y género que se mantienen ausentes en la obra de Sarah Lucas son examinadas al mismo tiempo por Bell Hooks en su libro "Where We Stand: Class Matters". Diez años después de que Butler publicara “Gender Trouble”, Hooks argumenta que la clase a menudo se pasa por alto en los discursos feministas y antirracistas, y enfatiza cómo la desigualdad económica influye en las experiencias y oportunidades de las mujeres, especialmente de las mujeres de minorías. Hooks aboga por una visión interseccional de la opresión que tenga en cuenta las interconexiones de raza, clase y género. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HQ5-SL2720D_Five_Lists_1991_detail_5_high_quality.jpeg) fig. 2 Hooks critica los movimientos feministas que descuidan las preocupaciones económicas de las mujeres trabajadoras y exige una forma de feminismo más inclusiva y abarcadora. Tanto Lucas como Hooks insistieron en la importancia de la justicia social y la necesidad de considerar las voces y experiencias de los grupos oprimidos. Muestran cómo el arte y la teoría pueden usarse para desmitificar casos específicos de relaciones de poder. Pero, ¿qué dicen exactamente las obras de Lucas cuando las miramos 25 años después de su creación en esta exposición en la Kunsthalle Mannheim? Claramente: Algunas cosas y discursos envejecen rápidamente. Y eso es algo positivo. La crítica feminista a los roles de género convencionales se ha diversificado desde entonces; el feminismo queer, que tiene sus raíces teóricas populares en el Norte global con Judith Butler, es ahora la dominante. Incluso los trabajos más recientes de Lucas parecen tener 30 años encima. Esto se debe a que las cosas que ella criticó en su momento, cuando aún eran hegemónicas, han envejecido mal y han sido en muchos casos desplazadas. Así, la exagerada reproducción de aquellos gestos puede aparecer, para algunos, especialmente a lxs más jóvenes, como algo irrelevante o como una invocación de un espíritu no deseado del pasado. Aun así, creo que es algo que vale la pena ver en el museo. Lucas expuso estructuras elitistas al destacar la discrepancia entre las declaraciones artísticas hegemónicas y la vida cotidiana, que ocurre más allá de la teoría. Hooks no otorgó este valor aurático a la lucha interseccional; ella va más allá al observar las formas históricas de opresión de las mujeres. El feminismo es para todxs, dice Bell hooks. Esta afirmación visionaria podría acabar con cualquier forma de competencia y opresión, si se vive en la práctica. \\\\ *La exposición estará abierta hasta el 20 de octubre en la Kunsthalle Mannheim.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Sarah Lucas, Beautiness, 1999\. Credit line: © Sarah Lucas. Courtesy Sadie Coles HQ, London. Photo: Angus Fairhurst. fig. 1: Sarah Lucas, Human Toilet II, 1996\. Credit line: © Sarah Lucas. Courtesy Sadie Coles HQ, London. Photo: Angus Fairhurst. fig. 2: Sarah Lucas, Five Lists, 1991\. Credit line: © Sarah Lucas. Courtesy Sadie Coles HQ, London. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Für mehr Dialoge, die harte Kanten schmelzen lassen URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/fuer-mehr-dialoge-die-harte-kanten-schmelzen-lassen/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:55.000Z „Ich bin im Flüchtlingsheim aufgewachsen, ich hab wirklich viel Scheiße erlebt, aber das alles, all diese traumatischen Erfahrungen, sind nichts gegen das Schlimmste, was mir in diesem Zusammenhang je passiert ist: Deutsche mit einer Meinung zum Nahostkonflikt“, so der deutsch-palästinensische Poetry-Slammer Abdul Kader Chahin am Schauspielhaus Düsseldorf im vergangenen März. „Ich würde jederzeit einen Monat Flüchtlingsunterkunft gegen zehn Minuten Smalltalk mit einem Alman über dieses Thema tauschen. Als hätte man in Deutschland 70 Jahre lang sehnsüchtig darauf gewartet: Endlich sind die anderen die Antisemiten! Die Ausländer! Die Palästinenser!“ Chahin hat recht: Deutschland muss sich von der Illusion verabschieden, dass es möglich sei, sich von der Verantwortung für die eigene, von Migration geprägte Realität zu lösen. Das ist vielleicht die einzige Schnittmenge, an der sich alle zwischen Rechtsextremisten und progressiven Linken treffen können. Denn diese *fatigue* angesichts des Holocausts als Sonderereignis erniedrigt alle anderen Kämpfe unterdrückter Völker, die Millionen unsichtbaren Toten weltweit, und unterstützt zugleich die gewaltsamen Remigrationsfantasien der Identitären, die glauben, alles wäre besser ohne Migrant\*innen. Die Illusion, ein Versprechen reiche aus, um zu verhindern, dass dieser Genozid sich wiederholen kann, hat auch Monster produziert. Sie tanzen auf Sylt mit Hitlergruß und nutzen den angeblichen Kampf gegen Judenfeindlichkeit als Alibi zum Ersticken von Solidaritätsbekundungen mit Palästina und für eine islamfeindliche Agenda. Das Buch “Trotzdem sprechen” wurde im Frühling dieses Jahres veröffentlicht, “an einem Knotenpunkt, der sich vielleicht am besten so darstellen lässt: In Israel und Palästina herrscht Krieg, Menschen befinden sich in Geiselhaft, der gesamte Gazastreifen erlebt eine humanitäre Katastrophe – und in Deutschland spricht man vor allem über Deutschland”. Mit diesen Worten leiten die Herausgeberinnen Lena Gorelik, Miryam Schellbach und Mirjam Zadoff eine Reihe an Essays ein, die zunächst unvollständig wirkten, aber bewusst so veröffentlicht wurden. Der Mut aller zwanzig Autor\*innen, in erbittert geführte Grabenkämpfe zu blicken, wird von Bescheidenheit und Offenheit begleitet. Hier werden Werkzeuge erprobt und zur Verfügung gestellt, um Meinungsverschiedenheiten auszuhalten und um mehr zu erreichen als Meinungen, mindestens eine antifaschistische Haltung. Ganz im Geiste der pluralen Perspektiven von “Trotzdem sprechen” möchte ich im Folgenden eine Besprechung des Buches mit persönlichen Anekdoten verknüpfen. Dabei versuche ich, Schritte zusammenzufassen, mit denen vielleicht Methodologien in den Blick kommen, die es erlauben, gesellschaftliche Bindungen zu bauen, statt sie zu zerstören. ## “Vor- und Nachmittagssorgen, Abendsorgen” Mirjam Zadoff beginnt ihren Vortrag mit der Bitte um Nachsicht: Sie sei betroffen und schockiert. Bereits die vergangenen Monate hätten eine Eskalation der Gewalt in Israel und Palästina mit sich gebracht, doch nun sei der 7\. Oktober in Stuttgart, und sie lese auf ihrem Smartphone von mehr als hundert Zivilist\*innen, die erschossen wurden; von Menschen in Geiselhaft; von Terroristen, die durch die Kibbuzim an der Grenze zum Gazastreifen ziehen und zerstören, was ihren Weg kreuzt – ausgerechnet in Zentren der israelischen Linken und der Friedensbewegung. Trotz Zadoffs persönlicher Sorgen und Ängste um Bekannte und Verwandte in Israel, die direkt von den aktuellen Ereignissen betroffen sind, beschäftigt sie sich in ihrem Text mit der zunehmenden Polarisierung und Radikalisierung in Deutschland. Die öffentliche Auseinandersetzung darüber fand bis Anfang des Jahres nur selten in Kunstinstitutionen statt. Eine Ausnahme bildet die Bundeskunsthalle in Bonn mit der Reihe “A mentsh is a mentsh – Kunst und Kultur nach dem 7\. Oktober” über den Umgang mit Antisemitismus, Rassismus und Postkolonialismus in Deutschland. Zur zweiten Folge im März reist der Holocaust-Historiker Omer Bartov für ein paar Stunden aus Boston an, um seinen Beitrag zur deutschen Diskussion zu leisten, die er als hermetisch beschreibt. Von Moderator Meron Mendel gefragt, was sein Vater wohl sagen würde, Kriegsheld und gefeierter Schriftsteller, antwortet Bartov: “Netanyahu is the worst thing that could have happened to Israel. (...) It is time for this conflict to be resolved and as an old soldier he would say you cannot resolve conflicts with war.” ## “Trauer und Misstrauen” Bartov berichtet von seinen Gesprächen mit vielen Menschen in Israel, die härter seien als die in Bonn oder Stuttgart: Empathie für die Palästinenser\*innen sei derzeit nicht vorhanden. Die Unfähigkeit und der Unwille vieler Israelis hätten sich seit dem 7\. Oktober noch verstärkt. "Ihre Herzen sind verschlossen", sagt Bartov. Das gilt auch für Teile der Kunstszene in Deutschland, denke ich, während ich ihm aufmerksam zuhöre. Im Buch fragt die Schriftstellerin Kathrin Röggla: “Ist es ein Canceln, wenn ich aus politischer Vorsicht ein Podium so gestalte, dass es kontrovers, aber nicht toxisch wird?” Viele, die (wie sie in der Akademie der Künste Berlin) Leitungspositionen in Kultur- und Kunstinstitutionen besetzen, verharrten dagegen in einer Art Schockstarre, was Gespräche unmöglich mache. Es gäbe jedoch auch Gründe für diese Situation, die nicht nur im aktuellen Konflikt in Gaza liegen, sondern schon länger bestünden. Es gäbe interne Gründe innerhalb der Kunstwelt, sowie technologische Gründe auf der Ebene der Medien und Plattformen. Was wir derzeit beobachten, sei ein lautes Schweigen. Dabei ist es hauptsächlich deshalb laut, weil alle durcheinander reden. Ein paar Seiten weiter hat Nazih Musharbash auch einen Vorschlag, wie sich die Gesprächskultur in Deutschland auf allen Ebenen verbessern ließe: zuhören statt nur darauf zu warten, dass jemand etwas sagt, das man als angreifbar oder cancel-bar darstellen kann. ## “Stammeln in Getöse” Das Ringen um die richtigen Worte steht auch im Mittelpunkt des Beitrags der Vorsitzenden der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Soziologie (DGS) Paula-Irene Villa Braslavsky. Sie beginnt mit der Stellungnahme der DGS zu den Angriffen der Hamas: “(...) Die DGS verurteilt den Terror gegenüber Zivilisten in Israel in aller Eindeutigkeit. Unser Mitgefühl und unsere Solidarität gilt allen Opfern von Terror und Gewalt und ihren Angehörigen. (...) Wir möchten die Mitglieder der DGS gern ermuntern, diese praktische Solidarität auch in ihren Netzwerken zu pflegen.” „Solche Sätze“, gesteht Villa Braslavsky post-factum, “bringen nichts”. Sie dienen lediglich dazu, unsere eigene Haltung und Position zu artikulieren. Das kann unter Umständen einen Unterschied machen, jedoch auch zur selbstgefälligen Selbstbestätigung führen. Stellungnahmen und offene Briefe werfen unweigerlich die Frage auf: Warum geht uns etwas an? Was betrifft uns so sehr, dass wir uns dazu verpflichtet fühlen, etwas dazu zu schreiben? Und was nicht, wie das Morden im Sudan? Mit ihren Fragen in meinem Kopf befand ich mich mit befreundeten Journalist\*innen aus Tel Aviv auf dem Weg nach Hebron im Westjordanland. Es ist ja erstaunlich einfach, sich vom sogenannten Nahostkonflikt selbst vor Ort ein Bild zu machen. Erstaunlich, dass, wie Meron Mendel letztes Jahr im „Spiegel“ schrieb, nur sieben Prozent der Deutschen davon je Gebrauch gemacht haben – weit weniger, als eine Meinung zu Israel oder Palästina haben. Issa Amro ist eine zentrale Figur im gewaltlosen Widerstand gegen die illegale Besatzung palästinensischen Territoriums im Westjordanland und die Gewalt von israelischen Siedlern an Palästinenser\*innen. Um die Jahrtausendwende führte er den erfolgreichen Protest gegen die Schließung der Polytechnischen Hochschule in Al-Khalil/Hebron an. Er führt seine Gäste – mal deutsche Politiker\*innen, mal Journalist\*innen der „New York Times“ – durch die Stadt Al-Khalil/Hebron mit ihrem jahrhundertealten Markt, der regelmäßig von Siedlern mit Müll beworfen wird. Er führt uns vorbei an israelischen Soldaten und Polizisten, auch wenn er immer mit dem Risiko rechnen muss, angehalten oder sogar angegriffen zu werden. Amro hat Folter durch direkte Nachbar\*innen erlebt. Er hat eine einfache Botschaft aus der realen Konfliktzone: Auch wenn die Konflikte hart sind, auch wenn es Streit gibt, der sich zuspitzt – reden hilft. Gespräche ermöglichen Verständigung. In seinem verwüsteten Garten, der regelmäßig von Siedlern vandalisiert wird,serviert Amro Kaffee und Datteln. Gegenüber Politiker\*innen, gerade aus der Europäischen Union, wirbt er immer für folgenden realpolitischen Vorschlag: radikale Siedlerorganisationen verbieten und die Korruption der Administration in Ramallah bekämpfen. Gegen alle Sabotageversuche führt er in seinem Haus weiter Workshops und Projekte durch. Bei “Counter Surveillance” etwa wird das Wachstum von Olivenbäumen mit Kameras überwacht – eine symbolische und agrartechnische Maßnahme des Schutzes dessen, was den Palestinenser\*innen in Hebron übrig bleibt. Das Projekt entstand u.a. gemeinsam mit Adam Broomberg und dem Kollektiv Artists + Allies x Hebron (AAH). AHH organisierte jüngst die Ausstellung “South West Bank” in Venedig, die parallel zur 60\. Kunst-Biennale stattfand. Als ich Amro frage, ob ein Boykott des israelischen Pavillons, der in diesem Jahr von der Künstlerin Ruth Patir bespielt wurde, oder eine Kampagne wie Strike Germany ihm helfen würden, Aufmerksamkeit für seine Arbeit zu generieren, verneint er. “I am not interested in boycotting Israeli artists. I am not interested in BDS. I am interested in amplifying Palestinian voices and all possible movements that help us improve the corrupt political situation here. These statements do not really help us. The focus should be on the liberation of the Palestinians and the improvement of their lives.” ## „We the Jews“ Julia Y. Alfandari behandelt in „Trotzdem sprechen“ die komplexe Identität des Jüdischseins und die damit einhergehenden Herausforderungen, insbesondere im Kontext der gegenwärtigen politischen und gesellschaftlichen Spannungen. Sie problematisiert und hinterfragt diese homogenisierende Haltung und macht anschaulich, welche unterschiedlichen jüdischen Geschichten und Identitäten mitbedacht werden müssen. Vor diesem Hintergrund macht sie das Ausmaß der gegenwärtigen Entmenschlichung deutlich, in der Juden nichts sein dürfen, außer entweder Opfer oder Täter. Alfandari plädiert dafür, die Diskussion über Schuld und Opferstatus hinter uns zu lassen und uns auf politische Verantwortung zu konzentrieren. Sie kritisiert zugleich die Instrumentalisierung von Juden für rechtsextreme Politik (wie in der Gruppe Fridays for Israel). Was aber ist mit der Instrumentalisierung der Palästinenser\*innen und deren nicht weniger fragilem „Wir“, das in so vielen Ländern überhaupt nicht akzeptiert und anerkannt wird? “I don’t need \[the art community’s\] hate to mourn the killing of children in Gaza”, sagt mir Ruth Patir in Tel Aviv, als wir über die Voreingenommenheit der lokalen und internationalen Linken sprechen, und über die Notwendigkeit, über geteilte Traumata hinweg Empathie und Bündnisse zu schaffen – was immer voraussetzt, den Schmerz des Anderen anzuerkennen. Patir, die sich nach dem internationalen Protest auch gegen ihre Person entschloss, den israelischen Pavillon für die Forderung nach einem Waffenstillstands zu nutzen, kritisiert die Schließung von kulturellen und diskursiven Räumen und fordert, genau wie Alfandari in ihrem Essay, mehr Mut für Dialog und Verständigung. Patir und Alfandari betonen auf unterschiedliche Art und Weise, dass es notwendig sei, sich nicht mit dem Status quo zufrieden zu geben, sondern sich für eine gerechtere Zukunft einzusetzen und dabei so viele Menschen wie möglich mitzunehmen. ## “Jenseits und dazwischen in neun Gedanken” Lange fehlte Hannan Salamat die passende Sprache, um das von ihr gegründete Münchner Kunstfestival ausArten zu beschreiben. Es soll die radikale Vielfalt der Stadt feiern und Dialoge schaffen, um über antimuslimischen und antisemitischen Rassismus sowie politische Freund\*innenschaften zu sprechen. “So, wie sich alles verändert”, schreibt sie, “wandelt sich auch das Verständnis von Gemeinschaft, religiöser Identität und Zugehörigkeit”. Wie Salamat war auch die Friedensaktivistin Vivian Silver davon überzeugt, dass wir alle gleich seien und mit allen zusammenarbeiten könnten, solange wir ähnliche Werte teilen. Darüber hinaus erkannte sie, dass Israelis und Palästinenser\*innen voneinander abhängig sind. Ich denke an alle Migrant\*innen und (Bio-)Deutschen und denke, auch wir sind voneinander abhängig. Wie lässt sich im aktuellen Klima schmerzhaften Verhärtungen entgegenwirken – mit den hier geteilten Werkzeugen, durch Zuhören und mit der Bereitschaft, andere Positionen auszuhalten? Um eine radikal konstruktive und respektvolle Debattenkultur in Deutschland zu fördern, sollten folgende neun Schritte konsequent verfolgt werden: 1. Unabdingbare Empathie und Solidarität für alle Betroffenen. Antifaschismus, aber mit Manieren 2. Rigorose Wertschätzung der Pluralität der Meinungen und Hintergründe 3. Pflege von Offenheit und Bescheidenheit für fruchtbare Diskussionen 4. Bereitschaft zur kognitiven Flexibilität, um festgefahrene Meinungen zu hinterfragen 5. Förderung toleranter und respektvoller Kommunikation 6. Unermüdliche Forderung nach struktureller Gleichheit und Gerechtigkeit 7. Umfassende Kontextualisierung historischer und aktueller Ereignisse 8. Unterstützung und Förderung kritischer Allianzen zwischen verschiedenen Gruppen 9. Handeln in Selbstreflexion: Ist es notwendig, Recht zu haben, oder kann ich die Menschen in Ruhe trauern lassen? \\\\ “Trotzdem sprechen” ist ein erster Versuch, der noch lange nicht ausreicht. Der Band zeigt eher, wie viel Arbeit noch vor uns liegt. In Kooperation mit dem Jüdischen Salon am Grindel e.V. sprechen Autor\*innen des Sammelbands Lena Gorelik und Hadija Haruna-Oelker am 9\. August am Kampnagel in Hamburg weiter. Am 28\. September sprechen Golerik, Sandra Hetzl, Maryam Zaree und Miryam Schellbach am Gorki Theater. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Unknown Author, Peggy Parnass with protest sign „Kleine Radikale Minderheit“ \[small radical minority\], 1983\. aus dem Archiv des Hamburger Instituts für Sozialforschung, Foto: unbekannt © Archiv des Hamburger Instituts für Sozialforschung. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Teams & Antagonism URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/teams-and-antagonism/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:11:30.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-32-teams-antagonism](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-32-teams-antagonism?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- What does the image of a Palestinian flag blowing at the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin trigger in you? Do you know where this feeling comes from? Have you thought about how this feeling it could be weaponized? Our summer issue, Teams and Antagonisms, gazes into the eye of the storm and asks how we can stand by our positions in this match against the AfD and those who prefer to instrumentalize identities and narratives in search of the legal abuse of power. This issue’s articles reflect on how the genocide in Gaza is represented by right-wing politics at large. This issue shows how different our positions are towards this matter, questioning how the tools of liberation can be useful to a petit-bourgeois-working class (yes, you, potentially), exhausted and intimidated by the benevolent imperial surplus generator (aided by social media). It crystallizes how non-dogmatic we must be if we want to cut through the weapons deployed by state propaganda against the backdrop of the erasure of narratives, monopolization of memory, and the instrumentalization of both Jewish and Palestinian identities. Building common ground is not a battle, but rather a game of negotiation. Manifesting a space to understand the decolonial struggles we are all enmeshed in can only be a joint venture. To accept the colonial privileges from which many of us benefit, and to change the attendant chain of oppressive dependency is part of the process. The current state of political divisions suggests that it is unclear to the majority of this society what this negotiation will entails, so let’s get to it, time is a luxury we don’t have. This issue calls on everyone to participate in this negotiation, particularly encouraging those who thrive on polarization to explore the nuances and complexities that lie between the poles. Beyond this duality of heroes and villains, we have divided the issue playfully into two chapters being against and being for something to highlight that each position already contains the other, and is kept apart primarily by imperialist structures. The narratives of this issue are held together by the artworks of Ahlam Shibli, Böhler & Orendt, Tarik Kiswan- son and Sarah Lucas, who hold the nuances of the struggles, underwrit- ten by class, gender, nation, and racial privilege, close. Agreeing to disagree is a prolonged match that may lead us to a different destination than where we thought we were going. On the flip side of the issue is Z! - a companion street newspaper operating in the maze of Amsterdam’s streets and canals. This collaboration was facilitated and supported by Framer Framed, a platform for contemporary art, visual culture, and critical theory and practice in based Amsterdam. Framer Framed is concerned with its role in the social fabric of the city and the world. At different scales, this is another expression of our issue topic: how, and in which roles, do we facilitate each other's companionship, alliance, and camaraderie instead of engaging in empty antagonism and needless competition? With contributions from Alon-Lee Green and Rula Daoo, DMT, Sultan Doughan, Kuba Szreder and the Center for Plausible Economies, Collecteurs, Joanna Warsza and Benjamin Foerster-Baldenius, Amelie Jakubek, Abolitionist Jelly, Tarik Kiswanson, María Inés Plaza Lazo, Sarah Lucas, Dalia Maini, CM, MS, Böhler & Orendt, Mohammad Salemy, Isabel Frey and Michael Sappir, Shibboleth, Ahlam Shibli, Labornet.tv, Danny Hayward and Marina Vishmidt, Huda Zikry, and Rico Zyrrano. What is Jouissance? Jouissance is a special word used by the psychoanalyst Jaques Lacan. It has something to do with the French term "jouir". In English, this means "to enjoy", but also "to have an orgasm". Jouissance is the feeling when the pleasure actually stops, but you carry on anyway. For example: When you can't stop playing a game on your cell phone. You play and play, even though you're already tired or hungry. Should we as a society actually stop playing against each other? The AWC editorial team is asking itself this question. After all, we have long since reached the limits of fun and are now only suffering. That's why we say on the cover: There is a limit to our Jouissance. **Imprint** **Founders / Publishers / Directors** Verantwortlicher i.S.d . 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Editorial Assistance** Noa Jaari **Artistic Project Development & Distribution** Theresa Zwerschke **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph **Proofreading** William Kherbek, Anne Waak **Graphic Design** Paul Sochacki / Manuel Bürger **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Voluntary support:** Mia Ribeiro Alonso, Annalisa Giacinti, Line Lange, Hassoumi Moctar Agali, Amina Zerourou, Ruslana Shabelnyk, Nina Abba, Hannah Lu Verse, anna zrenner, Sophie Franziska Schultz, Nadine Bajek, Cora Pagano, Yasemin Şenkal, Lukas Grube, Duarte Eduardo, Felix Dengg, James Rhys Edwards, Louisa Maria Stank, Sophie Hartleib, Teresa Mayr, Leo Baumgärtner, Katharina Thurow **Druck** A.Beig Druckerei und Verlag GmbH & Co. KG Damm 9-19 25421 Pinneberg Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Lynarstrasse 38, 13353 Berlin [hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org](mailto:hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org) Arts of the Working Class can now be read digitally, too. Please find our vendors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digitally buy a copy and additionally the STREAD issue of each month. **Spendenkonto:** Reflektor Monde gUG IBAN: DE64 1001 0010 0931 5031 07 BIC: PBNKDEFF paypal: [p@artsoftheworkingclass.org](mailto:p@artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Supported by:** Vrienden Loterij Fonds --- ## In this issue - [Speed dating](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/speed-dating/) - [Ahlam Shibli](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/ahlam-shibli/) - [Sarah Lucas](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/sarah-lucas/) - [Für mehr Dialoge, die harte Kanten schmelzen lassen](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/fuer-mehr-dialoge-die-harte-kanten-schmelzen-lassen/) - [Falastin: A Digital Monument](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/falastin-a-digital-monument/) - [On Commemorating the Holocaust as a Palestinian Muslim](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/on-commemorating-the-holocaust-as-a-palestinian-muslim/) - [Against state hegemonic cultural imagination](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/against-state-hegemonic-cultural-imagination/) - [Wenn die "Antifa" uns nicht sein lässt](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/wenn-die-antifa-uns-nicht-sein-laesst/) - [Against the Weaponization of Art and the Moralization of Military Conflicts](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/against-the-weaponization-of-art-and-the-moralization-of-military-conflicts/) - [Chapter 2: WORKERS’ SUMMER](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/chapter-2-workers-summer/) ### Like rivers in a delta, the lines on our palms reveal our destiny URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/like-rivers-in-a-delta-the-lines-on-our-palms-reveal-our-destiny/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:49.000Z Arriving at Sankt Pölten train station in Austria is a reminder that the outskirts of the global capital are more than the role big-city syndrome often forces them into the cultural periphery. Provincial European cities, populated by the elderly, migrants, and youth whose current outlook does not yet indicate whether their future will be liberatory, "central," or decadent, create a complex interplay of cultures and uncertainties. Sankt Pölten, quietly existing close to the banks of rivers Mühlbach and Traisen, encourages the visitor to think about how water, despite the political project of resource centralization, as well as social marginalization of the peripheries, connects the margins through a network of resources and stories. My visit was triggered by the 20 km long public art parcours, “The Way of the Water”, co-curated by Joanna Warsza & Lorena Moreno Vera as part of the Festival Tangente St. Pölten. It opened on the first of May on the banks of Mühlbach, one of the two local rivers. It offers an orchestrated encounter of aquatic and organic matter, running until October. The Festival kicked off with a shamanic chant by Dr. Erena Rangimarie Rere Omaki Ransfield Rhöse, a Māori activist and healer. The buzz was that the activist and healer had already contributed, on a spiritual level, to New Zealand’s Whanganui River being granted legal personhood status in 2017\. Tacitly, another healing attempt was to take place. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/12.-Riverbed-Species-Seaweed-Banquet-Filip-van-Dingenen-and-Helene-Meyer-Photo-Simon-Veres-simonveres_aeph.jpg) fig. 1 “The Way of the Water” features twenty-four artistic interventions, many of which are newly commissioned and which are strategically positioned around the rivers Traisen and Mühlbach. These predominantly humanized artworks, gather around them a temporary group of able bodies to introduce post-collectivity \[1\] in the public space where otherwise lowbrow graffiti reigns supreme. The Traisen and Mühlbach are only somewhat regulated rivers; conflicts and crises are not extreme but they are just one natural disaster away. The parcours was effortlessly and serenely welcomed with a “Riverbed Species Seaweed” (2024) ceremonial banquet featuring food and ceramics inspired by algae, and generously prepared by Filip Van Dingenen and Hélène Meyer of the Institute of Algae Diplomacy. This event raised awareness about legal and political issues surrounding seaweed, which plays a crucial role in ecosystems where fish are absent. A counter-anthropocentric undertaking is envisioned by Christina Gruber, a freshwater ecologist, who allows the fish of these rivers to speak from the primary perspective. She highlights the often-overlooked struggles of Danube salmon in her project, “The Danube Salmon’s Wedding”, \[2\] documenting the river’s soundscape (i.e. the sounds produced by fish in the river’s waters). Gruber also created the "Fishy Podcast," available through a site-specific installation. It is worth considering whether the inhabitants of St. Pölten might experience low water levels, similar to the Danube salmon in the Traisen River. These salmon struggle to jump over multiple barriers - a crucial behavior to their survival - as they strive to reach the abundant and fast-flowing waters of the Danube. Flow as a state of optimal experience characterized by deep immersion and enjoyment in activities that lead to a richer and more satisfying life \[3\] is not a privilege enjoyed by many. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/6.-the_way_of_the_water_c_Peter-Rauchecker-158.jpg) fig. 2 The artist Jimena Crocceri joined forces with water, involving a literal touch of nature in the display of her canvases painted with natural pigments from South America. They are folded, laid bare, and assembled in various positions along the tiny Mühlbach river. These canvases are publicly exposed to the weather and the uncontrollable forces majeures in the form of natural elements including water, air, and earth, all of which make the works vulnerable to entropy. In the essay "The Elemental Turn," featured in the parcours catalog, Elke Krasny also advocates for the inherent rights of elements like water, emphasizing their vital role in a complex network of relationships. Crocceri’s folded canvas entitled “Letting the Water Make its New Form” (2024) stand in solidarity with other frail entities along the river, including the bodies highlighted by two participating hydrofeminist groups. The Neonpink Kollektiv brings awareness to the historical washing stations along the Mühlbach, evoking the depersonalized washerwomen and their household duties and related material struggles at the intersection of class, gender, and labor. This interconnectedness is manifested in the manual routines of soaking, wringing, squeezing, dipping, gossiping, and complaining about, let’s presume, domestic violence. While The Neonpink Kollektiv indicates somewhat limited relational and productive power through performance, it echoes the hyper-utopian idea that we are all bodies of water connected to the watery planet in a fluid continuum. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/9.-Cecylia-Malik_Bodies-of-Water_Projekt-Rising-Rivers-Simon-Veres-simonveres_aeph-2.jpg) fig. 3 The second hydrofeminist collective, The River Sisters, represented by Cecylia Malik in her installation based performance “Raising Rivers” (2024) pays tribute to the water and calls for action and cross-river solidarity, invoking across eighty boards the names of rivers under various forms of threat from pollution, to over-extraction of water, mining, climate-induced extreme weather, invasive species, and more. However, only calling out the name of a river is one thing; demanding the prohibition of, for example, Rio Tinto's extractive mining projects and metal processing in the Jadar Valley in Serbia \[4\] and elsewhere, due to the extremely serious threat they pose to biodiversity, is another. Malik insists that treating rivers as living beings and advocating for their legal personhood represents a paradigm shift that emancipates the aquatic ecosystem. Lewis Hyde, a noted scholar, poet, and essayist renowned for his works on creativity, property, and the very concept of the commons joined the proceedings, from a distance. In the alluring video, “Reading Lewis Hyde” (2024), by Lisa Tan, screened in one of Solektiv's \[5\] spaces in the Sonnenpark near the river, a parallel narrative emerges. The video begins with Hyde and the artist holding hands in a detailed palmistry session. “Like rivers in a delta, the lines on our palms reveal our destiny,” says Tan at one point. Indeed, humans must flow inter-contextually to embody their full subjectivity. That is, of course, if they are allowed to. Certainly, over time, both lines on the palm and rivers in a delta transform and diverge: the Nile, Mississippi, Rio Grande, Volga, and, more importantly, Lethe, the mythic underworld river of forgetfulness. As Hyde suggests, “forgetting is the prerequisite of a new life, as waters of forgetfulness carry things away, allowing one to be reborn.” In this context of long history, thinking of rivers expresses the commoning of the commons, as rivers represent both the physical embodiment of shared resources and the flow of collective memory and renewal beyond modernity and capitalism. The reclamation of communal and cooperative ways of living, highlighting how feminist and commons-based approaches can help restore a sense of wonder and connection to the world, is explored in the installation “Hondo” by Rita Fisher, renowned for her abstract paintings. Here, the artist appears to follow Silvia Federici’s \[6\] thoughts about the re-enchantment of the world, that it is not about a regressive return to irrational or esoteric beliefs, but, rather, a transformative process grounded in real-world struggles. By upcycling plastic debris found in the river, Fisher strips the flotsam of its previous abject status and mixes the transformed materials with her own molded and sculpted objects. This re-enchanting act, both poetic and political, manifested in a large-scale installation on the site of the former Segl-Mil, offers a way of making, if not new possibilities for community and environmental justice, then at least beautiful vistas for passers-by. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3.-Rita-Fischer_Installation-aus-Muell-Simon-Veres-simonveres_aeph.jpg) fig. 4 Sophie Utikal's “4 Mothers (Growing the Parts that Will Make Us Change Faster)” addresses bodies waiting to be (re)born in a speculative narrative that seeks to transcend the human condition and propose the creation of a new post-human species. Utikal’s artistic vision is realized through eighteen large-scale textile pieces hanging from a bridge. The artist, who became a mother during the creation of these artworks, also drew inspiration from the unique symbiosis of breastfeeding, and around the release of a humanely produced liquid. By re-envisioning the relationship between the human and non-human, she aims to resolve the contradiction between hierarchy and intelligence, \[7\] and argues for the potential for post-collectivity, a concept that involves creating new organs to help humanity work more effectively, and expanding the limits of our imagination, ultimately changing our fate and ways of cohabitation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/8.-Sophie-Utikal_Textilarbeiten-Simon-Veres-simonveres_aeph.jpg) fig. 5 A bit further down the banks of the Traisen, the columns of the foundation of the Lower Austrian Government’s edifices emerge from a small human-made pond. The pond can be accessed by putting on long fishing boots (provided by the Festival) and entering the turbid water, then touching, embracing, and sniffing the pillars of the building, which emit an unusual smell. The columns have nano-embedded particles replicating the smell of men sweating in fear. It is the smell of the non-deodorized body, an index of systemic oppression, here activated by the presence of spectators’ bodies. This is “Fear of Smell // Smell of Fear\_12\_24” by Sissel Tolaas, a chemist and smell activist, who virtuosically succeeds in her goal to expand the boundaries of our perception by activating another sense. No matter how familiar it becomes in today’s society, the smell of fear remains unsettling. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2.-the_way_of_the_water_c_Peter-Rauchecker-289.jpg) fig. 6 Edgar Calel and his relatives, all descendants of the Mayans, traveled all the way from Guatemala to perform a ceremonial offering called “Saqb'ach (Rain with Hail)” (2024) on the Traisen River, as a propitiation for ensuring the abundance of rain cycles. Water from the river is frozen into 13 round ice sculptures, each inscribed with a glyph in the shape of the nahual imox, one of the twenty-day signs in Mayan cosmology that each represents a specific energy and spiritual essence. Imox is specifically associated with water, the unpredictable, and the unconventional. It is linked to the power of the subconscious, creativity, and emotions. Dressed in their traditional vibrant fabrics, Edgar Calel and company perform the “return” of the encrypted ice sculptures to the river, allowing the water to decide about their course. As they melt, the sculptures dissolve into the water. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1.-Edgar-Calel_Ritual-Action_Regen-mit-Hagel-an-der-Traisen-Simon-Veres-simonveres_aeph.jpg) fig. 7 In the routines of extraction, humans capitalize on water, industrialize it, and politicize it. "The Way of the Water" seeks to re-engage with the historicized reality of industrialization by sparking dialogue by means of biodigital convergence. On the organic-aquatic-techno axis stands Paola Torres Núñez del Prado’s \[8\] “Awasqa Kayku”, a 15-meter-long textile painting with an embedded code and a score. It intertwines ancient epistemologies with present techno-developmentalist fetishism, physically and digitally via augmented reality. This work is prominently displayed on the Glanzstoff Water Tower, a significant historical and industrial landmark. Translated from Quechua as “to be woven” or “to be a pattern”, “Awasqa Kayku” reflects the essential role of the water tower in producing rayon and textiles; here technology represents a glitch in the natural order. If this artwork did not have a digital layer, it would still be captivating, offering decorative large-scale visuals that represent an organic and aquatic flow. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/15.-6706463E-6285-47C4-B177-17563475345C.jpeg) fig. 8 During the Tangente St. Pölten Festival, the rivers take on diverse roles: for example, as an instrument in “White Cycles” (2024) by Roberta Lazo Valenzuela, or as in “Two Friends” (2010-2024), serving as a floating counter-memorial to a submerged Nazi labor camp (by Eva Grubinger & Werner Feiersinger), and even as a makeshift “Traisma swimming pool” (2024) with accouterments provided by Rainer Prohaska from his collection of second-hand materials. This shapeshifting interplay between organic add-ons and aquatic perspectives enriches the experience. Achieving curatorial flow requires finding a delicate balance between the challenge that the elusive character of water imposes and the skill to find new ways to touch it, feel it, see it, and conceptually morph it. Yet, as if riding on the wave of the trending elemental turn, “The Way of the Water '' shares its title with various popular media products, such as the Avatar sequel, or monthly magazine covers. The Festival embraces water’s versatile nature while very discreetly critiquing hydro-capitalism. The layout of the art trail poses questions regarding curatorial practices that seek interconnectedness yet challenge the audience in a parcours that requires some bodily fitness to be experienced in full. In truth, the establishment of a dialogue between nature and society shifted, more than twice, towards indigenous ritual-based practices of the First Nations and Latin American perspectives re-inforcing rather than challenging Eurocentric and anthropocentric rationalisms prevalent today. The undercurrents of “The Way of the Water'' were not easy to tame, no matter how diligently humans strive to master, domesticate, decorate, or control them. Waters inevitably find their own course, even when they evaporate. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Jelewska, Agnieszka, Michał Krawczak, and Julian Reid. New Ways of Gathering and Practicing in Times of Crises. Postcollectivity, 2024. \[2\] The original title in German is “Huchenhochzeit”, 2024. \[3\] Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly. Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. New York: Harper & Row, 1990. \[4\] https://action.wemove.eu/sign/2023-03-stop-rio-tinto-EN/ \[5\] “Solektiv” is a creative biotope that uniquely combines art and ecology. In the Sun Park of St. Pölten, we organize festivals, concerts, exhibitions, and workshops. For our approach to sustainable co-creation, we were awarded the Outstanding Artist Award by the Austrian Ministry of Culture in 2021 [https://www.solektiv.at](https://www.solektiv.at/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[6\] Federici, Silvia. Re-enchanting the World: Feminism and the Politics of the Commons. Oakland: PM Press, 2018. \[7\] Butler, Octavia E. Lilith's Brood (Xenogenesis Series). New York: Warner Books, 1987-1989. \[8\] Núñez del Prado's has expertise in art and technology. She received the Honorary Mention at Prix Ars Electronica 2021, and was Google Artists + Machine Intelligence’s Residence Grant recipient 2019 among other honors. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Lisa Tan, Reading Lewis Hyde (2024). Video installation. Image courtesy of Tangente St. Pölten. Photo: Peter Rauchecker. fig. 1: Filip Van Dingenen & Hélène Meyer, The Riverbed Species Seaweed Banquet (2024). Ceramic sculptures with seaweed glaze displayed on wooden structure. Image courtesy of Tangente St. Pölten. Photo: Simon Veres. fig. 2: Jimena Croceri, Letting the Water Make Its New Form (2024). Natural dye paintings produced in collaboration with the river and the weather. Image courtesy of Tangente St. Pölten. Photo: eSel.at. fig. 3: Cecylia Malik, Bodies of Water, Projekt Rising Rivers © Simon Veres @simonveres\_aeph. fig. 4: Rita Fischer, Hondo (2024). Installation with collected materials from the rivers of St. Pölten. Image courtesy of Tangente St. Pölten. Photo: Simon Veres. fig. 5: Sophie Utikal, 4 Mothers (Growing the Parts that Will Make Us Change Faster) (2024). Embroidered textile works. Image courtesy of Tangente St. Pölten. Photo: Peter Rauchecker. fig. 6: Sissel Tolaas, Fear of Smell / Smell of Fear \_12\_24 (2024). Installation with smells of twelve anxious men on the pillars under the Lower Austria Landtag. Image courtesy Tangente St. Pölten. Photo: Peter Rauchecker. fig. 7: Edgar Calel, Saqb’äch (Rain with Hail) (2024). Performance with ice offeringsactivated every twenty days. Image courtesy of Tangente St. Pölten. Photo: Simon Veres. fig. 8: Paola Torres Núñez del Prado, Awasqa Kayku (2024). Codified textile painting. Photo: Maja Ćirić. *Maja Ćirić is an independent curator and art critic. After the digital turn in 2020, she became more involved in phygital (physical + digital) projects, conferences and exhibitions in the hybrid field of art + science + tech. She also curates in the metaverse (meta + universe). Historically speaking, Maja was the curator of the Mediterranea 18 Young Artists Biennale, in Tirana (2017), and has been both the curator (2007) and the commissioner (2013) of the Serbian Pavilion at the Venice Biennale. Maja holds a PhD in Art Theory (Thesis: "Institutional Critique and Curating") from the University of Arts in Belgrade. Her speaking engagements, among others, were/are at MAC VAL (2017), Centre Pompidou (2018), and MNAC Bucharest (2018), AICA Serbia Conference (2021), Zlin Digital Exhibition Design Conference (2021), Interact Conference on Human-Computer Interaction (2021) and IKT Conference (2021). She contributed to Flash Art, Obieg, Artforum, Artmargins Online, Arts of the Working Class, springerin. Her areas of expertise from day one span from the geopolitical and the curatorial through curating as a practice of institutional critique. She sits at the Board of Advisors to The Telos Society, Arts & Culture Research Lab Observatorium in Athens and the Editorial Board of The Large Glass published by MoCA, Skopje. She is the art glass researcher and advisor for Digital Glass Serbia, a project whose goal is to evaluate the legacy of industrial glass production.* ### Foreignizing the Museum URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/foreignizing-the-museum/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:47.000Z Kunstmuseen waren und sind noch immer *weiße* Orte. Der Anteil der (post) migrantischen Bevölkerung spiegelt sich nicht in ihrer Besuchendenschaft und dem Personal wieder. Das ist u.a. in ihrer Entstehungsgeschichte begründet. Sie waren Prestigeprojekte des Bürgertums im 19.Jahrhundert und agierten mit *Wissens*\- und Wertesystemen einer homogenen weißen Gemeinschaft. Die deutsche Gesellschaft hat sich nach dem Kolonialismus und Nationalsozialismus (wieder) demokratisiert und diversifiziert. Doch verstand sie sich, entgegnen der Realität, lange nicht als Einwanderungsland; verdrängte die eigene koloniale Vergangenheit und deren Erbe und Effekte für die Gegenwart. Man darf in diesem Zusammenhang nicht vergessen, dass Museen, im Gegensatz zu Off Spaces und Vereinen, mit hohen Summen von Steuergeldern kontinuierlich gefördert werden. Demnach gilt es vermehrt hochwertige Programme zu konzipieren, die nicht nur für ein akademisches mehrheitsdeutsches Publikum, sondern für unterschiedlichste Bevölkerungsteile interessant sind, ihre Perspektiven wiedergeben und diveristätsorientiert gestaltet sind. Die Notwendigkeit der Veränderung wurde seitens der Politik u.a. durch den Druck von Migrant\*innenselbtsorganisationen und Wissenschaftler\*innen erkannt. Die Erkenntnis mündete 2018/19 in einem in Europa bisher einmaligen Diversitätsprogramm mit einem Fördervolumen von 17 Millionen Euro: dem Programm *360° – Fonds für Kulturen der neuen Stadtgesellschaft der Kulturstiftung des Bundes zur diversitätsorientierten Öffnung von Kultureinrichtungen*, kurz »360°-Programm«. \[1\] Der Begriff Diversität bezieht sich dabei auf das Merkmal Herkunft. Knapp 40 Kulturinstitutionen, darunter nur zwei Kunstmuseen, bekamen Fördergelder, um sog. Diversitätsagent\*innen einzustellen, die von innen heraus mit den Hausleitungen einen diverstitätsorientierten Changeprozess in den Bereichen Personal, Publikum und Programm innerhalb von vier bis sechs Jahren realisieren sollten. Was passiert mit der Institution, wenn jemand der\*die innen ist, gleichzeitig einen Blick von außen hat? Wenn jemand, der\*die den von der Förderer\*in gegebenen Auftrag ernst nimmt, die Institution zu verändern, dies jedoch mit der Perspektive der Häuser clasht, lediglich zusätzliche Angebote zu machen? Und was geschieht, wenn das „neue Publikum“, die sogenannten Communities (temporäre) Gäste und Kurator\*innen werden? Ich schreibe aus der Position einer dieser Diversitätsagent\*innen heraus. Ich wurde Ende 2019 vom Museum der bildenden Künste Leipzig (MdbK) angestellt, um den Diversitätsprozess und dazugehörige Maßnahmen zu konzipieren und umzusetzen. Viele meiner Erfahrungen decken sich mit denen anderer Agent\*innen, was durch eine Programm-Evaluation und unseren Austausch untereinander deutlich wurde. Eine der Fragen, die mir häufig gestellt werden, ist, ob ich im Arbeitskontext persönlich Rassismus erlebe. Wenn das von Menschen ohne Rassismuserfahrung kommt, entlarvt das meines Erachtens nach, wie wenig diese Person über Rassismus weiß. Im Kulturbetrieb ist offener Rassismus selten. Die dort Arbeitenden haben keine verfestigte rassistische Einstellung. Rassismus wird in diesem Kontext heutzutage immerhin als moralisch verwerflich angesehen, sodass er selten offen zutage tritt. Was mich als migrantiserte Kollegin trifft, ist, wie Exotisierungen und Rassifizierungen unbemerkt in der Kommunikation z.B. in Künstler\*innengesprächen untergehen, etwa in der Frage, zu welchem Kontinent sich jemand zugehörig fühle, obwohl die Person in einem europäischen Land aufwuchs und ihre Kunst solche Eindeutigkeiten und Zuschreibungen negiert. Im MdbK war ich lange die einzige Angestellte of Colour. Kulturinstitutionen werden zum großen Teil von einer mehrheits(west-)deutschen, gesellschaftlich privilegierten Schicht getragen. Die aktuell in leitenden Positionen Tätigen haben aufgrund ihrer Biografien, ihrer Ausbildung und den bisherigen formalen Stellenanforderungen selten Wissen und Motivation zu rassismuskritischem Kuratieren sowie wenig Kontakte in (post-)migrantische Netzwerke. Da es um die kritische Betrachtung bisheriger Arbeitsweisen und Wertesysteme geht, kam und kommt es in vielen Häusern zur Abwehrhaltung gegenüber dem, was als Macht- bzw. Relevanzverlust wahrgenommen wird. War ich anfangs unsicher, was es bedeutet, als Kultur- und Politikwissenschaftlerin in einem Kunstmuseum zu arbeiten, stellte sich mein Hintergrund bald als Vorteil heraus. Das Wissen um Marginalisierung und Machtstrukturen kann ein Analysetool sein, eines, mit dem sich Geschichten erzählen lassen, die dem Publikum wertvolle Erkenntnisse bringen. Es birgt die Chancen, Bruchlinien der Gesellschaft in einem eng begrenzten Feld zu aufzuzeigen, zu kitten und neue Fragen für die Forschung aufzuwerfen. Das ermöglicht die Erweiterung des Kanons und die überfällige Diversifizierung von Sammlungen. 2019, als ich die Stelle antrat, eröffnete “Point of no Return“, eine Ausstellung zu „Wende und Umbruch in der ostdeutschen Kunst”. Vertreten waren nur weiße deutsche Künstler\*innen. Ich wusste jedoch: Die DDR hatte Wert auf internationale Solidarität und die Verbindung zu sogenannten Bruderländern gelegt, unterhielt diplomatische Beziehungen z.B. nach Kuba und Chile. Die transnationalen Aspekte der DDR-Kunstgeschichte wurden in der Ausstellung ausgeblendet, migrantische Künstler\*innen marginalisiert. Diese Unsichtbarmachung gab es oft in der Geschichte, hier drohte erneut eine mehrheitsdeutsche Geschichtsschreibung. Ich fragte mich: Was war mit den Künstler\*innen passiert, die aufgrund der Kulturdiplomatie an ostdeutschen Kunsthochschulen studiert hatten, bei denselben Professor\*innen, wie die mehrheitsdeutschen Künstler\*innen, deren Kunst nun im Fokus stand? So entstand die Idee für „meine“ \[2\] Ausstellung “Re-Connect. Kunst und Kampf im Bruderland”, die zwischen Mai und September 2023 lief. Im Ausstellungsteil *Zwingende Geschichten* wurden Positionen der oben beschriebenen Künstler\*innen ausgestellt. Beteiligt waren acht Künstler\*innen mit etwa 80 Gemälden, Arbeiten auf Papier und Videoarbeiten. Der Ausstellungsteil *Re-Connect #3* war der künstlerischen Nachwuchsförderung gewidmet. Die Diversität unserer Gesellschaft sollte sich im Programm des Museums widerspiegeln. Da dies in der Vergangenheit nicht immer der Fall gewesen war, gab es einen Open Call für BIPoC-Künstler\*innen mit biografischen Bezügen zur DDR. Ein divers besetztes Juror\*innenteam wählte vier Positionen aus. Eine Auseinandersetzung mit dem historisch-politischen Kontext der DDR-Einwanderungspolitik erfolgte im *Archiv der Erinnerung und Zukunft*. Thematisiert wurden der tabuisierte Rassismus in der DDR sowie die Lebensverhältnisse der Vertragsarbeiter\*innen, der ausländischen Studierenden und ihrer Nachfahr\*innen. Das MdbK würdigte dabei die schon früh geleistete Arbeit von Migrant\*innenselbstorganisationen für eine gesamtdeutsche Erinnerungskultur, wie die vom vietnamesischem Verein Reistrommel, und vermittelte diese Geschichte mittels von ihnen erarbeiteten Tafelausstellungen, sowie Audio- und Videodateien. Diese umfassten auch die Umbruchszeit der Jahre 1989/90, Resilienzgeschichten, das Aufwachsen als BIPoC in der sächsischen Provinz, der Umgang mit Rassismus und vieles andere mehr. Kuratorisches Prinzip dieses Ausstellungsteils war es, das Publikum mit einem Zuviel des erwähnten Materials leicht zu überfordern, um zu zeigen, wie viel (post-)migrantische Aufarbeitung es gibt, die es kaum in die gesamtdeutsche Erinnerungskultur geschafft hat. Ich verzichtete bewusst auf die kunstvermittlerische bzw. museale Methode des partizipativen Kuratierens, die im Zuge der Diversifizierung von Museen eine neue Konjuktur erfährt und bei dem vorliegenden Thema vielleicht als naheliegend erschienen wäre. Erstens sollte klar werden, dass die Erinnerungsarbeit längst ohne die „Hilfe“ von Kulturinstitutionen geleistet worden war. Um zweitens bei der partizipativen Bearbeitung sensibler Fragestellungen dem Thema und den beteiligten Menschen gerecht zu werden, benötigen Aushandlungsprozesse viel Zeit, Raum und personelle Ressourcen. Noch aber sind Museen wie das MdbK etwa durch die schnelle Abfolge von Ausstellungen und Projekten strukturell auf die Ergebnisproduktion und nicht auf Beziehungsarbeit ausgerichtet. Die aktive Einbeziehung der (post-)migrantischen Stadtgesellschaft fand im Rahmenprogramm statt. Wir luden Vereine und Initiativen der älteren und jüngeren Generation ein, eigene Themen und Formate kuratorisch einzubringen. Insgesamt gab es regen Austausch, Momente der Ermächtigung und das Feedback, dass ein solches Programm und eine solche Ausstellung überfällig waren. Eklats und (intergenerationale) Auseinandersetzungen machten gesellschaftliche Konfliktlinien sichtbar, etwa in der Frage, ob es Zitate rassistischer Begriffe braucht, um die eigene Geschichte aufzuarbeiten. Das führte zum Rückzug einzelner Personen aus dem Programm. Das MdbK als Institution konnte durch den Diversifizierungsprozess und die Ausstellung “Re-Connect” einen Beitrag dazu leisten, marginalisierte ostmigratische Kunst in ihrer Geschichte und Gegenwart zu repräsentieren und hat einen frühen Beitrag zur weiteren Erforschung gesamtdeutschen diverser Kunstgeschichte geleistet. Sie hat gezeigt, dass mit den entsprechenden Programmen ein neues, interessiertes Publikum erreicht werden kann. Das Kunstpublikum setzte sich mit marginalisierten Perspektiven auseinander und Menschen, die sich sonst nicht in besonderer Weise für Kunst interessieren, konnten erstmals eine geballte Ladung regionaler nicht-*weißer* Künstler\*innen sehen. Der Archivraum ohne Kunst war ein Novum für das Museum, was den bisherigen Habitus des Hauses in Frage stellte. Er hat sowohl Menschen berühren können, die sich endlich repräsentiert sahen, als auch ehemalige DDR-Bürger\*innen, die dankbar waren, neue Aspekte der DDR kennenzulernen. Es wurden überfällige gesellschaftliche Diskurse zur Erinnerungskultur geführt; die dabei aufgetretenen Konfliktlinien konnten nur mit hohem Aufwand und Einfühlungsvermögen bearbeitet und lediglich zum Teil gelöst werden. Diese Konflikte können je nach Bereitschaft und Ressourcen der Agierenden zu Learnings werden und zur Weiterentwicklung der Institution (sowie von Einzelpersonen) führen. Wenn sie, wie es oft geschieht, als Scheitern angesehen werden, vergeben sich Institutionen Lernchancen. Kunstmuseen sind in ihren Programmierungen auf innovative Kräfte und das Wissen um den Zahn der Zeit angewiesen. Impulse kommt oft von künstlerischen und subkulturellen Rändern moderner Emanzipationsbewegungen, also aus feministischen, anti-rassistischen oder queeren Communities. Die paternalistische Annahme, dass dies zur Kommodifizierung (oder besser: sozialen oder kulturellen Kapitalwerdung) der kulturellen und politischen Arbeit dieser Communities beiträgt, unterschlägt aus meiner persönlichen und fachlichen Perspektive, dass ebenjene Gemeinschaften auch ihre eigenen Interessen verfolgen und das Museum punktuell für sich nutzen. Initiativen, wie die aus dem Rahmenprogramm von “Re-Connect”, haben die Agency zu entscheiden, ob sie kooperieren möchten. Wie eingangs angeführt, ist es nur richtig, wenn Steuergelder dazu genutzt werden, verdrängte Anliegen und neue Impulse in den gesellschaftlichen Diskurs zu bringen und marginalisierte kulturelle Akteur\*innen zu repräsentieren. Wenn jedoch Ressourcen in ein Community-Projekt fließen und Hoffnung auf Wandel geweckt wird, danach aber keine Verstetigung in Form von regelmäßigen Maßnahmen wie Veranstaltungen und Ausstellungen stattfindet, wiederholt sich die Erfahrung, die viele migrantisierte Menschen machen: Sie werden geholt, wenn sie gebraucht werden, und fallen gelassen, wenn der Bedarf weg ist. (P)Ost- migrantische Perspektiven sind ein genuiner Teil der Gesellschaft und keine „besonderen Projekte“. Sie gehören in Programme implementiert und gemainstreamt und müssen sich vor allem im Personal wiederfinden. Hier braucht es mehr Engagement und Priorisierung. Museen können also durchaus über ihren eigenen Tellerrand hinausschauen und damit für Innovation, mehr Teilhabe und Anerkennung von künstlerischen und Arbeitsleistungen sorgen, sie können gesamtgesellschaftlichen Zusammenhalt fördern und weiterhin Plattformen für Austausch und Inspiration sein. Nur bleibt es wichtig, an den einmal angestoßenen Öffnungsprozessen festzuhalten. Sie sind kein Trend, der von anderen wichtigen Themen wie Nachhaltigkeit; bzw. einem eventuellen/drohenden Rechtsruck abgelöst werden darf. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Vgl. [https://www.kulturstiftung-des-bundes.de/de/projekte/transformation\_und\_zukunft/detail/360\_fonds\_fuer\_kulturen\_der\_neuen\_stadtgesellschaft.html](https://www.kulturstiftung-des-bundes.de/de/projekte/transformation%5Fund%5Fzukunft/detail/360%5Ffonds%5Ffuer%5Fkulturen%5Fder%5Fneuen%5Fstadtgesellschaft.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[2\] Co-kuratiert hat Marcus Andrew Hurttig; in Zusammenarbeit mit Olga Vostretsova und Carolin Rothmund. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: The image illustrates Yossef Geatchews’w Works which the MdbK acquired during the exhibition Re-Connect. The picture was taken by Sithara Weeratunga during the dismantling of the exhibition. The signs says: bleibt im MdbK; Ankauf! *Sithara Weeratunga arbeitet seit neun Jahren in Museen. Sie ist noch bis 2025 als Agentin für Diversität und Kuratorin am Museum der bildenden Künste Leipzig tätig; außerdem ist sie DJ und Sounddesignerin.* ### Matthias Rietschel URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/matthias-rietschel-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:44.000Z Auf die Idee, den Alltag der vietnamesischen Vertragsarbeiter zu dokumentieren, bin ich mehr oder weniger zufällig gekommen. Ich hatte eine Freundin, die in einem Studentenwohnheim lebte, in dem auch viele Ausländer zeitweise ihre Heimat fanden – Mozambiquaner, Kubaner, Äthiopier... Mitte der 1980er Jahre kamen nach dem Freundschaftsvertrag zwischen der DDR und der Sozialistischen Republik Vietnam noch sehr viele Arbeiter nach Dresden. Ich hatte heftiges Interesse an anderen Ländern und Kulturen. Da ich diese nicht selbst auf Reisen erleben konnte, lag es nahe, das Fremde und Ausländische in meinem Umfeld zu erkunden. Während des Studiums hatte ich mich schon fotografierend mit den Sorben und ihrer Religiosität beschäftigt. Dazu hatte ich auch einen biografischen Bezug, weil ich in der Nähe der sorbischsprachigen Lausitz, im Raum Kamenz, groß geworden bin. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/fi-1.jpg) fig. 1 Nach meinem Studium der Fotografie an der Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst in Leipzig bot mir der Rat des Bezirkes Dresden einen Fördervertrag an. Das gab mir die Möglichkeit, drei Jahre lang den Alltag der vietnamesischen Vertragsarbeiter zu begleiten. Dank eines Schreibens der Kulturfunktionäre des Bezirksrates waren mir alle Tore geöffnet und ich durfte im VEB Herrenmode Dresden und dem dazugehörigen Wohnheim ein- und ausgehen – was nicht ganz selbstverständlich war bei dem staatlichen Sicherheitsdenken zu dieser Zeit. Ich begann im Herbst 1986 mit der fotografischen Dokumentation und ihr Abschluss fiel genau in die Zeit der Wendewirren. Eigentlich wäre die Präsentation der Arbeit in einer Galerie vorgesehen gewesen, aber niemand interessierte sich in dieser Zeit für die Einhaltung meines Vertrags. Also fotografierte ich weiter. Ich hatte mich inzwischen mit vielen Vietnamesen gut angefreundet und war vom eigenen Umbruch und dem vieler Vietnamesen berührt. Die Fotos, im Herbst 1990 als Mappe übergeben, lagen dann beim Kunstfonds Dresden im Archiv und wurden im Herbst 2008, mit fast 20 Jahren Verspätung, erstmals ausgestellt. *– Aus Materialbox Vùng Biên Giói von Rimini Protokoll* \\\\ *Matthias Rietschel arbeitet als freier Fotograf in Dresden, bis 2010 vor allem für die Nachrichtenagentur Associated Press (AP).* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1: Matthias Rietschel, Lys Geburtstag, 1988\. Aus der Serie "Vietnamesen in Dresden", 1987-1990, S/W-Fotografie. © and courtesy of the artist. *Matthias Rietschel arbeitet als freier Fotograf in Dresden, bis 2010 vor allem für die Nachrichtenagentur Associated Press (AP).* ### For More Radicals and Playgrounds in the City URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/radicals-and-playgrounds-interview/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:46.000Z *When play is considered as a sociogenic force we need to ask ourselves: who is excluded and who is invited to comply with the rules of the games we create? Whether in the form of a free-flow architecture or a matter of long-term urban planning, the answers we give determine the boundaries of what we desire from togetherness. There are the expectations to unearth in the playfulness within us, some of which keep us replicating a hierarchy of sorts, in and outside of the sandbox. The following interview highlights the curatorial intentions behind the exhibition* Radical Playgrounds: From Competition to Collaboration *at Gropius Bau, Berlin.* **How did *Radical Playgrounds* come about?** **Benjamin Foerster-Baldenius:** Our mutual interest, as curators and architects, in play and its social and political potential was, for many years, like a grain in a seed bag, then suddenly an obscure football tournament opened up the sky above the Ministry of Culture and it started to rain substantial funding for a substantial approach to the larger topics of game and play in the city and their radical potential in relation to society. The subtitle, “from competition to collaboration”, hints at this and is, at the same time, a reaction to the trigger for rain of gold. **Joanna Warsza:** The architect Lina Bo Bardi famously said that every museum deserves a playground. We thought of this exhibition as a conceptual Spielplatz; that is, a cross between a sculpture park, a museum extension,, and a temporary funfair. For me personally, one of the main inspirations behind *Radical Playgrounds* was also my boredom as a parent on many of the various playgrounds where I’d been hanging out with my son in recent years. One day I started hallucinating about all those boats, rockets, buggies, and slides, thinking of how they could offer cultural readings if they could become multidimensional and multigenerational spaces that you can experience with all senses. Museums are often places reserved for rational behavior, founded on male cultural codes. The question we asked was what museums could learn from playgrounds? How could we let go? **How did you choose the artists?** **JW:** We come back to the Latin origin of the term radical - *radix*: the root, being rooted, standing for something, being engaged, and we invited artists according to those associations. So behind all the playground vocabulary we use, be it a swing, a sandbox, or a slide, there is a world of its own. On one hand, a swing is a just swing; you are welcome to use and enjoy it. You do not need to read any curatorial description to understand or enjoy it. But it is also a swing that wants to change the world, through the art and activism of the architect and artist Joar Nango Sámi and his idea of how to re-organize knowledge based on his concept of “indigenuity”, a combination of the words “ingenuity” and “indigeneity”. He is working with what is already there in the most respectful manner; not a single drop of oil, or centimeter was added. Or kids look for “treasures” in a sandbox-*cum*\-excavation site in an installation by School of Mutants which opened up the grounds where the ethnographic museum once stood, creating a decolonial sandpit of mutating meanings, digging for truth, making your hands dirty in the sand, restituting debris and meanings. Some of these kids will take those fundamental questions further, and ask how the museums need to reinvent themselves in the future. **BFB:** You are asking for the secret recipes of the curators here, it seems. First of all, we invited artists who could develop a work for a program involving public space, a work that is playable and that would allow multidirectional access points. We wanted to have a plural mix of cultural backgrounds, ages, origins, personalities, and media. We also looked for artists who could work with a parking lot, a legion of trees, as well as the spirits of the colonial past of the former site of the Royal Prussian *Völkerkundemuseum*, and those who had experience with play and playability or the activation of urban spaces. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/rp2024_Berliner-Festspiele_32250_DSC02263.jpeg) fig. 1 **Does the city play a role in the selection?** **JW:** As in many public art projects. The context is half of the work. Our project is informed and situated in the Gropius Bau, at the time of the European football championships, in between East and West Berlin, within the current discourse on play and game, between conceptual art and game theory, and also alongside the wars in Ukraine, Gaza, and elsewhere. We support various organizations that deal with rebuilding playgrounds in the war zones. Our playworkers pointed to some of them. **BFB:** You mean the city of Berlin - not so much the particular site - a space normally used for cars beside a fantastic federal museum, with numerous desires formulated by different entities of the city, the Federal Government, the cultural field. Or do you mean the origins of the artists? That not as much as all the aspects we mentioned above. **Are the infrastructures and opportunities you curated radical at all?** **JW:** I believe that play is a political category which allows us to come together with, and despite, our differences. When we play we find distance from ourselves, from our egos and sorrows, and then we can come back together again. Especially in these times of increasing political tensions, where many feel silenced, frozen, and unable to move, play can offer hope, resilience,, and a reconsideration of knowledge. I believe that museums can generally learn a lot from the concept of play and playgrounds to create ways to experience art with all senses, in a less intimidating way, mixing high and low, serious and funny, political and social, breaking the culturally masculine and intimidating codes they were founded on. Museums and playgrounds both are testing grounds for how society re-invents and re-imagines itself. **BFB:** In the current state of our society, Europe, and the world are in, where it is seen as radical to call for ceasefire in Gaza, we think that a space that all generations can share, an artistic public park that is open for everyone, an exhibition that is free of charge, where caretakers are invited to share their artistic practice with the audience, a playground with a beer garden, where the healing powers of play are sought, where play is not about who is the strongest, fastest, the richest, but about responsibilities, support structures and revealing historical contaminations - can very well be called radical. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/rp2024_p_Berliner-Festspiele_visual.jpg) fig. 2 **Can play be planned?** **JW:** Some kinds can; others cannot. We also look at the difference between the concepts of game and free play. Take the Euro Football Championship, it is perfectly planned. Games have a set of rules and clearly defined winners and losers: the matches are often about channeling emotions and sublimating conflict and confrontation. While playing with each other, we are free to constantly change the situation and invent the rules as we go along. You can not plan a good conversation, a flirtation, or a dancing party. It is free play, whether that will happen or not. You can help it just a bit. The rest is... chemistry... Our exhibition helps the free play to happen, but it is the visitors who make it live. **BFB:** Absolutely! To be able to play “tic-tac-toe” (naugths and crosses) you need to draw a grid. Play is improvisation, just as living in the city is improvisation, and it's mostly a collective effort. Collective improvisation needs a clear structure. a grid, a system to improvise upon. And this needs to be planned, negotiated, and prepared. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/RP24_20240427_Rundgang_mit_Joanna_Warsza_und_Benjamin_Foerster-Baldnius_Gropius_Bau_c_Berliner_Fest_00002.jpg) fig. 3 **Are these playgrounds for people or art?** **JW:** Both. That's the point. This is an exhibition that you can touch, play with, and experience with all senses. At the same time it is conceptual art and socially engaged architecture, including a good restaurant. **BFB:** Radical playgrounds are a space generated by artworks for people of all ages, and, hopefully, all cultures. We have to admit it is not the best for animals and other non-human species, except maybe for spiders. **In 1986, Palle Nielsen turned Stockholm’s *Moderna Museet into a Model for a Qualitative Society* where a large exhibition space was turned into an adventure playground for children. What emerged was a collective process of transformation. What emerged from turning a space next to Gropius Bau into what you call *Radical Playgrounds*?** **BFB:** “Modellen” was one of the models for our project on the car park of Gropius Bau. But we were rather interested in transforming a fossil fueled public infrastructure into a public space, not just a museum into a playground. For us, the German term *Spielraum* is more important than *Spielplatz. Spielraum* is a spatial expansion, stretching borders and asking more questions than giving answers; questions that need to be negotiated by playing. **JW:** Palle Nielsen was just one of them. It is crucial to remember Gunilla Lundhal and other female members who, before him, did pop-up playgrounds all around the city, and who then proposed this exhibition to draw attention to the lack of public spaces for games. The exhibition was such a success that the museum closed it after 3 weeks because too many people began to come to the institution. Otherwise, not many attended. *The Playground Project*, Gabriela Burkhalter’s exhibition on the history of playgrounds sits in the middle of *Radical Playgrounds*, and it tells the story of how rules and anarchy inspired public spaces. Museums are part of it. Later, some of her exhibitions will find a home in the permanent playground inside Gropius Bau. We are its Vorspiel, a parasitic playground, a test site. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Atmosphaere_Gropius-Bau_-Berliner-Festspiele_Foto_Camille-Blake-16.jpg) fig. 4 **The landscape architect Lady Allen of Hurtwood was a British playground pioneer. In the 1950s she created playgrounds by pouring sand in empty lots. This model of playgrounds continues today. Which of the works of *Radical Playgrounds* will continue to be relevant in 80 years?** **BFB:** Honestly, none of the works is a prototype for future playgrounds - when, for example, Edgar Callel proposes a Mayan pyramid made of strawbales as a “mountain of drawings” it refers to the pyramid as a space of encounter and as a social hub in the culture he comes from, as well as to the pile of strawbales being just a very basic iconic playground in the memory of everyone who ever spent some of their childhood on a farm. Both aspects have been there. There is nothing new besides the juxtaposition, and the fact that we present this in the context described above. Still, it creates a mental friction that makes us wonder once more about the way that European cultures have dismantled the sites of indigenous cultures worldwide, as if they were department stores to furnish European museums. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Jun-Juyu-Juxuj_A-Mountain-of-Drawings_Edgar-Calel_Gropius-Bau_-Berliner-Festspiele_F.jpg) fig. 5 **It is my dream to design a playground. Meanwhile, I observe that making space for play is decreasing in cities. Do you agree with this observation?** **JW:** The cities get more and more commercialized, and the play, too. We need spaces of free play. Actually, in my new role as a city curator of Hamburg, I will propose permanent playgrounds designed by artists. Let’s see. **BFB:** First of all good luck with designing a playground! It looks easy, but can be tricky nowadays, especially if you want it to be a *public* playground. The rules and regulations will soon kill your joy of creation. The space that our urban planners reserve for play, at least in Germany, is not decreasing there are also rules and regulations for the amount of play areas a city has to provide per inhabitant. But what you might have observed is that playgrounds are not the only spaces that are used to play. Urban wilderness, ruins, “empty” lots, forgotten corners, and so forth, are getting rarer in cities that are squeezed economically by the real estate and building industries. This is a scary development indeed. **How should we inhabit cities for play to be increased?** **Maybe with more horses again instead of cars.** **BFB:** That would mean we need more lawns for them to run and to eat, more stables with strawbales, softer grounds on the streets, more shade, and so on. **JW:** More basic elements, air, water, soil, fire, earth, more planetary consciousness, a more planetarily concerned public sphere. The “Fountain of Knowledge” by Raul Walch uses a pond which makes us more conscious and appreciative of the presence of water in overheated cities. That is the way to go. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Raul-Walch_A-Fountain-of-Knowledge-Berliner-Festspiele_Camille-Blake.jpg) fig. 6 **What are your thoughts about play, risk, and appetite for autonomy? Do you think these belong together?** **JW:** With their ideological and social contexts, playgrounds are excellent testbeds for how a society re-invents and re-imagines itself. *The Playground Project*, an open-air exhibition and research project by the urban planner Gabriela Bulkhalter, demonstrates how the playground negotiates histories, the tension between rules and freedom, the familiar and the unknown, borders and transgression, the present and the future. Art, and especially public art, is a great tool in this process. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/The-School-of-Mutants.-Radical-Playgrounds-c-Joanna-Warsza.jpg) fig. 7 \\\\ *The project* Radical Playgrounds: From Competition to Collaboration *curated by Joanna Warsza and Benjamin Foerster-Baldenius, together with architecture by raumlaborberlin, will be on view at Gropius Bau until Juli 14, 2024.* *Questions were formulated by Matylda Krzykowski and edited by Dalia Maini and María Inés Plaza Lazo* **Joanna Warsza* is a curator, editor, writer and Stadtkuratorin of Hamburg as of September 2024\. She recently co-curated the Polish Pavilion at the 59th Venice Biennale with the work of Roma artist Małgorzata Mirga-Tas, as well as the 3rd and the 4th Autostrada Biennale in Kosovo. She was previously an Associate Curator of the 7th Berlin Biennale and Artistic Director of Public Art Munich 2018\. Her interests span the concepts of performativity, the public sphere, feminism, politics and decoloniality in Eastern Europe. Her recent publications include “Assuming Asymmetries” and “Curating beyond the Mainstream”, published by Konstfack and Sternberg Press in 2022\. Originally from Warsaw, she lives in Berlin.* **Benjamin Foerster-Baldenius* has been a performing architect since 1999\. With raumlaborberlin he contributes new ideas to the culture of the city. He plans, sketches and realises installations and interventions in public space, creates scenographies and dramaturgies for stages, public places and exhibitions, and develops event and teaching formats. Many of the works are created in an art and theatre context with large and small, established and improvised institutions, but they all grow on the compost of the collective. The results are projects such as “working on common ground” for Manifesta 14 in Prishtina, “2465 Enright” for the Pulitzer Foundation in St. Louis and the Floating University in Berlin, where he has been a board member since 2018 and which won the Golden Lion in Venice in 2021\. He is currently Professor of Cohabitation and Vice-Rector at the Städelschule in Frankfurt.* --- ### Images Cover: Ingela Ihrmann, *Love Me, Love Me Not*, © Berliner Festspiele, Photo: Camille Blake. fig. 1: Creating Fantastic Beings, Clay Building Workshop for kids by Kerstin Brätsch & Jana Dohmann © Berliner Festspiele, Foto: Ranav Adhikari. fig. 2: Céline Condorelli, Play for Today, installation view, École de la Porte d'Eau, 2022\. Photograph by Caroline Douau © FRAC Grand Large. fig. 3: Radical Playgrounds. Ein Kunstparcours am Gropius Bau. Architektur: raumlaborberlin. Foto: Camille Blake. fig. 4: Gabriela Burkhalter, The Playground Project © Berliner Festspiele, Photo: Camille Blake. fig. 5: Edgar Calel - Jun Juyu Juxuj, A Mountain of Drawings, © Berliner Festspiele, Photo: Camille Blake. fig. 6: Radical Playgrounds, Construction at the Gropius Bau © Berliner Festspiele, Photo: Camille Blake. fig. 7: The School of Mutants, The Dig, © Berliner Festspiele, Photo: Joanna Warsza. *Matylda Krzykowski is a designer, curator and artist focusing on collaborative and performative projects in physical and digital space. Krzykowski’s work is introspective, as it explores and experiments with the inner mechanisms of design, art and architecture. As such, her projects dissect the design process to its different stages – from material and personal origins, to methodologies and education; from networks to social projections, and the spectrum in between.* ### Mona Ragy Enayat URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/mona-ragy-enayat/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:43.000Z “Im Zentrum all meines künstlerischen Tuns standen und stehen Menschen – zumeist im thematischen Kontext von „Begrenzungen“. Begrenzungen sind immer Auswirkungen der Unterdrückungsverhältnisse, in denen die überwiegende Mehrheit der Menschheit lebt. Begrenzungen oder Einschränkungen gibt es auf unterschiedlichen Ebenen und in unterschiedlichen Bereichen: Dogmen und politische Machtverhältnisse fesseln die Selbstbestimmung. Verinnerlichte Unterdrückung betäubt das Wahrnehmungsvermögen und behindert die Fähigkeit, sich gegen Erniedrigung zur Wehr zu setzen. Diese Kette der Zusammenhänge ließe sich fortsetzen, ich könnte zahllose Beispiele aufführen. Der Umgang mit Begrenzungen und das Reagieren auf Beschränkungen spiegeln die individuelle menschliche Vielfalt – von Hilflosigkeit, von Flucht in Magie bis hin zum zwanghaften Leben mit einer Maske. Auf meinen Lebenswegen zwischen verschiedenen Kulturen – ob in meiner Heimat Ägypten oder in Deutschland, wo ich jetzt überwiegend lebe – war die Konfrontation mit Widersprüchen, mit notwendigen Kompromissen auch der Begrenzung, eine ständige Begleiterin. Diese Erfahrungen begründeten meine künstlerische Auseinandersetzung mit dem Thema „Verschmelzung und Begrenzung“ – die Gleichzeitigkeit von Logischem und Unlogischem, von Nacktheit und Verschleierung. Kunst ist für mich immer die Reflektion meines Alltages, meines sozialen Umfeldes, meiner Wahrnehmung und meiner Auseinandersetzung mit gesellschaftlichen Prozessen. Die Trennung von Staat und Religion, die Freiheit der Kunst und der Wissenschaft sowie die Gleichheit vor dem Gesetz – all diese liberalen und sozialen Werte gelten für mich als Inspirationen und gesellschaftliche Errungenschaften. Kunst ist für mich ein Mittel, Menschen miteinander zu verbinden. Sie wird von Menschen, für Menschen und über Menschen gemacht. "Re-Connect"\* war für mich eine sehr erfolgreiche Ausstellung und ich bin dankbar, ein Teil von ihr gewesen zu sein. Allerdings empfinde ich mich nicht als migrantische Künstlerin, da dieser Begriff für mich eher separierend als integrativ wirkt. Ich würde mir wünschen, dass die Diversität mehr der individuellen Bereicherung der Kunstwelt dient. Frida Kahlo wurde in Mexico geboren und lebte teilweise in Frankreich, sie wurde nicht als migrantische Künstler\*in beschrieben. Künstler\*innen repräsentieren kein Land, keine Religion oder Rasse. Kunst repräsentiert ihre Glaubwürdigkeit nur gegenüber sich selbst und gegenüber der Menschheit.” \* \* *Re-Connect. Kunst und Kampf im Bruderland. 18.05\. - 10.09.2023, Museum der bildenden Künste Leipzig* --- ### Image Caption Cover: Mona Ragy Enayat, Moderne Sklaverei, 2024 © and courtesy the artist. *Mona Ragy Enayat is an artist. She grew up in Cairo in a family of artists and studied painting and art history there. She applied for postgraduate studies in Munich and Leipzig and was accepted in both places. She opted for Leipzig, where she began her studies at the Academy of Visual Arts (HGB) in 1988\. In 1989, she joined the demonstrations in Leipzig.* ### Artist Profile: Lin May Saeed URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/artist-profile-lin-may-saeed/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:41.000Z ## *Hi there, how do you live?* ## *Rabbits:* *We live in small groups, have no fixed partnerships.* *Build widely branching tunnel systems,* *in which our young are born, naked and blind.* *We also reproduce when imprisoned.* *Hare:* *I live solitary. Sleep in a shallow hollow.* *My offspring are born with fur and open eyes.* *I have never been domesticated.* *Humans:* *We don’t quite know.* *Until we have found out, we wage wars.* – Lin May Saeed ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/GAMeC_Lin-May-Saeed-011_Ph.-A.-Maniscalco..jpg) Fig. 1 In Ortisei and Bergamo, a homage to an artist becomes a homage to interconnectedness between humans, animals and nature. The late Lin May Saeed receives accolades from the curators Lorenzo Giusti and Marta Papini on her views and works pondering ecological and philosophical dimensions of coexistence. Saeed’s work may disguise the cruelty of our rapidly changing world through her seemingly naïve aesthetics, characterized by the use of humble materials such as Styrofoam and papier-mâché. But these are more than just lightweight, sometimes expressionist sculptures that reflect humanity’s hegemony over art and nature. Saeed turns every pedestal displaying her works in a cage, one that also serves as packing for the work’s shipment from one exhibition space to another. Disarming and profound, her sculptures depict animals in various states of interaction with the world, and each other, challenging traditional narratives and anthropocentric hierarchies. The title of the exhibition both at Spazio Trenker and GaMec Bergamo transcends both the animal and the human: "Thinking Like a Mountain". The title is borrowed from the environmentalist Aldo Leopold, suggesting a perspective that sees humans as a component part of the ecosystem rather than its dominators. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/GAMeC_Lin-May-Saeed-014_Ph.-A.-Maniscalco.jpg) Fig. 2 Born in Germany to a German mother of Jewish descent and an Iraqi father, Lin May Saeed (1973-2023) devoted her career to creating an original imagery of solidarity among the diverse lifeforms inhabiting the earth, weaving mythological and political explorations that makes the relationships between humans and non-humans graspable beyond scientific language, or language at all. Her sculptures, reliefs, drawings, paintings, and steel gates tell stories of liberation and coexistence, emphasizing empathy and mutual respect, recontextualizing biblical passages and to address present day concerns regarding consumerism and waste. Saeed’s use of recycled materials not only aligns with her ecological themes, but materializes the roughness, fragility and resilience of our bodies fighting against, or transforming through, the same materials in our daily lives. We are full of micro-plastics these days, captives actively recovering from their toxicity. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/GAMeC_Lin-May-Saeed-025_Ph.-A.-Maniscalco.jpg) Fig. 3 *The Liberation of Animals from their Cage*s, as well as *Hawr al-Hammar/Hammar Marshes* (2020) provide examples of these reflections of our own captivity as humans. In her version of Noah’s biblical episode, the animals are not passive passengers but active agents of their own salvation. Because Lin May Saeed was not only an artist but also an ardent animal rights activist, her work reflects a profound empathy and commitment to animal liberation, both in her artistic endeavors and her personal life. Her works might not be understood as overtly political, yet they embody her deep involvement in activism, portraying a world where empathy extends beyond human subjects. One of her most significant works includes an installation originally created for the Clark Art Institute in Massachusetts, which features seven figures, both human and non-human, not least a dog named Mila. The piece references the story of the *Seven Sleepers of Ephesus* (2020), a tale shared across medieval Christian traditions and found in the Quran. Saeed’s interpretation highlights the dog as an integral member of the group seeking refuge from persecution, emphasizing the continuity and interconnectedness of life. Her interest in these themes is evident in the selection of works chosen by the curator Lorenzo Giusti in Bergamo. These include representations of animals liberated from their cages. The pieces depict a variety of animals, from those existing today to those long extinct, creating a dialogue about species survival and human impact. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/GAMeC_Lin-May-Saeed-019_Ph.-A.-Maniscalco.jpg) Fig. 4 Giusti, together with Valentina Gervasoni, edited a pocket book containing a collection of short stories written by Lin May Saeed in the early 2000s, entitled *Fables*. It offers essential interpretive keys to her body of works, crystallizing the harshness in which Saeed looks at the world, regardless of its moral suprematisms. These tales, paradoxical, ironic, and at times sarcastic, explore fundamental issues of interspecies coexistence. For instance, in "Hi there, how do you live?", a dialogue between humans, rabbits, and hares, which critiques the absurdity of wars and their justifications. In "The Silence of the Animals", Saeed delves into theories concerning the supposed inability of animals to respond to human violence, suggesting deep meditative states, or imperceptibly slow speech, as possible explanations for the phenomenon, raising questions about animal psychology and the lenses, be they philosophical or scientific, through which we understand non-human lives. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/GAMeC_Lin-May-Saeed-017_Ph.-A.-Maniscalco.jpg) Fig. 5 In tales such as the story of the man and the ape, or "Riding Attempts with Fatal Outcome", humans are portrayed undergoing zoomorphization, inviting readers to view interspecies relationships from alternative viewpoints. GAMeC augments the exhibition with several interactive and educational components different to the dynamics in which Saeed’s show at the Biennale Gherdeina connects with a bigger conceptual frame, “The Parliament of Marmots”. Workshops for children and adults focus on creating art from recycled materials, echoing Saeed’s own methods. Additionally, a series of lectures and panel discussions on topics such as animal rights, environmental ethics, and sustainable living are scheduled throughout the exhibition's run. These programs aim to deepen the public’s engagement with the themes presented in Saeed’s work. "Thinking Like a Mountain" has been overwhelmingly positively received, even though the space is hardly comparable to the scale that it enjoyed at the Georg Kolbe Museum in Berlin, where the access to natural light and Kolbe’s sculpture garden allowed the works to engage not only with pressing global issues, but also with a legacy of sculptural transformation as a mirror of socio-political turmoil. The exhibition makes it even harder not to mourn her personal absence, as her unique artistic vision provides more than just a space of quiet contemplation, rather a space to confront the violence of reality as part of ourselves. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/GAMeC_Lin-May-Saeed-001_Ph.-A.-Maniscalco.jpg) Fig. 6 By compelling viewers to rethink their relationship with animals and the environment, this homage to Lin May Saeed not only highlights critical ecological issues but also offers a hopeful vision for a more empathetic and sustainable world. The GAMeC in Bergamo provides an ideal setting for this important work, offering a space for reflection, education, and inspiration in its entrance hall. Despite her battle with brain cancer, Saeed remained committed to her art practice until the end. These two exhibitions were the last projects she would complete. Her legacy is preserved today by the gallerist Jacky Strenz and through exhibitions that continue to showcase her hopeful vision of coexistence and mutual respect. *The exhibition at GAMeC Bergamo runs until September 22, 2024.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/GAMeC_Lin-May-Saeed-024_Ph.-A.-Maniscalco.jpg) Fig. 7 --- ### Images: Cover: *Seven Sleepers of Ephesus,* 2020, Steel, Styrofoam, jute, fabric, acrylic paint, paper, dry plant (lagurus ovatus), glass, water, cord, wood, screed cardboard paper; 215 x 450 x 100 cm; Installation view of *Arrival of the Animals* (photo: Robert Wiesenberger), The Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, US, 2020 (Solo Show) Fig 1\. - 5.: Lin May Saeed, Installation views - GAMeC, Bergamo, 2024, Photo: Antonio Maniscalco. Courtesy GAMeC - Galleria d'Arte Moderna e Contemporanea di Bergamo *Lilo Ruminawi is a poet, playwright, and film director. She has written and directed the experimental short films La Mancha Viva (2014), Perreo Seco (2017), and the documentary essay El Año sin Árboles (2020). She is currently working on the post-production of her first feature-length fiction film, Tzantza, a retro-futuristic western set in the Salar de Uyuni.* ### Notes on the Dolomites URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/notes-on-the-dolomites-3/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:40.000Z If you consider that 230 million years ago, the Dolomites were part of an ocean, you can hardly keep from thinking of the sky as a fluid surface to cross, like a sea reptile. Weaving my way through the artworks currently exhibited in the 9th Biennial of Gherdeina, the seabed of my thoughts found its reflection in the fluttering, shiny fabric of a sailing veil attached through a hole of a window from the offices above the gallery of the Biennale's founder, Doris Ghetta. The Veil is tied to the floor of a generic room that the **Atelier dell'Errore** (abbreviated here as AdE, and translated into English as *Studio of Mistakes*) emptied out for the exhibition of a giant marmot. Or is it a pigeon? Or is it a goddess? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Atelier-dellaErrore-Marmottoloide-2024.jpg) Fig.1 It’s a *Marmotoloid*, says the artist Luca Santiago Mora, the founder of AdE. It’s beyond the zoological: Mora’s creative ethos revolves around transformation and metamorphoses beyond traditional categorizations. The artist enchants the group of visitors with a poetic and playful description of the works exhibited. In the Atelier’s artistic process, nothing is ever erased, preserving and harnessing the potential inherent in every perceived "error." The resulting artworks are not merely individual creations, but intricate components of a larger relational process, akin to the organs of a living being. AdE started in 2002 as a visual arts laboratory for neurodivergent children under pediatric care in Reggio Emilia and Bergamo. As these children approached adulthood, they found themselves outside the pediatric health system, prompting them to establish AdE as a professional artistic collective in 2015. The *Marmotoloids* are depicted in different, rather awkward positions: one has a golden face and no skin, like a pre-Hispanic deity, or an image of San Bartolomeo. Another one has huge tears below their eyes; the body resembles a dysfunctional, rather chaotic, parliament. The ninth edition of the Biennale Gherdeina, is entitled "The Parliament of Marmots” after the *Marmotoloids* presenting an intriguing exploration of the relationships between humans and nature. Here, in this generic office in Pontiffs, the industrial, rather ugly part of the otherwise-photogenic Dolomites, the Ladin myth of the Fanes provides a departing point to connect ancient narratives with current climate and humanitarian crises. The exhibition is in no way explicit, yet it breathes life into ancient narratives, and brings them into a contemporary context, urging visitors to reflect on interspecies harmony and the disruption caused by modern environmental destruction. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-06-19-at-16.30.46.png) Fig. 2 The curatorial frame that Lorenzo Giusti and Marta Panini give to the exhibition encompasses the picturesque landscape of Val Gardena, thoughtfully placing the commissioned artworks in both natural settings and urban spaces. Each piece contributes to a collective dialogue about nature, mythology, and human impact. However, the nature of collectivity here is rather heterogeneous. The collectivity here responds to its members in a coequal way. Whilst the Atelier dell'Errore sets a powerful tone with their installation at Pontives, the homage to the late Lin Mae Saeed at Sala Trenker comprises a historical contextualization of an artist who devoted her practice to fostering awareness of human behavior towards non-humans, but also to language as a channel to connect to everything. At AR/GE Kunst, **Eva Giolo**’s analogue film *Memory Is an Animal, It Barks with Many Mouths* (2024) rehearses a patchwork of slang, onomatopoeia, bucolic scenarios with women and children as protagonists, and images of wooden puppets and clouds against blue skies. Giolo’s documentary visual language conveys the physical survival of Landino, a language spoken by only a few thousand people, creating resonances like the building of an image in a puzzle. Curated by Francesca Verga and Zasha Colah, who will direct the upcoming Berlin Biennale in 2025, the exhibition in Bozen is part of a repertoire of venues for the Biennale. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ruth-Beraha-Fortuneas-always-hiding-Iave-looked-everywhere-2024.jpg) Fig. 3 The abandoned Hotel Ladinia in Ortisei is the stage for a vibrant fusion of North African aesthetics clashing against the Alpine surroundings. The author of the colorful ornaments on its façade is Nassim Azarzar, whose mural's intricate, mosaic-like composition invites passengers to ponder the interconnectedness of contrasts and the cosmos as a whole, reflects a sense that is both timeless and contemporary, resonating deeply with the exhibition's themes. Inside, **Ruth Beraha**’s *Fortune’s always hiding, I’ve looked everywhere*, (2024), displays several porcelain birds entering or melting with the walls, expressing an uncanny take, dismantling romanticized perceptions of nature. The simplicity of this intervention in the hotel connects with the one at the town’s museum. In the darkness of the disused theater hall of Gherdeina the work is beautiful and distressing at the same time. Whilst the half-birds might slide into kitsch, the bird calls, recorded by amateur ornithologists in the valley of Gardena, transports the listener to a serene, natural world menaced increasingly by human-made white noise disrupting the soundscape. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Julius-von-Bismarck-Beatle-On-A-Horse-2024.jpg) Fig. 4 This kind of disruption is also manifested on the main street of Ortisei, namely with a monument on burnt wood entitled *Beetle on a Horse* (2024) by **Julius von Bismarck**. The equestrian statue is perhaps one of the roughest pieces here, replacing the traditional warrior figure with a bark beetle, such as that which has a devastating impact on the advance of climate change. This tiny insect, sculpted with local artisans in a Kippenberger-esque manner, typically viewed as a pest, is actually the subject breaking the boundary between heroism and villainy, pointing a finger back at human activity as the true culprit, as the creature can only jump so easily from tree to tree in human-made forests, in which trees are planted too close to one another allowing the beetle to thrive. The industrial forest is one of the main issues treated both kindly and critically throughout the exhibition, as in **Nadia Kaabi-Linke**'s *Mushroom* (2024), an underground installation which offers a compelling commentary on the encroachment of urban spaces on nature. In the piece tree roots penetrate the concrete, creating an immersive experience that speaks to the resilience of nature and the often-overlooked presence of the natural world in urban environments. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nadia-Kaabi-Linke-Mushroom-2024.jpg) Fig. 5 The exhibition’s opening days were rainy days. The clouds dispersed for a dry minute in the valley of Vallunga, where **Chiara Bersani** performed a brief but all-encompassing, and breathtaking instance in which she gently moved, and moaned “wait!”, as if the words could transform into river, air, or rocks. *L'animale selvaggio* (*The Wild Animal*) unfolds like a haunted slumber. Perched atop a large boulder, Bersani sang, blurring the boundaries between human and animal, myth and reality. Her presence invites passersby into a deeply personal and visceral engagement with the natural world, fostering connection and introspection. And, if you don’t pass through the valley, but do visit Hotel Ladinia, her drawings can give you an idea of the passages she envisions for our bodies to use to connect through how we dream. Next to Bersani’s drawings are **Daniele Genadry**'s small-format paintings which offer delicate, pastel meditations on light and landscape. Each brushstroke captures the ephemeral beauty of the Dolomites, emphasizing their fragility and transient nature. These works gently remind us of nature's vulnerability in the face of human activity. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Chiara-Bersani-Laanimale-selvaggio-2024.jpg) Fig. 6 In Ortisei, **Sara Ouhaddou**'s *Les mains fertiles - Fertile hands* (2024), a series of wood sculptures in a shop window, blend cultural and natural motifs. Collaborating with a local sculptor, she creates animal figures inspired by the zoomorphic pottery of the Atlas Mountains, and sets the works against Moroccan poetry. This fusion of materials and cultures enriches the narrative, underscoring the points of contact between nature and art, as the artist draws inspiration from ancient traditions. Her figures, crafted in clay and cooked in an oven, echo the art created by women by the fire since the Neolithic era, and surely beyond. Invited to stay for a week at a retreat for artisans of the ballet, she planned an abstract geometrical landscape inspired by Atlas Mountain crafts. Her creatures, including wolves, foxes, snakes, and bears, resonate with the valley's inhabitants, symbolizing a beautiful collaboration between invited artists and local craftspeople. **Esraa Elfeki**’s collection of 50 drawings documenting her journeys between Egypt, San Quentin, and the Alps revolve around the pursuit of endangered butterflies. The exhibition at the Museum of Gherdeina places these beautifully borderless drawings alongside taxidermied butterflies from the region. Through the dialogue, Elfeki reflects on the deep relationship between landscapes marked by apocalypse, extinction, adaptation, and catastrophe. The butterfly in Egypt, confined to a high-elevation valley, symbolizes the fragile balance of existence, always teetering on the brink of extinction. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Eva-Papamargariti-A-whisper-a-murmur-a-roar-2024.jpg) Fig. 7 As if depicting what humans see when they open and close their eyes after eating magic mushrooms, **Eva Papamargariti**'s three-channel video installation in a residential garage titled *A whisper, a murmur, a roar* (2024), mesmerizes with a special, eerie journey into the wilderness. I’m unsure if this is the ideal placement for such an intimate alternation of poetry, computer-generated and quasi-documentary footage of a stroll through the woods, one undertaken as both humans and spiritual beings. Regardless of the disruptive surroundings of the humid basement of a building, the piece transported me to a mythological space, exploring themes of change and the uncanny. The artist’s digital manipulation of natural landscapes creates a surreal, dreamlike experience, blurring the lines between reality and fiction. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Sara-Ouhaddou-Les-mains-fertiles-Fertile-hands-2024.jpg) Fig. 8 In the courtyard of Castel Gardena, **Diana Policarpo**'s alien sculpture and sound composition *Anguane’s Fountain* (2024) pay homage to Ladin mythology. The translucent, soap-foam-like sculpture, accompanied by an evocative soundscape, blends feminist standpoints with perspectives on interspecies relations, creating a multifaceted narrative that is both haunting and enlightening. Amidst the works of the myriad participating artists at the Biennale Gherdeina 9, the viewer embarks on a thought-provoking and visually stunning journey into the intricate relationships between humans and nature in the present moment. The exhibition does not claim to answer all questions; instead, it repeats like a litany the actions we must take: *reconsider what nature means, reconsider our relationship with it, respect its rhythms, recognize our interconnectedness.* This insistent and continuous undertone challenges visitors to reflect on their role in the natural world and the impact of their actions, leaving a lasting impression that transcends the boundaries of the art itself. In a similar vein, "Thinking Like a Mountain", the exhibition at the GaMec in Bergamo, invites us to adopt a broader, more holistic view of our environment. By encouraging us to see the world through the eyes of a mountain; it deepens our understanding of ecological interdependence, and the long-term impact of human activity. Together, these exhibitions echo a powerful message: to truly care for our planet, we must embrace a perspective that honors and integrates the wisdom of the natural world. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nassim-Azarzar-The-Edge-of-the-Forest-2024.jpg) Fig. 9 // --- ### Notes **Images:** Cover image: Diana Policarpo, Anguane’s Fountain, 2024\. Mixed media sculpture. 280 x 120 x 120 cm. // Anguane’s Fountain, Stream (COBRACORAL), 2024\. 6 multi-channel audio installation. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 9\. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo Fig. 1: Atelier dell’Errore, Marmottoloide, 2024\. Mixed Technique and Gold Leaf on Polyester and Carbon Fibre. Variable Dimensions. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 9\. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo Fig. 2: Laurent Le Deunff, Chouette des neiges, Crocodile, Escargot, 2024\. Installation with Concrete Sculptures, Earth, Tree Bark, Dead Leaves, Moss and Various Species of green Plants and Saplings. Variable Dimensions. Courtesy of the Artist and Semiose, Paris. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo Fig. 3: Ruth Beraha, Fortune’s always hiding, I’ve looked everywhere, 2024\. Ceramics. Variable dimension. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo Fig. 4: Julius von Bismarck, Beatle On A Horse, 2024\. Stone Pine Wood. 444 x 125 x 233 cm. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 9\. Supported by IFA - Institut für Auslandsbeziehungen. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo Fig. 5: Nadia Kaabi-Linke, Mushroom, 2024\. Installation. Variable Dimensions. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 9\. Supported by IFA - Institut für Auslandsbeziehungen. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo Fig. 6: Chiara Bersani, L’animale selvaggio, 2024\. Mixed media on Paper. Variable Dimensions. Performance on 31.05.2024\. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 9\. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo Fig. 7: Sara Ouhaddou, Les mains fertiles - Fertile hands, 2024\. Half-Relief and Sculptures. Wood. Variable Dimensions. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 9\. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo Fig. 8: Eva Papamargariti, A whisper, a murmur, a roar, 2024\. Three-Channel HD Video, Color, Sound, 9’. Commissioned by Biennale Gherdëina 9\. Supported by LUMA Arles. Photo by Tiberio Sorvillo *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### In Bewegung URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/in-bewegung/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:39.000Z *Die aktuelle Ausstellung und Recherche des Hauses der Kulturen der Welt (HKW) in Berlin zeichnet ein Bild der DDR durch private Archive und persönliche Erinnerungen. Damit widersetzt sie sich einer großen zusammenhängenden Erzählung und verwebt das Erfahrungswissen verschiedener Communitys mit Kunstwerken. Gespräche mit ebendiesen Communitys, ob migrantisch oder auf sonstige Weise marginalisiert, bilden den Kern der Vermittlung des Projekts. Zeitzeug\*innen bekommen bei Veranstaltungen und in Publikationen Raum, um ihre Erinnerungen und Erfahrungen widerhallen zu lassen. Sie sprechen für sich, aber auch für die Communitys, die sie repräsentieren, um ein detailliertes Licht auf das Leben in der DDR zu werfen. Dieses Interview ist ein Beispiel dafür.* Auch wenn es im Nachhinein schwer fallen mag, sich ein anderes Ergebnis als die sogenannte deutsche Einheit vorzustellen, so war es keinesfalls das einzige politische Ziel der oppositionellen DDR-Bürger\*innen, das Regime zu stürzen. Einige setzten sich für Umweltschutz ein, andere für den Frieden, und ein großer Teil war an mehreren dieser sich überschneidenden politischen Ziele interessiert. Eine Betrachtung der Bewegungsgeschichte muss bewusst zwischen studentischem Widerstand, Engagement in politischen Parteien, Dissident\*innen, Umweltschützer\*innen, Friedensbewegung, Frauenbewegung und Oppositionellen in der SED-Führung sowie der Kirche unterscheiden. Peggy Piesche und Samirah Kenawi waren in den Friedens-, Frauen-, und Lesbenbewegungen aktiv und haben sich nach 1990 eingehend mit ihrer eigenen Bewegungsgeschichte im Kontext der DDR auseinandergesetzt. **Eric Otieno Sumba:** Welche biografischen Bezüge habt ihr zu den oppositionellen Bewegungen in der DDR? **Samirah Kenawi:** Ich war in verschiedenen Gruppen der Frauen- und Lesbenbewegung aktiv und habe nach der Wende versucht, diese Bewegung sichtbar zu machen und zu bewahren. Durch dieses nachträgliche Archivieren der Bewegung habe ich Einsichten bekommen, die ich als Akteurin in der DDR noch nicht hatte. Ich habe Zusammenhänge wahrgenommen, die erst im Rückblick verständlich wurden. **EOS:** Peggy, wie war es bei dir? **Peggy Piesche:** Ich komme aus der Provinz. In meiner Kindheit und Jugend hatte ich leider sehr wenig Kontakt zu anderen Schwarzen Menschen. Als Jugendliche war ich aber in der Friedensbewegung aktiv. Das war zwar auch in den eher provinziellen Gegenden, dennoch konnte ich einige Einblicke in die Bewegungen in der DDR gewinnen – auch in ihre Beschränkungen und die Repressionen. **EOS: Was war die Motivation für eure Aktivitäten in diesen Bewegungen? Gab es politisierende Erweckungsmomente oder historische Schlüsselereignisse für euch?** **PP:** Für mich waren es keine historischen Momente, vielmehr waren es biografische Momente. Ich durfte nicht auf die Erweiterte Oberschule gehen, hätte also kein Abitur machen können. Nur durch die entschiedene Intervention meiner Mutter, die Arbeiterin war und zum Rat des Kreises gegangen ist und sehr deutlich gesagt hat, dass das rassistische Gründe hat, durfte ich eine Berufsausbildung mit Abitur machen. Mir war es wichtig, einen Umgang mit der Erfahrung des ‚Ver-andert-Werdens‘ zu finden, also mit rassistischen Erfahrungen in der DDR, auch wenn ich diesen Begriff damals noch nkannte. Es war klar, dass ich Räume brauchte, in denen ich diese Erfahrung reflektieren konnte, denn ich wusste relativ schnell: Wenn ich das nicht mache, akzeptiere ich diese Fremdzuschreibungen. Die Friedensbewegungen, die vor allem in der protestantischen Kirche verankert waren, boten zumindest einen Raum, in dem ich mit Personen mit ähnlichen Erfahrungen in Kontakt treten konnte. **EOS:** Warum ist die Kirche ein Ort gewesen, an dem Bewegungsaktivitäten stattfinden konnten, die es außerhalb der Kirche in dieser Form vielleicht nicht gegeben hätte? **SK:** Die Kirche war ein Ort, der gewisse Freiräume erlaubte, weil verschiedene Verbindungen zur westdeutschen Kirche bestanden. Einerseits durch eine finanzielle Subventionierung aus dem Westen und zum anderen natürlich auch durch die globale christliche Religionsgemeinschaft, die gewissermaßen überstaatliche Strukturen geschaffen hat, welche die evangelische Kirche gut auszunutzen wusste. Sie schaffte es auch, den Freiraum zu erkämpfen, dass Gemeinderäume von Gruppen genutzt werden konnten, ohne dass diese ihre Veranstaltungen im Einzelnen genehmigen lassen mussten. Das Versammlungsgesetz der DDR sah nämlich vor, dass jede Veranstaltung vorab angemeldet werden musste, inklusive der genauen Inhalte, Themen, Redebeiträge und so weiter. **EOS:** Wurden die Begriffe ‚Aktivismus‘ oder ‚Bewegung‘ verwendet? Wie war das Selbstverständnis? **PP:** Wenn du dich mit so etwas wie Frauenrechten beschäftigt hast, dann war das eine Art Widerstand, etwas Gegenstaatliches. ‚Aktivismus‘ ist bei mir kein Thema gewesen, das war nicht die Versprachlichung, die wir genutzt haben. Wo es schwierig wurde, war die Frage: Inwiefern übernehmen wir diese Zuschreibung von außen? Es gab ja durchaus ein Spektrum von Konsequenzen, die das nach sich ziehen konnte. Wir haben uns auch nicht als Widerstandskämpfer\*innen verstanden, das auf keinen Fall. Ich glaube, der gemeinsame Nenner bestand darin, dass es eine Bewegung war. **SK:** Ich habe mich als Teil einer Bewegung gesehen, weil es mehrere Gruppen gab, zu denen wir gezielt Kontakt gesucht haben. Es gab verschiedene Netzwerktreffen: die Mitarbeiter\*innentreffen der Kirchlichen Arbeitskreise Homosexualität, verschiedene Frauengruppentreffen, die Treffen von Frieden konkret, und es gab ein Netzwerk der Frauen für den Frieden, aus dem später landesweite Frauengruppentreffen hervorgegangen sind. Das Empowernde war, innerhalb der monolithischen DDR-Kultur und der politischen Situation einen Raum zu haben, in dem wir diskutieren konnten, wo Meinungsvielfalt bestand, wo es einen Austausch gab, wo Weltanschauungen in Frage gestellt oder überhaupt zur Sprache gebracht wurden. **EOS:** Gab es die Befürchtung, dass Mitstreiter\*innen Informationen weitergeben? Wie habt ihr euch vor der Markierung als ‚widerständig‘ und vor negativen Konsequenzen aufgrund eures Engagements geschützt? **PP:** Gelernte DDR-Bürger\*innen wussten immer schon: Wenn drei Leute zusammen sind, ist mindestens eine Person ein\*e Inoffizielle\*r Mitarbeiter\*in der Stasi. Das mag übertrieben wirken, aber mit diesem Gefühl wuchsen wir eben auf. Das war eine Art unausgesprochenes Selbstverständnis. Vielleicht haben wir auch mit doppelten Standards gesprochen. Im Bewusstsein, dass der Staat mithört, kann sich die Selbstzensur schnell einschalten. Das sollen beziehungsweise müssen vermutlich spätere Generationen erst noch klären. **SK:** Ich komme aus Berlin, aus einem Akademiker\*innenhaushalt, habe mich für Naturwissenschaften und Technik interessiert und dann Ingenieurwissenschaften studiert. Das waren Studiengänge, bei denen der Zugang ein bisschen leichter war. Ich weiß, dass ich aufgrund der Gruppenzugehörigkeit natürlich observiert wurde. Ich habe keine Repressionen bewusst erlebt, aber es war immer klar, dass ich bestimmte Regeln einhalten muss und es beim politischen Engagement immer eine Grenze gibt. Politisches Engagement hatte in der DDR viel mit dem persönlichen Mut zu tun, vorhandene Freiräume auszuloten, auszunutzen und bis an die Grenzen zu gehen. **EOS:** Welche Gruppen meinst du? **SK:** Das war zum einen der Arbeitskreis Homosexualität in Dresden, zum anderen war ich später auch in verschiedenen Frauengruppen und Netzwerkgruppen aktiv. Verifizieren konnte ich das zwar erst nach der Wende mit Einsicht in meine Stasi-Akte, aber im Grunde war uns allen klar, dass wir observiert wurden. Wir haben diesen indirekten Draht nach oben akzeptiert, die Tatsache, dass jemand dokumentiert, was wir machen. Das hat vermutlich auch im Vergleich zu heute eine gewisse Verantwortlichkeit in die Gruppen getragen, also eine gewisse Disziplin bei Gesprächen und Diskussionen, die durchaus positiv war. **EOS:** Welche Räume gab es noch, um sich zu treffen, um Aktionen zu planen? War es überhaupt möglich, Aktionen umzusetzen, seid ihr auf die Straße gegangen, habt ihr protestiert? **SK:** Es gab immer wieder Versuche, auch staatliche Räume zu nutzen, die aber alle irgendwie scheiterten. Der Kulturbund der DDR verfügte über Räume für öffentliche Veranstaltungen, unterstand aber genauso wie der Demokratische Frauenbund Deutschlands und andere staatliche Massenorganisationen der ideologischen Kontrolle der SED. Diese Räume konnten deshalb faktisch nicht von oppositionellen Gruppen genutzt werden. Wir in Dresden haben es geschafft, in einem staatlichen Jugendclub Veranstaltungen zu organisieren. In Berlin wurden eher Gaststätten genutzt. **PP:** Abgesehen von der Gegend um Dresden konnten wir zwar Westfernsehen empfangen, und ab Ende der 1970er war es auch relativ normal, das zu konsumieren. Dennoch war die mediale Informationsmöglichkeit sehr eingeschränkt. Das war vor der Zeit des Internets, in der sich schnell etwas googlen lässt. Das heißt, es waren in erster Linie Bildungsräume, jedenfalls die, in denen ich mich bewegt habe. Als ich meine Berufsausbildung mit Abitur gemacht habe, hörten wir von jungen Menschen, die exmatrikuliert und zum Teil auch verhaftet wurden. Das schwirrte immer rum, deswegen musste man ganz genau darauf achten, was möglich war und was nicht. **SK:** Da die Stasi alles kontrolliert hat, wurden auch Kleinstgruppen wahrgenommen und hatten dadurch das Gefühl, dass sie etwas bewirken. Nach dem Mauerfall konnten wir jederzeit demonstrieren, aber schon bald stellten wir fest: Selbst wenn wir nun hundert sind oder auch hunderttausend – so große Demonstrationen hat es ja teilweise gegeben –, das interessiert heute irgendwie keinen mehr, das verändert nichts. Wenn wir in der DDR hingegen mit zehn oder zwanzig Leuten mit riesigem persönlichem Mut – also wirklich im Bewusstsein, wir könnten verhaftet werden – auf die Straße gegangen sind, dann hat sich etwas bewegt. Im Nachhinein lässt sich aus den Akten recherchieren, dass staatliche Stellen sich mit den jeweiligen Anliegen auseinandergesetzt und nach Kompromissen oder Lösungen gesucht haben. Ein Beispiel ist die allmähliche Liberalisierung des gesellschaftlichen Umgangs mit Homosexuellen. So beginnt die Akte zum Thema Homosexualität im Zentralen Staatsarchiv der DDR mit Eingaben von Lesben, zum einen von der Berliner Gruppe Lesben in der Kirche nach ihren Aktionen im ehemaligen Konzentrationslager Ravensbrück, zum anderen von Uschi Sillge in ihrem Bemühen, einen Arbeitskreis für Homosexuelle außerhalb der Kirche aufzubauen. Nach diesen Eingaben kommt es zur Einrichtung eines interdisziplinären Arbeitskreises Homosexualität an der Berliner Humboldt-Universität. Dessen Gründung und Arbeitsergebnisse sind ebenfalls in der Akte enthalten. Ab 1987 entstehen dann erste Homosexuellengruppen außerhalb der Kirche. Im Mai 1989 werden die unterschiedlichen gesetzlichen Regelungen zum Schutz minderjähriger Heterosexueller und Homosexueller angeglichen, und am 9\. November 1989 wird der Film Coming Out in Berlin uraufgeführt. \[1\] **EOS:** Habt ihr noch Ergänzungen zu den Kontinuitäten dieser DDR-Bewegungsgeschichte bis heute? **PP:** Meine bewegungsgeschichtliche Erfahrung in der Schwarzen Community fand erst nach 1989 statt und das hatte mit dem Umstand zu tun, dass ich im ländlichen Raum aufgewachsen bin. Allerdings habe ich – und das finde ich sehr, sehr bezeichnend – ab 1990 vor allem auch Verbindungen zu Menschen aus der DDR finden können. Es war nicht nur schön, sondern auch eine Verbindung zu meinem einstigen Ich, zum DDR-Ich, dass ich dann auch Schwarze Lesben kennenlernen konnte und im Nachhinein erfahren habe, was in der DDR möglich war. Denn die DDR war in all ihrer Homogenität – und sie hat sich ja selbst in Homogenität erstickt – diverser, als sie es sein wollte. Das hat sich mir vor allem danach erschlossen, als ich diese anderen Menschen kennengelernt habe. **SK:** Akademiker\*innen sind viel eher in die DDR-Gesellschaft integriert worden als Menschen, die im Zuge der Arbeitsmigration gekommen sind und ziemlich marginalisiert wurden, was ein riesiges Problem war. Man muss genau auf die sehr unterschiedlichen biografischen Hintergründe schauen, wenn man sich mit Rassismus beschäftigt. **PP:** Da würde ich gerne den Umstand ergänzen, dass auch das stark davon abhängig war, wo in der DDR eine Person gelebt hat. Wie wir heute sagen würden – für BIPoC-Migrant\*innen gab es gewissermaßen eine erste und eine zweite Klasse. Das sind Unterscheidungen, die damals nicht so kommuniziert wurden. Was mir auch im Nachhinein erschütternd deutlich wurde, ist – um das verkürzt zu sagen –, dass diese Kategorisierung sich an der Positionierung des jeweiligen Herkunftslandes im Kalten Krieg orientierte. Das führte dann zu solchen Kuriositäten, dass junge Menschen aus Mosambik bei der Reichsbahn oder im Braunkohle-Tagebau eine Ausbildung gemacht haben, die sie in Mosambik bestimmt nicht besonders weitergebracht hat. Das andere, was ich noch ergänzen wollte, ist, dass zu den wenigen Möglichkeiten, die ich in der DDR hatte, um meine eigene Identität positiv zu verhandeln, der Kontakt zu den ‚Vertragsarbeiterinnen‘ etwa in Gotha gehörte, die in der LPG gearbeitet haben. Das waren wichtige Momente. Das waren aber getrennte Räume, die Räume der Friedensbewegung und der Kirche waren etwas anderes. Deswegen war es für mich in der Zeit zwischen 1984 und 1989 auch unglaublich wichtig, dass ich in Arnstadt, Gotha und Erfurt Kontakt zu ‚Vertragsarbeiterinnen‘ aus Simbabwe, Angola und Mosambik hatte. \\\\ *Dieser Text wurde in der deutschen Version des gleichnamigen Readers zur* Ausstellung Echos der Bruderländer. Was ist der Preis der Erinnerung und wie hoch sind die Kosten der Amnesie? Oder: Visionen und Illusionen antiimperialistischer Solidarität *(Laufzeit: 1.3.–20.5.2024) im Haus der Kulturen der Welt (HKW)/Berlin veröffentlicht. Verlag: Archive Books, ISBN: 978-3-949973-54-3\. Erhältlich im Buchhandel, im HKW-Shop und über den HKW-Webshop.* --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Der Spielfilm Coming Out erzählt die Geschichte eines jungen schwulen Lehrers in Ostberlin. Er wurde unter der Regie von Heiner Carow vom DEFA-Studio für Spielfilme in Potsdam-Babelsberg produziert. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Mona Ragy Enayat, Der Mond ist immer noch bei mir, 2022 © and courtesy of the artist. *Samirah Kenawi ist Tischlerin und Diplom-Ingenieurin. Sie gründete das Archiv GrauZone, das die DDR-Frauen- und Lesbenbewegung dokumentiert. Von 2020 bis 2023 widmete sie sich in vier Bänden unter dem Sammeltitel Die Quadratur des Geldes der Geschichte des Geldes sowie einem umfassenden Reformvorschlag.* *Peggy Piesche ist eine Schwarze deutsche Literatur- und Kulturwissenschaftlerin. In der Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung leitet sie den Fachbereich Politische Bildung und plurale Demokratie in Gera. In der Schwarzen (deutschen) Bewegung ist sie seit 1990 aktiv und Mitfrau\* bei ADEFRA e.V. - Schwarze Frauen in Deutschland. Sie ist darüber hinaus in zahlreichen Beiräten aktiv.* *Eric Otieno Sumba ist Autor und Redakteur mit einem Hintergrund in Sozialtheorie, politischer Ökonomie, Postkolonialen Studien und Kunstkritik. Er ist Redakteur für Publikationspraktiken am Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Berlin, und schreibt u. a. für Contemporary And, Frieze, Texte zur Kunst, Camera Austria und Griot.* ### Georges Adéagbo URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/georges-adeagbo/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:37.000Z Il suit depuis plusieurs décennies une pratique artistique basée sur la collecte et la combinaison d'objets hétérogènes. Les installations complexes et multi-parties de l'artiste sont constituées d'objets usagés et neufs, d'antiquités et de biens de consommation courante, d'objets trouvés et de commandes spéciales. Livres, sculptures, peintures, disques, vêtements, coupures de journaux, bibelots - tout mérite d'être inclus dans l'archive transculturelle et non hiérarchique de Georges Adéagbo (\*1942). ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2023_Revolutionary-Romances-Globale-Kunstgeschichten-in-der-DDR_DSC4960.jpg) fig. 1 Un trait central de sa méthode de travail est la mobilisation des objets : il les transporte de son domicile à Cotonou, au Bénin, vers les lieux d'exposition, mais il ramène également des objets chez lui, qui servent par exemple de modèles pour des peintures et sculptures qu'il commande à des artisans et intègre dans ses installations. Il aborde le thème d'une exposition à la fois dans son atelier à Cotonou, où il rédige quotidiennement des textes et monte des installations éphémères, et en élargissant et en approfondissant le thème avec des objets du lieu d'exposition future. Tous les objets sont reliés au lieu concret par un réseau d'associations, mais ils sont toujours en relation avec d'autres lieux, créant un champ de tension entre des références "globales" et "locales". Cette approche de travail axée sur le lieu pourrait être qualifiée de "spécificité relationnelle du lieu". Pour l'exposition *Revolutionary Romances?* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2023_Revolutionary-Romances-Globale-Kunstgeschichten-in-der-DDR_021123killig134.jpeg) fig. 2 Adéagbo, en collaboration avec son conservateur de longue date, Stephan Köhler, s'est intéressé aux relations de la RDA avec les pays socialistes en Afrique. Adéagbo a sélectionné des œuvres d'art provenant de collections à Dresde et les a fait reproduire à Cotonou par le peintre local Benoît Adanhoumé, qui signe ses œuvres comme *Esprit Petit Frère*. Adéagbo était particulièrement intéressé par les portraits d'étudiants africains, comme celui de Chukwuemeka Ogbue, venu du Nigeria étudier en RDA et représenté en posture de lecture par Eva Schulze-Knabe en 1960\. La reproduction des peintures dans le style de la peinture sur panneaux africaine peut être vue comme un hommage et en même temps comme une manière de prendre ses distances par rapport aux motifs originaux. Associé à de courts textes commentaires de Adéagbo, cela déclenche un processus d'appropriation et de traduction. \\\\ *Dies ist eine übersetzte Fassung von dem Ausstellungstext aus: Revolutionary Romances? Globale Kunstgeschichten in der DDR, Ausstellungskatalog Albertinum/ Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden, hrsg. v. Mathias Wagner, Hilke Wagner, Kerstin Schankweiler, Kathleen Reinhardt, Leipzig 2024, Seite 76f. Erlaubnis Wiederverh.ffentlichung erteilt, Verlag.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2: Georges Ad.agbo, *Les étudiants Africains et le Socialisme*, 2023\. Die Bronzeskulptur aus der Skulpturensammlung des Albertinum heißt „Kopf eines Mannes“ (um 1900) und ist von Kurt Eberhard Göllner. © SKD, Foto: Oliver Killig © courtesy of the artist. *Kerstin Schankweiler ist Professorin für Bildwissenschaft im globalen Kontext am Institut für Kunst- und Musikwissenschaft der Technischen Universit.t Dresden. Ihre Forschungsschwerpunkte sind Digitale Bildkulturen, Kunst des 20\. und 21\. Jahrhunderts mit einem regionalen Schwerpunkt auf der Kunst Afrikas, Kunstgeschichte und Transkulturalität, Postkoloniale Theorien und Geschlechterstudien.* ### Immigrating Garden URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/immigrating-garden/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:36.000Z In the late afternoon of September 23, 2023, the inner courtyard of Dresden’s Japanese Palace was transformed by a unique German-Vietnamese gathering. Amidst simmering hotpots of finely cut vegetables and meats, personal stories were exchanged, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie. As night fell, the courtyard turned into a stage for a vibrant karaoke party, blending Vietnamese melodies with old German *Schlager* tunes, and mainstream pop. All this took place against the backdrop of the Japanese Palace’s Baroque, “chinoiserie” façade statues commissioned by August II the Strong, Elector of Saxony. The occasion was the launch of Hanoi-born artist Tuan Mami's “Vietnamese Immigrating Garden”. This interview with Tuan Mami, conducted in December 2021, sheds light on the genesis of the “Vietnamese Immigrating Garden” project, originally known as the *Immigrating Garden*, and inspired by his observations of Vietnamese worker communities in Taiwan. Here, Tuan recounts his discovery of the widespread practice of discretely importing plants and herbs from Vietnam into Taiwan for personal use, despite Taiwan's strict regulations against such imports. By planting these flora outdoors in the city, the Vietnamese communities ensured their survival; the plants are often mistaken for weeds but remain accessible to their “owners”. Moreover, while often described as “Vietnamese”, many of these plants have their roots in other parts of the world, having been brought to Southeast Asia through processes including natural dispersion, colonialism, or trade. The global history of these urban “gardens” was the inspiration for Tuan's *“Vietnamese Immigrating Garden No. 6”*, developed by the artist within the inner courtyard of the Japanese Palace during his fellowship at the Staatliche Kunstsammlungen’s first Transcultural Academy session in 2023\. Unlike the plethora of plants featured in the “Vietnamese Immigrating Garden’s” iteration for documenta15 the previous year, the Dresden garden comprised only one specimen: a water celery plant *(rau cần ta)* which had survived in western Germany, and from which portions had been carefully collected and rehoused in Dresden for use by Saxony-based German-Vietnamese communities. Amidst the sound of traditional Vietnamese songs, the steam from hot-pots and riotous karaoke, the launch was both a celebration and an acknowledgement. In spite of the desire for museums to become spaces of inclusivity, minoritarian “cultures of survival” often require that many things remain hidden, unspoken, and for private use only. Not all is meant to be translated. Since the garden’s creation, this interview casts light on how artistic practice faces the challenge of navigating communities’ needs for visibility with the imperative of discretion. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Tuanmami.2.jpg) fig. 1 **Eva Bentcheva: Mami, you have described your recent practice as moving away from “performance art” towards “performative installations” or “environments”. Could you explain what these terms mean for you?** **Tuan Mami:** I have been doing “performance art” since the early days of my practice, such as in the series *The Cover* from 2007 through 2009 where I used condensed milk. On other occasions, I used the body and environment as materials in works like *Lets it Grow Up-on* (2010). I found the language and possibilities of performance art very open-ended and empowering for artists to explore different ways of thinking. A few years ago, I started to feel the need to push the limitations of this art form; especially after I began engaging with social issues and taking on a more research-based practice. I realized that there is scope to transform and develop performance art beyond its form and physical presentation. I have since been developing my art practice as “performative installations”. For me, this art is defined by the creation of environments, platforms, or situations, rather than the representation of the body. It can include actions, objects, installations, and so on, but they all need to be involved in a performative-dialogic progress. In this structure, the artist and all participating elements/collaborators/visitors play certain roles and contribute to a journey of experimentation within a situation. This new orientation of my practice takes me away from seeing performance art as having separate parts, between the artist-audience-object-space. Instead, it brings them all together via sharing/creating the artwork. **EB: Thinking about this understanding of the “performative installation”, you also became increasingly interested in migration and human movement. What prompted this interest, and how have you developed it as a performative artistic research project?** **TM:** Actually, my interest in migration and human movement goes as far back as 2011\. I was invited to make a performance piece in South Korea after staying for an artist residency in the Nottle Hooyong Performing Arts Center. During my residency, I had researched Hooyong village, where all the inhabitants are now old people since the young moved to live and work in big cities. I became friends with the grandmas, and we would drink together every day outside their houses as a ritual of waiting and welcoming home people and family members after a long day’s work. But now, these same elderly are alone, and nobody goes home to them after work because they live far away. I invited these grandmas to make a work about their situation and this ritual. During the performative event, many tough and sad stories were told. I think the questions about human movement started growing in my mind since then. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Tuan-Mami.1.jpg) fig. 2 **EB: How have you continued to develop this via other performative projects, for example, those in Korea, Cambodia, the Czechia, and, most recently, Taiwan and Germany?** The starting point for many of my works is research and observation. Each of my projects has its pattern adapted from reality and actual social issues. I first seek to learn about each community and society, then to develop my project around a special situation I have encountered during my study. For example, in my project *Myth East Mist* in Korea, I worked with people considered an almost invisible community - the mothers of Vietnamese brides who come to Korea through brokers to marry Korean men. Their mothers come to Korea with them to help raise the grandchildren and also have a chance to work and earn money which they then send back to their poor families in Vietnam. They mostly live alone and are isolated. My project is about creating a holiday for them and inviting them to come together and share their lives with us. For another project, I found a Vietnamese community that has been based in Cambodia for generations, who have always lived on rivers at the edge of society and have often needed to camouflage themselves to blend into society to avoid all political conflicts. Based on their lived realities, I created a work in which Cambodians and members of the Vietnamese diaspora were invited to come to my exhibition and exchange their life stories alongside my art objects. After a while, all the stories and objects blended to tell us about life as a human being. **EB: It seems that the “pathways” of overseas communities have played an important role in your practice. How have such contacts with overseas communities shaped your approach to performativity?** I consider learning, understanding and working with the social issues of immigrant and diasporic communities as a core part of my art practice. Somehow, for each work, the “subjects” who I am “researching” end up teaching me. They guide me on how to present their issues, and how to create a form, or format, for my project. Working with communities, especially with Vietnamese immigrants, is a very special experience. People from different communities have very different behaviors. To develop an artwork, I have to live and learn about their lives. From the very beginning, it is already such a performative process and a part of my work. **EB: Your current ongoing project *Immigrating Garden* deals with the Vietnamese communities and diasporas in Taiwan. Yet, in contrast to your previous projects in which people are represented, this work tells of their lives via the histories of illegally imported plants into Taiwan. How did this project evolve?** **TM:** Over months of research, I had the chance to meet many Vietnamese people living in Taiwan, from refugees during the Vietnam-China War to people who came to Taiwan as Vietnamese brides, imported laborers, students etc., and many of them living there still missed their homeland, especially the smells and foods from Vietnamese vegetables and herbs. Many had gone to great lengths to collect Vietnamese plants and grow them on the small rooftops of their houses, the balconies of school dormitories, the back sides of the factories where they worked, or even on random empty small plots of land on sides of streets, but, it proved difficult to make even that little wish come true. Not only did many of these people work very hard every day, but their little informal “Vietnamese gardens” faced the added challenge that it was - and still is - illegal to bring seeds, plants, or even fruits onto the island of Taiwan. One time, I visited Mrs. Dung who lives in the countryside and who has a big garden with all kinds of Vietnamese plants. She said, “Sometimes when I have headaches, a sore throat, or a stomachache, I just go to my garden to pick some herbs to use as my mom and grandparents taught me since I was young. Also, it is very helpful to cook something home-like from your motherland’s vegetables when you feel homesick or miss your family.” This inspired me deeply. “Immigrating Garden” is a performative installation based on the story of Mrs. Dung’s garden. She immigrated to Taiwan from the northern part of Vietnam 20 years ago to work as a laborer in a factory. Since then, Dung’s mother and father have come to Taiwan frequently to visit their daughter, each time secretly-illegally bringing seeds or small trees to make a garden for her. The idea is that Dung can use Vietnamese plants for traditional medical treatments or cooking, have familiar tastes and smells around her, and also see her hometown’s garden view and feel less nostalgia. My project is built upon Mrs. Dung’s idea of a garden, as well as from other stories and resources from many Vietnamese people living in Taiwan. The garden as a performative installation is a reflection of deeper political issues around migration which have shaped our minds and culture, and symbols of how our mentality is related to our memory and daily life. This work is still in progress, but ultimately I wish to build a garden as a “library” of Vietnamese seeds, plants and immigrated stores to share with people. **EB: Thinking about this garden as a “performative installation”, how are visitors in Taiwan and beyond, particularly members of the Vietnamese community, meant to interact with it?** The garden is meant to be built using “immigrated” resources which already include many actions and stories that aren’t necessarily visible (e.g. illegal transportation, planting in secrecy, etc.), but which are imprinted on the plants themselves. The garden is meant also to be built with a lot of help from Vietnamese people living in Taiwan. Once complete, it will turn into a social platform for interactions, exchanges, and working together to shape and maintain the garden. General visitors and key figures who contributed to its making will sometimes gather together to learn and share Vietnamese plants, immigrant stories, cooking, eating together, and so on. This for me is the true value of making a “performative installation” as a living practice. \\\\ *This interview was originally published in a special issue,* “Pathways of Performativity in Contemporary Art of Southeast Asia”*, co-edited by Eva Bentcheva, Annie Jael Kwan, and Roger Nelson, of the* Journal Southeast of Now: Directions in Contemporary and Modern Art in Asia*, Volume 6, Number 1, March 2022, pp. 223-229\. It is reproduced here in an edited version with the generous permission of the journal and the artist.* *Available open access:* [*muse.jhu.edu/article/851965/pdf*](https://muse.jhu.edu/article/851965/pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) --- ### ARTIST BIO Tuan Mami lives and works in Hanoi. Mami is an interdis- ciplinary-experimental artist, working with site-specif- ic installation, video, performance, and conceptual art, who constantly explores new media, means, and meth- ods of evolution using reflective questioning and social research. IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2: Tuan Mami, Immigrating Garden (Dresden Iteration), 2023\. © and courtesy of the artist. *Eva Bentcheva is an art historian and curator. She holds a Ph.D. in Art History from the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London, with a focus on transnational performance and conceptual art across Asia and Europe.* ### 4 Exhibitions We Liked at the Zurich Art Weekend URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/4-exhibitions-at-the-zurich-art-weekend-2024/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:34.000Z Last Friday, the organizers of the 7th edition of Zürich Art Weekend openly wished for a more spectacular celebration of contemporary art. “We encourage the city representatives to invest in our annual event in this time of crises.” The plea was surprising given that this is Zürich, where every war feels far away. The Zürich Art Weekend, regardless of its financial limitations, offered an intense three-day experience with more than 75 exhibitions and 130 events across 65 venues, showcasing the works of upwards of 180 established and emerging artists. That’s a lot for a tiny, rather unaffordable but cosmopolitan city. Free and open to the public, the festival brought together artists, curators, collectors, and enthusiasts, creating a vibrant hub of artistic exchange in an exclusive atmosphere of conviviality, between visits to the exhibition rooms and a splash in the ice-cold Alpine waters of the Limmat river for a refreshing break. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ZAW24_Press-Lunch_Weisse-Terasse_UrsWestermann_LowRes.jpg) Fig. 1 In spite of this uncanny amiability, and in the light of the lack of coherence between socio-political realities and the role of the arts within them, some of the exhibitions offered whimsical, yet profound, reflections on identity, art, and the multifaceted nature of human experience. This was especially true of Ahlam Shibli’s "Dissonant Belonging" at LUMA Westbau, Anna Jotta’s "Composição" at the Kunsthalle Zürich, Dineo Seshee Raisibe Bopape’s "(ka) pheko ye – the dream to come" at the Migros Museum, and Nairy Baghramian’s "Modèle vivant (Se ployant)" at Hauser & Wirth. Below we share a glimpse of these 4 exhibitions cohabitating in a former Lowenbräu brewery. ### Ahlam Shibli: Dissonant Belonging The city of Al-Khalil/Hebron, seen from the hill on which Ahlam Shibli photographed it, evokes a romantic landscape full of ruins. Here, as Imad Hamdan, the director from the Hebron Rehabilitation Committee puts it, lies all the calamity of the Israeli occupation concentrated in a single site. I will never forget the unbearable tension and the constant horror of seeing the target of the settlers at the checkpoints, or of the evocations of the old market, the gazes of the passers by if one is an Arab. Identity, here, entails being a target. *Occupation* is one of a series of photographs and annotations that Shibli is showing at LUMA Westbau after a residency in Arles. *Occupation,* centering Israel-Palestine, addresses Israeli settler encroachments and the continuous measures of deterritorialization and expulsion directed at Palestinians. Adam Szymczyk, curator of the show both in Zurich and in Arles – together with Vassilis Oikonomopoulos – and a longtime collaborator of Shibli, brought this photographic "reportages" to Athens for the documenta 14 in 2017\. At the EMST—National Museum of Contemporary Art, as well as in LUMA Westbau, the images show how essentially *problematic* (Shibli does not thematize, wrote Jean-François Chevrier once) the relation of home and borders, both mental and territorial, are. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/234_Shibli_Ahlam_Occupation_8.jpg1440x1440.jpeg) Fig. 2 Shibli recreates the real world tensions; looking into the photographs and the texts she writes to accompany them – the texts are hung so close to the images there is no space between the frames for misunderstandings. To see this is to witness a demonstration of her greatness, her obsessive realness: wherever she goes, she photographs what is, and yet, the work is always about Palestine, a place she belongs to, even if the only thing that currently belongs to her there is a washing machine. “Belonging is a construction,” said Szymczyk during a guided tour through the rooms. He referred not only to what was seen, but what is not supposed to be seen. Through an abundance of colors and details Shibli's obsessive search for justice is manifested. Chronicling desire and dismissal in environments defined by physical borders and dehumanizing regulations. Shibli’s work is characterized by a documentary aesthetic, combining photography with contextualizing writing to narrate the traumas of marginalized and oppressed communities. Her most recent series, "*Belonging*" (2022-2023), created during her residency at LUMA Arles, continues this exploration, offering a fragile space of resistance for her subjects and viewers alike. *Dissonant Belonging*, was a particularly poignant highlight of Art Weekend. Shibli’s collection of images features a further seven significant photographic projects that explore themes of home, loss, and identity. ### Anna Jotta: Composição Miguel Wandschneider’s enthusiasm for Jotta's artistic practice - and the exhibition he just curated - sizzles like the lightbulbs of a Christmas market, shining a light on her absolute freedom and technical irreverences. At the show’s opening, Wandschneider highlighted the importance of understanding Jotta's 45-year artistic trajectory. Wandschneider also acknowledged the limitations of the current exhibition - as the Kunsthalle spaces are too small for the importance he sought to give her. The exhibition’s title, *Composição / Composition*, emphasizes an artistic vision that is radically playful, arising from a simple yet powerful question: how does one introduce a polymorphous body of work to a largely unfamiliar audience? Rather than adhering to a specific theme or style, the exhibition is constructed as a process and an outcome, reflecting the artist's eclectic and intuitive approach. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ana_jotta_composition_awc_2024.jpg) Fig. 3 Jotta’s work defies easy categorization, characterized, as it is, by the incommensurability of her artworks, and her versatility with different materials and techniques. Her pieces lack a unified style, presenting a kaleidoscopic array of forms that could easily be mistaken for being components of a group exhibition, and resembling what she calls an “international career of fun”. As with the making of a foam sculpture based on a Philip Guston painting, which, coincidentally, is being exhibited, along with other works, at Hauser & Wirth next door, appropriation lies at the heart of Jotta’s practice. She recycles and transforms found objects, images, and texts. Her choices are driven by identification or affection rather than aesthetic indifference, resulting in works that feel like personalized quotations from life. Jotta views art as a reflection of her own life experiences, and this sensibility permeates her diverse and idiosyncratic body of work. ### Dineo Seshee Raisibe Bopape: (ka) pheko ye – the dream to come For this body of work, the artist asked the curator Michael Birchall to talk about his dreams with her as she was preparing her exhibition. The moment where dreams end and reality begin lies shrouded in the smoke depictions on the walls of Dineo Seshee Raisibe Bopape’s solo exhibition at the Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst. She invites visitors to dream along within an immersive installation addressing multiple senses. “*Ke lorile, ke lorile ke mmona Mme bana baka*,” runs the lyric of a Southern African folk song: *I dreamt I saw the mother of my children*. The familiar encounters with the unconscious - softly, under low, purple neon lights - the universality of communal human experiences, and the making of the gallery a place for collective dreaming and introspection all inform the works on show by Dineo. Whether entering the clay structures, reminiscent of traditional Sámi dwellings, or sitting on wooden benches made from Finnish logs, or inhaling herbs from Frantsila farm diffused as incense and tea, the exhibition is immersive and encompassing. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Ka-Pheko-Ye-the-dream-to-come-by-Dineo-Seshee-Raisibe-Bopape-at-Migros-Museum-fuer-Gegenwartskunst.-Installation-shot.-Photo-by-Urs-Westermann.-.jpg) Fig. 4 Experiencing art as an encounter with a dream underwrites Bopape’s celebration of indigenous practices and makes the works strong, both physically and spiritually. Such personal and collective perspectives offer a profound meditation on the essence of dreaming, which can be thought of as letting the universe's memory and potential manifest as one’s own thoughts. “*Meeting physical force with soul force.*” Bopape quotes this phrase of Martin Luther King, taken from his iconic “I Have a Dream” speech from 1963\. Although the work “*(ka) pheko ye – the dream to come*” borrows materials from the Finnish landscape and seeks to celebrate, as well as imitate, the fading light of Finland’s winter, the exhibition demonstrates that one "nation" potentially represents and hosts many; one "land" implies and is formed by multitudes. A single natural or synthetic object embodies an infinitude of meanings, functions, and lives. ### Nairy Baghramian: Modèle vivant (Se ployant) This is Baghramian’s first exhibition at Hauser & Wirth in Zürich, and, for me, it already surpasses all imaginable expectations for what art can look like in this gallery. Nairy Baghramian’s works exert a presence that emphasizes many things at the same time. Firstly, the importance of absence and emptiness in sculpture, making negative spaces as significant as the forms she creates themselves. Secondly, the interstices and gaps, not only as aspects of the physical structure of an artwork, but as sites of reflection and critique. These resonate with the dynamics that define the human condition in the current moment of war and alienation. These sculptures, which carry and repeat the photographs of what looks like the fur of a horse, on which a mass of flies appears looking purposefully decorative and psychedelically alive. These are strategically placed throughout the gallery space of Hauser & Wirth, interacting intricately with their surroundings, highlighting the interplay between the sculptures and windows, and the ventilation pipes on the ceiling, as well as the noises of the people in the corridors of the Lowenbräu. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nairy-Baghramian-Saccrochant-bleu-horizon-2022.jpg) Fig. 5 The subtle use of cold and warm tones, called “blue horizon”, “gris de lin,” “givre,” and “soufre” by the artist, enhances each material of the piece’s distinctive presence. These works continually accrue complexity and allude to the tension between conformity and resistance in a sensually awakening confrontation between their identity as sculptures, and everything else. They are a continuation of her "Modèle vivant" series, which began at the Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas in 2022, where Baghramian won the Nasher Prize for excellence in contemporary sculpture. Baghramian's sculptures, while abstract, evoke poses and postures without resorting to gesturality or figuration. Her pieces often draw from diverse aesthetic fields such as theater, dance, fashion, and architecture, creating contemporary allegories of sculpture that reflect the circumstances of their own making. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Press-Lunch-Zuerich-Art-Weekend.jpeg) Fig. 6 The Zürich Art Weekend of 2024 thus offered a vibrant and multifaceted experience, celebrating diverse expressions of contemporary art. The exhibitions of works by Ahlam Shibli, Anna Jotta, Dineo Seshee Raisibe Bopape, and Nairy Baghramian stood out as particularly exemplary of the best of the Weekend. This edition of Art Weekend reaffirmed the importance of art as a space for dialogue, reflection, and resistance, even in places where wealth is accumulated, yet only selectively shared. // *This review has been proofread by William Kherbek.* --- ### Notes **Zürich Art Weekend** Exhibitions run through the summer. More information, [here](https://zurichartweekend.com/weekends/2024/june?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). Ahlam Shibli, “Dissonant Belonging” at LUMA Westbau, 07.06.2024 - 08.09.2024. Nairy Baghramian, “Modèle Vivant (Se Ployant)” at Hauser & Wirth Zürich, 07.06 - 07.09.2024. Ana Jotta, “Composição” at Kunsthalle Zürich, 08.06\. - 08.09\. 2024. Dineo Seshee Raisibe Bopape, “(ka) pheko ye – the dream to come” at Migros Museum Zürich, 08.06\. - 08.09\. 2024. **Images:** Cover image: Ahlam Shibli, untitled (Belonging no. 42, Suspended Time), Arles, France, 2022–23\. Courtesy the artist. Fig. 1: Press Lunch. Courtesy of Zürich Art Weekend, 2024. Fig. 2: Ahlam Shibli, From the series Occupation, Al-Khalil/Hebron, Palestine, 2016–17, 32 photographs. Fig. 3: Ana Jotta, installation view. Photo: AWC. Fig. 4: Dineo Seshee Raisibe Bopape, “(ka) pheko ye – the dream to come” installation view. Photo: Urs Westermann. Courtesy of Migros Museum für Gegenwartskunst. Fig. 5: Nairy Baghramian, S’accrochant (bleu horizon), 2022\. Courtesy of Hauser & Wirth. Fig. 6: Press Lunch. Courtesy of Zürich Art Weekend, 2024. *Lilo Ruminawi is a poet, playwright, and film director. She has written and directed the experimental short films La Mancha Viva (2014), Perreo Seco (2017), and the documentary essay El Año sin Árboles (2020). She is currently working on the post-production of her first feature-length fiction film, Tzantza, a retro-futuristic western set in the Salar de Uyuni.* ### Peeking through the booths’ horizon URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/peeking-through-the-booths-horizon-on-liste-art-fair-2024/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:33.000Z One can say many things against art fairs, but the opportunity to visit hundreds of galleries and engage with artists from around the globe is alone a compelling reason for their existence. These experiences are even more compelling when they seek to adapt to new artistic practices and market demands. This year's [Liste Art Fair in Basel](https://www.liste.ch/home.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) continues to fulfill this mandate, maintaining its role as a significant counterpart to Art Basel while navigating high expectations and emerging challenges. Liste was established almost 30 years ago to provide an alternative to Art Basel, and it has consistently risen to the occasion. However, the emergence of [Basel Social Club](https://www.baselsocialclub.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), an event driven by local interests and young gallerists exploring non-traditional practices, further raises the bar and presents new challenges. Basel Social Club's allure lies in its performatively agile, mysterious, non-art-fair approach, in turn pushing Liste to redefine its own identity while preserving its essence. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/margaret-raspe-at-basel-social-club.jpeg) Fig. 1 Caught between the multinational giants and cutting-edge scenemakers, Liste faces the toughest of tasks: to present a nuanced platform within which a discursive program can thrive, and where art collectors seek to navigate precarity, amateurism, second-row positioning, and intellectual autonomy, and where curatorial practices break free from the monotonous white walls that regularly standardize art for viewers. This year, the absence of Joana Kamm, who adeptly balanced the variety of galleries alongside her curatorial interests, is deeply felt. For example,Kamm’s approach often included playful architectural displays that enlivened the otherwise sterile environment of the fair. While strolling around Liste, I heard someone note the following point: "The problem with the architecture now is that you feel you have seen everything, although you don’t see anything at all." The move of the project from its disused brewery venue, with its quirky corners and packed rooms, to a more conventional space, namely the back hall from the Messe Platz, has left a kind of spiritual void. The new venue lacks the charm that once captivated audiences weary of high-priced artworks shown in conventional settings. Nevertheless, this transition reflects a broader challenge within the art market: the need to create spaces that are dynamic and inviting, and filled with the creative efforts of emerging galleries. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/7_OlegKaska_Rebis_2024-min.jpg) Fig. 2 Nikola Dietrich, who will be taking over as director in September, faces a monumental task. With her background as director of the Kölnischer Kunstverein and head curator for Contemporary Art at the Kunstmuseum in Basel, Dietrich must now blend her established networking and curatorial skills to support Liste’s mission. Her role is pivotal in ensuring that Liste continues to foster innovation while simultaneously engaging with the local art scene and new forms of collaboration. Intersections between the fairs are many, and an open exchange of conversations, performances, and further public events remain unexplored to date. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/nikola-dietrich.jpg) Fig. 3 Despite calls for more creativity and openness, the art fairs’ public programs remain a crucial platform for showcasing daring and experimental works. This year’s fairs also feature artworks that address material and socio-political concerns, clearly addressing the role of the arts in the world. At Art Basel Statements, a further inter-fair intersection, La Chola Poblete at Barro, Tamara Al Samerraei at Marfa Projects, and Monique Mouton at Bridget Donahue Gallery were featured, the viewer finds examples of spaces one would like to inhabit. It was especially exciting to enter the oasis of quietness and reflection upon the dynamics of global capitalism and traditional crafts that Vitamin Creative Space from Guangzhou offered, exhibiting an impeccable presentation of paintings on silkscreen by Hao Liang. The emptiness here was sublime. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DSF5112-S.jpg) Fig. 4 Back in the other hall at Liste, there are fewer spaces, but many pieces challenging conventional modes of presentation. One example can be found in Eliška Konečná’s works by Polansky Gallery (Prague). The works explore human connection by using padded fabric reliefs depicting interlocking bodies in various states of rest and trance. Anousha Payne, presented by Galerie Sperling (Munich), merges personal experience with dreamy folklore, creating ceramics that speak to the quest for spirituality. Payne’s works are adorned with fabric, stones, or reptile skin. Øleg & Kaśka, at Suprainfinit Gallery (Bucharest), use mystical themes in their paintings to provoke discussion about philosophical and alchemical concepts. They deploy playful imagery, such as skeletons pondering their next move under a reddish-brown sky. Oscar Enberg's sculptures at London’s Brunette Coleman confront the past’s influence on memory through symbolic compositions which feature traditional buttons on stucco rosettes, reflecting anachronisms. Carrie Bencardino’s "Naked City" series at PIEDRAS (Buenos Aires), draws inspiration from 1980s club culture, depicting the raw emotional states of night-dwelling characters, and evoking a profound synesthesia that captures the ambient sound of underground parties. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/O4B7690-1.jpeg) Fig. 5 Alejandra Hernández at LaVeronica delves into the multidimensional female experience, blending oneiric and everyday elements to create immersive spaces that resist the fast pace of modern life. Her work connects human experience with the natural world, exploring themes of creation, altered states of consciousness, and the symbolism humans attach to animals and plants. Corrado Gugliotta, founder of LaVeronica, also brings the Palestinian struggle within the maze of booths, blazoning his chest with a pin of the Palestinian flag. A reminder that the art market cannot be alienated from political demands, but, indeed, can fuel them. In his own words: "Everyone should keep to their roles and do it well, but not forget for what we are coming together”. Certainly more than sales. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/BRIDGET_-DONAHUE_Monique-Moulton.jpg) Fig. 6 Liste Art Fair 2024 strives to maintain its relevance by attempting to balance commercial viability and artistic integrity. This is a difficult endeavor, especially in the shadow of a hyperbolic art market. Nikola Dietrich’s upcoming directorship will be pivotal in addressing these issues and restoring the fair's unique identity. As Liste navigates these challenges, its future will depend on its ability to innovate without losing sight of its core values and distinctive appeal, i.e.: remaining grounded while keeping an eye on economic and cultural models that emerge beyond the fair’s booths. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_1280.jpeg) Fig. 7 --- ### Notes **Liste Art Fair Basel** runs until Sunday, June 16, 2024. **Image Credits** Cover Image: Alexandra Hernández, Wild eyes; oil on canvas, 2023\. Courtesy of LaVeronica. Fig. 1: Margaret Raspé, Regentrommeln (Raindrums), 1988/2023, installation view, at Basel Social Club 2024\. Photo: Stefan Burger. Courtesy Galerie Molitor. Fig. 2: Oleg & Káska installation view at Suprainfinit. Courtesy of the gallery. Fig. 3: Nikola Dietrich upon election as the new artistic director of Liste Art Fair Basel, and Conradin Cramer, President of the Government and Head of the Department of Presidential Affairs. Photo: Moritz Schermbach. Courtesy of Liste Art Fair. Fig. 4: Tamara Al-Samerraei’s installation at Art Basel Statements 2024 with Marfa’ Projects. Courtesy of the gallery. Fig. 5: Anousha Payne, Large Khur, 2024; glazed stoneware ceramic, pewter, stone, bronze. Courtesy of Sperling. Fig. 6: Monique Mouton, Leaflet, 2024, Mural-grade acrylic, vinyl paint and charcoal on paper 6 sheets: overall dimension:351.16 cm x 10.67 cm. Courtesy of Bridget Donahue. Fig. 7: One of Carrie Bencardino’s "Naked City" series at PIEDRAS. Installation view. Photo: AWC. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Kulturelles Erbe ist nicht in Stein gemeißelt URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/interview-mit-leonie-radine-ueber-renaissance/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:31.000Z *Wie verarbeitet eine junge Künstler\*innengeneration ihr gewichtiges kulturelles Erbe, das von ästhetischen und sozialen „Standards“, Werten, Vorbildern, Ikonen und Erwartungen an die künstlerische Rolle geprägt ist? Wie bauen sie auf Ruinen der Vergangenheit auf, die noch immer lange Schatten werfen?* [*Monia Ben Hamouda*](https://www.museion.it/de/news/9274-monia-ben-hamouda-erhalt-den-vordemberge-gildewart-award-anlasslich-der-ausstellung-renaissance?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*, zum Beispiel, die den Vordemberge-Gildewart Award anlässlich der Ausstellung RENAISSANCE bekam, entfaltet auf Anhieb eine sinnliche Kraft beim antworten dieser Fragen.* *Die Monumentalität ihrer zugleich fragilen Installation aus Eisenskulpturen, die über einen Gewürzteppich schweben, erinnert an den Gedanken des Philosophen Giorgio Agamben: Monumente sind nicht unbedingt statisch, sondern etwas, das sich mit der Zeit verändert. Hamouda, sowie die 14 weitere Künstler\*innen der Ausstellung, hinterfragt westliche Kriterien sowie den kommerziellen Überfluss in der Kunst. Zugleich sind alle Arbeiten in RENAISSANCE eine Hommage an traditionellen Praxen, die Zwiegespräche zwischen Vergangenheit und Gegenwart auf erfrischende und doch herausfordernde Art und Weise weiterführen.* *Leonie Radine erzählt AWC in einem Gespräch über ihre kuratorische Perspektive auf die ausgewählte Werke, sowie die institutionelle Implikationen bei der Realisierung so einer Gruppenausstellung.* **Ich habe den** [**Ausstellungskatalog**](https://www.museion.it/de/shop/9268-renaissance-exhibition-catalogue?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **in meiner Hand und frage mich, ob Da Vincis Chiaroscuro bei der Konzeption eingeflossen ist. Das Verwischen der Grenze von Figuren, ein Spiel mit Licht und Schatten.** Renaissance-Malerei wird man in der Ausstellung nicht finden, aber das Spiel von Licht und Schatten auf dem Cover ist auf jeden Fall ein wichtiges Element in der Gestaltung des Mailänder Designstudios (ab)Normal – sowohl in der Publikation als auch in der Ausstellungsarchitektur. **Die Vorhänge sind nicht unbedingt aus Samt, dem Material, aus dem der bürgerliche Traum der Renaissance gemacht ist, sondern aus einem härteren, raueren Stoff. Was ist das überhaupt?** [(ab)Normal](https://www.museion.it/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) verwendete für die Vorhänge ein spannendes und nachhaltiges Material, das geschmeidig und widerständig zugleich ist. Es ist ein recycelbarer Stoff, der eigentlich als Verpackungsmaterial verwendet wird und den wir im Museum dann wiederverwenden. Damit haben sie zwischen den 15 künstlerischen Positionen einen fluiden Ausstellungsparcours kreiert. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Lazari_HQ-RenaissanceALuca-Guadagnini-_Y0A5330.jpg) Fig. 1 **Es erinnert nicht nur an die Hintergründe von Gemälden aus der Spätrenaissance, sondern auch an ein Fotostudio. Es hat etwas sehr Gegenwärtiges, auch in Bezug auf Nachhaltigkeit, wie durch die bewusste Auswahl von Materialien. Aber auch zu einer bewussten Selbstdarstellung der Künstler\*innen. Was haben die Ausstellung und der historische Renaissance-Begriff sonst gemeinsam?** Der Titel "RENAISSANCE" ist vor allem ein Wortspiel mit verschiedenen Assoziationen und Bedeutungen. Der Begriff ist offenkundig mit einem gewichtigen kulturellen Erbe verbunden, das noch immer lange Schatten wirft. Dieser Titel kann aber auch im Sinne der Wiedergeburt gedeutet werden, denn in der Ausstellung geht es vor allem um eine regenerative Praxis von Künstler\*innen, die aus Ruinen, Verlorenem, Verworfenen und Abfall durch ihre kritische Auseinandersetzung und Umwertung etwas Neues schaffen. Und so wird dieser Begriff der Renaissance hier auch selbst zum Gegenstand einer Neudefinition. Es geht in dieser Ausstellung nicht um die Ära der Renaissance oder die Rekonstruktion klassischer Mythologien. Wir leben in einer Zeit, in der Wiederverwertung eine neue wichtige Rolle für eine kritische Praxis spielt. Hinter uns liegt nicht nur die Ära der Renaissance mit ihrem Bezug auf antike Werte und Formen, sondern auch die moderne Idee des Fortschritts und die postmoderne Dekonstruktion. Heute sind wir nun viel damit beschäftigt, Geschichte durch eine Linse der Gegenwart zu betrachten und im Hinblick auf alternative Zukünfte neu zu schreiben. Dieses eher zirkuläre und nicht-lineare Verständnis von Zeit liegt also auch im Begriff Renaissance. Das Ausstellungsdesign von (ab)Normal knüpft daher visuell und ästhetisch nicht nur an das Licht- und Schattenspiel in der Renaissance, sondern auch in der gegenwärtigen Kreativindustrie an. Ihr Vorschlag, die Werke einer jungen Generation im Spotlight vor monumentalen Hintergründen zu inszenieren, führte zu einer spannenden Entwicklung in unserem Austauschprozess. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Stucchi_HQ-RenaissanceALuca-Guadagnini-_Y0A5142.jpg) Fig. 2 **Diese Auseinandersetzung mit Monumentalität scheint entscheidend zu sein, insbesondere für Künstler\*innen, die einen analytischen Scheinwerfer auf Generationenkonflikte richten und Geschichten aus der eigenen Dissoziation mit derselben behandeln.** Ja, bei der Auseinandersetzung mit verschiedenen Formen kulturellen Erbes geht es auch um die Schatten einer gewissen Monumentalität, aus der eine jüngere Generation heraustritt oder auf die sie neue Schlaglichter wirft. Im Austausch mit den Künstler\*innen traten immer wieder ästhetische und soziale Standards in den Fokus ihrer kritischen Praxis. Einige beschäftigen sich zum Beispiel mit patriarchalen Strukturen, die auch in der Gegenwart noch bestehen, indem sie Genderstereotype und Rollenbilder kritisch hinterfragen – etwa durch die bewusste Anwendung von Imperfektion als Methode, um zu zeigen, dass das, was in der Werbung oder in popkulturellen Formaten suggeriert wird, mit der Realität wenig zu tun hat. **An wen denkst du zuerst?** An Lorenza Longhi. Ihre Collagen von Bildern aus der Konsumkultur, die sie alle mit der provokativen Überschrift “Still, The Standard." versehen hat, halten der Scheinrealität in Luxusmarken-Werbebildern den Zerrspiegel vor. Ich denke auch an Giorgia Garzilli, die in ihren Gemälden popkulturelle Referenzen aufnimmt, aber durch verschiedene historisierende ästhetische Filter eine Distanz schafft. Sie legt beispielsweise einen Sepiaschleier über nachgemalte Szenen aus Hollywoodfilmen und TV-Serien. Auch Ali Paloma möchte sich mit ihrem Werk aus patriarchalen Ketten befreien und arbeitet sehr symbolisch, ihr Werk ist buchstäblich ein Dorn im Auge des Patriarchats. Genderstereotype finden in vielen Werken einen Nachhall und werden kritisch bewertet. Aber ebenso geht es in der Ausstellung um die Auseinandersetzung mit Ritualen, Familien- und Migrationsgeschichten. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Longhi_HQ-RenaissanceALuca-Guadagnini-_Y0A5396.jpg) Fig. 3 **Kulturelles Erbe ist eben nicht nur traditionelles Handwerk.** Kulturelles Erbe ist nicht in Stein gemeißelt. Es wird von den Künstler\*innen im Prozess begriffen und aus individuellen als auch kollektiven Perspektiven neu interpretiert. Das ist ein wichtiger Aspekt dieser Ausstellung. Von der Stiftung Vordemberge-Gildewart wurden wir gebeten, mit Künstler\*innen aus der Region zu arbeiten, im Alter von bis zu 35 Jahren. Diese Prämisse führte zu kuratorischen Überlegungen darüber, was es bedeutet, aus einer Region zu kommen und Fragen der Zugehörigkeit zu thematisieren. Dabei entstand eine Ausstellung mit 15 Künstler\*innen, die eine Verbindung zu Norditalien haben, ob sie hier geboren sind, studiert haben oder leben, von denen aber auch viele einen transnationalen Hintergrund haben. **Umweltschutz ist sehr prägnant in der Auseinandersetzung mit vielen lokalen Künstler\*innen der Region in Südtirol und Norditalien. Vielleicht könnten wir gemeinsam über zwei Werke sprechen, wo Wiedergeburt (Renaissance) eine Verbindung zu Fragen von Nachhaltigkeit hat, wie beispielsweise bei Filippo Contatore und Isabella Costabile. So unterschiedlich wie sie sein mögen.** Themen der Nachhaltigkeit sind für diese Generation und auch für das Museion sehr wichtig. Im Werk von Isabella Costabile spiegelt sich diese Haltung zum Beispiel auf besonders poetische Weise wider: Sie arbeitet mit weggeworfenen Gegenständen, die keine Funktion mehr haben, die sie etwa auf Dachböden oder in Garagen findet oder die an Stränden angespült wurden. In neuen Kombinationen und teils bemalten Assemblagen verleiht sie diesen Dingen einen neuen Wert, neue Form und Persönlichkeit. Isabella ist in New York geboren, in Jamaika aufgewachsen, hat in Mailand studiert und lebt heute zwischen Grosseto und Mailand. Diese verschiedenen kulturellen Einflüsse bringt sie in ihr Verständnis von Skulptur ein. Ihre Arbeit mag an Vorläufer in der westlichen Kunstgeschichte wie Isa Genzken oder Robert Rauschenberg erinnern, aber auch an eine in der Karibik weit verbreitete skulpturale Praxis. Ihre teils ganz feingliedrigen und fragilen, teils industriell und robust anmutenden Skulpturen schöpfen aus der Poetik des Alltags und übertragen Gedanken und Geschichten der Vielfalt. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Costabile_HQ-RenaissanceALuca-Guadagnini-_Y0A5300.jpg) Fig. 4 Filippo Contatore nähert sich mit seiner Videoinstallation auf sanfte Weise dem eher mit einer gewissen Härte verbundenen traditionellen Schmiedehandwerk. Für seine skulpturale Videoinstallation reaktivierte er die mittlerweile stillgelegte Werkstatt des bereits verstorbenen Bozner Schmieds und Künstlers Franz Messner. Sein poetischer Film zeigt ihn bei der Aneignung von Gesten und der sowohl robusten, kräftefordernden wie sensiblen, feingliedrigen Arbeit mit Metall. Im Zusammenspiel mit einer von ihm aus vorgefundenem Restmetall gefertigten verschnörkelten Gitterstruktur reflektiert er verschiedene mit Geschlechterrollen, Ein- und Ausschluss verbundene Aspekte des Handwerks und seiner Anwendungsbereiche. **Wie kann man\* sich gegenseitig stützen, an der Grenzerweiterung des Sagbaren, des Machbaren in der Kunst? Raphael Pohls Arbeit eröffnet den Raum für diese Fragestellung, indem er auf verschiedenen Ebenen kulturellen Erbes reflektiert und zeigt, dass die Antwort nicht nur in der künstlerischen Praxis liegt, sondern auch in unserem Umgang mit gesellschaftlichen Habitus und Wandel.** Raphael Pohls Arbeit besteht aus verschiedenen Objekten, die ihm nicht gehören, sondern geliehen sind. Er bringt diese Objekte in Dialog mit einem Film, der die Arbeit eines georgischen Bäckers zeigt, der täglich Brote für die Leute in Batumi backt. Raphael, geboren und aufgewachsen in Bozen, lebt in Wien und verbringt viel Zeit in Georgien, wo er immer wieder Alltagsrituale aus verschiedenen Perspektiven aufspürt. In 13 Filmminuten backt der Bäcker 36 Brote, die ofenfrisch gleich ihre Abnehmer finden. Die Übertragung der Szenen in einer kleinen Straßenbäckerei auf einem LED-Bildschirm, wie sie normalerweise in Fußballstadien oder großen Einkaufszentren zu sehen sind, zeigt den Kontrast verschiedener Ökonomien auf. Auch die Anordnung weiterer Objekte im Raum, die unter anderem aus einem Wiener Kiosk geliehen sind, regt zum Nachdenken über unterschiedliche Formen des Zählens, Ein- und Verteilens an. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Pohl_HQ-RenaissanceALuca-Guadagnini-_Y0A5238.jpg-Pohl.jpg) Fig. 5 **Diese poetischen, ökonomischen Beziehungen führen zurück zur Arbeit von Giorgia Garzilli, wo Poetik in transdisziplinärer Form stattfindet und italienische Identität in surreale Szenen gebracht wird.** Giorgia Garzilli spielt stark mit überregionalen popkulturellen Bildern. Egal, ob man in Italien oder anderswo aufgewachsen ist, spiegelt sie mögliche Einflüsse von Szenen des Hollywood-Kinos, wie aus dem Filmklassiker Blues Brothers, wobei sie hierbei zum Beispiel die aus der Froschperspektive aufgenommenen Schritte dreier Männer im Gefängnis malerisch in eine gegenwärtige Szenerie übersetzt, die eher an Banker in einem Unternehmen erinnert. Hier zeigt sich eine neue Form des Camp, mit einer historischen Distanz. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Garzilli_HQ-RenaissanceALuca-Guadagnini-_Y0A5211.jpg) Fig. 6 **Ich möchte zuletzt etwas über die Preisvergabe des Vordemberge-Gildewart-Stipendiums wissen. Wie funktioniert sie in eurem Kontext?** Die Stiftung sprach das Museion an, um das Stipendium zum ersten Mal in Italien zu vergeben. Sie haben in der Vergangenheit mit verschiedenen Institutionen in Europa gearbeitet und immer galt es dabei, eine Ausstellung mit Künstler\*innen aus der jeweiligen Region im Alter von bis zu 35 Jahren zu realisieren. Von dieser Prämisse ausgehend, und der Begriff "Region" ist vielseitig interpretierbar, lag der Recherchefokus auf Positionen in oder aus Norditalien, vor allem Südtirol und Mailand. Am Tag der Eröffnung hat eine unabhängige internationale Jury die Auswahl getroffen und am selben Abend ihre Entscheidung verkündet und Monia Ben Hamouda das Stipendium verliehen. Neben dieser Auszeichnung durch die Stiftung Vordemberge-Gildewart werden in den nächsten Monaten auch noch weitere Preise aus der Ausstellung vergeben: das ist zum einen ein Publikumspreis, und ferner ein Preis der Museion Private Founders. Beide sind mit Ankäufen verbunden, die jeweils die Sammlung des Museion erweitern. **Wie siehst du deren Rolle im Vergleich zu anderen Kunststiftungen und zur Entwicklung der Karriere junger Künstler\*innen?** Es ist einer der höchstdotierten Preise für junge Kunst in Europa, also wirklich außergewöhnlich. Zudem ist der Preis mit keinerlei Bedingungen verbunden. Es geht nicht darum, 60.000 Schweizer Franken zu vergeben, um dann ein Werk für die Stiftung zu produzieren oder Ähnliches, sondern allein um die finanzielle Unterstützung des künstlerischen Lebens und Schaffens. **Wie frei warst du als Kuratorin bei der Gestaltung von "RENAISSANCE" am Ende?** Mir wurde großes Vertrauen entgegengebracht. Insofern war das auch eine hervorragende Möglichkeit, unsere institutionellen Ziele zu verwirklichen: insbesondere die Unterstützung junger Künstler\*innen, ob aus der Region oder international, begreifen wir als eine der wichtigsten Aufgaben im Museion. Mit der Stiftung Vordemberge-Gildewart haben wir einen beispielhaften Partner für privates Engagement für die Kunst gefunden, der uns viel Raum für kuratorische Entscheidungen und den unmittelbaren Austausch mit den Künstler\*innen für die Umsetzung und Konzeptualisierung einer Ausstellung gelassen hat. Diese Freiheit wusste ich sehr zu schätzen. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Diaw_HQ-RenaissanceALuca-Guadagnini-_Y0A5357.jpg) Fig. 7 // *Das Interview wurde von María Inés Plaza Lazo geführt und Noa Jaari editiert.* --- ### Notes **RENAISSANCE** 23.03.—01.09.2024 Mit AliPaloma, Monia Ben Hamouda, Costanza Candeloro, Filippo Contatore, Isabella Costabile, Binta Diaw, Giorgia Garzilli, Sophie Lazari, Lorenza Longhi, Magdalena Mitterhofer, Jim C. Nedd, Luca Piscopo, Raphael Pohl, Davide Stucchi und Tobias Tavella. [At Museion, Bolzano](https://www.museion.it/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) **Images** Cover: Monia Ben Hamouda, *Resisting (Aniconism as Figuration Urgency)*, 2023, *About Telepathy and other Violences II (Aniconism as Figuration Urgency)*, 2023, *About Telepathy and other Violences (Aniconism as Figuration Urgency)*, 2023, Lasergeschnittenes Eisen, Gewürzpulver Courtesy of the artist and ChertLüdde, Berlin, Photo credits: Luca Guadagnini Fig. 1 - Sophie Lazari, exhibition view RENAISSANCE, 2024, Museion. Photo: Luca Guadagnini Fig. 2 - Lorenza Longhi, exhibition view RENAISSANCE, 2024, Museion. Photo: Luca Guadagnini Fig. 3 - Davide Stucchi, exhibition view RENAISSANCE, 2024, Museion. Photo: Luca Guadagnini Fig. 4 - Isabella Costabile, exhibition view RENAISSANCE, 2024, Museion. Photo: Luca Guadagnini Fig. 5 - Raphael Pohl, exhibition view RENAISSANCE, 2024, Museion. Photo: Luca Guadagnini Fig. 6 - Giorgia Garzilli, exhibition view RENAISSANCE, 2024, Museion. Photo: Luca Guadagnini Fig. 7 - Binta Diaw, exhibition view RENAISSANCE, 2024, Museion. Photo: Luca Guadagnini *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Die Biases der Geschichtsschreibung URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/interview-boehler-and-orendt-memory-movers-am-neuen-museum-nuernberg/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:28.000Z *Wozu sammeln wir eigentlich all die Bilder und Objekte, Dokumente, Geschichten und Gedichte, die sich in Archiven befinden? Und was bedeuten sie für uns in einer Zeit, in der in vielen Weltgegenden Kriege und totalitäre Strö­mun­gen soziale Strukturen aus dem Gleichgewicht bringen und ökologische Krisen sich häufen?* *Mit diversen technischen Mitteln und ästhetischen Bezügen auf Videogames, Hollywood-Blockbuster und die griechische Mythologie hat das Berliner Künstlerduo Böhler & Orendt eine Art inter­aktive räumliche Erzählung entwickelt. Wir haben dazu ein paar Fragen gestellt.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/c_13_Boehler_Orendt_MM_Installationsansicht_Besucherin_mit_Daimonic_Hat_Foto_Boehler_Orendt-v2.jpg) Fig. 1 **Matthias, was passiert, wenn ich diesen Hut anziehe?** Wenn du einen der Hüte aufsetzt und vor den Spiegel trittst, begrüßt dich einer von drei gutmütigen computergesteuerten „Daimons“; eine Art Geisterwesen, das in dem Hut “wohnt” wie ein Einsiedlerkrebs in einer Muschel. Wir haben uns diese exzentrische Form von Audio-Guides ausgedacht, weil wir nicht wollten, dass die Besucher\*innen ein alltägliches Smartphone oder Museumsgerät tragen müssen. Der Hut ist dein Guide und deine Bekleidung. Das „Daimon“ suggeriert deine Besessenheit. **Das leise Atmen des Daimons über meinem Kopf ist ja gruselig. Beruhigt mich aber irgendwie auch.** Ja. Wir fanden, die Ausstellung sollte etwas ambivalentes, unterhaltsames haben. Das Daimon erinnert an Settings, Charaktere und Handlungen aus Geisterbahnen, Adventure-Games, Horror- oder Fantasy-Filmen. Die Daimons sollen auch ein bisschen cute sein und auch für Kinder, Jugendliche oder Leute funktionieren, die sich in ihrem Alltag vielleicht weniger mit Kulturgeschichte beschäftigen. Die Besucher\*innen sollen dadurch angeregt werden, mitzudiskutieren, was wir in Archiven aufheben, wie wir die Archivalien interpretieren und welche Schlüsse wir aus der Vergangenheit ziehen: Sie erinnern an das Fortbestehen bestimmter Formen von Gewalt und Repression von der Zeit des preußischen Bundes über die Kolonialzeit und die Nazi-Zeit bis in die Gegenwart. Davon heben sich Objekte ab, die wie helle Momente vor dieser dunklen Masse historischer Kontinuitäten stehen: Personen oder Bewegungen, die sich für andere eingesetzt haben, die Kritik oder Widerstand geübt haben, um ein solidarisches und gleichberechtigtes Zusammenleben zu ermöglichen. Ein Beispiel dafür ist der Verein DOMiD (Dokumentationszentrum und Museum über die Migration in Deutschland), der von aus der Türkei stammenden Migrant\*innen als Reaktion darauf gegründet wurde, dass die Geschichte von Einwander\*innen in Deutschland wenig Aufmerksamkeit erhielt. Weitere Beispiele für die Diversität engagierter Protest-, Widerstands- und Archivkultur in der Ausstellung sind das Gorleben-Archiv, das Hamburger Institut für Sozialforschung, das belladonna in Bremen oder das Qwien – Zentrum für Queere Geschichte Wien. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/b_01_Boehler_Orendt_MM_Installationsansicht_Foto_Stepan_Novotny-v2.jpg) Fig. 2 **Welche Verbindung ergibt sich zwischen den Daimonen und den Archivalien in dieser nächtlich-düsteren *Mise en Abyme*?** *Mise en Abyme* finde ich eine sehr passende Assoziation. Die Aneinanderreihung der Vehikel, Vitrinen und Inhalte, die sich vor den schwarzen Löchern stauen, ist sequenzartig und wie vor einem Abgrund platziert. Die in die Gegenwart reichenden Kontinuitäten von Unterdrückung, Gewalt und Zerstörung können in dieser Masse selbst wie ein Abgrund unendlicher Wiederholungen der Geschichte wirken, sodass es fraglich scheint, ob wir Menschen wirklich aus der Vergangenheit lernen. Die Daimons helfen dir, dich in dieser verfahrenen, chaotischen Situation zurechtzufinden. Wie auf einer unbeschilderten Straße in der Nacht, wo man\* nicht genau weißt, wo es hingeht, stauen sich hier vor drei Tunneln historische und zeitgenössische Transportmittel, voll beladen mit Euroboxen, zum Teil ausgeleuchtet wie Vitrinen und gefüllt mit allen möglichen Gegenständen. Wir wollten die Archivalien, die zum Teil trocken daherkommen können, mit etwas Haunted-House-artigem kombinieren, das den Besucher\*innen den Einstieg erleichtert und sie wie Jenseits-Guides durch die räumliche Erzählung führt. **Wie kam es zu den drei Gesichtsfarben der Daimons – rot, grün und blau?** Die Idee der RGB-Farbgebung der Daimons kam durch den Bezug zu menschlicher Farbwahrnehmung auf der Netzhaut und zur Bilderzeugung auf einem Screen zustande. Diese Vollmondgesichter passen irgendwie zur Idee nächtlicher Reflexion, so wie nächtliche Gedankenkaruselle zu endlos spukenden Dämonen. Ihre „farbig“ klingenden Chatnamen WOAD53, SAGE86 und RUBY91 leiten sich von Pflanzen ab. Zusammen mit ihren Farben hängen ihre Namen für uns assoziativ mit ihren Temperamenten, ihren Charakteren, Interessen und Denkweisen zusammen. **Die Hüte, in denen die Daimons wohnen, folgen dabei scheinbar keinen eindeutigen Zuschreibungen, sondern weisen Ähnlichkeiten zu verschiedenen historischen Formen auf.** Das sind Kopfbedeckungen, die Ende des 16\. Jahrhunderts in England in Mode kamen oder welche, die von Pilgrims, Kolonisatoren, Cowboys und gelehrten Personen getragen wurden. Dann gibt es welche, die als Marker für meist weibliche Personen verwendet wurden, die als Zauberer\*innen oder Hexen angeklagt oder verurteilt worden waren. Durch ihr irisierendes Kunststoffgewebe erinnern die Hüte vielleicht auch an zeitgenössische Damen-Accessoires oder Fashion Items. **Sie haben etwas von Loveparade und Gaming-Charakteren. Wie wichtig ist die Gamification der Ausstellung?** Wenn du den Hut aufsetzt, bist du quasi ein Low-Key-Performer der Ausstellung. Das Intro des Daimons in die installative Erzählung bereitet dich gleichzeitig auf dein Sidequest vor – nämlich zusätzlich zu dem, was dich interessiert, auch sämtliche Objekte zu finden, die den Daimon interessieren. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/d_06_Boehler_Orendt_MM_Installationsansicht_Foto_Annette_Kradisch-v2.jpg) Fig. 3 **Wichtig ist zugleich die Präzision bei der Verbindung zwischen den ausgewählten Objekten, die das gesamte Bühnenbild prägen. Es ist interessant, wie ihr euch für Charaktere entscheidet und die Besucher\*innen als Träger\*innen versteht, die Geschichte schreiben oder mitentscheiden, wie Dinge gelesen werden.** Gemeinsam vertiefen sie die Handlung unserer Erzählung, gliedern sie inhaltlich und räumlich. Uns war wichtig, dass die Beschäftigung mit den oft unheimlich aktuell wirkenden Archivalien der Vergangenheit eben auch das Potential birgt, sie auf die Gegenwart zu beziehen und dadurch eigene Meinungen oder Vorurteile zu überdenken… **…um *Biases* der Geschichtsschreibung zu zeigen?** Das metaphorische Bild des Transits, das auf dem Weg in die Zukunft ins Stocken gerät, entstand aus der Überlegung, dass Menschen paradoxerweise zwar große Anstrengungen unternehmen, kulturell wertvolle Objekte zu sammeln und für die Zukunft zu bewahren, aber gleichzeitig Entwicklungen vorantreiben, die es fraglich machen, ob in dieser Welt in den nächsten Jahrzehnten überhaupt noch Menschen leben werden, die diese Sammlungen rezipieren können. Für die Besucher\*innen bietet der Moment des Stillstandes die Möglichkeit, wie in einem Adventure-Game viele Untererzählungen zu entdecken, aber auch Parallelen und Querverbindungen zwischen den Zeugnissen unterschiedlicher Ereignisse aus ganz unterschiedlichen Zeiten. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/e_25_Boehler_Orendt_MM_Detail_Schuelerzeichnung_nach_Anschlag_Moelln_Foto_Boehler_Orendt.jpg) Fig. 4 **Wie habt ihr die Auswahl der Gegenstände getroffen und die Narrative zusammengebracht? Was macht man\* mit diesen Archiven und warum gerade in Deutschland?** Das Neue Museum und das Institut für moderne Kunst haben uns eingeladen, uns mit den Beständen des Arbeitskreises deutschsprachiger Kunst- und Kulturarchive in Europa auseinanderzusetzen. Kriterien für die Auswahl der Archivalien waren Fragen wie nach dem Grund des Sammelns der Objekte, nach ihren politischen, sozialen und ökologischen Kontexten und ihrer heutigen Bedeutung und Rezeption. Unter dem Eindruck von aktuellen Kriegsverbrechen, katastrophalen ökologischen Entwicklungen, rassistischer Gewalt und rechts-neoliberalen Reaktionen darauf in der Politik hat sich der Schwerpunkt unserer Auswahl nach und nach weiter zugespitzt. Einen Teil haben wir aus lange bestehenden Archiven von Kulturinstitutionen ausgewählt, wie z.B. die Stifter\*innenlisten der Gründung des Hauses der Kunst in München, Bergungslisten aus der NS-Zeit sowie österreichische Entwürfe für die koloniale Produktion bosnischer Teppiche aus dem MAK in Wien. Kontrastierend zu diesem „Abgrund“ zeigen wir etwa Buttons, Flyer und Plakate von ökologischen Protestbewegungen, queeren und feministischen Widerstands- und Aufklärungsbewegungen, sowie von pazifistischen Gruppen. Sie sind beeindruckende Beispiele dafür, wie sich zunächst kleine zivile Bewegungen mit Ausdauer, guten Argumenten und starken Bildern durchsetzen können. **Klingt nach unendlicher Arbeit.** Es war sehr interessant, aber ja, neben der Organisation waren die Recherche und die Textproduktion auch eine Herausforderung für unser Team. Für das Verfassen der Objekttexte haben wir die Kunstgeschichtlerin und Kuratorin Gabriela Seith dazugeholt, und für die Daimontexte Nikolas von Passavant. Viele vorhandene historische, aber auch jüngere Texte zu den Archivalien stellten sich zudem durch nationalsozialistische, FLINTA\*-feindliche oder rassistische Perspektiven oder eindeutige Geschichtsverfälschungen als ultraproblematisch heraus. Das machte es nötig, die Objekte neu zu interpretieren. **Das ist die nötige Aufklärungsarbeit, die momentan Institutionen leisten müssen.** Eigentlich müssten sie das. Aber weil viele dies nicht leisten oder leisten können, ist die Ausstellung unter anderem deshalb ein politisches Projekt für uns. Es ist aber auch unser erstes Projekt mit einem großen kuratorischen und wissenschaftlichen Anteil und damit ungewohntes Terrain. **Es bleibt dennoch eine künstlerische Arbeit.** Absolut, indem wir die Stimmen der Archivalien mit dem Chor der Daimons in eine interaktive Installation einbinden, entwickeln wir eine multiperspektivische mixed reality-Erzählung, in der wir – wie bei unseren anderen Arbeiten – Auswirkungen menschlicher Einflussnahme auf ihre Um- und Mitwelt thematisieren können. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/f_20_Boehler_Orendt_MM_Detail_Belladonna_Foto_Boehler_Orendt.jpg) Fig. 5 **Die Auswahl der Archive scheint auch stark auf langjährige Kämpfe und unterdrückte Initiativen zu fokussieren, wie pazifistische oder anti-patriarchale Initiativen.** Genau, die Ausstellung beleuchtet beispielhaft Kämpfe sozialer Bewegungen, die für viele Menschen unsichtbar bleiben, weil sie diskreditiert werden oder ihnen gesellschaftliche und kulturelle Relevanz abgesprochen wird. Dieser Fokus war uns wichtig, weil er einen starken Gegenentwurf von Lebenswelten zu Gewaltausprägungen der Geschichte und Gegenwart formuliert. Man\* kann anhand von pazifistischen und queer-feministischen Dokumenten beispielsweise gut nachvollziehen, dass der friedliche Kampf für Gleichberechtigung für alle nur solidarisch, inklusiv und intersektional Wirklichkeit werden kann. „No one can be free until everyone is free!“, und „Nie wieder heißt nie wieder für alle!“ wären hier logische Schlüsse, die man\* aus dieser Lektüre ziehen kann. **Das zeigt, wie wichtig es ist, darüber zu sprechen und diese Initiativen sichtbar zu machen.** Viele dieser Archive sind nicht sehr bekannt, obwohl sie wichtige wissenschaftliche und politische Arbeit leisten, indem sie interessante und historisch bedeutende Dokumente für Forschung und Öffentlichkeit zugänglich machen. Umso wichtiger ist es, dass sie mehr Aufmerksamkeit bekommen. **Wie war eure Erfahrung mit der Öffnung von Archiven?** Die Archive sind in Größe, Diversität und im Hinblick auf die Öffentlichkeit, die sie erreichen, sehr unterschiedlich. Wir haben festgestellt, dass viele dieser Archive wenig staatliche und kommunale Unterstützung bekommen. So können sie oft nur beschränkte Öffnungszeiten anbieten und haben Schwierigkeiten mit der Digitalisierung, dem Erhalt und der Sichtbarmachung ihrer Bestände. **Diese Archive geben jedoch Stimmen Raum, die sonst ungehört bleiben. Kannst du mehr über die Auswahl der Sprecher\*innen der Daimon-Texte erzählen?** [Minh Duc Pham](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/minh-duc-pham/), der jüngste der Sprecher\*innen, ist ein deutsch-vietnamesischer Künstler, Schauspieler und Performer aus Berlin. Soetkin Elbers ist eine flämische Sopranistin und Schauspielerin aus Brüssel mit Leidenschaft für Barockoper. Und Sibrand Basa ist ein Opernsänger, Sprech- und Gesangspädagoge aus Wuppertal, der in Nürnberg lebt. Sie verkörpern mit ihren unterschiedlichen Stimmen indirekt verschiedene Generationen und Perspektiven von Rezipient:innen, aber auch die Vielstimmigkeit der Archivalien und der Personen, die dahinter stehen. **War das der Grund, warum ihr selbst nicht gesprochen habt?** Ja, wir fanden es inhaltlich besser, wenn die Texte von mehr Stimmen und außerdem anderen als den unseren gesprochen werden. Darüber hinaus fanden wir es auch formal wichtig, die Sprachaufnahmen gemeinsam mit professionellen Performer:innen umzusetzen. **Wie genau passt das zu eurer Erzählung?** Die Sprecher\*innen und ihre unterschiedlichen Stimmen helfen, die Geschichten und Inhalte der Archivalien lebendig zu machen. Ihre sprachliche Performance fügt der Ausstellung eine weitere Ebene hinzu, die die Beschäftigung mit deren Inhalten zugänglicher, anrührender und einprägsamer macht. Wir wollten mit ihrer Performance das theatralische und unterhaltsame Potential des daimonischen Audioguides für unsere Installation nutzen, um einen Kontrast zu herkömmlichen Displays zu entwickeln. Uns bleiben Dinge ja auch eher in unserem Gedächtnis, wenn uns das, was wir sehen und hören, verwundert, emotional anspricht oder zum Lachen bringt. Deshalb sind die Daimons die eigentlichen *Memory Movers*. **Wie?** *Memory Movers* verwendet nicht nur verschiedene Stimmen, sondern auch visuelle und räumliche Elemente, um die Archivalien und ihre Geschichten zu präsentieren. Und zugleich werden die historischen Archivalien und ihre Kontexte als Elemente für ein metaphorisches Bild in Form einer erzählerischen Installation verwendet. Es ist ein Versuch, kollektives Nachdenken anzuregen über Fragen wie „Was ist es wert, bewahrt zu werden?“, „Welche Schlüsse können wir aus der Vergangenheit für unsere Gegenwart ziehen?“ und „Wie sollten wir deshalb handeln?“. **Ein konkretes Beispiel dieses kollektiven Nachdenken, bitte.** Ein aktuelles Beispiel: Wie kann es in Palästina einen gerechten Frieden geben? Und wie kann ich selbst, von meiner eigenen privilegierten Position aus, dazu beitragen? // --- ### Notes **Böhler & Orendt** Matthias Böhler (\*1981 Aachen) und Christian Orendt (\*1980 Sighișoara, Rumänien) arbeiten seit 2008 als Duo zusammen. Mit Witz, Ironie und schwarzem Humor machen sie das Schalten und Walten des Menschen zum Thema **Bilder** Cover – Detail: Guide-Character WOAD53 auf Display von Daimonic Hat-Audioguide. Foto: Matthias Böhler, © Böhler & Orendt 2024 Fig. 1 – Ausstellungsansicht: Besucherin mit Daimonic Hat-Audioguide. Foto: Matthias Böhler, © Böhler & Orendt 2024 Fig. 2 – Ausstellungsansicht: Daimonic Hats-Kiosk, Fahrzeuge und Archivobjekte. Foto: Stepan Novotny, © Böhler & Orendt 2024 Fig. 3 – Ausstellungsansicht: Fahrzeuge und Archivobjekte (v. l. n. r.): Collagen für die Zeitschrift *Ulcus Molle Info*, Josef Wintjes, zwischen 1969 und 1981, aus dem Archiv für Alternativkultur, Berlin; *Mikroleben II* – Druck von Toni Mau, 1977, aus dem Museum Utopie und Alltag / Kunstarchiv Beeskow Werbeplakat für Gesunde Kraft(Fleischersatzprodukt der Firma F.Kiel), nach 1911, aus dem Archiv der Eden Gemeinnützige Obstbau-Siedlung eG, Oranienburg; *Pixaçao–Schaukel,* Coletivo Ardepixo, 2018 aus dem Archiv der Jugendkulturen e.V.,Berlin; *Bitte Lebn* – Publikation über Urbane Kunst & Subkultur in Berlin 2003 – 2021, Reclaim Your City, 2021, aus dem Archiv der Jugendkulturen e.V., Berlin. Foto: Annette Kradisch, © Böhler & Orendt 2024 Fig. 4 – Detail: Zeichnung von Schüler:innen nach Anschlag in Mölln, Autor:innen unbekannt, 1992, aus dem DOMiD – Dokumentationszentrum und Museum über die Migration in Deutschland, Köln. Foto: Matthias Böhler, © Böhler & Orendt 2024 Fig. 5 – Detail: Vitrinen mit Plakaten (v. l. n. r.): *Plakat zum 08.03.2021*, Brigitte Boomgaarden (boomgaarden.xyz), 2021; *Smash the Cistem, Brigitte Boomgaarden* (boomgaarden.xyz), 2021; *Take back the Night/ Reclaim Spaces*, Franziska Bauer und Rosanna Umbach, 2022\. Alle aus dem belladonna – Frauenarchiv und Dokumentationszentrum, Bremen. Foto: Matthias Böhler, © Böhler & Orendt 2024 *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Pham Minh Duc URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/minh-duc-pham/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:27.000Z In seiner künstlerischen Praxis konzentriert sich Pham auf die vielschichtige Bedeutung, die durch Beschaffenheit, Anordnung und Gegenüberstellung empfindlicher Materialien hervorgerufen wird. Er nutzt die Eigenschaften von Blumen, Papierstücken, Stoffen oder Ton, um verletzliche Geschichten und Akte der Ermächtigung, Selbstbestimmung und sozialen Mobilität zu symbolisieren – und dadurch Identität in ihren Überschneidungen von Geschlecht, Rasse und Klasse zu reflektieren. Damit untergräbt er das, was Besucher\*innen womöglich als Erstes mit empfindlichen Materialien assoziieren. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/A-A-A-2023.jpg) fig. 1 Als erstgeborener Sohn vietnamesischer Vertragsarbeiter wuchs Pham in Sachsen auf. Laut einem Interview mit der taz wurde Phams Erziehung von einem starken Anpassungs- und Leistungsdruck begleitet, nach dem Leitsatz: „Du musst immer doppelt so gut sein wie die anderen, du musst gehorsam sein und darfst nicht auffallen.“ Seine Eltern kamen Anfang der 80er Jahre als sogenannte Vertragsarbeiter\*innen in die DDR. Kontakte zu Deutschen und Integration waren nicht erwünscht, Arbeitsverträge waren befristet. Nach der Wiedervereinigung durften nur diejenigen bleiben, die Arbeit hatten. Der Aufenthaltsstatus seiner Eltern war bis 1997 unklar, dazu kam die rassistische Stimmung und die Gewalt der Nachwendezeit. Phams Aufwachsen war geprägt von einer internalisierten Unsichtbarkeit und Unsicherheit. Dadurch entwickelte sich auch der Drang, damit radikal zu brechen und sich der Assimilation an das diskriminierende und gewalttätige Umfeld zu verweigern, die viele in Deutschland erleben. Pham nahm sich den kreativen Raum, seinen Körper als politisches Medium zu nutzen, um Kontrolle darüber zurückzugewinnen, was seinem Körper zugeschrieben wird und wie er gelesen wird. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/C.C.-Don_t-Kiss-Me-2018.jpg) fig. 2 Heute lebt und arbeitet Pham als Künstler in Berlin. Seine Werke sind aktuell Teil der Ausstellungen “Echos der Brüderländer” im HkW Berlin und dort bis zum 20\. Mai 2024 zu sehen als auch in “MENSCHENanSCHAUEN. Von Blicken zu Taten” im Stadtmuseum Dresden bis zum 7\. Juli 2024. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Daijobou, 2022-2023\. © and courtesy of the artist. fig. 1: AAA (adaptation - affection - affirmation), 2023\. © and courtesy of the artist. fig. 2: C.C. - Don’t Kiss Me, 2018\. © and courtesy of the artist. *Mit ihrem Schwerpunkt auf visueller Anthropologie beschäftigt sich Lisa Hölscher mit kollektiven Erinnerungskulturen und koordinierte das Projekt „MoCom: Motion Comics als Erinnerungsarbeit“ an der Gedenkstätte Deutsche Teilung Marienborn.* *Lizza May David ist eine transdisziplinäre Künstlerin und Dozentin an der Weißensee Kunsthochschule Berlin. Sie beschäftigt sich mit Auslassungen in persönlichen und kollektiven Archiven durch abstrakte Malerei, Installationen, architektonische Interventionen und kollektive Arbeiten.* ### Jeans nach Dienstschluss URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/jeans-nach-dienstschluss/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:25.000Z *Seit dem Frühjahr 2024 lädt das Deutsche Hygiene-Museum Dresden (DHMD) zur neuen Sonderausstellung „VEB Museum. Das DHMD in der DDR“ ein. Sie beschäftigt sich erstmals mit der Geschichte des Hauses von der Nachkriegszeit bis Anfang der 1990er Jahre. Im Zentrum der Ausstellung steht dabei das vielschichtige Profil des Museums als Produktionsbetrieb für anatomische Modelle und andere medizinische Lehr- und Aufklärungsmittel. Darüber hinaus bietet der Rückblick in den Mikrokosmos des Dresdner Museums, Einblicke und Rückschlüsse auf das Leben im sozialistischen deutschen Staat und über den Systemwechsel nach 1989.* *Mit einem Exkurs über Vertragsarbeitende, Auszubildende und Studierende, die aus „sozialistischen Brüderländer“ in die DDR einreisten, werden ostdeutsche Migrationsgeschichten sichtbar. Die Auseinandersetzung mit deren Lebensrealitäten ist nach wir vor nützlich und nötig. Dass die DDR nicht einfach spurlos verschwunden ist, sondern mehr als 30 Jahre nach ihrem Zusammenbruch im Denken und Handeln der Zeitzeug:innen nachwirkt, ist ein Beleg für die wissensmäßige Kontinuität.* *Aus welcher Motivation reisten sie in die DDR ein? Wie erlebten sie den DDR-Alltag? Wie ging es nach dem Herbst 1990 für sie weiter? Diese und andere Fragen wurden den Zeitzeug:innen gestellt, die heute in der sächsischen Landeshauptstadt leben. Ihrer Erfahrungen und Eigenarten wegen, werden sie als Expert:innen verstanden: Expert:innen des Alltags, Expert:innen für das Leben, das sie führen.* Aufgrund großen Arbeitskräftemangels warb die DDR ab den 1960er Jahren „ausländische Werktätige“ an. Dies geschah über zwischenstaatliche Regierungsabkommen mit sozialistischen Partnerländern. Viele von ihnen waren in der Textil-, Elektro- und Ernährungsindustrie beschäftigt. Diese waren aufgrund unattraktiver Bedingungen, wie Schichtarbeit oder der Verrichtung monotoner Handgriffe, durch eine hohe Personalfluktuation gekennzeichnet. Zu Beginn wurden vorwiegend Vertragsarbeitende aus Polen, Ungarn und Bulgarien angeworben. Ab den 70er und 80er Jahren kamen sie hauptsächlich aus Mosambik, Kuba und Vietnam. Bis Ende des Jahres 1989 lebten rund 93.000 Vertragsarbeitende in der DDR, wovon die vietnamesischen Arbeitskräfte die prozentual größte Gruppe bildeten. \[1\] Die DDR verfolgte mit den Anwerbeabkommen handfeste wirtschaftliche Interessen wie die Bundesrepublik oder andere sozialistische Länder, die untereinander Abkommen zur Anwerbung von Arbeitskräften schlossen. \[2\] Eine Informations- oder Öffentlichkeitsarbeit seitens der DDR-Behörden, um der DDR-Bevölkerung Motivation und Bedingungen dieser bilateralen Vereinbarungen zu vermitteln, fand nicht statt. \[3\] ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/FIG_1_WorkshopSKD-IonaDutz-0001.jpg) fig. 1 Die Kriterien für die Auswahl der zu delegierenden vietnamesischen „Werktätigen“ waren in den zwischenstaatlichen Vereinbarungen festgelegt. Diese wurden von vietnamesischer Seite jedoch nicht immer eingehalten, da sie genügend Ansatzpunkte boten, um mit Hilfe von Bestechung die attraktive Auslandsarbeit zu erhalten. \[4\] Neben der Auswahl der zu delegierenden Vietnames\*innen waren zusätzlich Arbeitseinsatz und -dauer, kollektive Unterbringung, alle Rechte und Pflichten in den Staatsverträgen und dann in Jahresprotokollen zwischen der DDR und der SR Vietnam festgelegt. Die Mehrheit jener Vietnames\*innen, die als „Werktätige“ in die DDR einreisten, waren zwischen 18 und 40 Jahre alt. Vor Aufnahme der Arbeit sollten die Vertragsarbeitenden einen Lehrgang im Umfang von mindestens 200 Stunden erhalten, der „Grundkenntnisse der deutschen Sprache, der künftigen Tätigkeit, Gesundheits- und Arbeitsbestimmungen sowie Verhaltensanforderungen im Betrieb und in der Freizeit“ vermitteln sollte. Dieser Lehrgang stellte in den meisten Fällen die einzige vorgesehene „Integrationshilfe“ vonseiten der DDR für die Vertragsarbeitenden dar. Die neuen Lebensverhältnisse und hinzukommenden staatlichen Reglementierungen führten zur Bildung pragmatischer, selbst organisierter Lösungsansätzen. \[5\] Diese hatten sowohl soziale als auch ökonomische Gründe. Nach dem Schichtdienst wurden beispielsweise im Wohnheim begehrte Jeans oder andere Textilien genäht und verkauft. \[6\] Viele Wohnheime waren in kleine Werkstätten umgewandelt worden und bildeten eine komplexe Reihe von informellen Netzwerken und Austauschsystemen. \[7\] In einem Gespräch verrät Hung The Cao, der ab 1987 als Sprachmittler für 200 vietnamesische Vertragsarbeiterinnen im VEB Kinderoberbekleidung Freital delegiert wurde, von seinen ersten Versuchen Jeans zu nähen: „Ich bin damals – eigentlich bin ich faul – aber ich bin beeinflusst durch die Leute \[anderen Vertragsarbeitenden\] im Wohnheim. Wie sie sich hinstellen und die Maße abnehmen und Geld kriegen. Dann langsam, habe ich gedacht: ‚OK, ist leicht \[verdientes\] Geld. Warum nicht!‘ \[…\] Wir arbeiteten nicht mit Schablonen. \[…\] Es gibt eine Form \[Vorlage\], die verrechnen wir \[mit den abgenommenen Maßen\]. Am Anfang, wo ich das gemacht habe, hat es lange gedauert. Vielleicht zwei Stunden. Ich musste erstmal lernen zu nähen. Das Nähen ist nicht einfach. \[…\] Muss man auch üben, dass die Naht gerade und sauber ist usw. Auch die Nähmaschine, die muss auch eingestellt werden. Oder manchmal, wenn es ein Problem gibt, muss man auch selber reparieren. Damals gab es keine Werkstatt. Alles musst du selber irgendwie reparieren. \[…\] Für mich war es Anfang auch schwer. Man kann nicht sagen, dass es 100 Prozent Standard-Qualität war, also dass sie passten. Manchmal gab es Hosen, die \[angezogen\] schief waren und manchmal waren die zu eng. \[…\] Dann muss man den Kollegen \[um Hilfe\] fragen. Irgendwann sammelt man Erfahrung z. Bsp. beim Zusammenfügen des Hosenbeins. Man muss beim Fügen des vorderen und hinteren Hosenbeins immer mit mäßiger, gleicher Spannung nähen, sonst \[…\] werden die Hosen immer schief.“ Besonders dankbar war Hung über das ungenierte Auftreten der Kund\*innen: „Es \[war\] \[gab\] auch ganz selten, dass die Hose reklamiert wurde. Es gab auch keine schlimme Situation. Ich muss auch echt sagen, dass die deutsche Kultur, besser gesagt die DDR-Kultur, die Anziehkultur: Sie sind sehr locker. Das heißt sie sind nicht anstrengend. Wichtig war das es am Bauch und Gesäß passt. Wenn es unten locker war – egal! Wenn die Hose etwas schief war – egal!“ Obwohl Nebenverdienste nicht offiziell genehmigt waren, wurde das Anfertigen von Textilien ganz offen auf Bestellung und teilweise unter den Augen der Kontrollinstanzen ausgeführt. \[8\] In diesem Zuge fiel Hung eine weitere Erinnerung ein: „Zur Weihnachtszeit, im Wohnheim. Also, ich erinnere mich noch: Die Leute, die stehen in einer Schlange etwa 20 bis 30 Meter. \[…\] Und jeder kommt rein: ‚Bitte Hose machen‘, und dann ‚Tschüss! Bis in zwei Wochen!‘ \[…\] Das bedeutet, dass die deutsche Bevölkerung unsere \[Dienstleistung\] \[Produktion\] aufsuchte.“ Hier zeigt sich, dass sowohl Hung als auch den vietnamesischen Vertragsarbeitenden bewusst war, auf welche Weise sich der Verdienst durch die irreguläre Produktion von begehrten Mangelartikeln wie Jeans aufbessern ließ. Mit dem zusätzlichen Verdienst war es ihnen möglich, ihre Familien mit großen Mengen Versandwaren zu unterstützen. Auch das war im zwischenstaatlichen Vertrag geregelt. \\\\ *Interviewausschnitte mit Dresdner:innen aus migrantischen Communities sind in der Ausstellung bis zum 17\. November 2024 im DHMD zu sehen. Des Weiteren sind sie auf der Homepage des DHMD öffentlich zugänglich.* --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Vgl. hierzu: Fritsche, Klaus: Vietnamesische Gastarbeiter in den europäischen RGW-Ländern, Köln, 1991, S. 38-39. \[2\] Vgl. hierzu: Plamper, Jan: Das neue Wir. Warum Migration dazugehört. Eine andere Geschichte der Deutschen, Bonn, 2019, S. 127. \[3\] Vgl. hierzu: Mende. Christiane: Lebensrealitäten der DDR-Arbeitsmigrant\_innen nach 1989 – Zwischen Hochkonjunktur des Rassismus und dem Kampf um Rechte\*, in: telegraph ostdeutsche Zeitschrift #120/121, S. 103-122, S. 106. \[4\] Vgl. hierzu: BArch DL2 17368, https://bruderland.de/background/im-gegenseitigen-interesse/, letzter Aufruf 27.02.2023; Fritsche, Klaus: Köln, 1991, S. 3. \[5\] Vgl. hierzu: Pawlowitsch, Claudia; Wetschel, Nick: Köln/Weimar/Wien, 2021, S. 197-198; Weiss, Katrin: Das Schicksal der DDR- Vertragsarbeiter aus Vietnam. Die Mehrheit ging zurück, ein Drittel blieb in Deutschland, in: Ostalgie international. Erinnerungen an die DDR von Nicaragua bis Vietnam, Berlin, 2010, S. 156-165, S. 157-158; Klessmann, Maria: Berlin-Brandenburg, 2011, S: 188-210, S. 191. \[6\] Vgl. hierzu: Weiss, Karin: Zwischen Vietnam und Deutschland – Die Vietnamesen in Ostdeutschland, in: Zuwanderung und Integration in den neuen Bundesländern. Zwischen Transferexistenz und Bildungserfolg, Freiburg im Breisgau, 2007, S. 72-95, S.77-78. \[7\] Vgl. hierzu: Plamper, Jan: Bonn 2019, S. 143-144. \[8\] Vgl. hierzu: Weiss, Karin: Freiburg im Breisgau, 2007, S. 77. IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1: Dokumentation des Workshops, 2023\. Foto and © courtesy of Iona Dutz. *Thi Nga Nguyen ist studierte Historikerin. Ihre Schwerpunkte sind Arbeitsmigration in der DDR und Lebensgeschichtliche Forschung.* ### Gertraude Pohl URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/gertraude-pohl/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:24.000Z “In meinem zwischen den Staaten DDR und BRD zweigeteilten Arbeitsleben habe ich Übergriffe und Eingriffe in meine Arbeit an und mit Architektur und im öffentlichen Raum in vielen Varianten erlebt. (...) Mit der Privatisierung des in der DDR vergesellschafteten öffentlichen Raums, das heißt von Grund und Boden und vielen Gebäuden ab 1990, waren auch die entsprechenden Urheberrechte von Künstlern an Werken architekturbezogener Kunst außer Kraft gesetzt, einschließlich aller bislang geltenden berufsständischen und gesetzlichen Regelungen. Über Nacht verschwanden so Wandbilder, Plastiken und künstlerische Ausstattungen. Oder sie wurden bedenkenlos und zur Unzeit von neuen Eigentümern, auch von neuen Verwaltungen verändert, beschädigt und vernichtet. Es gilt der Grundsatz Eigentumsrecht vor Urheberpersönlichkeitsrecht \[…\] Die gegebenenfalls von der Zerstörung ihres Werkes betroffene Urheberin muss darüber nicht einmal informiert werden.“ Aus: Gertraude Pohl. *Das Mögliche hat seine Spur im Sein*, Berlin 2024. Die künstlerische Praxis von Gertraude Pohl zeichnet sich durch eine agile Synthese zwischen den vielfältigen gesellschaftlichen Bedürfnissen und Herausforderungen sowie dem breiten Spektrum an künstlerischen Traditionen und Techniken aus. Eine derartige Praxis braucht viele oft langwierig erkämpfte Freiräume, um zwischen Experimenten, Gestaltung aber auch dem unmittelbaren Gemeinwesen eine Balance zu finden. So entstanden vor allem in öffentlichen Räumen und in Gebäuden Arbeiten mit einer besonderen ästhetischen Sensibilität für die Nutzer\*innen. Nach der Wende stand wie den meisten Künstler\*innen aus der DDR auch Gertraude Pohl vor ungeahnten Schwierigkeiten, wusste aber gleichzeitig auch hier zwischen ihrer bisherigen Arbeit und den neuen Rahmenbedingungen eine Brücke zu schlagen. Im neuen, stärker vereinzelten Arbeitsmodus einer Freiberuflerin arbeitete sie, wo möglich, initiativ mit Kolleg\*innen an kollektiven Aktionen und Ausstellungen und schaffte Ausdruck und Räume für brennende Fragen im gemeinschaftlichen Bewusstsein des Umbruchs. Beispielsweise initiierte sie die Aktion Berli ud Brandenburgischer Künstler\*innen "Künstler zeigen Flagge” auf dem Alexanderplatz vom 27.9.1991 bis 24.10.1991\. So gelang es ihr, ein historisches Bewusstsein zu schärfen und es selbstbewusst gegen die Eliminierung von Kunstwerken im öffentlichen Raum einzusetzen. Aktuelle Ausstellungsbeteiligung in: *Echos der Brüderläder*, Haus der Kulturen der Welt, Berlin, bis zum 20\. Mai, 2024. \\\\ COVER: Gertraude Pohl, StadtKunstAktion *Künstler zeigen Flagge*, 1991\. Foto and © courtesy of the artist. *Pauł Sochacki is publisher and founder of arts of the Working Class. Lizza May David is a transdisciplinary artist and lecturer at the Kunsthochschule Weissensee Berlin. She engages with omissions in personal and collective archives through abstract painting, installations, architectural interventions and collective works.* ### The Drop Out URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-drop-out/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:22.000Z There is an increasing necessity for grieving, which is being denied to the social body in public spaces and cultural institutions. This is especially true in Germany. In this overwhelmingly repressive and overemotionalized climate, anyone actively opposing state-level, unquestioning support for the State of Israel faces numerous obstacles to cultural participation. These obstacles include censorship, defamation, state-led physical assault, and more intimate forms of personal exhaustion. The increasingly unhinged and reactionary German state is demonstrating its inability to integrate the material experiences of the multiple identities living in the country into its cultural agendas. Museums and other cultural institutions are flashpoints in this larger state-led fight against basic forms of free expression ostensibly protected in the Grundgesetz, or ‘Basic Law,’ of the Federal Republic of Germany. Against this backdrop, on the third and fourth of May, E-Werk Luckenwalde held space for the festival *The Drop Out: Tell Them I Said No.* The program, co-curated by Katharina Worf and Helen Turner, aimed to deepen the practices of resistance in cultural spaces, engaging with notions of economic self-sufficiency as well as the political connotations of ‘countercultures’ in moments of political tension and artistic repression. The festival showcased a lineup of artists, writers, and curators from both the international stage and the local scene, including Lauryn Youden, Fatoş Üstek, Melanie James Wolf, Prem Krishnamurthy, and the activist and artist collective Pussy Riot. This promised the audience a delicate rollercoaster of sensorial and mnemonic evocations around grief, vulnerability, and political consciousness. The festival felt like an oasis in which to openly process and balance the current state of political violence and cultural repression fomented in Germany. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1.jpeg) fig. 1 The workshop *Some Were Carried and Some Were Dragged* (perhaps unsurprisingly on body dragging) was conducted by Fernanda Muñoz and Eglė Budvytytė. The practice of dragging, extensively explored by Budvytytė, assumed a different connotation when considered in light of the images of protestors being removed by police from sit-ins, camps, and demonstrations. The workshop began with a slow build-up to make participants acquainted with the experience of being moved horizontally. It served for me to preempt the experience, to learn how not to resist the traction, and to let go of body movement autonomy—an example of resilience when thinking about the violent disruption of choreographies of solidarity on the streets. After the participatory somatic experience with Fernanda Muñoz, the Turbine Hall of E-Werk hosted SERAFINE1369’s *IV* performance, a one-hour dance piece wherein four dancers were animated every minute by a synchronized clock and deep bass music. The clock dictated the intervals between free movements and restful stillness. The performance broke down cycles of time into bits on the score, leading to a reflection on the linearization of time, the expenditure of time, and the ways in which forms of capitalism operationalize time, inducing stress and burnout. The dancers, following their own pace and fluidities, created temporal experiences that questioned the influence of the quantification of time on the body's interaction with spaces and emotions. Ultimately, the performance created a geography released from a production-driven engagement with the present, in exchange for a more thoughtful conception of the future. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/21.jpg) fig. 2 Energized by SERAFINE1369, the program unfolded in a discursive manner through *Artists Against Repression*, a conversation convened by Candice Breitz, Zoë Claire Miller, and Lamis Ammar. The panel addressed at different levels the German pledge of unconditional solidarity to the State of Israel—a pledge to which they did not comply. During the panel, they disentangled antisemitism from Palestinian rights demands, articulating a distinction between Jewish identity and the nation-state of Israel. While unpacking the techniques deployed by the German state to cast Jewish identity in the role of the eternal victim (of Germany), the panel also discussed the longstanding leftist position of ‘PEP’: Progressiveness Except for Palestine, which haunts German cultural institutions, even those theoretically dedicated to decolonialism, as a ghost of selective memory politics. Later, the panel invited artists to radically shift their relationship to cultural production, to embrace living and embodying the values they craft into their artistic practices by moving away from the realm of the symbolic to join a more urgent struggle: demanding rights and liberation for Palestinians. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3.jpeg) fig. 3 In a calm and attentive atmosphere, this conversation raised the question of the autonomy of artistic spaces within a cultural system that, for the majority, relies on state funding. This discussion shed light on the responsibility of art spaces such as E-Werk—partially independent due to its status as a functioning power station—to amplify and preserve freedom of speech in a highly surveilled historic moment by offering different economic models for cultural institutions. This observation was not only highly educational for people who may still face difficulties articulating their perspectives on the genocide, but it also offered an opportunity for viable conjunction between the often distinct spaces of art and activism. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4-v4.jpg) fig. 4 On a somber afternoon, the space of the Stadtbad, the former municipal swimming pool of Luckenwalde, became a resonating chamber for a poignant vocal performance by interdisciplinary artist Abbas Zahedi. *Titled Rose and STEMM*, the affecting spoken word piece performed by the artist, accompanied by a misty atmosphere, solicited images of displacement and feelings of homesickness, pointing to the question of artistic belonging in the tokenizing and heavily commodified art market. In his spoken flow, Zahedi reflected on the unrelatability of migrants' experiences and the lack of space for visiblized suffering by Arabs and Muslims in Western formally democratic systems. His speech, trembling but assertive, often returned to the image of lemons as catalysts of grief, leaving the audience rapt in states of empathy and reflection. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/41.jpg) fig. 5 The last offering of the program I experienced was the breathtaking and dignified lecture performance *Aster of Ceremony* by JJJJJerome Ellis. His voice served as a conduit for his ancestors to express the legacy of Black disabled people, reclaiming their freedom and lives. The poet makes his stuttering a ritualistic tool to summon the gaps in Black history that persist into the present. The moments of silence that intersperse his speech mark the absence of the lives truncated by the slave trade. Ellis filled the sonic space with verbal expressions and notes blown in the air from his saxophone or played on a piano, thus broadening the spectrum of intertextual registers of historical significance. The gravity of his presence on the stage induced a reflection on compensation and which tools need to be employed to attend to what is missing, hidden, obscured, or stuck in the depths of history. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/24K3028_monitorview.jpg) fig. 6 Overall, the event at E-Werk was exactly what someone like me needed: a massage to all the parts of my body and mind to release the tiredness shared with those who are centering the struggle for justice for Palestine in their lives. *The Drop Out* was an example of how much a day can reveal about how a free cultural system can operate: providing space and respect to everyone, prioritizing the most vulnerable, and offering inspiration through the plurality of perspectives, all while inviting self-reflection on the role of the individual and the rights to mourn and reclaim political agency. If more programs like *The Drop Out* were offered to citizens, especially those working in and around artistic resistance as communitarian empowerment, surely we would move towards a healthier political and emotional environment, one where memories could be formed in relation to each other, not weaponized to pit one against another. \\\\ The Drop Out: Tell Them I Said No at E-WERK Luckenwalde in 2024 *Supported by the Kulturstiftung des Bundes (German Federal Cultural Foundation), Beauftragte der Bundesregierung für Kultur und Medien (Federal Government Commissioner for Culture and the Media, Canada Council for the Arts and the City of Luckenwalde* *Programme partners included: FRANK - Fair Artist Pay and Gallery Climate Coalition.* *Co-curated by Katharina Worf and Helen Turner.* *With programme support by Florine Lindner and Alison Midgley.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1: Dragging Workshop by Eglė Budvytytė in collaboration Fernanda Muñoz-Newsome , 3 and 4 May 2024, E-WERK Luckenwalde, Presented as part of The Drop Out: Tell them I said No, Photo by Stefan Korte. fig. 2: SERAFINE1369, IV, 4 May 2024, E-WERK Luckenwalde. Presented as part of The Drop Out: Tell them I said No, Photo by Stefan Korte. fig. 3: A conversation between artist Candice Breitz, Lamis Ammar, actress and artist, curator and activist Zoë Claire Miller, 4 May 2024, E-WERK Luckenwalde. Presented as part of The Drop Out: Tell them I said No, Photo by Stefan Korte. fig. 4, 5: Abbas Zahedi feat. abbzah, bill dags & Saint Abdullah, rose & STEMM (E-WERK remix), 4 May 2024, E-WERK Luckenwalde. Presented as part of ‘The Drop Out: Tell them I said No’, Photo by Stefan Korte. fig. 6: JJJJJerome Ellis, Aster of Ceremonies, 4 May 2024, E-WERK Luckenwalde. Presented as part of The Drop Out: Tell them I said No, Photo by Stefan Korte. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### In Schwellenzeiten URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/in-schwellenzeiten/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:21.000Z *vater er war die* *lunge der hoffnung* *auf einen zweiten* *atem deutschland* – requiem für einen asbestarbeiter, Albert Ostermeier Die 60\. Venedig Biennale, die Adriano Pedrosa *Foreigners Everywhere - Stranieri Ovunque* nennt, ist keine Biennale des Zweifels. Mit ihr kehren wir zur Sicherheit der Strukturen vorbestimmter Subjektpositionen zurück, die wir im Liminalen aushebeln können. Nichts bleibt unklar. Jede Position wird von der kuratorischen Autorität in Essentialismus verankert: Die Fremden werden ausgezählt und durchdekliniert, ob sie wollen oder nicht. Unsere Positionen als Besucher\*innen sind auch vordefiniert. Nur eine Gemeinschaft ist weder fremd noch markiert: die Italienische. Aber gerade das ist angesichts der jahrelangen Aufarbeitung einer italienischen Multiplizität so fremd. Pedrosas Ausstellung konstruiert eine Sicherheit, die keine Zwischenräume oder -positionen zulässt , auch wenn die Werke danach schreien. Stattdessen werden sie formal eingeteilt. Doch wir brauchen den Zweifel; denn nur als Neophyten sind wir Gemeinschaft. Nur aus der *communitas* können wir, kurz in Schwebe, aus der scheinbar unausweichlichen Bewegung in die eine oder andere Ordnung der Welt unsere Entscheidungen reflektieren. Krisen sind Schwellen und Prozesse des Werdens. Geraten Gesellschaften ins Schwanken, entstehen Unklarheiten, Fragen und Zweifel: Menschen suchen Selbstgewissheit. Schwellenphasen sind Krisenzeiten und diejenigen, die sie durchschreiten, werden zu Neophyten und liminalen Wesen. Ihre Identität ist ambivalent, paradox und verwirrend. \[1\] Gesellschaften versuchen deswegen, die Grenzen und Übergänge zwischen den Ordnungen zu kontrollieren. Aber erst aus der Liminalität heraus entsteht die Suchbewegung zu neuen Positionen: „Es ist das Leben selbst, das die Übergänge von einer Gruppe zur anderen und von einer sozialen Situation zur anderen notwendig macht“. \[2\] Wir sollten diese Übergänge offenhalten, denn wir leben in Schwellenzeiten, in denen wir Orientierung brauchen. Damit wir nicht in die falsche Richtung schreiten, ist genaues Hinhören geboten. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/german_pavilion2.JPG) fig. 1 Der Deutsche Pavillon, kuratiert in diesem Jahr von Çağla Ilk, ist ein Denkmal der modernen Krisen Deutschlands. Er ist der zweite Palast des Zweifels, der diesem Land und seiner Bevölkerung schwierige Fragen stellt \[3\]: Wer wart ihr? Wer werdet ihr sein? Woher kommt ihr? Wohin gehen wir? Diese Zweifel und das Misstrauen frisst sich seit Jahrzehnten durch sein Fundament. Durch den Nazi-Marmor, den Hans Haacke mit der Spitzhacke zerstörte, um am Schein der Nation zu kratzen. Noch tiefer in die Wände, die Böden und hinter den Anstrich ging Maria Eichhorn. Den Palast ganz nach Mestre zu verschiffen, um ihn endlich aus dem Blick zu haben, war dann doch zu teuer und wäre auch am Ziel vorbeigegangen: Der Pavillon muss bleiben, als Erinnerungsort, den es zu bearbeiten gilt. Der Regisseur, Bühnen- und Kostümbildner Ersan Mondtag schüttet die Schwelle im deutschen Palast des Zweifels zu, wirir schreiten nicht unter dem Schatten *Germanias*, sondern durch die Nebeneingänge. Tonnen von Erde aus Venedigversperren den Eingang, als wäre darin ein tiefes Grab in den Boden gehackt worden. Ein Teil der Erde stammt auch aus Anatolien; der Heimat von Mondtags Großvater Hasan Aygün, dem der Künstler ein Monument gebaut hat. Aber Aygün, der als Gastarbeiter 1968 aus Istanbul nach Berlin kam, und von 1969 bis 1996 für die Faserzement Firma Eternit in Berlin-Rudow arbeitete, steht für die „unbekannten Arbeiter“ mit denen er ein Schicksal teilt ein. Wie ein Schiffsbug ragt ein dreistöckiges, braun-bespritzes Haus in Richtung hinterer Wand des Pavillons – Richtung Lagune scheint es aufzubrechen. Wenn man ein zweites Mal die vermeidbaren Schlangen durchstanden hat, sind wir im Privatmuseum des kleinen Mannes, der auf einmal einen Namen hat. Auf verrutschtem Papier, in billigen Rahmen an der Wand, erzählt Mondtag seine Geschichte, wie das Skript zu einem Stück, in dem wir schon längst stehen. Ein langer Schaukasten authentifiziert die Geschichte: Arbeitsunterlagen, Geld, Ehrenurkunden, BVG-Ausweis. Dass ein weißer Mann diesen Großvater spielt, wirft uns zurück ins Theater, denn in der Fiktion ist anderes erlaubt. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/german_pavilion3.JPG) fig. 2 Im Nebenraum dreht sich der türkische Sisyphus mit seiner Karre voller Dachschindeln im Kreis um die Wendeltreppe: die Arbeit, auf der das Leben steht. Ein Selbstporträt aus Staub. Der Arbeiter als tragischer Held. Nach der Arbeit das Essen, der Schlaf, dann der Fernseher. Die seltsame Symmetrie des Hauses, das wir seit Bert Neumann und dem Prater Zwölfspartenhaus kennen, verschwimmt in der verwinkelten Wohnung des unbekannten Arbeiters, durch den Frank Büttner (als Hasan Aygün), Marina Galic, Jonas Grundner-Culemann, Eva-Maria Keller und Tina Keserović das Leben der Familie vollziehen. Die staubige Enge, der Dreck, die Armut spielen sich zwischen den Besucher\*innen ab; bei der Eröffnung schauen deutsche Politiker auf den langsamen, voraussehbaren Tod der Gastarbeiter\*innen. Der Gastarbeiter\*innen im Westen, aber auch der Deutschen, die in der DDR geboren wurden und als prekäre Arbeiterklasse in eine neue Welt kamen. Auf dem Dach der Wohnung legt „er“ sich dann schlafen und die kleine Geschichte des Arbeiters mit verseuchter Lunge endet im Tod. Es ist ein Akt der Gewalt, der hier nachvollzogen wird; und das Stück selbst ist brutal und verletzend. Der nackte Mann zwängt sich durch die Besucher\*innen, weil es das Script so verlangt, in ihm steckt eine tiefe Trauer, die beinahe den Blick nach draußen verschleiert. Durch den Tod auf der Empore in Venedig, tritt aber auch die Klarheit ein: hier durch den schmalen, horizontalen Fensterstreifen in die Lagune, in der so viele Tote vergraben sind. Mondtag inszeniert und der Tote steht wieder auf; das Leben des unbekannten und bekannten Arbeiters wiederholt sichwie die Schicksale von Tausenden. Aber erst aus dieser Perspektive des Ausblicks, die nicht nur in die Lagune, sondern auch auf *Farwell* (2024), dem 15-minütigen Film von Yael Bartana über die Endzeit und über Aufbruchsfantasien einer post-apokalyptischen Gesellschaft, eröffnet sich eine weitere Sinnebene, der ansonsten leicht misszuverstehenden Ausstellung. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/german_pavilion4.JPG) fig. 3 Während *Monument eines unbekannten Menschen* die mikrogeschichtliche Zerstörung des einen kleinen migrierten Mannes bis ins feinstaubigste Detail eruiert, sind wir in Bartanas mehrteiliger Installation mit einer hochskalierten Flucht konfrontiert, die uns aktuell hart trifft. Dennoch gehen wir bei Bartana nicht in die gebückte Enge einer Biografie, sondern in die abstrakte und endlose Ferne einer neuen Gesellschaft. In den Nebenräumen des Pavillons fächert sie ihre jahrelange Auseinandersetzung mit kollektiven Ritualen und sozialen Bewegungen auf: Es geht um ein „Raumschiff für Juden, ein Israel im All, ein Rettungsboot vor einer nicht näher definierten Katastrophe“. \[4\] Riefenstahl und Feuerritual treffen israelische Sci-Fi Albträume. *Light to the Nations – Generation Ship* (2024) besteht aus einem 3D-Modell des Raumschiffs, retrofuturistisch inszeniert, beinahe lächerlich, benannt nach einer Passage aus dem Buch Jesaja; *The Generation Ship Topography* (2024) zieht anhand von Kreidezeichnungen die Zehn Sephiroth der Kabbala nach, während die Kunst- und Kulturhistorikerin Doreet LeVitte-Harten gegenüber auf einem kleinen Fernseher in einem Interview sachlich die Endzeitphantasie mit faschistischen Untertönen einer neuen Gesellschaft, in der Installation mystisch überhöht, zu erklären versucht. Ein Plakat zum Mitnehmen als Erinnerung an die utopischen Welten, die auf uns warten, sehen wir uns unter der Kuppelprojektion *Life in the Generation Ship* (2024) an und lassen uns wie in einem esoterischen Reisebüro der Zukunft von düsteren Erlösungsvorstellungen berieseln. Man kann die radikale Abwendung von der planetaren Welt, welche die Generation Raumschiff zerstört und ohne Hoffnung auf Reparatur verlässt, als extreme Konterkarikatur des Denkmals im Zentrum des Pavillons verstehen. Sie dokumentiert und *pre*\-enacted ohne Kommentar die technologische, megalomanische und weitverbreitete Fantasie der Kolonisierung des Weltalls, die zugleich Aufgabe der irreparabel-ruinierten Welt ist. Die verseuchten Asbest Lungen und die Gräber der unbekannten Arbeiter bleiben unter der Erde dieser Welt, die hier verlassen wird, um eine heile und neue Welt zu suchen. Das Ganze kommt bekannt vor (*Dr. Strangelove* lässt grüßen) und zeigt gewaltvoll die Kluft zwischen dem verdreckten Loch des Arbeiters, den wenigen Dokumenten seiner Existenz, der simplen Poesie, die seine Existenz greifen und dem hochglänzenden Eskapismus vor menschlicher Gewalt. Die Spannung zwischen den Installationen löst sich nicht auf, denn es gibt keine Auflösung dieser beiden Visionen vom Leben oder der Zukunft der Menschheit nach der Katastrophe. Man steht entweder, wie Walter Benjamin schrieb, vor dem Wasser und erkennt die Erlösung und das Menschliche in der Begegnung, die so klein und alltäglich sein kann, dass man sie kaum bemerkt – oder man geht immer weiter in die Ferne und gräbt immer tiefer, in der Hoffnung Sinn und Erlösung zu finden. \[5\] Wir befinden uns an der Schwelle und müssen die Entscheidung treffen, in welche Richtung wir gehen. Cut. Blackout. Stille. Rauschen. Klirren. Man hätte hier (oder dort) anfangen können, denn der sehr sprichwörtliche Übergang vom Vaporetto zur Insel La Certosa ist selbstverständlich eine prekäre Schwelle, die wir überqueren müssen, um an Land zu gehen. Dass Louis Chude-Sokei mit seiner namensgebenden Klangintervention *Thresholds*, die ausgerechnet kurz vor der Eröffnungsfeier nicht mehr zu hören war, zum Verweilen einlädt, ist beinahe zu plakativ. Aber das Verweilen an der Schwelle lässt nach der Enge und der brutalen Intensität des Pavillons aufatmen. Wir kommen auf eine andere Struktur: Der Satellit La Certosa ist eine Flucht von der krassen Plastizität und Materialität des Pavillons in den Giardini. Kein Wunder, dass die Installationen *Feld* (2024) von Robert Lippok, *Volumes Inverted* (2024) von Jan St. Werner, *Scattered by the trees* (2024) von Michael Akstaller und *Encuentros* (2024) von Nicole L’Huillier, solch einen subtilen Kontrast bieten. Wir sind weder im Dreck der ruinierten Arbeiterwohnung, noch in den sauberen Fantasien einer Weltall-Zukunft, sondern zwischen Bootswerft und Wasser, Ziegelsteinen und Pflanzen, der spärlichen Vegetation der Laguneninseln. Für Michael Akstaller sind die Bäume und die Natur der Resonanzraum,, dem wir zuhören müssen und der zur Ruhe kommen lässt. Wie auch die Erde unter unseren Füßen, die an anderer Stelle durch Subwoofer an die Oberfläche drängen. L’Huillier überträgt diese Frage des umweltlichen Resonanzraumes auf die Ebene der Übersetzung: Inwiefern lässt sich eine Insel hören und der Wind und mit ihr im Dialog aktivieren? Ein Experiment, das auch Jan St. Werner aufnimmt – durch das Echo eines Schallstrahls, der drehend nach Klang sucht und akustische Interferenzen auffängt. La Certosa wirkt wie eine Pause vom Wahnsinn und zur Polarisierung zur Welt im Pavillon. Als wären wir in der Schwebe; der Schwelle, die vom Deck des dreckigen Raumschiffes von Mondtag in der Lagune sichtbar wird. Ein Zwischenmoment, der innehalten lässt. Distanz zur planetaren und zwischenmenschlichen Gewalt, die uns an beiden Enden der Schwelle im Pavillon erwartet. Vielleicht ist der Insel Satellit bewusst als Fußnote gedacht, der auch an den beängstigenden und brutalen Fantasien (oder eher Realitäten?) in den Giardini zweifeln lässt. Wir stehen auf La Certosa und zweifeln an dem, was wir Menschen für uns Menschen gestaltet haben. Weiter nördlich, vor den Mosaiken der Santa Maria Assunta auf der Insel Torcello, können wir daran erinnert werden, dass wir das nicht zum ersten oder zum letzten Mal tun. // --- ### Thresholds April 20–November 24, 2024 Commissioner: Ellen Strittmatter (ifa – Institut für Auslandsbeziehungen) Curator: Çağla Ilk Artists Giardini della Biennale: Yael Bartana, Ersan Mondtag La Certosa: Michael Akstaller, Nicole L’Huillier, Robert Lippok, Jan St. Werner Opening hours Summer: 11am–7pm Autumn: 10am–6pm Mondays closed except for April 22, June 17, July 22, September 2, September 30, November 18, 2024 La Certosa is publicly accessible at any time. The installations at La Certosa run during the opening hours of the Giardini della Biennale. Footnotes: \[1\] Victor Turner. 1967\. *The Forest of Symbols. Aspects of Ndembu Ritual.* Ithaca, London: Cornell University Press. \[2\] Arnold van Gennep. 1986 \[1909\]. *Übergangsriten (Les rites de passage)*. Frankfurt am Main: Campus, S. 21. \[3\] Jonas Tinius. 2021\. *Il palazzo dell dubbio*. *Art e Dossier*. 390 (September): 38–43. \[4\] Jörg Häntzschel. 2024\. *Wir Heimatlosen*. *Süddeutsche Zeitung*, 17 April 2024\. https://www.sueddeutsche.de/kultur/kunstbiennale-venedig-la-biennale-venedig-ersan-mondtag-yael-bartana-1.6560354?reduced=true \[5\] Cohen et al. Eds. 2024\. *Existential Present. The Moment as a Threshold to Humanity*, in: *Universalism(e). Conversations*. Berlin, Boston: de Gruyter. Image credits: Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2: Ersan Mondtag, *Monument eines unbekannten Menschen* (2024). Photo: Jonas Tinius. fig. 3: Yael Bartana, *Light to the Nations - Generation Ship* (2024), 3D model. Architect: Assaf Kimmel. Fabrication: Saygel, Schreiber & Gioberti. Photo: Jonas Tinius. *Jonas Tinius ist ein Kultur- und Sozialanthropologe. Er ist wissenschaftlicher Koordinator des ERC Projektes Minor Universality. Narrative World Productions After Western Universalism (Universität des Saarlandes) und lehrt am Institut für Europäische Ethnologie der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin. Er ist Autor u.a. von State of the Arts. An Ethnography of German Theatre and Migration (Cambridge, 2023).* ### Belonging to a borderless nature URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/belonging-to-a-borderless-nature/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:18.000Z The 60th Venice Biennale, curated by Adriano Pedrosa and entitled *Foreigners Everywhere - Stranieri Ovunque*, offers several interpretations of *being foreign*. Beyond the aesthetic dimension of Pedrosa’s curatorial project, it is critical to understand the politics of his selection of artists for the main exhibition in the Arsenale. With a total of 331 artists and collectives, a large number of whom are being shown for the first time in Venice, Pedrosa tackles the Bienniale’s power structures - adding as many new names as possible - including many deceased artists - to the Biennial canon. \[1\] In doing so, he uses the over-a-century-nurtured hegemonic power of the Biennale in controlling the art discourse, forming its “imaginary center”, as the philosopher Oliver Marchart puts it. \[2\] The presentation of new names and communities stretches and challenges art history’s canon. The dynamic Pedrosa highlights also plays out in relation to visibilities on the art market. In the context of national pavilions the Biennale’s power also manifests in relation to questions of representation and nationality. History and the present demonstrate the role of the pavilions as agents of national historiography - extremely instrumental for political representation - and are deeply anchored in histories of nationalism. A total of 88 countries organized national pavilions this year. This year Kazakhstan presented its second pavilion after first appearing in 2022\. \[3\] Benin, Ethiopia, Panama, Tanzania, Timor-Leste and Senegal all participated for the first time. While there is a level of emancipatory triumph for each newly independent national representation, the format inevitably reproduces the violent logic of imperial and colonial forms of nationalism intrinsic to the Biennale. These remnants from the beginning of the 20th century are levied on younger nation-states including the Republic of Kazakhstan, which gained independence from the USSR in 1991. Throughout its history, Kazakhstan has been a pivotal crossroads of nomadic traditions and diverse communities. The Golden Horde dominated the region from the 13th to the 15th centuries, while clashes with the Dzungars and Russian influence gradually transformed its political, social, and cultural landscape. Integration into the Soviet Union in the 1920s brought significant forms of repression, including famines and the establishment of Gulags that further changed the country's demographics. Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, Kazakhstan grappled with poverty and identity formation as a newly independent state. Home to over 130 ethnic groups, \[4\] the country navigated multiethnic complexities, pursuing an ethnically-based nationalism while asserting its global presence in embracing its Turkic, Muslim, nomadic, and post-Soviet identities. \[5\] With its multi-ethnic population, political and linguistic tensions - notably between Kazakh and Russian speakers - have persisted and underscored the dual challenge of internal and external image-building in the Republic. These varied layers found expression in Kazakhstan’s pavilion at this year's Biennale, offering insights into its citizens' identification and self-image. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/2_Sergey-Maslov-Baikonur-2.jpg) fig. 1 The exhibition *Jerūiyq: a Look Beyond the Horizon* which is located in the historical building of the Naval History Museum, demonstrated the chronology of key artworks including the utopian imaginings of Kazakh artists since the 1970s, as seen in works by Kamil Mulashev, Sergey Maslov, Saken Narynov, Anvar Musrepov, Yerbolat Tolepbay, Lena Pozdnyakova, and Eldar Tagi. The show is organized around the ancient legend of a land called Jerūiyq, as narrated by the 15th-century steppe philosopher, Asan Kaigy, and has survived many generations through the oral storytelling traditions of Central Asian nomadic culture. The story recounts utopias and the prospect of a promised land for Central Asian nomads, “where birds weave nests on sheep’s backs, and time bestows eternal life.” \[6\] Jerūiyq constructs a narrative of utopian visions connected to mobility and migration as seen from the perspective of nomadic culture. The artists, coming from different generations, and sociopolitical influences, shed light on nomadic imaginations influenced by Communism, Cosmism, and the USSR. Works such as Kamil Mulashev's *Over the White Desert* (1978), or Sergey Maslov’s *Baikonur-2*, clearly reference the Communist ideology, as they simultaneously unveil the rich imaginaries of nomadic life. *Baikonur-2* consists of a yurt that resembles a spaceship. Reworked in shape and form, and adorned with felt and traditional elements, inside the yurt, an old screen runs a slideshow of people from different historical times traveling to space - replacing Soviet cosmonauts with images of Kazakh people in traditional costumes as well as Soviet attire. This imaginative vision paradoxically replicates both the colonial endeavor of occupying land and the immanent eternal movement of nomadic traditions. The idea of colonizing other planets references the “Space Race”, during which the Russian spaceport Baikonur Cosmodrome, built-in 1955 brought as much prestige as environmental degradation to southern Kazakhstan. There are many layers to Maslov’s collage, he shows customs of hospitality, for example, serving soup which relates to nomadic culture yet takes place far in outer space. One could also note the relation of the sky and the man in cosmogonic perspectives rooted in Tengrism, wherein the equality of the earth and the sky emerges from a circular understanding of time. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3b_Maslov-overall.jpeg) fig. 2 The search for land also recalls a darker story: the forced migration of Kazakh people during Soviet collectivization in the 1930s. This traumatic period for local people was defined by the deracination of “displaced nomads” (*otkochevniki*), severed from their herds and familiar environments. The interplay between the imagined and the historical illustrates that the notion of time in works such as Maslov’s - but also others, not least the painting of Kamil Mulashev - is not linear. Time is associated with a complex mesh of worldviews, beliefs, and technologies that do not constrain the sense of belonging. The imagined futurity responds to different pasts and is anchored in a return to ways of living together in unknown circumstances of wilderness. It draws upon experiences wherein the notion of migration and change is defined by the resiliency of tightly-knit community structures in given environments. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4_Lena-Pozdnyakova_Eldar-Tagi_-korpe_spatial-pieces_2.jpeg) fig. 3 The low and somber noise of the sound installation *Presence* (2024) by Lena Pozdnyakova and Eldar Tagi issues from a side room bathed in blue, dimmed light. Part of the installation consists of movable mats placed around the space. These mats are inspired by *körpe* mats, a traditional Central Asian quilt. But, instead of traditional ornaments stitched to the surface, they are enveloped in fabric. The prints on the mats juxtapose zoomed-out aerial views of landscapes in Kazakhstan with collages of cultural motifs and human activity within these geographies. Depicted sites are characterized by melting glaciers, urbanization, drying water bodies, sandstorms, and sites of nuclear experiments. People can sit or lie down on them to contemplate the sound of a multi-channel audio. It fills the room with toneful, yet estranging repetitive singing. The composition centers around recordings of throat singing – a tradition of indigenous groups in Inner Asia, here performed by Abzal Arykbayev – a carrier of this tradition. These vocal traditions originate among Turko-Mongol groups and are among the world's oldest musical forms. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5_Lena-Pozdnyakova_Eldar-Tagi_-korpe_spatial-pieces.jpeg) fig. 4 These evolving sounds were seen as a way of connecting humans to spirits, to a domain of the supernatural often associated with the physical environment. As the artists point out in their description of the work, the vocal techniques were used to imitate the sounds of harsh winds of the steppe, natural flora, and fauna. In other words, this embodied practice can be understood as a nomadic sensibility for an ecosystem, as a feeling of interconnectedness with natural surroundings. The work furthers the understanding of beliefs and techniques of belonging as connected to an immanent state of participation in the environment, not as observers, but as co-shapers. In contrast to the national self-image that the pavilion of Kazakhstan puts forth, it is crucial to understand the implications of nationhood imposed upon cultural identities that emerge from nomadic heritages. By revealing the contradictions of cultural representations confined by national borders, traditions such as throat singing can be viewed as antagonistic to constructions of collective memory as imposed by imperial cultural paradigms. These are cultural forms that resist ideas of belonging to a formal definition of the state, and instead expand to include shared traditions among very diverse groups located on the territory. Works such as *Presence*, rooted in a shared tradition across Eurasia, offer a critical perspective on colonial narratives within the Biennale format. As a generative sound piece, it creates space without boundaries, engaging the body and evoking the vastness of the land. A final thought on these topics can be drawn from the video essay *Alstau* (2024) by Anvar Musrepov, showcased in the third room of the exhibition. It embeds a vision of Kazakhs returning to nomadic living and ancestral rituals into an environment of wholesale pollution, where the sun no longer exists as a result of nuclear winter. The post-apocalyptic scenario offers one of art’s radical futurisms - in T.J. Demos’ words - which overcome the systems, logic, and power structures of the now, and which unleash new possible worlds and decolonized futures. In this sense, one might ask for the potential of new forms of decolonized exhibiting in contexts like the Venice Biennale, and cherishing and multiplying these potentialities through new forms and structures where they exist. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/6_Lena-Pozdnyakova_visuals-for-print.png) fig. 5 \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] In the 2022 edition of Venice Biennale 213 artists and collectives were exhibited, in 2019 there were only 91. \[2\] Oliver Marchart, Hegemony Machines, documenta X to fifteen and the Politics of Biennalization. Published by OnCurating.org (Dorothee Richter) and Marius Babias, Neuer Berliner Kunstverein (n.b.k.), Zürich, Berlin 2022. \[3\] The history of Kazakhstan’s entrance into the Venice Biennale reads like the story of continuous individual efforts to make visible the local contemporary art scene by following western canons. These manifested in privately organized, accumulative Central Asian representations, such as the first Central Asian pavilion in 2005, curated by the Russian curator Viktor Misiano and commissioned by Kurama ART from Kyrgyzstan. Informal interventions were also a part of the story, as with “PROTAGONISTS The Invisible Pavilion of Kazakhstan” in 2015\. For more information see: https://kazakhstanpavilion.com \[4\] https://stat.gov.kz/ \[5\] Robert A. Saunders, Popular geopolitics and nation branding in the post-Soviet realm. Routledge, 2016. \[6\] Curatorial text of the exhibition, Danagul Tolepbay and Anvar Musrepov. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Sergey Maslov, Computer Collage inside the yurt Baikonur-2 (2001-2002). fig. 1: Sergey Maslov, sketch (drawing) of the installation Baikonur-2 (2001-2002). fig. 2: Installation view. In the foreground: Saken Narynov, Mobile Unit, architectural model (1979). In the background: Sergey Maslov Baikonur-2 (2002). fig. 3: Detail of Lena Pozdnyakova and Eldar Tagi, Presence (2024), sound installation with körpe mats. fig. 4: Installation view of Lena Pozdnyakova and Eldar Tagi, Presence (2024), sound installation with körpe mats. *Luise Willer is a researcher and organizer based in Berlin. Currently she works as a research Associate at the research center Intervening Arts where she examins forms of assembling and organizing in contemporary Art to learn about their visions of futurity, their collaborative processes and their critique of institutions.* ### Counting years of colonization URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/counting-years-of-colonization/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:12.000Z 76 years of colonization, of forced exile, 76 years of refugee camps, of occupation, of apartheid. However, this month also marks 76 years of resilience, 76 years of a liberation struggle. Despite facing extreme circumstances, the political and revolutionary thought within the Palestinian community has continued to evolve. This thought process underscores how individuals, while being part of a singular group with a common history, can still have diverse experiences. Regardless of whether they are living in the camps of Lebanon, in Gaza, or in Kuwait, these individuals all share a common agreement on the principles of liberation and identity. As articulated by Edward Said, we Palestinians are struggling for our self-determination, yet we have no place, no physical terrain on which to conduct our struggle. Said writes in the book, *The Question of Palestine*, that we are Arab, and yet, not simply Arab. We are exiles. And yet, tolerated guests in some countries of our exile, we can speak at the United Nations of our problems only as observers. No national group has seen its oppressor speak for so long (and so loudly) about the group’s political and cultural non-existence, even while this “non-people” demonstrates against, declaims, and fights its oppressor daily. We exist. Yet we have failed to truly exist. It is through this dichotomy that the definition of what it means to be Palestinian is formed. To be a Palestinian means to exist ‘despite…’. Despite the efforts at our annihilation, despite efforts of our displacement, and efforts of our silencing. I want to tell you about a motif in *Men in the Sun*, my favorite story written by Ghassan Kanafani. Kanafani concludes his novel with the death of three Palestinians who have paid a smuggler to take them from Iraq to Kuwait in hopes of a better life. Instead, they die hiding in a water tank under the blazing sun at a routine checkpoint inspection that takes longer than usual. Their lifeless bodies are then thrown in a garbage heap. As the smuggler drives off, he asks: ‘Why didn't they knock on the sides of the tank? Why didn't you knock on the sides of the tank? Why didn't you say anything? Why?’ Many, including myself, have interpreted this ending as a plea to the rest of us by Ghassan Kanafani to remember our liberation struggle while focussing on ourselves and our safety as individuals. He wanted us to break the chains of atomized thought and not be passive about our situation, about our exile, and the genocide taking place against our people, sometimes underwritten by our tax dollars.The end of the novella is a plea to demand for the reality as a Palestinian to change, to stay, to face the brunt of state repression, to say something, to knock on the sides of the tank. Last year, I gave a speech here in Berlin on the question of whether Israel was a democratic state, especially since there were pro-democracy protests going on in Israel at the time. What I said then, and what I will say now, is that Israel, backed by US and European allies is unequivocally a fascist settler colony, and has been ever since its inception. My family’s village of Jimzu, in the Lydd district of 1948-Palestine, was ethnically cleansed on July 9th of the same year, under Operation Danny. Lieutenant Moshe Dayan, who later became Israel's Defense Minister, gave the order to conquer all of Lydd and Ramla, as well as all of the villages that populated the region. Dayan's intention from the start was to depopulate Jimzu and the surrounding villages: ‘[Torching everything that can be burned](https://books.google.de/books?id=uM%5FkFX6edX8C&pg=PA435&redir%5Fesc=y&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org#v=onepage&q&f=false)’. My great-grandfather, Issa-Al Jamal, snuck into his village after the military operation was over. He recalled that the remains of dead people were scattered all around the village, unburied. It was as though their bodies were dismembered by wild dogs, my great-grandfather said. My great-grandfather made it a point to remember Moshe Dayan’s words. In fact, he read Theodor Herzl’s diary which stated that the process of expropriation and the removal of the poor Arabs must be carried out discreetly and circumspectly. We made a point to remember how the Israeli Jewish National Fund went even further by destroying our homes, then planting trees on top of our cemeteries. Its director, Yosef Weitz, said: ‘It must be clear that there is no room in the country for both peoples. If the Arabs leave it, the country will become wide and spacious for us. The only solution is a land of Israel without Arabs.’ \[1\] Last year, well before October 7th, I wrote that the call for genocide has always been said out loud; it has been just masked by a neo-liberal facade, because democracy and freedom are available for some. What we are seeing now is that Israel has entered its final stages of fascism, conducting a genocide against 2\. 2 million people. This fascism is no longer discrete nor circumspect. Rather, it is loud, violent, and televised. The destruction of my ancestral home of Jimzu 76 years ago and the murder of 44,000 people derive from the same political thought, ideology, and colonialist framework. However, I have to be honest: Even I did not anticipate the sheer horror of what is taking place, both in Gaza and here in Germany. Later on in this conference, on Sunday, \[2\] you will hear the stories of my husband and his family who are trying to survive the barbarity of this genocide - if they are not already murdered by then. One of the people my husband will speak about his cousin Sama, whom he lived with. Sama Abdelhali was murdered on February 9th in her home in Deir al Balah. She was killed alongside her brother, mother, grandfather, and 20 other members of her family. She was someone I cherish deeply. At only 14-years-old, Sama wanted to see the world. She wanted to be a doctor. She loved little kids and took care of my son, Malik the whole duration of our stay in Gaza back in 2022. To have the mental capacity to understand that her life was cut short due to the German-funded bombs and at the same time not be able to say that Israel does, in fact, murder children like Sama is almost too much to bear. Never in my life did I expect the possibility that contextualizing, explaining, or protesting the realities of the Palestinian people could be a criminal act. In 2008, when Germany decided to categorize Israel's national security as their reason of state, it preemptively signed off on the murder of Sama and 14,000 children like her. Germany turned preemptively into the propaganda wing of the Israeli state itself. What happens in Germany is that Israel solves a unique problem for the German state. A country that killed 6 million Jewish people during the Holocaust now needs to emerge and prove itself to the free world as reformed, changed, and democratic. Instead of facing their history of colonization and the politics of dehumanization that made the Holocaust possible, Germany took a shortcut, unconditionally supporting a foreign state that claims to be representative of Jewish people worldwide. To take this shortcut, to believe in the mission of Zionism, they first have to silence, censor, sideline, and criminalize the Palestinian identity, and its supporters, in ways no other country except the State of Israel has done before. We are a pesky nuisance that gets in the way of Germany’s tactical response to the Holocaust, which is, of course, manifested as material and ideological support for Israel whatever the cost. This state instead aims to control Palestinians and pro-Palestinian activists, and drag them into the world of condemnation politics. A clear trap that we cannot fall into. These authorities are not asking you to show empathy for other people. It is an attempt to silence, censor, and obstruct conversations that lead to the liberation of the Palestinian people. This is how words become dangerous. Protesting becomes dangerous. Attending a congress becomes dangerous. Even Jewish people themselves become so if they dare to question, criticize, or fight back against Israel and demand their identity not to be conflated with Zionism, a political, ethno-nationalist, and colonialist ideology. We’ve witnessed our comrades in Judische Stimme, whose bank accounts were frozen by the Sparkasse in the latest attempts to sabotage this conference, being targeted. I want to thank my Jewish brothers and sisters who are fighting alongside us in this pivotal and historic moment in our collective histories. This apartheid realm is creeping in on every single one of us. This morning I was informed that the police wrote a report about me due to my invitation to this congress and included my work as a journalist in my social media posts on, and before, October 7th attempting to contextualize and explain what was happening around us. For this police state, context is the enemy. However, what truly perplexes me is that the police had to scroll through hundreds and hundreds of posts detailing evidence of Israeli massacres. Posts about the reality of my husband’s family, posts about their murders, the destruction of our home, the raids and bombings of hospitals, schools, and infrastructure that exist in Gaza in order to be able to make their case against me, to be able to write this document: ‘Even if no clear anti-Semitic content can be identified on her public internet presences,’ the police report says, ‘some publications could still be identified that, on the one hand, were seen as advocating the actions of the Palestinian resistance and demonzing the state of Israel which should be evaluated.’ Constantly, the state aims to speak on our behalf, instead of actually listening to what we have to say. As a non-German speaker, my vocabulary can be limited, as I may not know enough of the language to clearly articulate myself in the grocery store or to speak to a server in a restaurant, but I do know words such as “Volksverhetzung”, “Existenzrecht”, and, of course, you can’t forget “Anzeige” - we received a lot of those. This last point may raise a laugh, but the level of insecurity of this police state, to the point where the most basic semblance of free speech can feel like a threat, is alarming. On Friday, I went to a protest. After it was over, on my way home, I quickly realized that I was being followed by undercover police. I demanded to know why they were following me and they responded by saying that they just wanted to see what I do. I acted casually at first, and then laughed about it with my friends, some of whom are here. We managed to get away from them and I returned home safely. However, it was once the hours went by that I truly understood the extent of this interaction. My family is dying. I went to protest this reality and was intimidated and treated as a criminal. In all honesty, I broke down that day, as I realized that we are not only demanding an end to this genocide, but fighting the state that is bent on psychological warfare against activists and supporters of the Palestinian people. All in an attempt to scare and silence us into submission. The title of this talk is of attempting to understand 76 years of colonization and asking what the situation is on the ground in Gaza, trying to understand what we are doing here right now in Berlin at the Palestine Congress. Our presence here is the result of 76 years of colonization. It is an attempt to answer questions of how we move forward, break free, and fight for material, substantial change in our homes. In 2017, I had the privilege to speak on the same panel as Angela Davis in New York City. On this panel, we attempted to tie the liberation struggles of Black people in America enmeshed within the prison industrial complex with the realities of Palestinians living under occupation. It was during this panel that I was first exposed to connecting international movements to Palestinian liberation. It was there that I saw that the security systems that are used against Black activists in Ferguson, Missouri were manufactured by state-owned companies in Israel, and arms sold to India from Israel were used to occupy and to control Kashmir. And it was there I realized that those same weapons used to kill Palestinians were used by the Myanmar government to conduct a genocide against the Rohingya Muslims. It is not that there is some international conspiracy that implicates Israel. Not at all. What I understood listening to Angela Davis is that oppressors assist each other in controlling their populations, and western hegemony is built through subjugation. It is an eternal cycle of keeping the dawn from coming. In ‘[*Freedom Is a Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine, and the Foundations of a Movement’*](https://dialecticalartist.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/freedom-is-a-constant-struggle.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (2016), Angela Davis states that regimes of racial segregation were not disestablished because of the work of leaders, presidents, and legislators, but rather because of the fact that ordinary people adopted a critical stance in the ways in which they perceive their relationship to reality. Social realities that may have appeared unalterable, and impenetrable came to be viewed as malleable and transformable. And, people learned how to imagine what it might mean to live in a world that was not exclusively governed by the principle of white supremacy. This collective consciousness emerged within the context of social struggles. Here in Germany, the reason why there are hundreds of police outside, and inside, is an intense state effort to prevent us from transforming this malleable social reality. The reason we’re followed home by undercover police, beaten at protests, and doxxed by the media is that we have developed a collective consciousness against the principle of white supremacy. And it’s because we understand how genocides of the past were allowed to happen that we can confidently take a stand against the genocide of today. The dehumanization, the othering, the miscategorization, and slandering of a people first leads to their dispossession, and then eventually leads to their deaths. We are not attending an academic conference here today. We are resisting in one of the most powerful ways possible. We are facing the brunt of state repression head-on. And, today, finally, we are knocking on the sides of the water tank. *\\\\* *The Palestine Congress, organized by a broad coalition of Palestinian, Jewish, German, and international activists, was scheduled to commence on April 12, bringing together lawyers, journalists, eyewitnesses, and academics from diverse backgrounds and nationalities. Hebh Jamal, a Palestinian journalist based in Berlin, was scheduled to speak as part of the introductory framework for the talks entitled ‘What is the Goal of the Palestine Conference & Palestinian History’. She was the only speaker who successfully completed her speech before the police raided the event and electricity was shut down.* *Transcribed by Elisa Fuenzalida.* --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Morris, B. (1989). The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem, 1947-1949\. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. \[2\] The speaker Hebh Jamal is referring to is Abdallah Abdelhadi. His conference did not take place, as the Palestine Congress was disrupted by the police at the end of Hebh Jamal’s address, one minute and a half after the start of the previously recorded video projection of Salma Abu Sita´s speech. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: The Islamic marriage document, miraculously preserved amidst the rubble in Khan Yunis, Gaza, belongs to Hebh Jamal. (2024). Courtesy of the author. *Hebh Jamal is a Palestinian journalist based in Germany.* ### The state on trial URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/palestine-congress/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:10.000Z ## ***“How can accountability be established when perpetrators define the law and the crime?”*** *–* Ayça Çubukçu, in: *For the Love of Humanity: The World Tribunal on Iraq*, 2018 In the pursuit of justice, many turn their gaze towards established institutions – the courts, tribunals, and legal fora. Yet, these are not necessarily bastions of justice, but rather structures that maintain existing power dynamics. They are not infallible, but are influenced by the individuals within them and the societal biases they carry. Justice, however, is not confined to these traditional legal mechanisms. There are alternative avenues – e.g. civil society fora, political fora, remembrance and cultural organizations, and independent media outlets. These spaces provide platforms for voices that are often silenced, and for evidence that is frequently overlooked, as well as for justice that is regularly denied. Activists find themselves navigating these spaces armed with evidence that challenges the status quo. Yet they face opposition, not just from the institutions, but also from politicians who resort to smear tactics. These politicians attack the activists’ reputations and credentials while choosing to ignore the evidence presented \[1\]. It is in these moments that the shortcomings of traditional processes become glaringly apparent, as they often fail to deliver the accountability and justice that victims and their advocates seek. Over the past century, citizen tribunals and civil investigation processes have risen in response to institutional failures and the demand for accountability for violations of international law and human rights. These processes span from community forms of evaluation and implementation of clarification processes and restorative justice to paradigmatic cases such as the Russell Tribunal \[2\] and the Iraq Tribunal. They challenge state-centered paradigms and contribute to the establishment and reinforcement of international legal and judicial obligations. The Palestine Congress, organized under the motto “We Accuse!” by the Revolutionäre Linke, Vereinigte Palästinensische Nationalkomitee, Jewish Voice for a Just Peace in the Middle East, Gruppe ArbeiterInnenmacht and later DiEM25 \[3\], was set to enrich this tradition. Although the congress was supported by real evidence and witnesses, it wasn't legally binding. The aim was to publicize and debate Germany’s role, both in the history of the occupation of Palestinian land, and in the escalation of violence over the past six months, in an effort to demand effective sanctions and reparations for the Palestinian people, and to open humanitarian corridors, as well as the resumption of UNRWA funding \[4\]. A specific dimension of the event was focused on the criminalization, repression, and censorship of the pro-Palestine movement in Germany. This would aim to address everything from the police repression and hyper-surveillance to which the movement has been subjected, to the cancellations and media blackout \[5\] around what journalists are coerced into describe as “alleged” war crimes \[6\]. However, in a bitter twist of irony, the congress ultimately became a living testament to the very issues it sought to spotlight. Since it was announced it faced a barrage of obstacles that were not grounded in any legal basis. From the freezing of Jewish Voice's bank account to the sudden reduction of the forum’s capacity from one thousand to two hundred and fifty - then to one hundred and fifty - to the obstruction of the press in performing their professional role, to the definitive abortion of the congress just minutes after its commencement. According to the organizer of the congress, the lawyer Nadija Samour, the German government’s decision to deny entry to key speakers, banning them even from engaging with audiences in Germany via digital platforms such as Zoom, then forbidding any form of substitution for the congress to take place. This repression also involved the deployment of an excessive police presence, calling the fundamental democratic right of people to voice accusations and pursue accountability at risk. These events have thrust the precarious state of democratic rights and freedoms in Germany into the spotlight \[7\]. A serious question therefore arises: for whom does democracy function in this country? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/11-1.jpeg) fig.1 **9.35 am** From the corner of the street, we can already see groups of cops gathering and dispersing like ants around the door of the venue that hosts the conference. Nestled on the opposite corner, a truck from CDU-Fraktion Berlin displays a banner on a blue background that reads in lowercase letters: kein-platz-für-antisemitismus (no place for anti-Semitism). A queue has already formed at the door. The ratio of police officers to journalists is roughly 4 to 1\. After a wait of more than twenty minutes, we sense that the press conference has begun. We knock on the door and are informed that the police have indicated that the capacity has already been exceeded. Our press registration, completed a month ago, is rendered useless. It was clear to us that the press blockade was a political decision. The CDU truck has turned around; a banner on the other side clarifies: *In Berlin ist auch Platz für Shalom aleichem und Salam aleikum. Nicht für Antisemitismus* (In Berlin there is a place both for *Shalom aleichem* and *Salam aleikum*. Not for anti-Semitism). Assuming that if the situation at the press conference is already impossible, the tension at the congress is surely greater, we head there two hours ahead of the official opening time. **11.00 am** No need to check the GPS; a long line of riot police trucks guides us towards the congress venue. The police deployment is so extensive that it includes officers from Berlin, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Hamburg, and Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. Official reports later confirmed that this deployment included 900 officers just for Friday, and further 2500 for the entirety of the event. A junior officer has taken control of the entrance gate, along with two other officers. We indicate that we are registered press, but he refuses to let us pass, using a provocative, aggressive, and challenging tone. After speaking with a higher-ranking officer, we head to the back door. Right before our eyes, the police allow Israeli journalists and mainstream media to pass. Later, the organization would clarify that none of these reporters were previously registered for the event. Nearly an hour has passed, and other independent journalists are gathering at the door, along with Mera25 \[8\] volunteers and the general public. Even elderly people who have appointments for medical consultations taking place in the same building are not allowed entry. Laughter erupts when Yuval Gal, a member of the BIJ1 party in the Netherlands and a scheduled speaker for the day, is held at the door. A voice is heard among the agitated murmuring: “This is starting to look like the Qalandia checkpoint” (the main checkpoint between the Northern West Bank and Jerusalem). A colleague, veteran of New York Public Radio with experience covering conflicts in the Middle East, expresses outrage at the humiliating and rude treatment the police officers dispense to journalists who are not individually to their liking. **1.00 pm** ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/10.jpeg) fig.2 The police continue to block the passage of the press, registered volunteers, and hundreds of ticket holders, creating an atmosphere of escalating tension, congestion, and chaos that starkly contradicts their claims that maintaining order and security were the reason for obstructing the normal progress of the event. The queue to the conference morphs into a protest. Many of the people knew that they would not get in, but as witnesses to this spectacle of violence, nevertheless stayed and supported the conference from the street. A member of the organization of the congress steps out to confirm this suspicion. Given the size and restiveness of the crowd, he is forced to shout out that no more than two hundred and fifty people will be allowed in. Heightening the absurdity, the same police officers citing security reasons to detain us moments ago are now encouraging us to jump over a metal fence to gain entry. Perplexed, we do so. On the other side of the entrance, there are at least eighty more police officers. We climb the stairs towards the conference room and find ourselves facing five police officers blocking the entrance. We push our way through them and finally, we are inside. The scene is disconcerting. In a corner at the back of the room, a bunch of journalists who apparently entered hours earlier are standing. Audience chairs are completely vacant. The organizers look focused and tense; the volunteers look confused. The windows are closed and the air feels heavy. The setting is the complete opposite of a safe space. We feel skeptical, and concerned. Even the bathroom is surrounded by a police cordon. This design is intricate and purposeful. Fatigue is a predictable (and intended) consequence, a calculated outcome. Fear is not an incidental byproduct, but an end in itself. Anger would not be unforeseeable, but rather an engineered outcome. Each element is meticulously planned and executed, contributing to a chaos that is far from spontaneous. As the police continued to advance increasingly strange arguments to forestall the first conference (for example, the distance between the seats, most of which are empty), we decide to talk to some of the participants. Abdallah Abdelhadi, who is scheduled to close the congress on Sunday, is holding his newborn in his arms as he states: *I am a Palestinian who lived in Gaza for an extended period. My family remains there, and we have suffered significant losses, including the destruction of our home. Given these experiences, silence is not an option for me. The congress represents a significant act of resistance. We refuse to succumb to external pressures, be it German repression or the atrocities committed by Israelis. The current situation did not arise in isolation; it is deeply rooted in history and the Palestinian struggle. Understanding this context is crucial to comprehend what Palestinians aspire to. Our objective is straightforward: we seek liberation, followed by freedom. We are committed to this cause and will not cease our efforts until our goal is realized.* The journalist Hebh Jamal adds: *The structure of the conference is extremely prevalent. Today's theme refers to the past, but goes beyond it. It’s not 76 years disconnected from what is happening today. The same rhetoric that took place during the Nakba in 1948 is the rhetoric taking place today. It was a genocide then, and it’s a genocide now.* As we are interviewing her, a member of the organization indicates that one of the speakers at the conference is being held at airport security and being refused entry. It is Doctor Ghassan Abu Sittah, plastic and reconstructive surgeon who operated for forty-three days during November of 2023 at al-Ahli Arab and Dar al-Shifa hospitals in Gaza. He is a key witness at the International Criminal Court (ICC) and the rector of Glasgow University. According to Wieland Hoban, chairman of Jewish Voice: *There have been numerous attempts by state elements to prevent this congress from proceeding. Calls for a ban on the conference were made by politicians and others, despite knowing that such a ban would not be legal, because there's still enough democracy in Germany to prevent conferences simply being banned because they don’t correspond to the politics of the government.* *Unable to impose a total ban, they sought alternative ways to hinder or complicate the event. For instance, our organizations funds for the conference, held in a state-owned bank, were frozen. However, we managed to circumvent this obstacle through other sources, rendering their attempt unsuccessful.* *There were also efforts to intimidate those associated with the conference, including the venue’s proprietor. He was subjected to what could be termed “psychological warfare”. The police intimidation included severe threats about his professional future, suggesting he would never be able to host events here again.* *We, as taxpayers, fund the police to serve and protect, but instead, we witness them behaving like a mafia. They use intimidation and cite dubious bureaucratic reasons for restrictions, such as fire regulations at a venue that has been hosting large-scale events for years. Coincidentally, today there’s a sudden issue with the fire hazard regulations.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/12.jpeg) fig. 3 **4.00 pm** We’re ushered to our seats as the congress is finally set to begin. We represent a fraction of the expected 250 attendees. The room is dominated by police officers; their numbers dwarf ours. We settle in the second row, behind the technicians managing the projection. The first speech isn’t a welcome or an introduction, but a police-dictated code of conduct, read out twice in Arabic and once in English. Confusion ripples through the room, manifesting as a low murmur of discontent. Maintaining focus on the conference table is a challenge as police officers continue their restless pacing. Their parallel conversations are a constant distraction. Hebh Jamal begins her address around 16:20\. As she concludes, a pre-recorded presentation by the engineer Salman Abu Sittah begins. It focuses on the Palestinians’s right of return. But, barely three minutes in, a police officer strides up to us. Without a word, an agent slams the laptop shut, abruptly cutting off the projection. People in the audience do not know what is going on. Many in the audience who are unfamiliar with German or English are left bewildered, struggling to comprehend the unfolding situation. The police insistently demand the tech team to “cut the music” meaning the sound of the video, which continues despite the computer being closed. The unspoken threat in the agent’s demeanor underscores the friction between the event’s intent and the authorities’ heavy-handed tactics. Dozens of police officers rush to form a wall in front of the stage, making it impossible to know what is happening behind them. An organizer can be heard clamoring from the other side of the wall saying that the agents are trying to snatch the microphones from them. Another police officer hastily announces that the conference has ended. A lone voice rises above the escalating din chanting “no violence” in a steady rhythm. Appeals for calm and restraint echo through the crowd, a stark contrast to the growing unrest. Some attendees, having exchanged their passports for translation devices - a common practice at conferences - now find themselves questioning whether they will retrieve them before the impending police intervention. Multiple voices implore the crowd to sit still and maintain composure, a request that seems increasingly unrealistic given the swelling police presence, and the language barrier complicating matters. Calls for order, in both English and German, punctuate the air, but the message seems lost in the tumult. Despite the chaos, there are sporadic pleas from the organizers to continue with the congress. **4.30 pm (approx.)** The lights and electricity are cut, plunging the venue into darkness. A wave of panic sweeps through the crowd as confusion sets in. Some of the organizers swiftly confront the police, voicing their concerns about the unsafe conditions that are rapidly being created. Meanwhile, someone from our group is engaged in a hurried conversation with the technicians, attempting to decipher what could possibly have been said to trigger such a ferocious response. Simultaneously, another one of us is capturing the precise moment when the police force their way into the electricity room. The police then address the crowd, issuing their first official warning. This is delivered solely in German, announcing the cancellation of the conference. This oral directive, devoid of any written documentation, marks an instance where bureaucracy and elusive orality intertwine within the German repressive system. The lack of a tangible, written directive only adds to the uncertainty and tension permeating the atmosphere. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4.jpg) fig. 4 **5.00 pm** The organizers and volunteers commence the clean-up process. Meanwhile, the police instruct us to vacate the premises. As we retreat from the building, we witness the unfolding arrest of a member of Jewish Voice, Udi Raz, an event that has become almost canonical at this point. We traverse several streets until the police vans are no longer in sight. In the landscape of collective memory, Germany’s historical guilt, anchored in the exceptionalism of the Holocaust \[9\] , is not a terminal point but rather a waypoint in an unfinished journey. According to the psychiatrist Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross \[10\], the process of grief consists of five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. A sixth stage, meaning or sense-making, was later added by Dr. David Kessler \[11\]. The German nation appears to have stalled at the threshold of this phase \[12\]. This failure to fully comprehend and integrate the enormity of the crimes perpetrated against Jews, Roma, Communists and sexual minorities continues to have far-reaching implications. The political (and economic) profit that can be harvested from the unresolved remorse and the paralyzing fear of repeating past atrocities has gone unnoticed by the German state, as today it redirects potent historically informed emotions against Arabs, Muslims, and particularly Palestinians. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/14.jpeg) fig. 5 As “Jewish Currents” points out in the article Bad Memory: *Germany’s philosemitism is revealed as another vehicle for supremacy, preferable precisely because of its anti-racist veneer. Germany’s embrace of the Jewish community within its borders, with or without the participation of Jews, secures the German self-image as a moral arbiter while casting the country’s guilt onto Arabs and Muslims. This dynamic also plays out on an international level, where Germany’s raison d’etat is linked to the protection of the Jewish state.* What we witnessed at the Palestinian Congress were these gaps of meaning, not the end of “democracy” but the spectacle of its embedded demise. As the Lebanese anthropologist Ghassan Hage has observed: *All European states are egalitarian and also built on white supremacy, and sometimes this supremacism flashes out of them and hits you. And it would be wrong to say ‘There is no democracy, there is only racism’. Because both coexist. It is true that there is democracy, and it is true that a lot of migrants enjoy this. But then you get that flash of racism that reminds you that it’s not just that. The state is also a white supremacist state that can put you down and take away your rights. It is visible now, regarding citizenship, which used to be sacrosanct. Now, they can take it away from you.* \[13\] Like Giorgio Aganbem, Hague understands that fascism is embedded in democratic institutions. Meanwhile, others have warned us of the unavoidable return of the so-called “Imperial Boomerang”. This notion, developed first by Aimé Césaire and Hannah Arendt, regards how fascism emerged as a result of the return of repressive practices in colonial territories to the respective European metropoles, was later popularized by Michel Foucault, He develops the idea in his talk Society Must Be Defended at the Collège de France in 1976: *A whole series of colonial models was brought back to the West, and the result was that the West could practice something resembling colonization, or an internal colonialism.* **Aftermath** After the cancellation of the Palestine Congress, we had the chance to speak with the anti-Zionist Jewish activist and filmmaker Dror Dayan, one of the speakers that didn't have the chance to talk in the Congress. Dayan said the following in our interview: *What happened yesterday is not exceptional; German police violence looks like that. We have seen this in many demonstrations in the last six months, and, of course, before that. It shows why what could have happened yesterday was so important. The German ruling class is terrified of being confronted publicly about how their support of Zionism has nothing to do with the Holocaust and has everything to do with capital, German imperialism, and German interests in the Middle East. What they also read as threatening is that they couldn’t frame the Congress as a terrorist, anti-Semitic, Islamist, or other racist tropes they use, as it was a wide, anti-sectarian coalition of people from different beliefs, places, and identities. Solidarity is what scares the ruling class the most, and they reacted as expected.* Indeed, the forced shutdown of the congress did not teach us anything new about the obvious, which is that Western democracy quickly turns into a farce when the enemy within is named and targeted (be that enemy workers, Communists, Jews, Muslims, POCs, or Palestinians). Excuses such as that “[potential antisemitic remarks and violence](https://www.dw.com/en/german-police-shut-down-pro-palestinian-conference/a-68810306?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)” were commonly presented by the police and the mainstream media in the aftermath of the chaos. This “pre-crime” mindset owes more to Philip K. Dick’s “Minority Report” than actual reportage \[14\]. Pre-crime reasoning was used to justify the cancellation upon the speech of the engineer Salman Abu Sittah, who was constantly misidentified, both by the police and the mainstream media, who confused him with Dr. Ghassan Abu Sittah. While Salman Abu Sittah’s pre-recorded video intervention was interrupted, it was confirmed that Dr. Ghassan Abu Sittah was being held in the Berlin airport and banned from entering Germany. In the demonstration against this ban, in front of the German embassy in London, Dr. Abu Sittah declared: *The German state behaved like an accomplice and tried to silence the voices of the witnesses. They are no different than any common gang. One does the killing, the other does the burial and the other gets rid of the evidence* \[15\]. The entry ban on Dr. Abu Sittah has recently extended to France, which is far from surprising, considering how shamelessly the state of exception was implemented there in the wake of social upheavals, and the fact that[ citizenship can now be revoked,](https://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/news/world-news/france-to-revoke-citizenship-of-dual-nationality-terrorists/34311059.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) as Hague warns. However, Germany shows us that the state of exception is already embedded in its democracy. The blocking of the right of assembly, notified only by oral means and with no sustainable legal grounds, the banning of the entrance to country for no specific reason but based on speculation about what someone might say, the criminalization of Arabic and Gaelic languages, the wearing a kuffiya at the Brandenburger Tor, the abuses are unfolding at such pace that what is allowed one minute can become illegal the next. The Berlin-based Palestinian-Syrian-Swedish poet Ghayath Almadhoun, who has mastered the art of dark-humor as a collective coping mechanism notes: “I know how to fight a dictatorship but I don't know how to defend myself from democracy.” But we are learning. As we write these lines, one by one these injustices are being contested. The Berlin District Court has again ruled in favor of Oyoun, against the “Tagesspiegel”, and has prohibited the claim of “anti-Semitic statements” in connection to the venue. [Yanis Varoufakis is also taking the German authorities to court](https://diem25.org/yanis-varoufakis-sues-the-german-state/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) for violation of his basic rights and defamation, indicating his intention to appeal, if need be, to the European courts. In parallel, separately, both Dr. Ghassan Abu Sittah and the Jüdische Stimme are preparing to take the responsible state German institutions to court. Yesterday, the Dutch Ministry of Foreign Affairs confirmed that they will be also applying the entry ban to [Dr. Abu Sittah, who has been invited by The Rights Forum to give a conference in Amsterdam.](https://rightsforum.org/pakhuis-de-zwijger-2024/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) Rights Forum[, one of the civil organizations that, together with Oxfam, Novib, and Pax Nederland, took the Dutch state to the Hague Tribunal on the basis of their import of F-35 fighter jet parts to Israel, and won](https://www.euronews.com/2024/02/12/court-orders-netherlands-to-stop-exporting-fighter-jet-parts-to-israel-over-gaza-war?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)\[16\], so it wouldn't be surprising if they decide to sue the dutch state in this regard too. And there is more yet to come on the legal front. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/16.jpeg) fig. 6 Together with the Palestinian Center for Human Rights, the Al-Mezan Center for Human Rights, and the Ramallah-based human rights organization, Al-Haq, the ECCHR (*International Crimes and Accountability Program of the European Center for Constitutional and Human Rights*) \[17\] filed a lawsuit to compel the court to issue an interim measure to suspend certain export licenses issued by the German government, particularly those for anti-tank weapons \[18\]. The German legal system, unlike its Dutch counterpart, does not permit collective action lawsuits, forcing the legal team to represent individual clients who are directly affected by these arms shipments. The claimants assert that Germany is breaching international law by continuing weapon exports, in violation of ratified treaties such as the Genocide Convention, the International Arms Trade Treaty, and the Geneva Conventions. An initial court decision is expected in the next few weeks. If the ruling is not in their favor, they are prepared to appeal. In a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, the repressive tactics of the German Federal Government have done nothing but turn the symbolic motto of the Palestine Congress, “We Accuse!”, into a concrete legal reality. The wave of legal actions by citizens and civil organizations against the complicities of governments and states involved in the occupation of Gaza is a significant development, and a shift in the dynamics of power and accountability. They are not isolated tactics but intertwined with the disruptive tactics of social movements calling for divestment and accountability through protest camps and other means of direct action. It is also a [testament ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLxSaN2nPx0&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)on the growing capacity of the people to see how the boundaries between profit and accountability that mask economic and material interests as moral stances are being deliberately blurred, and a clear indication that social movements are more mature, intersectional, informed, prepared, interconnected, and determined than ever before in the last decades. \\\\ *In addition, it was enriched by the testimonies of individuals affiliated with the organization of the Palestine Congress. For security reasons, we have chosen to withhold their names.* --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] As depicted by the journalist Hebh Jamal in the only conference that took place in the Congress. \[2\] The Russell Tribunal, also known as the International War Crimes Tribunal, or the Russell-Sartre Tribunal, was an independent international tribunal of opinion. It was established in 1966 by the British philosopher and mathematician Bertrand Russell and the French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre. The tribunal investigated and evaluated the United States’s intervention in Vietnam. Although it had no legal power to enforce its conclusions, its goal was to influence public opinion and promote changes in policy and legislation. The Russell Tribunal has been used as a model for other tribunals of opinion on various issues, including human rights in psychiatry, human rights in Latin America, the Israel-Palestine conflict, and, most recently, the disputed territory of Jammu and Kashmir. Source: www.russfound.org \[3\] Because of the extreme levels of repression the smaller/ palestinian organizations couldn't show their face as openly. \[4\] Subsequently [reestablished](https://www.dw.com/en/middle-east-updates-germany-resumes-unrwa-cooperation/live-68904333?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). \[5\] Another example[ is the ban of international journalists in Gaza, now including Al Jazeera.](https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-68961753?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[6\] While the International Court of Justice (ICJ) is still in the process of its investigation, and official recognition of these acts as war crimes is yet to be declared, an overwhelming body of horrific visual, audiovisual evidence and eyewitness accounts keeps accumulating. This situation harks back to dark chapters in history when inhumane practices, such as slavery, were legal. It’s a sobering reminder that the legal recognition of such atrocities often trails behind the lived realities of those who are directly affected. \[7\] According to [Amnesty 12 September 2023 EUR 23/7180/2023 PROTECT THE PROTEST: AGAINST BLANKET BANS OF DEMONSTRATIONS FOR THE RIGHTS OF PALESTINIANS](https://www.amnesty.org/en/documents/eur23/7180/2023/en/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), Amnesty International is concerned about restrictions of freedom of expression and freedom of assembly through blanket, pre-emptive bans imposed on assemblies on the occasion of Nakba Remembrance Day in Berlin and urges the Berlin state government to uphold these human rights for all. \[8\] The European Realistic Disobedience Front (Greek: Μέτωπο Ευρωπαϊκής Ρεαλιστικής Ανυπακοής), or MeRA25 (Greek: ΜέΡΑ25), is a left-wing Greek political party founded in 2018 by Yanis Varoufakis. \[9\] Recent debates on contemporary racism and national memorial cultures, instigated in part by global movements against anti-Black policing, have challenged both the historiographic assertion of the Holocaust’s unique nature as compared to other forms of racial violence, as well as the ritualization of Holocaust remembrance. Indigenous communities on colonial territories worldwide have been profoundly affected by genocidal acts. The colonization process, particularly in the Americas, led to a drastic population reduction of Indigenous peoples, not merely as a consequence of conflict, but as a systematic effort to destroy these communities. \[10\] The author of the groundbreaking book on near-death studies, [On Death and Dying](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five%5Fstages%5Fof%5Fgrief?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (1969), wherein she first discussed her theory of the five stages of grief. \[11\] [https://www.bbc.com/news/stories-53267505.amp](https://www.bbc.com/news/stories-53267505.amp?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[12\] Although some understandably argue that the blockage is in the anger phase. \[13\] Ghassan Hage. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPxN79zeTms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPxN79zeTms&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[14\] In Philip Dick´s novel “The Minority Report” three mutants foresee all crime before it occurs. Plugged into a massive machine, these “[precogs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Precognition?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)” allow a division of the police called Pre-crime to arrest suspects before they can commit actual crimes. \[15\] [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECwQCHkEUa8](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECwQCHkEUa8&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[16\] The ruling has been appealed by the Dutch State. \[17\] ECCHR is a non-profit and independent human rights organisation based in Berlin, working to enforce, through legal means, the rights guaranteed in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and other international, regional, and national human rights legislation. It is one of the organisations that filed the joint lawsuit to try to halt Germany’s arms exports to Israel. \[18\] [https://www.theguardian.com/world/2024/apr/12/germany-lawsuit-arms-sales-israel-gaza](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2024/apr/12/germany-lawsuit-arms-sales-israel-gaza?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Palestine Congress (2024). Photo: Elisa Fuenzalida. Courtesy of the author. fig. 1: Palestine Congress (2024). Photo: Nikos Kanistras. Courtesy of Palestine Congress. fig 2: Palestine Congress (2024). Photo: Nikos Kanistras. Courtesy of Palestine Congress. fig 3: Palestine Congress (2024). Photo: Nikos Kanistras. Courtesy of Palestine Congress. fig 4: Palestine Congress (2024). Photo: Elisa Fuenzalida. Courtesy of the author. fig 5: Palestine Congress (2024). Photo: Nikos Kanistras. Courtesy of Palestine Congress. fig. 6: Palestine Congress (2024). Photo: Nikos Kanistras. Courtesy of Palestine Congress. *Elisa Fuenzalida is online editor of Arts of the Working Class. She has directed research projects such as El futuro era tu cuerpo, Ensamblajes del Cuidado and Afectos en Re-existencia. She founded and co-curated the Cátedra Decolonial Anibal Quijano at the Museo Reina Sofía between 2018 and 2023.* *Khalil Talhaoui is a security researcher, consultant and doctoral student specializing in security, conflict, and human rights studies at the University of Exeter* ### Foreigners Everywhere URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/arts-of-the-working-class-31-2/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:11:58.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-31-foreigners-everywhere](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-31-foreigners-everywhere?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- **DE** Jeden Frühling blühen die deutschen Landschaften in leuchtendem Gelb. Der Raps ist für viele der Inbegriff deutscher Monokultur, dabei ist er in Wirklichkeit gar keine. Bei genauem Hinsehen fällt auf: Auf den Feldern gedeiht ein buntes und reiches Leben! Migration von und nach Deutschland gab es schon immer. Die Ausgabe Nr. 31 von Arts of the Working Class greift deshalb die Inspiration des Künstler\*innenkollektivs Claire Fontaine für die diesjährige Venedig Biennale auf: *Foreigners Everywhere – Fremde überall*. Wie fühlt es sich an, in Deutschland fremd zu sein? Welche Erfahrungen von Verbundenheit stehen dem entgegen? Welche Möglichkeiten gibt es, Erinnerungen an diese Erfahrungen lebendig zu halten? Menschen, die selbst von Rassismus und Ausgrenzung betroffen sind, können mit diesen Fragen tiefgreifend und vielfältig umgehen. Ihre künstlerischen Arbeiten und ihre Stimmen sind in dieser Ausgabe versammelt. Der Schwerpunkt liegt dabei auf Positionen, die mit Erfahrungen des Fremd- und Verbundenseins, insbesondere zu DDR-Zeiten, zu tun haben. Denn die DDR war nicht provinziell und selbstbezogen; internationale Beziehungen wie zur Sowjetunion und anderen sogenannten Bruderländern umspannten den Globus. Dies zeigen aktuell mehrere Museen, die sich in ihren Programmen mit unterschiedlichen Aspekten einer global verflochtenen DDR beschäftigen. Dazu gehören die Projekte Revolutionary Romances im Dresdner Albertinum, die Transkulturelle Akademie im Japanischen Palais ebenfalls in Dresden, der REINVENTING-Prozess des GRASSI Museum für Völkerkunde zu Leipzig; die Ausstellung VEB Museum im Deutschen Hygiene Museum Dresden; Re:connect. Kunst und Kampf im Bruderland im Museum der bildenden Künste Leipzig sowie Echos der Bruderländer im Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Berlin. Diese Ausgabe entstand in Zusammenarbeit mit der Abteilung Vermittlung, Outreach und Gesellschaft der Staatlichen Kunstsammlungen Dresden und wird von der Beauftragten für Kultur und Medien des Bundes im Rahmen des Projekts "Museen als aktive Orte der Demokratie“ gefördert. **EN** Every spring, the German countryside blossoms in bright yellow. Rapeseed, for many the epitome of German monoculture, is not really a monoculture at all. A closer look reveals what it is: a colorful and rich expression of life spreading across the fields! Migration to and from Germany has always been a reality. Issue No. 31 of Arts of the Working Class, therefore, takes up Claire Fontaine’s inspiration for this year’s Venice Biennale: *Foreigners Everywhere* \- *Fremde Überall*. What does it feel like to be a foreigner in Germany? What experiences of connectedness stand in contrast to this sense of otherness? What possibilities are there to keep memories of these experiences alive? People affected by racism and exclusion deal with these questions in profound and multifaceted ways. Their artistic works and their voices are brought together in this issue. This time, our focus is on experiences of being foreign and connected, specifically during the GDR era. The GDR was not provincial and self-centered; international relations, such as with the Soviet Union and other so-called “brother countries” \[Bruderländer\] spanned the globe. This is reflected in the current programs of several museums engaging with different aspects of the globally-intertwined GDR. These include the projects of the Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden, including Revolutionary Romances at the Albertinum; the Transcultural Academy at the Japanisches Palais; the REINVENTING process at the GRASSI Museum für Völkerkunde zu Leipzig; the exhibition VEB Museum at the Deutsches Hygiene Museum Dresden; Re:connect. Kunst und Kampf im Bruderland at the Museum der bildenden Künste Leipzig; and Echos der Bruderländer at the Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Berlin. This issue was produced in cooperation with the Department of Education, Outreach, and Society of the Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden, and is funded by the Federal Government Commissioner for Culture as part of the project “Museen als aktive Orte der Demokratie” (“Museums as Active Sites of Democracy”). *With contributions by Abed Abdi, Georges Adeagbo, ALPAS, Stefanie Bach, Tuan Mami and Eva Bentcheva, Kevin Breß, Hung The Cao, Cycles of Care, Hoa Phuong Thi Cap and Irma Castillo, Reb Chris, Pham Minh Duc, The Center for Plausible Economies, Mona Ragy Enayat, Women in Exile, Foreign Legion + students FHNW, Christine Fischer, Vũ Vân Phạm and Mia Gara, Amelie Jakubek, Abolitionist Jelly, Hussein Hasham Jinah, Sowmya Maheswaran, Thi Nga Nguyen, Hazar Oghan, Peggy Piesche, Gertraude Pohl, Matthias Rietschel, Kerstin Schankweiler, Cornelia Schleime, Shibboleth, Athletic Sonnenberg, Samirah Kenawi and Eric Otieno Sumba, Gedenkinitiative Phan Văn Toàn, Jose Toirac, Sithara Weeratunga, Sabine Wohlfarth, Huda Zikry, Rico Zyrrano.* ***Impressum / Imprint*** **Founders / Publishers** Verantwortlicher i.S.d . 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor-in-Chief** Dalia Maini **Konzept / Concept** Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden Christine Gerbich und Tanja Schomaker Beratung durch Doreen Mende **Artistic Associate Editor** Lizza May David **Editorial Assistance** Noa Jaari **Online Editor** Elisa Fuenzalida **Artistic Project Development** Theresa Zwerschke **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph **Distribution Assistance** Miguel Angel Espinoza **Proofreading** William Kherbek, Anne Waak, Noa Jaari **Graphic Design** Manuel Bürger **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Circle of Support - Volunteers:** Hassoumi Moctar Agali, Amina Zerourou, Lisa Smirnova, Ruslana Shabelnyk, Nina Abba, Hannah Lu Verse, anna zrenner, Sophie Franziska Schultz, Kira Schmitz, Nadine Bajek, Cora Pagano, Yasemin Şenkal, Lukas Grube, Duarte Eduardo, Felix Dengg, James Rhys Edwards, Louisa Maria Stank, Sophie Hartleib, Teresa Mayr, Leo Baumg.rtner, Katharina Thurow **Druck** LR Druckerei GmbH, Cottbus Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse: Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschr.nkt) Lynarstrasse 38, 13353 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org Arts of the Working Class can now be read digitally, too. Please find our vendors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digitally buy a copy and additionally the STREAD issue of each month. Spendenkonto: Reflektor Monde gUG IBAN: DE64 1001 0010 0931 5031 07 BIC: PBNKDEFF paypal: p@artsoftheworkingclass.org // --- ## In this issue - [Cycles of Care](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cycles-of-care/) - [Abed Abdi](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/abed-abdi/) - [Matthias Rietschel](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/matthias-rietschel/) - [Was übrig bleibt von der DDR](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/was-uebrig-bleibt-von-der-ddr/) - [Gertraude Pohl](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/gertraude-pohl/) - [Jeans nach Dienstschluss](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/jeans-nach-dienstschluss/) - [Pham Minh Duc](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/minh-duc-pham/) - [Why should we learn from each other?](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/co-create-workshop-by-foreign-legion-why-should-we-learn-from-each-other/) - [Kaffee und Kuchen](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/kaffee-und-kuchen-gedicht-von-cindy-gloggner-fuer-foreign-legion/) - [Immigrating Garden](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/immigrating-garden/) - [Georges Adéagbo](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/georges-adeagbo/) - [Aushalten! Wie ein ethnologisches Museum mit Erwartungshaltungen brechen muss.](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/aushalten-wie-ein-ethnologisches-museum-mit-erwartungshaltungen-brechen-muss/) - [In Bewegung](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/in-bewegung/) - [Matthias Rietschel](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/matthias-rietschel-1/) - [Foreignizing the Museum](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/foreignizing-the-museum/) ### Cycles of Care URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cycles-of-care/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:07.000Z *These three voices are based on the documentary Cycles of Care, which follows five Filipina caregivers returning from Israel, where they worked in homes. Back in Manila, they struggle to make a living and reintegrate into families.* *Linda* You dance with the music. Just go with them, you dress like Israelis, eat like Israelis, act like Israelis and my hair before was very curly, you remember? And they told me, you don’t look like a Filipina, You look like a Spanish. That’s what they talk about me. If I go to the group of the Israeli, I am no longer a Filipina. Since then, luckily, I have been very very lucky. I was the only one left for 19 years from the group, the 48-group. They were caught by the police and the others even though they married Israeli, they \[left\]. Do you still have any savings? No. I’m sorry. Not even a cent. I left the Philippines with 5 cents. When I entered the Philippines, it’s 300 $. *Finita della comedia.* \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *Amy* How was your first day in Israel? It was hard for me because I traveled alone. And then I stopped in— I don’t know that place. My seat is still available and they are calling my name. And then when I heard it, I run and run and run. The airplane is already waiting for 6 minutes. And then they bring me immediately to the house of my employer. We cannot communicate. My hard experience is when I don’t know how to speak Hebrew. And my employer doesn’t know how to speak English. And then every day, until one year maybe. I just cry and cry. When he died, I needed to go home. Because I have no more visa. So the children of my employer let me go home. So my sister found me another employer. And then she is a woman. But because of the time, I already know a little Hebrew. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *Lena* So when I went to Israel, I told myself, I will save money, I would not waste my money. Because it's really good money. Precious. You will see on television, that when people win an amount of 5000 you see they are crying, oh my god. I told her for 5000 pesos, do you know the value? And then when they win 10,000 pesos, they cry very hard, you know, really! I told her, I only paid that for one time in your school, 10 000 how many times will I pay that to your school?t I told her, she needed to study very hard, I don’t just pick it on the street or just cheat people, so that I can have money, I always tell her. I hope she will learn, she will know the value of that love. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/cycles-of-care-fig-1.jpg) fig. 1 \\\\ *Cycles of Care*, 2011, documentary by Lizza May David and Claudia Liebelt, 52 min. This contribution was originally published in Caring Structures, the booklet was released in conjunction with the homonymous exhibition at Kunstverein Hildesheim. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1: Lizza May David and Claudia Liebelt, *Cycles Of Care* (2011), Filmstill. *Claudia Liebelt is Professor of Social and Cultural Anthropology at the FU Berlin. Her research interests are in the Anthropology of the Body and the Senses, Gender, Migration and Citizenship. She has authored Istanbul Appearances: Beauty and the Making of Middle-Class Femininities in Urban Turkey (Syracuse UP, 2023) and Caring for the “Holy Land”: Filipina domestic workers in Israel (Berghahn, 2011).* *Lizza May David is a transdisciplinary artist and lecturer at the Kunsthochschule Weissensee Berlin. She engages with omissions in personal and collective archives through abstract painting, installations, architectural interventions and collective works.* ### Making Mamak URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/making-mamak/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:06.000Z Clarissa Lim Kye Lee is the emerging curator of 2022-2023 at the Canadian Centre for Architecture (CCA) in Montreal. Invited as part of a program for emerging curators, she takes this global institution into lessons she learned in corners of Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur. She defines herself as a transnational subject, migrating between different places, working between languages and codes that she likes to easily and openly swing into and inside out from. Clarissa’s project, named “Making Mamak”, \[1\] is a cartographic exploration of various spaces - architectural and textual. The term “mamak” is derived from South Asia and Southeast Asia, where it is used to denote both indoor and open-air establishments serving Indian Muslim cuisine. In the context of Clarissa’s work, “mamak” takes on a broader meaning. It encapsulates not just culinary endeavors, but also represents creative collectives, art hubs, and cultural centers. These entities, under the umbrella term of “mamak”, share a common interest: the articulation and fostering of community. **LR:** **Collectivity has always been a mode of labor, at least for the production of space in the architectural Realm. I wonder what perspective you take towards collectivity itself as a concept?** **Clarissa Lim Kye Lee:** When I returned from Hong Kong to Malaysia, I hoped to continue my studies, to pursue a Master's in Visual Arts at University of Malasya, aiming to work in these fields professionally. Although the program was labeled as a Master of Visual Arts, it primarily focused on visual culture and art history. I transitioned from architecture to an art history framework; this shift allowed me to analyze collective phenomena and bridge the gap between these two worlds. Coming from a research background in architecture, I embraced the new training in Southeast Asian art history - a field that remains largely unexplored yet which is currently gaining significant interest. A key aspect of my exploration into art collectives involves examining labor within the Malaysian context. This investigation unveiled many layers, particularly the challenges faced within Malaysia’s art and architectural sectors. An essay by Michelle Antoinette titled [“...and Malaysia?”](https://aaa.org.hk/en/like-a-fever/like-a-fever/and-malaysia?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) addresses this topic early on. Antoinette´s work sparked inquiries into the practice of art in Malaysia, highlighting the emergence of art spaces with the support of the government. Amidst this backdrop of limited resources, creating public art spaces became crucial. The labor-intensive process of establishing and utilizing these spaces for exhibitions and performances significantly shapes artistic practices. However, this discussion does not directly delve into the architectural dimension of your inquiry. **LR:** **Your perspective seems particularly relevant given the current understanding of architecture. It’s not just seen as a tangible entity, but also as a process. Would it be accurate to say that you’re describing the exploration of spaces as social bodies in motion?** **CLKL:** What you might refer to as social bodies I view as an ecology of networks and interactions, shaped by limitations and gaps in Malaysia’s social landscape. These constraints often confine gatherings to specific moments, especially post-COVID. Our research approach resembles a snowball effect, where inteviewing one group leads to the discovery of another, and is essential for mapping these collectives without recourse to a central database. While there are some NGO or government maps available, they are limited. In our workshops, we aim to analyze and expand upon these existing maps. Returning to Malaysia marked a pivotal moment for me, as I transitioned into a cultural worker, integrating myself into established networks within the art scene. I actively engaged with diverse individuals, often bonding over meals - hence the title “Mamak”, referencing communal eating spaces. These gatherings typically took place around 9pm. Bars are costly in this Muslim-majority country, so instead, we frequented coffee shops, enjoying greasy food while brainstorming and collaborating on projects. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Photo-by-COEX-kilangbesi_2.jpg) fig. 1 **LR: Does social life typically begin at 9 pm?** **CLKL:** The climate speaks volumes here. In Southeast Asia, summer is perpetual - warm and humid with distinct wet and dry seasons, but is now influenced by climate change. As the sun sets around seven, people emerge, seeking relief from the day’s heat. Night culture thrives, characterized by street gatherings rather than the nightclub scenes of Berlin. Food trucks line the streets, akin to a year-long night market spread across various districts. Mamak eateries, often open 24/7, are bustling after the 9pm prayer, offering substantial meals beyond mere snacks. The term “Papan” means timber or wood planks in Bahasa Melayu and Chinese, with “baban” referencing a group of eight planks, a lucky number in Chinese culture. Papanhaus is a domestic space, a terrace typology with expanded interiors and natural ventilation. My contact there is an interior designer. This is surprising as I once taught at the [Malaysia Institute of Art](https://mia.edu.my/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) where Pam, a member of Papan Haus, also teaches interior architecture. [Papan Haus](https://www.instagram.com/papanhaus/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) is a collective of cultural workers encompassing diverse talents - photographers, sculptors, woodworkers - utilizing domestic spaces for gatherings. The house features a communal long table and an upstairs balcony overlooking the main space. The inaugural event, “Punk Rock Magic" in Malay, showcased a print collective connected to the broader arts ecosystem. Papanhaus hosts events, workshops, talks, and rents out space for financing, with two bedrooms primarily serving as gathering areas for the eight members who jointly own the property. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Photo-by-COEX-kilangbesi_4.jpg) fig. 2 **LR:** **Should we discuss another collective? I can’t decide if we should start with the** [**Ruang Tamu Ekosistem**](https://www.instagram.com/ruang%5Ftamu.ekosistem/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)**, or Pangrok Sulap.** **CLKL:** I believe they’re essentially the same. A collective of collectives, which is currently a trend. Actually, let me correct that. It’s quite prevalent in Indonesia, this post-Documenta 15 kind of moment. Most of these collectives are public-facing, running programs that welcome anyone to come in and gather. You propose something on the spot and you can do it on the next day. I think the Ruang Tamu Ekosistem really holds to that tightly. They activate it a lot for university students as the third space where, for example, if they want to think about student movements or student protests, or if they want to find spaces where they can talk about politics in a comfortable space they do it in the Ruang Tamu Ekosistem. **LR: It appears that Kapallorek operates on unique principles. It could be considered the first collective that intentionally structures its program as an art space.** **CLKL:** They were originally located in a different space , but they recently moved to a new location, which is conveniently close to another National University where they teach. I think one of the founders, who is a teacher, is also a new media artist. His brother is one of the pioneers shaping the landscape of New Media Arts within the Malaysian context. They primarily operate as a residency space and a venue for experimental new media art. Given that their contacts and the environment in their neighborhood are not necessarily super enriching, they are located in a new town that is right for education. They often engage with international young artists, or emerging artists from the university, inviting them to come in and do the first or last show. There are not many gallery spaces that nurture emerging artists. That being said, a lot of the programs are open; the gallery is free, and they also have a cafe on the ground floor for which they're finding a new strategy to think through in connection with the workshop. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Photo-by-COEX-kilangbesi_5.jpg) fig. 3 **LR:** **The labor that is shared extends beyond monetary resources. This brings me to the genealogy of the toolkit. It is something that can be owned by everyone. If there are no standard ways of working or collaborating, but rather multiple approaches, I wonder if you could speak specifically about which tools and strategies are the most practical or pragmatic.** **CLKL**: I am considering developing a toolkit or manual - perhaps it could be referred to as an instruction booklet - specifically designed to analyze a collective’s relationship with their neighborhood. This resource would serve as a test to explore relationality and entanglement with the city, especially in contexts lacking material resources. From collectives, I’ve learned valuable lessons regarding sharing spaces. For example, allowing other groups to utilize unused spaces during designated times fosters community collaboration. One collective that was not present in this workshop, the Five Art Center, exemplifies this ethos. Reclaimed materials, particularly timber sourced from buildings affected by Malaysia’s humid tropical climate or rural-to-urban migration, surround me in the workshop space. These materials are repurposed with architectural ingenuity and distinct design languages, a practice I am documenting to articulate a useful tool for community engagement and for urban exploration. \\\\ Clarissa Lim Kye Lee is a cultural worker based in between Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur via Penang. She is currently a Ph.D. candidate at the School of Architecture and received the Hong Kong Ph.D. Fellowship Scheme, as well as the CUHK Vice-Chancellor’s Ph.D. Scholarship. Working in the interstices of visual culture, arts, and architecture, her research reveals the urban influence of arts collectives in Malaysia. More information about her fellowship as an emerging curator can be found [here](https://www.cca.qc.ca/en/92541/making-mamak-collective-ecologies-of-urban-space?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). The CCA's [Emerging Curator Residency Program ](https://www.cca.qc.ca/en/77873/emerging-curator-residency-program?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)offers the opportunity to propose and curate a project at the CCA related to contemporary debates in architecture, urban issues, landscape design, and cultural and social dynamics while completing a residency at the CCA. The next call for applications for the 2025-2026 program will open in February 2025. --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Previously entitled: *The Precarity of Gathering.* IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2, fig. 3: Photo by COEX [@kilangbesi](https://www.instagram.com/coex%5Fkilangbesi/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). *Lilo Ruminawi is a poet, playwright, and film director. She has written and directed the experimental short films La Mancha Viva (2014), Perreo Seco (2017), and the documentary essay El Año sin Árboles (2020). She is currently working on the post-production of her first feature-length fiction film, Tzantza, a retro-futuristic western set in the Salar de Uyuni.* ### Counter-grammars of Justice URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/counter-grammars-of-justice/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:04.000Z A video has surfaced on social media, capturing a disturbing incident at the Unter den Linden U- Bahn station in Berlin. In the video a white German-speaking man can be seen making a throat-slitting gesture towards a girl on the opposite platform wearing a kufiya. The quality of the video is quite good, making the man’s facial features easily recognizable. However, it appears that the police are not interested in utilizing their facial recognition tools to identify him and that this incident will join the growing tide of intentionally overlooked instances of racist, anti-Muslim, xenophobic, and anti-immigrant aggression. Contrastingly, although the most recent police acts of harassment, aggression, and impediment of the exercise of freedom of speech and assembly have been widely denounced and well documented by protesters, independent journalists, and civil society organizations, these incidents remain systematically blocked from reaching beyond the confines of social media. In this political environment, the evidence of white supremacism has become incriminatory and a systematic justification for state brutality against whoever holds it. Udi Raz, an activist and board member of the now-criminalized Jewish organization Jüdische Stimme, starkly observes, “Germany has become a dangerous place for all non-Aryans.” \[1\] Echoing this sentiment, the Berlin-based Jewish filmmaker Dror Drayan - who was born in Jerusalem - warns, “None of this is exceptional. It will get worse, and we need to be vigilant.” \[2\] *Three Doors/In memory of Gökhan Gültekin, Sedat Gürbüz, Said Nesar Hashemi, Mercedes Kierpacz, Hamza Kurtović, Vili Viorel Păun, Fatih Saraçoğlu, Ferhat Unvar, Kaloyan Verkov, Oury Jallo and all victims of racist violence* by Forensic Architecture, \[3\] Forensis, \[4\] Initiative 19 Februar Hanau and Initiative in Gedenken an Oury Jalloh at the Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart \[5\] in collaboration with the Landeshauptstadt Stuttgart. The exhibition is dedicated to two cases of fatal racist violence: the 2020 attack in Hanau, and the murder of Oury Jalloh in 2005 in a prison cell in Dessau. Overwhelming evidence shows that the German state has exhibited a stark and alarming display of negligence, and a chilling level of intentional brutality in these cases. In February 19, 2020, motivated by racism and right-wing extremism, a neo-Nazi shot nine people dead at various locations in Hanau in the space of six minutes, including patrons at the La Votre Bar and the Midnight Shisha Bar on Heumarkt, as well as the Arena Bar and a kiosk directly adjacent in Hanau-Kesselstadt. A victim even attempted to alert the police, but the the calls went unanswered. The police response was delayed, and their SWAT team claimed not to have heard the gunshots fired by the perpetrator, who also killed his mother and then himself after the attack. The Initiative 19\. Februar Hanau victims’ families, survivors, and supporters collaborated with Forensic Architecture/Forensis to investigate the attack and its racist context. The exhibition unfolds across three main halls, each radiating an intense whiteness that evokes a sense of clinical precision. As Hans D. Christ, director of the venue in partnership with Iris Dressler, has pointed out, the decision to keep the exhibition design minimal - avoiding unnecessary aesthetic interventions - has proved to be a prudent one. This approach allowed the focus to remain on the powerful testimonies and the overwhelming evidence. Adjacent to the first exhibition hall of the Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart is a dedication and a floral tribute stand. They serve as a stark reminder of the irreplaceability of the individuals whose untimely and brutal murders demand justice. The first room is organized around the elements that form the context of the Hanau crimes, and the ongoing struggle for accountability. On one side of the room, ten videos document the testimonies of the victims’ relatives and survivors. Opposite these, a large diagram of events stretches across the entire wall. Completing the scene is a triptych of videos dissecting the ordeal that Vili-Viorel Păun endured during his brave confrontation with the perpetrator, and the homicidal disaster that ensued from the failures of the emergency call. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Initiative-19-February-Hanau-Testimonies-of-the-Relatives-and-Survivors-about-the-Night-of-the-Crime-in-Hanau-and-its-Consequences.jpg) fig. 1 The *Testimonies of the Relatives and Survivors about the Night of the Crime in Hanau and its Consequences* (2022) is displayed at eye-level in vertical video-panels throughout the hall space, so that the visitor can move freely among them. These testimonies are reenactments of the family members’ and survivors’ statements to the Hessian State Parliament’s investigative committee, and represent the result of persistent demands and protests by the victims’ families and their supporters. This pressure led to the establishment of the Hanau investigation committee (UNA) in July of 2021\. The parliamentary inquiry is intended to be public, yet its reach seems limited, extending only to specific journalists. Without exhibitions like this, powerful statements that capture the essence of racist crimes, and also the bitter struggle thereafter, risk being lost in the din of events. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Simply-Silent-The-Emergency-Call-Disaster-of-Hanau_1.jpg) fig. 2 The adjacent wall in the hall is occupied by the videos that make up *Simply Silent: The Emergency Call Disaster of Hanau* (2022). This video triptych presents an account of the Hanau shootings and the subsequent failure of the emergency hotline system. Using 3D cartography and footage from German television, as well as cartographic zooms, timelines, and movements of a virtual camera, the videos focus on the story of Vili-Viorel Păun, who lost his life in a brave attempt to stop the racist murderer. Despite having been shot at, Vili pursued the offender, even managing to block the gunman’s car while trying to alert the police via the emergency number 110\. He was unable to get through to an operator and was later shot dead at the second crime scene. The videos, crafted by Initiative 19 Februar Hanau, exemplify the precise utilization of forensic methods and tools by civil society initiatives. A long wall in the second hallway displays *A Timeline of Collective Action* (2022–2024), a diagram that documents the ongoing journey of victims’ families and the Initiative for justice, highlighting their efforts to expand collective actions, engage new partners, and assert their demands across diverse platforms such as legal, political, cultural spaces, civil society, and media. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Simply-Silent-The-Emergency-Call-Disaster-of-Hanau_2.jpg) fig. 3 The six-minute attack, captured primarily by CCTV cameras, formed the crux of the police investigation. However, the outdated systems often displayed inaccurate times, necessitating corrections to almost all the CCTV timestamps in the police reports. The corrected timeline, represented by green bars, also accounted for a two-minute and twenty-two-second discrepancy in the police helicopter camera time, which was overlooked in the police files. After synchronizing all cameras, a comprehensive account of the incident was created. The diagram illustrates the perpetrator’s movements as the timeline’s density increased, marking the moment of entry into the room. This narrative is laid out in the diagram work *Ereignisse und Ungewissheiten.* In the practice of Forensic Architecture, the understanding of space goes beyond the conventional confines of physical structures, guided by their openness to non-Western philosophical, political, and infrastructural perspectives as applied to architecture. It is where the gap deepens between the traditional police investigation and the agency’s adept explorations that demonstrates the power of their approach. This aspect is exemplified in *Three doors*. Within the corridors of this architectural exploration, we encounter doors that are entrances and exits, but also spaces of revelation, in a sense that challenges ordinary ideas and preconceptions regarding space and matter. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Door-I-The-Emergency-Exit.-Racist-Terror-Attack-in-Hanau-The-Arena-Bar.jpg) fig. 4 The short video *Door I: The Emergency Exit. Racist Terror Attack in Hanau: The Arena Bar* (2021) focuses on how and why, on the night of the attack, the victims did not attempt to escape through the emergency exit. Relatives have reported that they were aware the door was locked under police orders to prevent the young attendees from escaping during regular raids. These claims underlined the intense police scrutiny and profiling that the Arena Bar endured. Despite these claims, the public prosecutor declined to investigate, stating that it was impossible to confirm whether the door was locked, or if the victims could have reached the exit in time. The video presents the results of an independent forensic investigation, which included an analysis of CCTV footage and witness testimonies. The evidence indicates the victims had sufficient time to reach the exit, but the door was locked. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/DOOR-II-THE-PERPETRATORS-HOUSE-Racist-Terror-Attack-in-Hanau-The-Police-Operation.jpeg) fig. 5 The second door, entitled *The perpetrator’s House. Racist Terror Attack in Hanau: The Police Operation* (2022), refers to the unattended door of the house of the murderer. The video, based on 3-D modeling, audio analysis, ground truth, field work, and synchronisation methodologies, is projected in a separate darkened room emphasizing the grave atmosphere to which visitors must return from the abstract realms of numbers. The audio recordings, featured in the film, are eloquent regarding the frustration and confusion, as is palpable in the voices of helicopter pilots voices. Their conversations not only reveal how clueless they are about their intended destination, they also reveal a pattern of inadequate information sharing. This incident not only highlighted the helicopter’s aimless journey that night, but also exposed a glaring lapse in the surveillance of the target house by the police officers who failed to fulfill their duties. It shows how, despite immediate notification, the police response was delayed by an hour, and entry into the house was further delayed by four hours. This delay allowed the perpetrator to murder his mother and to commit suicide, thereby eliminating the possibility of a trial. Special forces officers stationed outside the house claimed not to have heard any gunshots. In June 2021, it was revealed that 13 of these officers, who were part of far-right group chats, were on duty that night. Despite this, Hessen’s then-Minister-President Volker Bouffier asserted that possible right-wing extremist attitudes doesn’t necessarily imply police misconduct. The perpetrator’s father, who survived, claimed to have heard shots only from outside the house. Known for sharing his son’s racist views, he was found guilty of hate speech in October 2021. The third door leads to cell number five in the Dessau police station in Saxony-Anhalt. On January 7, 2005, Oury Jalloh, an asylum seeker from Sierra Leone, was found burned to death in this cell. His ordeal began with an arrest, a strip search, and the confiscation of his possessions. He was then confined to a basement cell and bound to a mattress. A fire erupted in the cell hours later, extinguished only after it had claimed Oury’s life. According to the police account, despite his hands and legs being bound, and with only a mattress and a lighter - oddly discovered three days later - at his disposal, Jalloh supposedly ignited the fire, creating a blaze so intense it could incinerate a human body. This preposterous conclusion, was contested by the Initiative Oury Jalloh, and has been backed by international experts. It’s findings present quite a different perspective. They indicate, for example, that Oury had sustained severe bone fractures before his death. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Oury-Jallohs-Cell-Smoke-Traces_1.jpeg) fig. 6 In collaboration with the Initiative in Gedenken an Oury Jalloh, FA/Forensis has meticulously recreated both digital and physical models of the cell door, and a portion of the adjacent corridor. *Oury Jalloh’s Cell: Smoke Traces* (2022), is built to a 1:1 scale in a separate hall, and it is complemented by a video and a display of journalistic textual materials that contextualize Oury Jalloh’s murder through the lens of systemic police brutality such as has occurred in Dessau. As I stand facing a reproduction of the green tile walls of the cell, my gaze is drawn to a vertical rectangle. This is where the fire originated. It bears a single word: “Matratze” (mattress). Photographs and video footage are projected into the spaces where police captured visual evidence mere hours after the fire was extinguished. A careful examination of these images, particularly of the cell door, show remnants of smoke that confirm that the door remained open for the majority, if not all, of the fire’s duration. This supports the claims of Oury’s family, and of the Initiative, that the fire was started by police to murder Oury, or, perhaps more likely, to cover up his murder. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Oury-Jallohs-Cell-Smoke-Traces_2.jpeg) fig. 7 The last video in the sequence is entitled *17 Years of Self-Organized Investigation into the Oury Jalloh Case* (2022). It showcases the timeline of the Initiative in Gedenken an Oury Jalloh, a self-organized group that has been working tirelessly since 2013 as part of the Break the Silence campaign. The group - alongside Oury’s family, who are located in Guinea in western Africa - has been advocating for clarity and justice. Protests, research, and pressure on the relevant authorities have all been means deployed to this end. Luke Harrow and Nadine Saeed are members of the new organization Recherche Zentrum, which has emerged from the Initiative in Gedenken an Oury Jalloh, advocating for self-organized forensic investigation. They were present throughout the exhibition’s entire inauguration, generously providing further details on this and other open cases. One such case is that of Hans-Jürgen Rose, who was detained on the night of December 7, 1997, by the officers Thomas B. and Manfred H. In a building adjacent to the police station, Hans-Jürgen Rose was brutally beaten with batons. Furthermore, there are overlaps or continuities of personnel in various alleged cases of torture and murder that have taken place in this police station, leading up to the case of Oury Jalloh. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Oury-Jallohs-Cell-Smoke-Traces_3.jpeg) fig. 8 In the inaugural presentation of the exhibition at the Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart, on the 15th of March, the International Day Against Police Brutality, Robert Trafford, of Forensis, echoing the sentiment expressed by the filmmaker Jonathan Glazer in his Oscar acceptance speech for “The Zone of Interest” the previous week, made a plea to confront the results of the investigation displayed in the exhibition, and the ongoing impunity that shields the dehumanization and criminalization that, at its peak, enables the extermination of racialized individuals, Arabs, migrants, and those who stand in solidarity with them. The exhibition’s inauguration was profoundly marked by the physical presence of the victims’ families, their voices choked with emotion, and their testimonies rich with dignity and courage. This set the tone for an opening that was as much a tribute as it was a call to action. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/17-Years-of-Self-Organized-Investigation-into-the-Oury-Jalloh-Case.jpeg) fig. 9 As I observe the images of marches and vigils sequentially unfolding in *17 Years of Self-Organized Investigation into the Oury Jalloh Case,* I am filled with deep respect and admiration for those who valiantly combat police brutality and tirelessly seek accountability. These organizations, despite being pitted against significantly better resourced and privileged systems, marshall their flexibility, their stories,, and the available platforms to challenge the prevailing norms. Their resilience and adaptability stand as a testament to the power of civil organizations, a testament that calls for celebration through concrete action. With this thought in mind, my gaze falls on the closed windows of the neighboring buildings by the marches in the video. I ponder about the individuals within those structures, those who opt to stay indoors, or to escape to the countryside for the weekend, those unsettled by the resonating chants of protest. The doors in this exhibition symbolize missed opportunities for justice, a space where only retrospective analysis, forensic science, and commemoration speak. However, perhaps the present is a matter of windows, either open or closed, a matter of not turning a blind eye to police violence and state censorship. Even if we disagree with the political positions of those on the receiving end of state violence. The urgency of the hour extends beyond retrospective analysis to proactive vigilance and immediate responses. It is our collective responsibility to open our eyes to state violence and censorship, to act now so that we can prevent these crimes and create counter-narratives of justice, positioning forensics as a tool for prevention rather than just retrospective accountability. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\]: [Jewish German ARRESTED Over Ga](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86CZatA7CsY&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86CZatA7CsY](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86CZatA7CsY&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)za Speaks Out - w/. Udi Raz \[2\]: Unpublished interview in the context of the emergency press conference of Palästine Kongress, by the author. \[3\]: Forensic Architecture is a multidisciplinary research group founded in 2010 by Israeli architect Eyal Weizman and is based at Goldsmiths, University of London. The group investigates cases of human rights violations worldwide, including violence perpetrated by states, police forces, the military, and corporations. The teams of architects, scientists, artists, filmmakers, software developers, investigative journalists, archaeologists, and lawyers carry out their investigations on behalf of civil-society groups, organizations, and individuals. In their work, they use state-of-the-art technologies of spatial and architectural analysis, open source applications, and digital modeling as well as advanced methods of documentary research and situational interviews. \[4\]: Forensis, the Berlin-based sister organization of Forensic Architecture, is coordinated by the Greek architect Dimitra Andritsou and the British journalist and researcher Robert Trafford. \[5\]: Following the successful launch of the exhibition at the Frankfurter Kunstverein (2022), the project has so far been shown at the [Haus der Kulturen der Welt ](https://archiv.hkw.de/de/programm/projekte/2021/investigative%5Fcommons/ausstellung%5Finvestigative%5Fcommons/three%5Fdoors.php?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)in Berlin (2022), and, in part, at the Neustädter Rathaus in Hanau (2023). In 2024, in addition to the Württembergischer Kunstverein, it will also be shown at the [Museum im Kulturspeicher Würzburg](https://www.kulturspeicher.de/ausstellungen/wechselausstellungen/541880.Three-Doors-at-MiK.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Forensic Architecture/Forensis. *DOOR II: THE PERPETRATOR’S HOUSE. Racist Terror Attack in Hanau: The Police Operation,* (2022). Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart. Photo by Elisa Fuenzalida. fig. 1: Initiative 19\. February Hanau. *Testimonies of the Relatives and Survivors about the Night of the Crime in Hanau and its Consequences* (2022). Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart. Photo by Elisa Fuenzalida. fig. 2, 3: Pola Sell, Katharina Pelosi, Dimitros Drikos, Marcin Wierzchowski. Forensic Architecture/Forensis & Initiative 19\. Februar Hanau. *Simply Silent: The Emergency Call Disaster of Hanau.* Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart (2022). Photo by Elisa Fuenzalida fig. 4: Forensic Architecture/Forensis. *Door I: The Emergency Exit. Racist Terror Attack in Hanau: The Arena Bar* (2021). Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart. Photo by Elisa Fuenzalida fig. 5: Forensic Architecture/Forensis. *DOOR II: THE PERPETRATOR’S HOUSE. Racist Terror Attack in Hanau: The Police Operation*, (2022). Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart. Photo by Elisa Fuenzalida. fig. 6, 7, 8: Forensic Architecture/Forensis and Initiative in Gedenken an Oury Jalloh. *DOOR III: CELL 5, DESSAU POLICE STATION Oury Jalloh’s Cell: Smoke Traces,* (2022). Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart. Photo by Elisa Fuenzalida. fig. 9: Initiative in Gedenken an Oury Jalloh, Leftside Media, (2022). *DOOR III: CELL 5, DESSAU POLICE STATION. 17 Years of Self-Organized Investigation into the Oury Jalloh Case.* Württembergische Kunstverein Stuttgart. Photo by Elisa Fuenzalida. *Elisa Fuenzalida is a researcher and cultural worker. She has directed research projects such as El futuro era tu cuerpo, Ensamblajes del Cuidado and Afectos en Re-existencia. She is coordinator and co-curator of the Cátedra Decolonial Anibal Quijano at the Museo Reina Sofía, co-editor of the journal Arts of the Working Class and mediator in the citizen laboratory platform Redes por el Clima.* ### This is not art. This is Politics! URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/this-is-not-art-this-is-politics/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:52:01.000Z The Venice Biennale has honored the artist Nil Yalter with the prestigious Golden Lion Lifetime Achievement Award. Yalter, known for her groundbreaking invitation to Turkish workers to attend the 1977 Paris Biennale, was perceived as overly “political” by the press, and excessively “artistic” by feminist activists. Her contributions extend beyond her trailblazing contributions to video art. She is also recognized for her work in performance and net.art. Despite not having received a formal art education, Yalter, who has given video art lessons at various schools including the Sorbonne, stands as a figurehead among contemporary avant-garde artists. The distinctive use of materials and the themes she explores in her work set her apart. In the light of her receiving the Golden Lion, we are pleased to share an interview she conducted with the curator Didem Yazıcı in 2009. **Didem Yazıcı:** In the late 1950s, you were engaged in creating abstract and figurative paintings. What sparked the transition towards sociological art from this juncture? **Nil Yalter:** My journey to Paris in '65 was a turning point. The original artworks I had only seen in reproductions, along with examples of pop art and conceptual art, left me in a state of shock. It took me 5 to 6 years to fully absorb the impact of that experience. I remember seeing the first Andy Warhol exhibition in '65\. I recognized it as art, but couldn’t comprehend how it had come to be there. France, with its deep-rooted traditions, was a stark contrast. I was fortunate to encounter the gallery of Ileana Sonnabend, one of New York’s finest, who had made Paris her home. **DY:** During the tumultuous events of '68 in Paris, aside from your artistic endeavors, how did you, as a young woman who had moved to Paris, engage with the political climate of the time? **NY:** It meant political consciousness. Prior to my move to Paris, I was constantly surrounded by artists in a predominantly left-wing environment. Upon my arrival in Paris, I was profoundly impacted by the World War II films and images of Nazi camps, which were largely concealed in Turkey due to our non-participation in the war. This exposure instigated a significant shift in my perspective and made political engagement imperative. The cultural and political movements preceding the '68 events, such as the Berkeley movement, the beat generation, and the hippies, were all part of my journey. I delved into the works of Kate Millet and Germaine Greer, which laid the groundwork for my involvement in feminism and political activism. The events of '68 marked a pivotal moment in this journey. **DY:** A rupture… **NY:** Yes. Americans, who were fleeing the Vietnam War, found refuge in Paris. The reverberations of the war were profoundly felt in the city, compelling us all to take a stance. France’s colonialist posture, coupled with the political activism of individuals such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, stirred a sense of political awareness and sensitivity. While this awakening didn’t originate in Turkey, where the political climate was challenging, I was fortunate to have the support of older, more experienced friends with whom I shared a political ideology. My experience in Turkey was marked by a series of military coups. It was in Paris where I cast my first vote, an opportunity I never had in Turkey. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Fig-1_NazireQT2.jpg) fig. 1 **DY:** You were part of a group known as Women in Resistance, - Femmes en Lutte -. **NY:** In the early '70s, we formed a group rooted in the consciousness of feminist women artists. We convened weekly in one of our workshops to discuss the status of women artists in galleries and museums. A significant exhibition titled “1972 Contemporary Art” was inaugurated at \[Centre\] Georges Pompidou. Among the 100 artists featured, only one was a woman. This stark disparity sparked a major conversation, prompting us to take serious action in the art world. **DY:** How did your experience as a woman in France shape your artistic career? **NY:** My career experienced a significant setback. The issue wasn’t about being Turkish or foreign. Rather, I deeply felt the “racism” associated with being both Turkish and a woman. **DY:** Racism… **NY:** Indeed, I experienced a significant amount of racism. I often heard, “Ah… You don’t look like a Turk at all.” But what does a Turk look like? We are a diverse nation, having mixed with a variety of ethnicities. I believe such a statement is inherently racist. For instance, I was nominated for a scholarship in the late '70s. They announced that I had won, but then abruptly, they chose a man instead. The reason? Firstly, because I was Turkish, I supposedly didn’t represent French art. Secondly, I was a woman. This was a clear case of double discrimination. The designated seating area was deemed unsafe, and they thought it would be better to send a man. They wouldn’t dare say this to a German. Although it’s not always overt, like a slow trickle of water, I continue to feel the effects of this discrimination. **DY:** Since the early '70s, you’ve been addressing themes such as migration, gender, and cultural identity in your work. How do you perceive the significance of artistic expression deriving its meaning from sociological and political issues? **NY:** I’ve chosen a path where art is not just created for its own sake. I believe that art should engage with social issues. While I do create aesthetically pleasing art, and don’t shy away from it, my primary focus isn’t to create art solely for its aesthetic value. Art, to me, is a reflection of the world one inhabits at any given moment. It can’t be approached in any other way. That being said, there are pieces that I create purely for the love of art. **DY:** Indeed, such a debate no longer exists. **NY:** I concur that such debates are a thing of the past, belonging to that specific era. When we presented Turkish workers at the Paris Biennale, it sparked controversy among some attendees who questioned, “This is not art, this is politics. What is it doing here?”. **DY:** Conversely, the interplay between art and the sociological and political sphere, and the extent to which it has forsaken aesthetics, continues to be a topic of debate. The dynamics of art and politics have evolved since the '70s. How do your works address this issue? **NY:** During the 1977 Paris Biennale, I showcased Turkish workers through drawings, photographs, and videos, and even extended an invitation to the workers themselves. The bourgeois class reacted by saying, “This is not art, this is politics. What is it doing here?” Such sentiments are not expressed today. Instead, they deem it overly aesthetic. When I created a piece on the prison, a feminist group questioned, “Why don’t you go inside the prison and take action? This is not politics, it’s art, too artistic.” It seemed that nothing had found its rightful place. **DY:** In your works, you critically engage with women’s issues. How do you position your own creative output within the realm of feminist artistic practice? **NY:** My work is largely influenced by Marxist feminism, drawing parallels between the struggles of women and workers. The concept of class struggle, although no longer a prevalent topic of discussion, is a key element in my art. My interest extends to both women and male migrant workers, acknowledging the harsh conditions and battles they face. I’ve witnessed the plight of distressed women confined within the four walls of suburban homes, kept in by men. This reality deeply informs my artistic practice. **DY:** While you have collaborated with Western-centric institutions that shape the narrative of art history, you have chosen to remain independent of the gallery system. **NY:** The gallery system and I maintained a mutual distance. I wasn't interested in it and neither were they. The venue where I held the majority of my exhibitions was the Paris Museum of Modern Arts, where I opened two solo and four group exhibitions. Every artist who had as many exhibitions as I did during my revolutionary period went on to become a gallery owner. Some even achieved fame. I was one of the earliest starters in this business: there's a strategy to this, to invite those people and run after them. However, I didn’t pursue that path, neither chasing after it nor being chased by them. There’s a strategy to court those men and follow them, and I was one of the pioneers in this field. There was no commercial aspect to my work. What place do photos of Turkish workers have in a bourgeois home? I was more captivated by the subject matter than the aesthetics, and perhaps some works were not up to par. There’s a certain mold in contemporary art, the mold of the work that galleries sell. My works didn’t conform to that mold. **DY:** In your opinion, what are the significant advancements that have emerged from the pivotal moments in contemporary Turkish art history? **NY:** During the years I was absent, I had the opportunity to visit an exhibition in Paris, which I believe was towards the end of the '80s. The works of Hale Tenger, Gülsün Karamustafa, and Füsun Onur left a profound impression on me. I also attended another remarkable exhibition at the Atatürk Cultural Center in 1993, which featured numerous female artists. It was then that I realized the future of Turkish contemporary art was being shaped by these women, whose work I found to be more potent than their male counterparts. This realization was a significant revelation for me. Yusuf Taktak, despite his talent in painting, attempted to modernize his work by incorporating a bicycle, which unfortunately detracted from his art. There was also a notable exhibition called “Young Activity” that showcased the works of all the artists known to us. // This interview was published in 2009 by Erkan Aktuğ and Cem Erciyes in *Radikal Newspaper*. The liberal-left newspaper, which started publishing in 1996, ended its print publication in June 2014, and its digital publication in March 2016. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS COVER: Nil Yalter, *Exil is a harte Arbeit*, 2024\. Courtesy the artist. © Marta Herford. Photo: Besim Mazhiqi. fig 1: Nil Yalter, *Turkish Immigrants* (Detail), (2016). © Courtesy of the artist. *Didem Yazıcı is an independent curator and writer based in Karlsruhe, Germany. Her curatorial work is inspired by thinking across disciplines in and outside of art, the potentiality of exhibitions as socio-poetic spaces, the legacy of intersectional feminism and global exhibition histories. She earned her B.A. in Art History at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University in Istanbul (2008) and an M.A. in Curatorial and Critical Studies at the Städelschule and Goethe University in Frankfurt (2012).* ### Radiant geometry URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/radiant-geometry/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:57.000Z "Geometry is everywhere," provides a concise yet expansive notion of planetary existence that infuses the conversations I had recently with Chilean artist Felipe Mujica about his own artistic practice. I knocked at his studio door: there they were, lines drawn across the wall, the square connecting the kitchen with the living room, the vanishing point behind the long table in the middle of it all. The circles of cups, blue diagonals on turquoise fabrics that are image and curtain alike. Our conversations meandered around the fabrics hanging in his home studio in Brussels. Here, I am immediately drawn into a world where mathematics, culture, and nature converge. This is not only because of the patterns that Mujica creates, but also the practice of weaving that he shares with others, when it comes to weaving. Mujica teaches a workshop at the Museum of Industry in Ghent, where he collaborates with different groups of people of all ages to explore the traditions they have left behind in their homelands or in the past. He always returns to them as he talks about the shapes he produces. **Weavings** For years now, Mujica’s textile projects have served as a site where geometric abstraction intersects with social engagement. He calls these pieces “curtains”. Each curtain project begins from a historical perspective on geometric abstraction, weaving together the formal and mathematical with the social. These curtains - described by Mujica as temporary and permeable architecture - embody collaboration and exchange, serving as surfaces where different forms of knowledge collide and evolve. Each is made from materials and techniques typical of the location where the work is created. Each is the result of a collaborative effort; collaboration is at the heart of Mujica’s practice. The process goes like this: Mujica first develops the design and the fabric, then others help him by sharing their know-how and skills. This way, every new work radiates the energy of the various makers and their origins, techniques, and customs. During his residence at the Museum of Industry, the fabrics have been partly machine-made using historical looms and the modern semi-automatic TC2, as well as being partly embroidered by hand. His practice traces the fine line between technology and craftsmanship, between the workshops and the museum. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_9159.jpeg) fig. 1 **Lines** Along that fine line also lie the works of modernists such as Alexander Calder, Annie Albers, and Lina Bo Bardi. Invoking their names, and the sense of energy and movement intrinsic to their sculptural, weaving and architectural practices, the bold and gestural guide my gaze, which already wants to move rhythmically between the fabrics. The use of lines reflects Mujica's fascination with the interplay between precision and fluidity, and the blurring of the boundaries between art and mathematics, as well as integrating the colors and materials available in every locality in which he resides. Initially, Mujica’s curtains appear on a small or medium-scale and are manufactured in the home studio of the artist or those of his collaborators. Over time, their scale increases and the working method evolves: collaboration and learning are forged in a process of knowledge exchange. In a letter to Sofía Olascoaga, a curator and researcher of spaces for creative action across territories spanning fromSão Paulo to Cuernavaca between 2017 and 2022, Mujica described how he observes his curtains according to the places in which they are understood as being simultaneously “furniture” and artwork: “At Salvador’s school, I imagine them in the corridors, suspended from a system of wires from which they can be moved every so often, so that every time the children leave their classrooms they are faced with a new labyrinth.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_6764.jpg) fig. 2 **Shapes** At an apartment in New York, Mujica had a small curtain that he had created together with Mayan embroiderers in Guatemala during a residency in Antigua (Concepción 41). The community of artisans not only keeps alive a pre-Hispanic tradition of labour, but also a menagerie of shapes that give life to colors. In pre-Columbian Mesoamerica, geometric patterns were everywhere. In their weaving traditions, the Maya utilized geometric proportions and intricate carvings to construct everything from body decoration to ornate temples. Mujica’s collaboration focused on well-known examples of Maya architecture. Mujica's exploration of shapes mirrors the diversity of his collaborators and workshops. From open to closed forms, Mujica's shapes offers a seriality that adapts to the skills and backgrounds of his partners. This multiplicity of shapes reflects a vocabulary shaped by personal and cultural encounters. For example, at Ibirapuera, the Central Park of Sao Paulo, under the Niemeyer marquee, which joins the Biennial pavilion with the other adjoining museums and spaces, Mujica dreams to hang curtains from wires across different trees, at different heights; they are plush, smooth, tropical trees of various sizes with thick trunks. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Fig-2_02-Osmos-Mujica-Pereda.jpg) fig. 3 **Patterns** In Stamford, a town in north-central New York state, Cay-Sophie Rabinowitz and Christian Ratemeyer started OSMOS Station, a residency and exhibition space that grew out from a book of drawings, and fully integrated the curatorial and editorial activities of OSMOS publishing, which annually produces a magazine and artists’ publications. Both Rabinowitz and Ratemeyer are not only experts at working in graphic and photographic archives, but are constantly inspired and activated by the genius loci of artists. They connect, intuitively, through natural forms, decorative motifs, using their deep art historical knowledge to engage with Mujica’s practice. For his residency in Stamford, Mujica tried something new, namely working with a quiltmaker. Patterns unfold in quilts not only as geometric traditions, but also as visual narratives of migration and reinterpretation. And, as in the work of Sol LeWitt, seriality creates playful tessellations that transcend conceptual constraints. Each quilt, each curtain, becomes a testament to cultural evolution, offering glimpses into the ever-unfolding tapestry of human experience. *El Cóndor Pasa* is a Peruvian song by composer Daniel Alomía Robles, written in 1913 which is based on traditional Andean Music. The song is well known internationally from the 1970 version recorded by Simon & Garfunkel, which included English lyrics. In Mujica’s reinterpretation of the song, migration and expansion present parallels for a Chilean artist who migrated to New York 23 years ago. The Andean condor is one of the largest flying birds in the world and is occasionally seen flying around and over the Andes Mountains throughout Ecuador, Bolivia, Perú, and Chile, a region with a strong and ancestral textile histories, and to which Mujica remains strongly connected. Felipe Mujica's journeys through cities and communities embody the mutually nourishing relationship between art, science, and cultural exchange. His works transcend aesthetics, proffering the warming embrace of artistic expression in a globalized world. Through his weaving and collaborations, Mujica invites us to embrace the myriad possibilities provided by geometry as an aspect of art, echoing timeless Andean melodies that soar over the Catskills, defining a story of migration, and reflecting the perpetual evolution of human narratives. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/IMG_5699-scaled.jpg) fig. 4 \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS fig. 1: At Felipe Mujica's home studio in Brussels, February 2024\. Foto: AWC Cover image, fig. 2-4: Felipe Mujica, El Cóndor Pasa, installation view, OSMOS STATION, 2023\. Foto: Courtesy of the artist and OSMOS. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Das sagbare und das sichtbare URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/das-sagbare-und-das-sichtbare/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:56.000Z بين تذكُّرِ أَوَّلها ونسيانِ آخرِها *Bei der Belagerung wird das Leben zu der Zeit,* *die zwischen dem Erinnern seines Beginns* *Und dem Vergessen seines Endes liegt* (Mahmoud Darwish) *Zwischen 2014 und 2018 besuchte die Verfasserin im Rahmen einer raumsoziologischen Forschung regelmäßig das palästinensische Flüchtlingscamp Shatila in der libanesischen Hauptstadt Beirut. Berührt von der räumlichen, politischen und gesellschaftlichen Intensität Beiruts und der maximalen Verdichtung im Camp, beschäftigte sie sich mit dem unregulierten Bauen in Extremsituationen und deren gesellschaftlichen Auswirkungen. Nachhaltig geprägt von der Resilienz der dort lebenden Menschen.* Das Camp Shatila am südlichen Stadtrand Beiruts wurde 1949 für Flüchtlinge aus den nördlichen palästinensischen Gebieten errichtet. Es ist ein Ort der konstituierten Sichtbarkeit gesellschaftspolitischen Scheiterns und beschreibt einen Ausnahmezustand, der in seiner Verstetigung unfreiwillig zu einem Gegenspieler einer vermeintlichen politischen Normalität geworden ist. In seiner metaphorischen und politischen Ausdehnung befindet sich das Camp in einer Zone der Ungewissheit, in der das Recht auf Leben auf dem Spiel steht und die Aussetzung von Zeit und Alltag das Leben der Bewohner bestimmt. Eingebettet in das architektonisch sehr dichte Konglomerat, das Beirut darstellt, verschmilzt Shatila aus der Vogelperspektive mit dem Häusermeer der Stadt. Geopolitisch ist sie durch eine Vielzahl von Gruppeninteressen zerrissen und überfordert von der eigenen Geschichte und Politik. Vermeintlich in das Stadtgefüge integriert, hat Shatila – stellvertretend für viele Camps im Libanon – einen langen Weg der systematischen Ausgrenzung hinter sich. Nach der Nakba erlaubte die libanesische Regierung den informellen Siedlungsbau durch palästinensische Geflüchtete, war aber schon bald aufgrund nationaler und internationaler Spannungen nicht mehr fähig, angemessen auf die hohe Anzahl der Neuankömmlinge zu reagieren. Obwohl die Camps geduldet wurden, verweigerte die christliche Regierungsmacht im Land den überwiegend muslimischen Palästinensern auf vielfältige Weise staatliche, gesellschaftliche und geografische Zugehörigkeiten. Aus Angst vor einer zahlenmäßigen Übermacht auf konfessioneller Ebene verwehrte man ihnen den Zugang zu Bildung, Gesundheitsversorgung und Arbeit genauso wie die staatliche Zugehörigkeit. Die Erweiterung der Siedlungsgrenzen wurde untersagt, was den temporären Charakter der Lager betonte und das Prinzip der Abschottung weiter verdeutlichte. Besiegelt wurde beides mit dem Kairoer Abkommen von 1969, das den Palästinensern etwa eine autonome Regelung ihrer Angelegenheiten und die Selbstverwaltung zusicherte. Das wiederum veranlasste den Libanon dazu, sich vollständig aus der Verantwortung für die palästinensischen Flüchtlingscamps zurückzuziehen. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/AWC_Courtyard_am.jpeg) fig. 1 So verwandelten sich die einst temporären Siedlungen in sichtbare Heterotopien, aus dem ursprünglichen Ausnahmezustand wurde eine mittlerweile seit Jahrzehnten währende Dauerhaftigkeit. Shatila zeichnet sich durch seine geographische Einbettung in das städtische Umfeld aus, was das Paradoxon der Segregation nur unterstreicht. Die Grenzen des Camps sind unkontrolliert, veranschaulichen aber auf verschiedenen Ebenen die jahrzehntelange Trennung zwischen Staatenlosen und Staatsbürgern. Durch das stetige Bevölkerungswachstum werden die immer höher werdenden Gebäude zu einem auffälligen strukturellen Merkmal des Lagers: Sie verleihen der Kontur Shatilas eine kraftvolle materielle Form und dienen als Symbol für den Drang nach Freiheit inmitten räumlicher Enge. Sichtbar wird eine eindrucksvolle Schwelle, die seit Generationen unverändert und in ihrer Ausdehnung bis heute unverhandelbar geblieben ist. Sie verkörpert jedoch nicht nur die äußere Ablehnung, sondern spiegelt auch die innere Einheit und Verbundenheit der Bewohner wider. Zahlreiche Nationalflaggen, Banner und Plakate mit Darstellungen palästinensischer Freiheitskämpfer dienen sowohl der Versicherung der nationalen Identität als auch als Zeichen einer von innen bestimmten Abgrenzung gegenüber der Umgebung. Die bis zu achtstöckigen Gebäude drängen sich gegeneinander und verengen die bereits schmalen Korridore immer weiter. Ein verborgener Hof, eingebettet im Labyrinth des Camps, ist der einzige Raum, der ungehinderte, nicht durch die Architektur bestimmte Bewegungen erlaubt. Er dient als täglicher Treffpunkt und bietet Platz für kulturelle, politische und religiöse Veranstaltungen. Innerhalb des Lagers spielt er eine kulturelle und identitätsstiftende Rolle und stellt einen integralen Bestandteil der demokratischen Struktur dar. Als Metapher für das gesamte Camp vereint dieser Freiraum die Vitalität des Lebens im Kampf gegen die auferlegte Begrenzung. In Bezug auf den Verlust an Raum, Land und Identität fungiert er zugleich als Spiegel und Resonanzkörper. An keinem Ort treffen das Gesagte und das Sichtbare so prägnant aufeinander wie in diesem innerstädtischen Lager. Vor langer Zeit erlassene Dekrete führten zu einer politischen Ausgrenzung, die sich über Jahrzehnte in ebenso radikalen wie sichtbaren Formen der Isolation manifestierte. Seit der Syrienkrise ist die Einwohnerschaft seit 2011 noch einmal deutlich gewachsen. Etwa 20.000 Menschen leben in Shatila auf einer Fläche von weniger als einem Quadratkilometer. Die Zahl der Einwohner ist eine Schätzung der Camp-Verwaltung; aufgrund der erwähnten Angst vor der Anerkennung der muslimischen Mehrheit gab es bereits seit 1923 keine offizielle Zählung mehr. So bäumt sich ein emanzipatorischer Raum gegen unzählige Ungerechtigkeiten auf – und ist gleichzeitig deren deutlichste forensische Evidenz. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Makro: Bjørnar Skaar Haveland, Shatila (2017) © and courtesy of the artist. fig. 1: Alesa Mustar. Courtyard (2017) © and courtesy of the artist. *Alesa Mustar geboren in Slowenien und wohnhaft in Berlin, studierte Architektur und arbeitet als Kulturmanagerin sowie Kuratorin mit Schwerpunkt auf Krisengeografien und Critical Curating. Derzeit ist sie als künstlerische Co-Leiterin im Deutschen Architektur Zentrum (DAZ) in Berlin tätig.* ### The olive tree URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-olive-tree/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:53.000Z Two major tree landscapes prevail along the mountainous strip that cuts across the center of Palestine-Israel from the Hebron hills in the south to the Galilee in the north: conifer pine forests and deciduous olive groves. These treescapes are neither as random nor as natural as they might first seem. Trees in general, and olive and pine trees in particular, play a pivotal role in both Jewish and Palestinian lives and narratives in this region. Since 1901, the Jewish National Fund, an organization established by the Fifth Zionist Congress to purchase land for Jewish people in Palestine, has planted more than 250 million trees in the region, mostly pines. Over the years, the pine has become an emblem of the Zionist project of afforesting the Holy Land and turning it into a European landscape. While this tree has been central to “making the desert bloom,” as the Zionist phrase goes, so too has the olive tree become emblematic of the Palestinians’ steadfast connection (*sumud*) to the land. In assuming the totemic qualities of their people, both the olive and the pine trees signify and amplify colonial structures and dynamics. With an estimated total of 10 million trees, olives are the largest single agricultural product in the occupied West Bank. \[1\] Roughly 100,000 Palestinian families directly rely on these trees for their livelihood and, with another 50,000 people working with olive trees and their produce, between a quarter and a third of the Palestinian population of the West Bank depends on this tree. \[2\] During the harvest in October and November each year, the olive groves become places of celebration where families and friends gather to partake in traditions that have been practiced for generations. Precisely for this strong physical, cultural, symbolic, and economic relationship with the Palestinians, olive trees have become targets for violence by the state of Israel and by Israeli settlers. A study published in 2012 by the Applied Research Institute Jerusalem (ARIJ) estimated that since 1967 Israeli authorities have uprooted 800,000 Palestinian olive trees in the West Bank. \[3\] Of 211 reported incidents of trees being cut down, set ablaze, stolen, or otherwise vandalized in the West Bank between 2005 and 2013, only four resulted in police indictments. \[4\] There are multiple rationales behind tree uprootings. As punitive measures, such practices predate the state of Israel. Ottoman rulers uprooted the olive trees of local farmers (*fellahin*) as punishment for tax avoidance, and the British administration in Palestine later carried out uprootings through emergency regulations. However, Israel’s central rationale for uprooting olive trees has not been presented as punitive, or at least not explicitly so: the Israeli army has uprooted, and continues to uproot, thousands of olive and other fruit trees for the construction and maintenance of the Separation Wall, and to secure roads, increase visibility, and make way for watchtowers, checkpoints, and security fences around settlements in the West Bank. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/A-project-by-Artists-Allies-x-Hebron-2024-Issa-Amro.png) fig. 1 Despite the biblical prohibition of uprooting fruit trees—even when those are the enemy’s trees at a time of war—the uprooting of the Palestinian olive trees proceeds with immense fervor. According to the United Nations, more than 1,700 olive trees were vandalized during the 2020 olive harvest alone. \[5\] The olive might thus be understood as an “enemy soldier”: a totemic displacement of the adversary itself. For the Israeli state, these enemy soldiers are a threat to its existence and must therefore be eliminated from the landscape. The powerful affinity of the olive with the Palestinian people is thus not only the result of its economic, cultural, and historical significance, but increasingly so also a product of its brutal targeting by the state of Israel and by certain Israeli settlers. Through burning, uprooting, and denying Palestinians access to olive trees, the state of Israel and Israeli settlers have vested the tree with enormous power. The olive’s steadfastness, durability, and extraordinary longevity are all acutely representative of the Palestinian struggle against Israel’s settler colonialism and its occupying regime. The olive acts as both an anchor and an archive, standing for the Palestinians by witnessing and testifying to what is no longer there. Planting and cultivating olives becomes a project of Palestinian resistance. On October 28, Bilal Mohammad Saleh was allegedly shot in the chest by a Jewish settler while picking olives on his family’s land in the northern West Bank. His body was carried out to the road on the ladder that he had been using to reach his olives, witnesses reported. \[6\] That year, many Palestinian villagers across the West Bank were unable to access their olive trees, suffering immense losses as a result. Such actions by Israel have recently been augmented by another form of takeover: this time through configuring the olive tree as the new Zionist tree. Indeed, in 2021 the Jewish National Fund elected the olive as Israel’s national tree in a ceremony marking the 120th anniversary of this organization, whose disastrous legacies of pine afforestation still lingers in the natural landscape. During the event, the Jewish National Fund’s Chairman stated that: “The Olive tree is mentioned many times in the Bible, it is one of the seven species in which the Land of Israel was praised and above all the Olive has become a symbol of peace.” Strongly rooted in the Jewish tradition, such visions of peace are difficult to imagine amidst the unprecedented violence currently taking place in Palestine-Israel. “We haven’t been to the trees since Bilal was shot,” one Palestinian villager lamented in November 2023\. “You have to understand: olive trees take a long time to grow. Maybe 50 years or more, so you can’t just replace them. For me, my olive trees and my sons are the same. They are all my children.” \[7\] —Irus Braverman, December 2023 \\\\ This essay was adapted from the following texts: *Settling Nature* (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2023). “Uprooting Identities: The Regulation of Olive Trees in the Occupied West Bank,” *PoLAR 32:2* (2009), 237–63. “The Tree is the Enemy Soldier: A Sociolegal Making of War Landscapes in the Occupied West Bank,” *Law & Society* *Review* 42:3 (2008), 449–82. --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] [https://unispal.un.org/pdfs/olive\_harvest\_fs08.pdf](https://unispal.un.org/pdfs/olive%5Fharvest%5Ffs08.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[2\] [https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/nov/30/no-work-and-no-olives-harvest-rots-as-west-bank-farmers-cut-off-from-trees](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/nov/30/no-work-and-no-olives-harvest-rots-as-west-bank-farmers-cut-off-from-trees?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), accessed 25/01/2024 \[3\] [https://reliefweb.int/report/occupied-palestinian-territory/environmental-terrorism-cripples-palestinian-farmers](https://reliefweb.int/report/occupied-palestinian-territory/environmental-terrorism-cripples-palestinian-farmers?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[4\] [https://www.yesh-din.org/en/october-2013-shouldnt-it-be-2014-data-sheet-on-vandalism-of-olive-trees-law-enforcement-on-israeli-citizens-who-vandalize-palestinian-owned-olive-trees-in-the-west-bank-2005-2013-3/](https://www.yesh-din.org/en/october-2013-shouldnt-it-be-2014-data-sheet-on-vandalism-of-olive-trees-law-enforcement-on-israeli-citizens-who-vandalize-palestinian-owned-olive-trees-in-the-west-bank-2005-2013-3/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[5\] [https://www.ochaopt.org/content/2020-olive-harvest-season-low-yield-amidst-access-restrictions-and-settler-violence](https://www.ochaopt.org/content/2020-olive-harvest-season-low-yield-amidst-access-restrictions-and-settler-violence?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[6\] [https://www.thenation.com/article/society/settler-attacks-threaten-palestinian-olive-harvest/](https://www.thenation.com/article/society/settler-attacks-threaten-palestinian-olive-harvest/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[7\] [https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/n](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/nov/30/no-work-and-no-olives-harvest-rots-as-west-bank-farmers-cut-off-from-trees?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)[https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/nov/30/no-work-and-no-olives-harvest-rots-as-west-bank-farmers-cut-off-from-trees](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/nov/30/no-work-and-no-olives-harvest-rots-as-west-bank-farmers-cut-off-from-trees?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)ov/30/no-work-and-no-olives-harvest-rots-as-west-bank-farmers-cut-off-from-trees IMAGE CREDITS Cover: A project by Artists + Allies x Hebron, 2004\. © Adam Broomberg & Rafael Gonzalez. fig. 1: A project by Artists + Allies x Hebron, 2024\. © Issa Amro. *Irus Braverman is Professor of Law, Adjunct Professor of Geography, and, Research Professor at the Department of Research and Sustainability at the University at Buffalo, the State University of New York. Her main interests lie in the interdisciplinary study of law, geography, and anthropology.* ### The stories we tell, to tell other stories with URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-stories-we-tell-to-tell-other-stories-with-2/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:51.000Z Telling a story is never a self-contained matter. While narrating is, in itself, relational and involves listening as much as recounting, sharing a story from an individual perspective means acknowledging it as a fragment of a larger collective narrative practice in a constant process of expanding, reshaping, and linking with other versions. Recounting a story - be it your own, or one that you are passing on - comes with hints to so many other experiences, memories and truths. Walter Benjamin defines the storyteller as a crafter, as someone who leaves their traces on the story like the potter leaves their fingerprints on the bowl \[1\]. Mario Vargas Llosa understands the narrator as a messenger \[2\] and Ursula K. Le Guin as a collector, container, and carrier \[3\]. Regardless of how we define the ones who are narrating, understanding a story as a confrontation with the past and as a transmission of knowledge requires us to ask whose stories are being recounted, collected, and listened to. Because, following Donna Haraway: “It matters what stories we tell to tell other stories with \[4\].” In the face of the current public discourse in Germany which seems to dictate how taking accountability for one’s past determines whose experience to value, and whose to deny, this sentence seems to take on even greater weight. Against the claim of hegemonic history, which functionalized collective remembrance to reject a responsibility for the present, focusing on the multitude of stories being told beside each other evokes Trinh Minh-ha’s concept of Speaking Nearby (1992). In her critique of Western discourses that pretend to represent and speak for marginalized groups, Trinh Minh-ha advocates for a concept of speaking from one’s situated position while remaining open to the perspectives of others. Rather than claiming authoritative knowledge, or speaking on behalf of others, telling stories “in the nearness of” each other might enable us to engage with the recognition of differences and otherness \[5\]. To regard stories as alternating, coexisting, and intertwined versions of histories and truths thereby takes both the situatedness of storyteller and listener into consideration. How to connect one’s own stories to an ecosystem of multiple struggles and truths? How to deal with narrations that are not yours, but are living on through your existence? How can shared experiences nourish our own stories? And how can we contest the dominating narratives that keep us apart? At this year’s Forecast Festival, these questions were raised in the works of multiple artists engaging with the role of storytellers as messengers, collectors, mediators, or disruptors who recount the complexity of stories, memories, and pasts entwined with their positions. During the two-day festival on March 15 and 16 at Radialsystem in Berlin five mentors, and their six mentees, shared their practice in conversations with each other and their audience. As happens every year, Forecast offers international practitioners the opportunity to develop interdisciplinary artistic projects in dialogue with a mentor, who supports them through the making of a new project. The program provides involved artists with a working stipend, a production fee, and facilitates a week-long stay for both the mentor and mentee in a location of their choice. Both then work closely together with a local institution and each other. As documented in multiple videos installed in the exhibition space of Radialsystem, these work-stays served participants to develop deeper connections with their mentors, to broaden their research through encounters, and to find collaborators and trace their own histories. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1_GUSTAVO-GOMES-Manhandle.-Forecast-Festival.-March-2024-Radialsystem-Berlin-Forecast-Photo_-Camille-Blake.jpg) fig.1 Under the title “Troubled Humor & Tainted Beauty” the Israeli-American filmmaker Roee Rosen and his mentee, Gustavo Gomes, explore humor’s capacity as a subversive force uncovering the workings of power, and its presumed psychological functions. During the days of the Festival, in the Halle of Radialsystem, a screening of both of their films was followed by a conversation with the art critic Hili Perlson. While Rosen approaches the comic as a strategy to reveal systemic violence hidden within hegemonic narratives, Gomes considers humor as a tool to turn the isolating experience of trauma into a collectivizing moment of sharing one’s pain. The German-Brazilian choreographer and filmmaker, Gomes experienced jokes and comical comments in conversations and interactions with other survivors of sexual abuse and rape as a unifying language that enabled the holding of those memories, otherwise almost unbearable to tell. Based on these encounters, Gomes developed several (auto-) fictional characters representing and reflecting on sexual violence experienced by gay men. His film “Manhandle” is a deeply personal narration that rejects a simplified victim-perpetrator narrative by investigating the multiplicity of psychological, physical, and interpersonal repercussions of these experiences. Introduced in different chapters, each of his characters leads deeper into a disturbing, though witty, confrontation with the traces that trauma leaves on the body. His exploration of somatic expressions to hold the complexities that words fail to contain reflects Gomes’ background in dance and choreography. By following the narrative switching between the performance of pop songs, drag characters, dance, and quasi-documentary sequences, the viewer is thrown between the painful and shameful experience of witnessing, and the powerful demonstration of desire, erotics and wilfulness beyond an ascribed victim role. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3_From-left_-Gustavo-Gomes-and-Roee-Rosen.-Forecast-Festival.-March-2024-Radialsystem-Berlin-Forecast-Photo_-Camille-Blake.jpg) fig.2 Roe Roosen’s “The Dust Channel” sets a Russian operetta about a Dyson vacuum cleaner in an Israeli home, confronting the perversion of comfortable domestic space with national border policies. His film, which was co-produced by documenta 14, troubles the distinction between the micro and macro scales of the private and the political, revealing analogies between concepts of domesticity and national defense. In a couple’s ode to their cleaning device, the Dyson becomes a signifier for the symbolic and political implications of sanitization as well as being a sexualized fetish object. While the couple get increasingly obsessed with eliminating the dirt in their home, the accompanying musicians are forcefully detained from the house by the police. The narration intersects with zapping between news and TV channels showing seemingly unrelated clips of housewives masturbating with domestic tools, news about a detention center called Holot, and wider Israeli immigration politics. In the light of a present where social media feeds obscure the content of political dissent under furniture ads, and where videos of dead bodies, bombed homes, and wounded civilians are followed by pictures of someone’s dinner table, Roosen’s film cuts deep into the current state of psychological disconnection. The arbitrariness of thinking about how to furnish your new flat somewhere in a central European metropole, as elsewhere thousands of homes are being raided and destroyed is not a disproportional simultaneity, but a systematic continuation between the micro and macro politics of the individual and the state. With its provocative eroticization of household tools “The Dust Channel” militates against a numbness resulting from the merging of seemingly trivial images of consumerism with those that depict concurrent war crimes. If the juxtaposition of home and displacement cannot be regarded as disconnected, then this is because the forces of ruling powers are always invested in the notions of the domestic space. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4_Gabeba-Baderoon-Forecast-Festival.-March-2024-Radialsystem-Berlin-Forecast-Photo_-Camille-Blake.jpg) fig.3 Gabeba Baderoon and Marcela Huertas developed their mentorship relation under the title “Voluptuous Silence and Sociality in Poetry”. Both poets share a deep commitment to the transformative capacities of poetry for relating stories and lives beyond the limitations of language. Witnessing their artist talk in the grand Saal of Radialsystem I saw how much their bond is not only created through both artists’ sensitivity for carrying the weight of stories with their words, but also from their deep appreciation for each other’s work. When the South African poet Gabeba Baderoon starts reading passages from her books, which lie neatly arranged on a stand beside her microphone on stage of the Halle, her precise and warm voice seems to hold the attention of the space effortlessly. The intentionality in her tone makes me think of the voice as a muscle, both in a metaphorical and material sense; a muscle shaped through the words it speaks, the chants it attunes to, the silences it breaks, and the truths it can express. A voice can bridge the singular with plurality, and shapes itself differently if it’s used for, against, or with others. Baderoon’s voice carries images, those she creates in the imaginations of her listeners and those that she encounters as constituting her reality. One of her poems dissects the bureaucratic machinery of visual proof in the requirement of manifesting an identity in photographs by migrating to another country. Another is based on a portrait of her mother she carries in her purse, and the act of looking back at her every time Baderoon opens it. Based on Baderoon’s experience with the traces of the South African Apartheid regime and narratives of migration, her writing intertwines the deeply intimate with the structural, and expresses a compassionate intersectionality among struggles and interpersonal meaning-making. In doing so, the story about love, like the one about war, traces back to the very concept of poetry itself and its ability to take risks. Her poems raise questions about the many ways language and voice can be used to challenge divisions made by words, signs, and images: “I am in a world sensuously alive with the intuitions, whispers, and hesitancies of language, which I press beyond the small circle of the ‘I’ toward intimacy with history, theory, and politics \[6\]”. Set in the same space of the Halle, the audience turns away from the stage towards a table where the Chilean-Canadian writer Marcela Huertas and her mother Yolanda are sitting together kitting. They invite attendees to join them. While her mother continues knitting and drawing what could be both a sewing pattern and a map, Marcela’s reading recounts experiences of displacement, migration, and intergenerational trauma under the Chilean dictatorship. “If one doesn’t have a home I wonder if the best place to be is between the pages of a book \[7\],” she writes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/5_MARCELA-HUERTA-White-Horses-Always-Run-Home.-Forecast-Festival.-March-2024-Radialsystem-Berlin-Forecast-Photo_-Camille-Blake.jpg) fig. 4 The project “White Horses Always Run Home” documents the intimacy of a shared research project by mother and daughter into Yolanda’s forced migration from Chile to Canada. After their work stay in Santiago de Chile, Yolanda and Marcela Huerta traced the stations of Yolanda’s refuge history: “Maipú, the neighborhood where she lived before being abducted; Mendoza, the city where she spent her solitary time in hiding; and Winnipeg the place where she painstakingly built a new life \[8\].” Engaging with the memories, evidence, grief and connections these places hold as - what Marcela calls - “a geography” of Yolanda’s trauma not only enables a co-narration between mother and daughter, but also opens their story to the multitude of experiences of displacement located proximally to their own. Marcela’s poems point towards how an individual story of migration is always embedded in many other versions of it, “because everyone is involved in everyone’s fights \[9\].” Asking how to care about those stories that are not yours, but are still living on through your existence, Huertas’ use of translation expands far beyond its language-based function. As a tool to bridge the in-betweens of somatics and words, embodied memories, inherited knowledge, and disparate struggles, translation forms a base to establish how this deeply personal project connects to a wider engagement with diasporic writing and relationality in poetry. Taking inspiration from the symbolism of folk tales, Huertas translates memories that are too intimate, and too personal, in tales. The hands of mother and daughter, knitting their story into cloth and tenderly holding each other on stage frame the eponymous publication I am gifted to take home. When Marcela shares with me the moment of intimacy when getting their nails done by the artist Fatim Yassine Sirois Sanoussi for the cover picture, I tell her about my own mother who used to say that you can read a person’s work from their hands. She responds to me that probably only those whose work requires getting their hands dirty would pay attention to other people’s hands. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/6_MARCELA-HUERTA-White-Horses-Always-Run-Home.-Forecast-Festival.-March-2024-Radialsystem-Berlin-Forecast-Photo_-Camille-Blake.jpg) fig. 5 Leaving the second day of Forecast Festival with this accumulation of stories prompts me to reflect on how the artists’ commitment to assemble, collect, and recount those narratives not only enables the acknowledgment of intertwined histories, but also to contest the artistic position as that of an isolated, singular identity. Against the commercial framing of individualized representation, the involved artists presented the many ways in which artistic processes are shaped by all the other stories that surround them. Whether that may be in opposition to the dominant narrative, as a gathering of the painful experiences that remain unheard, or in connecting one’s struggle with those of others. In using the platform of the Forecast Festival to shed light on such stories, these presentations make it apparent that recounting (different) versions of (different) pasts near each other, at the intersections between the intimate and the structural, the personal and the political find writers forging practices of solidarity rather than keeping us apart. “I do the bare minimum i.e.: tell a story, get rewarded,“ writes Marcela Huertas, and I wonder if it’s the multiplication of numerous bare minimums that enables us to move beyond the blind spots of selective remembrance. // IMAGE CREDITS: COVER: Roee Rosen, “The Dust Channel”. Forecast Festival. March 2024, Radialsystem Berlin © Forecast Photo: Camille Blake. Fig. 1: Gustavo Gomes, Manhandle. Forecast Festival. March 2024, Radialsystem Berlin © Forecast Photo: Camille Blake Fig. 2: From left: Gustavo Gomes and Roee Rosen. Forecast Festival. March 2024, Radialsystem Berlin © Forecast Photo: Camille Blake Fig. 3: Gabeba Baderoon, Forecast Festival. March 2024, Radialsystem Berlin © Forecast Photo: Camille Blake. Fig. 4: Marcela Huertas, *White Horses Always Run Home*. Forecast Festival. March 2024, Radialsystem Berlin © Forecast Photo: Camille Blake. Fig. 5: Marcela Huertas, *White Horses Always Run Home*. Forecast Festival. March 2024, Radialsystem Berlin © Forecast Photo: Camille Blake. --- ### Footnotes \[1\] Walter Benjamin, “Der Erzähler. Betrachtungen zum Werk Nikolai Lesskows”, in: Erzählen. Schriften zur der Narration und Theorie zur literarischen Prosa, (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2007). \[2\] Mario Vargas Llosa, Der Geschichtenerzähler, (Frankfurt am Main:Suhrkamp Verlag, 1990). \[3\] Ursula K. Le Guin, A Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction, in: Dancing at the Edge of the World, (New York: Grove Press,1989). \[4\] Donna J. Harraway, Staying with the Trouble. Making Kin in the Chthulucene, (Durham: Duke University Press, 2016), p. 12. \[5\] [Nancy N. Chen](https://anthrosource.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/authored-by/Chen/Nancy+N.?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), “Speaking Nearby: A conversation with Trinh Minh-ha”, (Visual Anthropology Review, Volume 8, Issue 1, 1992). \[6\] Gabeba Baderoon, Voluptuous Silence and Sociality in Poetry, in: Forecast 8: Mentorships for Audacious Minds, (Berlin: Forecast, 2024) 27. \[7\]Quoted from Marcela Huertas’ Reading at Forecast Festival, Radialsystem Berlin, 16.04.2024. \[8\]Marcela Huertas, White Horses Always Run Home , in: Forecast 8: Mentorships for Audacious Minds, (Berlin: Forecast, 2024) 25. \[9\]Quoted from Marcela Huertas’ Reading at Forecast Festival, Radialsystem Berlin, 16.04.2024. *(\*1993, Germany) works as an artist, organizer and educator with a specific interest in cultural practices striving for systemic change. Her practice is situated at the intersection of critical pedagogy, artistic research, and socio-political knowledge production. She holds a BA in Art Pedagogy (University of Leipzig), a Diploma in Fine Arts (HGB Leipzig), and an MA from the Dutch Art Institute.* ### The open world URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-open-world/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:50.000Z “This is only for the locals,” says Rirkrit Tiravanija. This remark, though apparently inclusive, carries undertones of exclusivity that verge on paternalism, raising questions about the overall accessibility and inclusivity of a Biennale, especially for non-local participants. As I listen to Tiravanija speak, I try hard to understand his formulation as a polite introduction to the unexplainable boundaries around (and within) the Thailand Biennale, an event that takes place in a different city in the country every time it manifests. Perhaps what Tiravanija means is that a Biennale, as an exhibition, is captured in the rhythms and logics of its host city, in this case, the Thailand Biennale’s third iteration, the city in question is Chiang-Rai. In order to truly understand the place, the visitor must abandon all the usual criteria by which the realization of an exhibition of such scale can be examined. Tiravanija’s words have remained in my memory since I visited Chiang-Rai. The artist, one of the four curators of the Biennale’s latest iteration, in collaboration with the curators Gridthiya Gaweewong, Manuporn Luengaram, and Angkrit Ajchariyasophon, is known, but not only, for bringing Thai cuisine and social habits as part of his artworks. Isn’t he challenging the very dichotomy of the local and international understanding of art in his work? Didn’t he recently present a solo exhibition at the MoMa in New York praising the openness of shared meals as a means of decolonizing the hierarchies within contemporary art? Gridthiya Gaweewong, explains a similar impulse with a less literal, rather more associative, warmth suggestion on what the Thailand Biennale is: “Beyond Lumbung!”. With that, she refers to the vocabulary and notions of decentralized labor structures that the collective ruangrupa applied during their controversial curation of documenta fifteen in Kassel. Gaweewong continues, “Everyone here is claiming to be part of the event, sometimes we are not even aware of their planning. It is hard to keep an overview of what is going on.” The biennale, therefore, offers a chaotic but soft and respectful atmosphere in its exhibition rooms. We spoke just days before the opening, when there was a lot of work to finish and urgent questions to answer. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ErnestoNeto_TBC.jpeg) fig. 1 Everyone, indeed, seems to be interested in being part of a cultural phenomenon that can be understood both as city marketing and a platform for exchange of the kind that usually does not often happen in Chiang Rai. “The moment I explained to the government that the standing Buddha at the historic Wat Pa Sak park in Chiang-Saen was the departing point for the ‘Open’ exhibition, everyone opened their arms and went ‘Yessss!!’, Gaweewong joyfully mimics the reaction of citizens and local practitioners. The posture of the Buddha serves as a fitting focal point for the Biennale which is entitled *The Open World*, symbolizing the multicultural influence of various Asian cultures in Thailand. Chiang Saen is about an hour’s drive north from the city of Chiang Rai, at the shores of the mighty Mekong river - along which several sites of the biennale are grouped, addressing the several the meaning and presence of the so-called “Golden Triangle”. It is worth trying to catch the route along the river with the bike, if the reader is able and conditions allow, to enjoy the languid pace of the rural environs around what used to be some of the world’s biggest opium poppy fields. Walking among the ruins of these *Wats* (temples) and a once-majestic city at sunrise, there appeared the artist Apitchapong Weerasethakul taking one of his early morning walks. As monks passed by the streets of the village delivering blessings to its citizens, the atmosphere reinforced Weerasethakul’s calmness while describing his transgressive ideas about cinema and the specificity of the place of his newest projection. A pervasive ghostly aura infused the surroundings. *Blue Encore* is part of what I understand as a triptych of Weerasethakul’s reflections around light, time, dreams, and personal and social memories. Curtains depicting landscape paintings from local artists cover the boards of the former school for monks that still bear the traces of their time as workshops in which apprentices would learn about the creative core of their religious practice. The installation also reflects Weerasethakul’s appreciation of movement, shadows and light within a curtained room. But this is only one of three rooms that reference the animistic aspects informing practices of Thai spirituality based on the act of bringing life to something inanimate. *Solarium* is showing in the other two rooms. The work is a projection based on the horror film *Phee Ta Boy.* It is a work that can be appreciated from two angles. On one side we see the intervention of light, and the other, the image it creates. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Apitchapong_TBC.jpeg) fig. 2 Non-linearity is ubiquitous across the sites for visitors to explore in and around Chiang Rai. On December 9, 2023, the Thailand Biennale Chiang Rai (TBC) held its official opening ceremony. It is no coincidence that the region’s Light Festival was being celebrated in the same days. The TBC will continue until April 30, and include the commissions of 60 artists – 38 international and 22 from Thailand – along with collateral events and activities such as traditional music performances, performing arts, film screenings, and educational activities. These will be accompanied by 13 special pavilions and open houses held by several dozen local artists, taking full advantage of the exhibition’s five month span. At the Baan Dam Museum, visitors encounter the sculptures of Chakaia Booker, whose innovative use of recycled rubber tires prompts reflection on sustainability and modes of environmental consciousness. Her monumental works here are characterized by intricate patterns and imposing forms, and they offer a poignant commentary on humanity's relationship with the natural and spiritual worlds. The tires, surprisingly, fit perfectly in amid a galaxy of barns collected nearby. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Korakrit_TBC.jpeg) fig. 3 Artist Zen Teh is also concerned with connecting with the higher self, or at least something higher than the self. For the Biennale, she has explored systems that can influence the way we perceive. This is especially true in relation to her work in the Mediation Center south from Chiang-Rai. Teh is from Singapore, and currently a fellow at the Künstlerhaus Bethanien in Berlin, and she is a regular visitor in Thailand, where she encountered the syncretism between religion and nature pervasive in Thailand. Even though many of the temples are now more touristic attractions than spiritual sites, the respect paid to the deities they represent performed diligently by visitors. The Blue Temple, for example, the newest building created in Chiang Rai, is always filled with people, akin to a Buddhism Disneyland, with hardly any space to calmly meditate. But in Thailand, you can be with yourself. Zen Teh examines the context in which attention spans are being pushed and pulled and the need for practices of mental decompression. Meditation is also a research method for Zen Teh, contrasting with the spiritualist tourism that dominates much of today’s ‘wellness’ discourse. Teh’s works facilitate introspection, but understand inner spaces as informed by the cosmic. Hence the astronomical calculations used to define the space of her installation at the temple of the Meditation Center. They are not only the most precise manifestation of life beyond human understanding, but they also touch on our most fundamental essence as humans and as matter in space. Meanwhile, at the Mae Fah Luang Art & Cultural Park, the thought-provoking artworks of Citra Sasmita captivate audiences with their vibrant colors and whimsical allegories involving female and serpent figures. Sasmita, a contemporary artist from Bali, explores themes of identity and empowerment through her ongoing “Timur Merah Project” series, which reimagines Balinese mythology for modern audiences. As visitors navigate the Biennale's venues - from the serene banks of the Mekong River to the bustling streets of Chiang Rai - they encounter a diverse array of artworks that challenge preconceptions and spark meaningful dialogue between tradition and transgression of cultural standards. From Tarek Atoui’s and Nguyễn Trinh Thi's immersive, sculptural sound installations to Korakrit Arunanondchai's interdisciplinary and rough explorations, to Michael Lin's iconic installations to Zen Teh's transcendental meditative sculptures, each work offers its own unique perspective on the intersection of art, nature, and culture. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nguyen_TBC.jpeg) fig. 4 Introspection and immersion become leitmotifs the more one sees at the Biennale, whether Weerasethakul's contemplative films, Zeh's sculptures, or Atta Kwami's nostalgic abstract paintings, each artwork invites viewers to reflect on their own roots and cultural identities. Against the backdrop of Thailand's rich religious heritage, the Biennale serves as a catalyst for self-discovery, fostering meaningful connections between artists, visitors, and the local community. Brazilian artist, Maria Thereza Alves, presents her research-based project, *Curing Dismembered Knowledges*, at the Tobacco Warehouse. Intrigued by the Kok River's historical transformation from a fertile riverside to concrete roads and a dam, Alves embarked on a journey to discover what was lost. She collaborated with Suthi Malithong, a biologist at Chiang Rai Rajabhat University, who has researched various plants on the riverside of the Kok River. Alves discovered the names of 60 plants which used to be found on Kok's riverside using archives in London and Paris that were recorded by naturalists who came to Chiang Rai when the UK colonized Burma and when France colonized Laos and Vietnam. After obtaining the name of the 60 plants, Alves tried to identify which plants are available and bring back these plants as soon as possible, encouraging viewers to question themselves about their own roots and what civilization is and what will happen next. Crossing borders, looking already at Thailand with a different sense than the one locals have. Cognitively and intellectually, there is something universal that can be addressed with the *Open World*: there is an experiential understanding of art that might not really be categorized so easily. The TBC, lastly, offers an example for what Adriano Pedrosa once called “the centrality of the peripheral Biennial”. Preparing for a trip to the mother of all biennials in Venice, read in a 12-year-old issue of “The Exhibitionist”, his still refreshing and critical thoughts on this typological conundrum: “The truly relevant biennial today is a phenomenon of the global south, relying on independence, creativity, and ingenuity from its organizers, and drawing crucial connections between different locales and productions”. It is bittersweet to recognize that the times have truly changed, and that skepticism has also grown around biennials in the Global South. The Thailand Biennale proves to be one of the few examples of exhibitions that follow the logics of the people, and not of international itineraries or discourses. It is, as Tiravanjia posited, a Biennale ‘for the locals’. The *Open World* referred to in the title of the Biennale is the one outside of the art institution itself, responding to the continuities and changes that Thailand’s citizens define. It is no coincidence that the Biennale started close to the Lights Festival and ended with the Festival of Water next week. Perhaps the spirit of the Biennale was conveyed most succinctly in the *The Flying People* project created by Japanese artist Shimabuku, who, with an incomparable sense of humor and freedom, offers surreal visions of our relationship with the world’s openness. Shimabuku started the project by creating a life-sized kite in his own image. While he was flying the kite, he felt exhilarated. He sought to share this special feeling by inviting Chiang-Rai residents to create their own life-sized kites and fly them together. 120 Chiang Rai residents participated in the project, including myself, who for the first time flew a kite freely over a park. Through a combination of diligent concentration and joyful abandon, we can make a place for ourselves, in the sky, and perhaps create connections that endure. We were all tethered to the earth but we were also blown about by forces beyond our control. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Shimabuku.jpg) fig. 5 \\\\ ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/08-1024x575.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ApitchapongWeerasethakul-v2.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Chakaia_TBC-v2.jpeg) --- ### IMAGES COVER: 1-2 Shimabuku, *Flying People*, Singha Park Chiang-Rai, 2023\. Photo: AWC. 3 Apitchapong Weerasethakul showing us the boards from the former school for monks near Chiang Saen. Photo: AWC 4 Chakaia Booker, *What's Not*, 2009\. Installation view at the Baan Dam Museum. Courtesy Thailand Biennale. Photo: Wanchai Phutthawarin. Fig. 1: Ernesto Neto, *Chantdance*, 2023\. Installation view at the Mae Fah Luan Art & Cultural Park. Courtesy Thailand Biennale. Photo: Wanchai Phutthawarin. Fig. 2: Apichatpong Weerasethakul, *Solarium* (2023). Courtesy Thailand Biennale. Photo: Wanchai Phutthawarin. Fig 3: Korakrit Arunanondchai, 2557 (Painting with history in a room filled with men with funny names 2), 2014\. Installation view at the White Temple. Courtesy Thailand Biennale. Photo: Wanchai Phutthawarin. Fig 4: Nguyen Trinh Thi, Ri s̄eīyng (Sound-Less), 2023\. Installation view at the Mae Fah Luan Art & Cultural Park. Courtesy Thailand Biennale. Photo: Wanchai Phutthawarin. Fig. 5: Shimabuku, Flying People, from the Self-Portrait Kite Making Workshop in Chiang-Rai, Tobacco Warehouse, 2023\. Photo: AWC. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Everything comes to life URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/everything-comes-to-life/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:47.000Z The Berlin rain has ceased, unveiling a sky painted in hues of blue beyond the bus window. It is March and across Kreuzberg, the melodies of flutes and the rhythmic beats of drums celebrate Nowroz. \[1\] Which whispers of spring's arrival are louder, the tender buds on the trees of the square, or the rising clamor of protest echoing through streets, universities, museums, and conference halls? As this dance of memory and rebirth unfolds around me, I find myself recalling the Sufi verses that artist Pallavi Paul uses to guide us through the closing scenes of *How Love Moves*, her latest film, and a key feature of her ongoing homonymous exhibition at Gropius Bau: “What a glow everywhere I see. Meanwhile my beloved sleeps peacefully under his shroud. The whole world has been opened for me.” Under the overarching title of "How Love Moves", and the curation of Natasha Ginwala with Sonja Borstner, six rooms on the first floor of Gropius Bau host the first major institutional solo exhibition of New Delhi and Berlin-based artist and filmmaker. In the show, Paul embarks on a deep dive into the spiritual and biopolitical dimensions of illness, as shaped by multimedia explorations wherein the camera is deployed in dialogue with poetry and installations. As the artist links global healthcare crises such as the COVID-19 Pandemic with the outbreak of tuberculosis in Germany around the turn of the 20th century, breath becomes a recurrent point of reference, as a fundamental right besieged by inequality and authoritarian regimes, as a cinematic performance, as a collective force weaving time, and as an act of faith. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/4_LIUC_GropiusBau_PallaviPaul_00018-Pano-huge-v2.jpg) fig. 1 Located centrally, and serving as the conceptual starting point of the exhibition, I approached the darkened room of *Salt Moon* (2023), an installation evoking a graveyard through which the visitor must pass to enter, and to exit, the exhibition. The installation consists of a series of sculptures composed of a bed of soil and large stone slabs resembling tombstones. Within these monoliths, we see images projected of industrious ants and bees, vigilant birds of prey, and crimson-colored flowers reminiscent of motifs found in religious prints that evoke fertility, rebirth, and the triumph of life over death. The cemetery is also a crossroads leading to two possible paths to continue the experience. Drawn by a point of light in the depths of the otherwise dimly lit halls, I chose the left side of the exhibition. The first of the three rooms along this route hosts *Twilight's Envelope / Und in der Dämmerung Hülle* (2024), an experimental video essay commissioned by the Gropius Bau during the artist's residency and her time as a research fellow at the Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin. The film intertwines various audiovisual textures, timelines, landscapes and narratives concerning health and the body as sites of power united in the touching chronicle of a factory worker, Moritz Theodor William Bromme, during his stay in a tuberculosis sanatorium in Thüringen. As a prelude to a globalized future, turned now into the past, where images of deer and boars roam the city streets, and grass grows freely and unchecked, overlapped with scenes of confinement and death, the deteriorating structures of the Heilanstalten Hohenlychen sanatorium, in the outskirts of Berlin, collapse as other forms of life carve their way into its foundations and thrive. *Twilight’s Envelope / Und in der Dämmerung Hülle*, accounts for the weight of history's imprint on the vulnerability of the body, whether in acknowledging it, denying it, or abusing it. From 1942, after the sanatorium had been converted into a military hospital in the First World War and a sports sanatorium during the Nazi regime, the facility’s doctors and medical staff arranged and committed brutal experiments on inmates of Ravensbrück, the largest women’s concentration camp on Germany territory. One of the audiovisual archives Paul presents is a speech in which the Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels refers to war as a great leveler and teacher. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/6_Pallavi_Trousseau.jpeg) fig. 2 The notion of calamities and disaster as equalizing passages towards cohesiveness works also as a point of transition into the only fully illuminated space in the exhibition. In this room, we come face to face with the stark divisions that the COVID-19 pandemic wrought and those which it deepened, taking shape in large, white plastic bags hanging from all walls of the room. These bags, often are employed during wartime and contagion crises to dispose of dead bodies at scale and that today become once again a symbol of despair, hopelessness, and utter abandonment. Here they serve as embroidered canvases in the installation *Trousseau* (2023). To produce the work, a collective of New Delhi-based women were invited to embroider vibrant flowers and birds evoking fertility, such as are traditional in wedding garments, on these bags. The imagery contrasts sharply with the sterile material, emphasizing the irreplaceable worth of every life. These pieces are exhibited together with *Everything is Still Damp* (2024), a series of screen prints on sandpaper depicting the floral patterns used in Islamic funerary rituals to symbolize the convergence of the persistent and the transient. In the film *How Love Moves* (2023), the primal disposition of embodiment, spirituality, vulnerability, and history converge amidst stroboscopic images that dissolve into Sufi prayers of otherworldly beauty. Spanning the entire expanse of the broad wall of the final exhibition room of this area, the film transcends the standard artistic checklist of “posing questions”, “challenging relationships”, or “questioning binaries”; it unapologetically and rigorously examines the viability of paths systematically deprecated by the modern-rationalist principles of capitalism, such as faith and devotion. Paul has structured the narrative of the film into four parts, as they were phases of breathing, named after the Islamic prayer hours, signaling a disturbance in the prayer's alignment with the cycle of life. Indeed, in *How Love Moves*, faith plays a pivotal role in shaping the vessels in which love transgresses divides, both political and biological. In the film we meet Shamin Khan, a grave keeper at the Delhi Gate Islamic cemetery, a guide and medium who allows us to glimpse not just what it means to be close to death in physical, political, and spiritual terms, but to traverse it as an inexplicable passage, an untransferrable experience with which one continues to live. In the cemetery, instances of health emergencies faced in India during the COVID-19 pandemic converge with the overflow of hospital care capacities, state terrorism, and exacerbated anti-Muslim hatred fueled by ethno-nationalist discourses, resulting in fatal lynchings. These transform the graveyard into a space contested between conflict, reflection, rest, and the nuances of presence and absence. In one scene, Shamin and his fellow gravediggers are discussing the rawest aspects of their work. These logistics of death and putrid matter, carried out in conditions of inequity, social violence, and poverty, lead to such a visceral confrontation with mortality that it drives some to a nearly nihilistic position regarding the value of life. “If you want to know the worth of a body, go to a mortuary,” one cynically remarks. Shamin, a believer, calmly retorts, defending the value of every life and every death: “If you believe, everything comes to life. If you don’t, nothing exists.” After viewing *How Love Moves* two times in a row, an experience akin to encountering a passage that articulates an urgent yet orphaned sentiment with precision in a book, I found myself compelled to close my eyes and take a moment before proceeding further through the exhibition. I wonder now if I needed this pause to absorb that moment of resonance or to acknowledge my own traumatic experiences of the human organising of faith (aka religion). Ridiculing the spirituality of others comes easily, as though secular capitalism does not itself imply a secret form of faith in rationality and progress. When it comes to the value of the living and the value of the dead, spirituality holds a time and space of refuge from the rapacity of capital-worshiping societies. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/1_LIUC_GropiusBau_PallaviPaul_00259-huge-v2.jpg) fig. 3 The two halls on the other side of the exhibition host the short experimental film *Nayi Kheti/ New Harvest* (2013), and the immersive multimedia installation *Slumber* (2024). Through a series of dialogues featuring found footage and works by the poets Federico García Lorca, Jack Spicer, and Ramashakar Yadav, the work challenges time-bounded narratives. In *New Harvest* Paul addresses the question of what happens to visual documents after their “death”, a counterpoint to *Slumber*, an immersive installation wherein an afterlife more-than-human utopia is at the forefront, and the human perspective dissolves among roots. A long exhale, a place of rest. In the exploration of spirituality and faith within mortality, as presented in the film How Love Moves, Shamin’s defense of the value of life and caring for the deceased contrasts against the backdrop of despair in which the German factory worker, and tuberculosis patient Moritz Theodor William Bromme watches his life dissolve into institutionalized oblivion. Within this philosophical tension lies a paradox: human worth emerges through acts of care and attention devoted to its existence. This paradox exposes the interplay between capitalism and patriarchy, systems that commodify labor and caregiving, transforming them into objects whose value is merely measurable through economic transactions. In How Love Moves, through a dialectic of faith and materiality, love confronts the rule of mortal dissolution. But if love is rooted solely in time and labor, can it survive in us if we remain silent in the face of systematic plunder, economic injustice, and annihilation? \\\\ How Love Moves *will be on show until July 21, 2024, at Martin-Gropius Bau in Berlin.Curated by Natasha Ginwala and Sonja Borstner.* --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] New Year of the Persian calendar. The holiday is celebrated in Iran, Azerbaijan, Kurdish regions, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Pakistan, in some regions of northern India and wherever Persian diasporic communities gather, coinciding with the spring equinox. \[2\] The informal group commissioned to embroider the body bags does not identify itself with any specific name. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Pallavi Paul, *How Love Moves*, Filmstill (2023). © Pallavi Paul. Courtesy of Gropius Bau. fig. 1: Pallavi Paul, *Salt Moon*. Gropius Bau (2024). © Pallavi Paul. Foto: Luca Girardini. Courtesy of Gropius Bau. fig. 2: Pallavi Paul, *Trousseau*, detail shot (2023). © Pallavi Paul. Foto: Laura Fiorio. Courtesy of Gropius Bau. fig. 3: Pallavi Paul, *Slumber*, Gropius Bau (2024). © Pallavi Paul. Foto: Luca Girardini. Courtesy of Gropius Bau. *Elisa Fuenzalida is a researcher and cultural worker. She has directed research projects such as El futuro era tu cuerpo, Ensamblajes del Cuidado and Afectos en Re-existencia. She is coordinator and co-curator of the Cátedra Decolonial Anibal Quijano at the Museo Reina Sofía, co-editor of the journal Arts of the Working Class and mediator in the citizen laboratory platform Redes por el Clima.* ### After gravity: URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/after-gravity/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:45.000Z There are few more familiar bits of symbolism than the bird in flight standing in for the hope of freedom. But as with so many other fundamental aspects of basic human existence, the bird has a complex status in the iconography and psychology of the contemporary Palestinian experience. As the seemingly endless scenes of war at its most total and apocalyptic have come to dominate the timelines of those following events in Gaza, appearing as a kind of requiem, and imprecation, accompanying these posts often are lines from one of the most famous poems in contemporary Palestinian literature. Mahmoud Darwish’s lines “Where should we go after the last frontiers? / Where should the birds fly after the last sky?” The question is answered bleakly in Darwish’s poem: “We will die here in the last passage. Here and here our blood will plant its olive tree.” A sense of grim inevitability lends the poem a sense of prophecy, but perhaps this ending, if the world allows it to be an ending, will not be the full story. A different kind of olive tree will take root. Ultimately, of course, no one escapes death in “the last passage”, but the question of what happened before, how one lived, must remain visible and present in the depiction of the story of the Palestinian struggle for life and self-determination. Tanya Habjouqa’s photographic series, *Birds Unaccustomed to Gravity* offers a window into the lives lived in Palestine, and Israel as well, in the lead-up to the latest version of the ongoing “Arab Apocalypse” chronicled by Etel Adnan, Darwish, and so many others. Habjouqa has spent decades in the region as a photojournalist. Throughout this time she has also sought out complex, unresolved narratives; not merely death in the last passage, but life in the last passage. The work’s component images are explorations of the full complexity of a situation and a region the discussion of which almost inevitably begins with a beleaguered sigh and an intoning of the phrase “It’s complicated…” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Tanya-Habjouqa_4.jpeg) fig. 1 This truism is perhaps unjustly maligned by activists. Complication is not the same thing as complexity, it must be remembered. Complication needs to be no more than the connection of multiple parts - themselves quite simple - into a “complicated” whole. The kind of thing people could solve if they wanted to. “Complexity” entails many unknown, often unknowable layers. Habjouqa’s work has always preferred complexity over complication. Complexity demands serious attention and creativity in ways mere complication does not (both, however, require an effort to take matters seriously that seem wholly lacking in the Great Power politics of the contemporary Middle East). In *Birds Unaccustomed to Gravity*, the artist captures the surreality within the mundane horrors of quotidian violence towards which the world has spent more than two decades accommodating itself; constant vigilance, fleeting ecstasies, and, inevitably, literal birds populate Habjouqa’s vision of a sempiternal crisis in which the cycle of violence seems to be embedding itself in the very physical geography. The world that emerges in the series is not the same as the one journalists - when they are permitted in the territory and not killed in the line of duty - depict. Theirs is a world of “complications”, knotty problems to be solved by the deft hands of statesmen. Habjouqa’s world is more intractable, replete with terror, humor, and strange visual rhymes, but more than anything else, a determined capacity to tell the truth with a Palestinian accent. The viewer encountering such irreducible complexity must then probe their psyches and pose the same oft-quoted (and often-made-true) line from Darwish. The earth, to borrow his words again, is closing in on us all. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Tanya-Habjouqa_3.jpeg) fig. 2 \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Tanya Habjouqa, Birds Unaccustomed to Gravity, Ramallah, Occupied West Bank (Ein Quinya), 2017 © and Courtesy Tanya Habjouqa Ramallah schoolgirls from a government school enjoy one of the few open spaces of greenery on the cusp of the city in Ein Qinya. It is “Area C”, so despite deeds owned by Palestinians, no one is allowed to build on their land except to maintain olive groves. fig. 1: Tanya Habjouqa, Birds Unaccustomed to Gravity, Occupied Jordan Valley, West Bank, 2020 © and Courtesy Tanya Habjouqa The vice-governor of the Tubas governorate in the northern West Bank, Ahmed Asaad (left) visits farmers in the area. The house and grape vineyard of the Moatassam family. They have lush lands but are terrified by what is coming, having lived the diminishing land, access, and water year by year for decades. Water is essential to their lives and agribusiness. fig. 2: Tanya Habjouqa, Birds Unaccustomed to Gravity, Mount Meron, 2020 © and Courtesy Tanya Habjouqa Orthodox Jews take a pause in nature, a break from the giant bonfires and fervent celebrations of Lag b' Omer. It is one of the largest Hassidic gatherings in the world. It is also the site of a forcibly depopulated Palestinian village. *Heath Bexley is a writer living in near London. He condemns the 7 October 2023 attacks by Hamas.* ### Die “Migrationskarawane” im Kontext von imperialer Plünderung und Enteignung verstehen URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/die-migrationskarawane-im-kontext-von-imperialer-pluenderung-und-enteignung-verstehen/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:44.000Z Die in europäischen Museen aufbewahrten Artefakte sind nicht nur exemplarische Meisterwerke, sondern auch geronnene Formen imperialer Gewalt. Die Veröffentlichung 2018 des Gutachtens *Rapport sur la restitution du patrimoine culturel africain. Vers une nouvelle éthique relationnelle* von Felwine Sarr und Bénédicte Savoy, in dem die Restitution gestohlener afrikanischer Objekte aus dem Pariser *Musée du Quai Branly* an ihre Herkunftsländer gefordert wird, und das zeitgleiche Herannahen einer sogenannten "Migrationskarawane" aus Honduras in Richtung USA ist kein Zufall: Die Geschichte ist ebenso alt wie die Erfindung der "Neuen Welt". Das vom französischen Präsidenten in Auftrag gegebene Gutachten empfiehlt die Rückgabe von 40.000 Objekten, die Frankreich während seiner Kolonialzeit in Afrika stahl. Für die Museen der Vereinigten Staaten wurde bisher keine ähnlichen offiziellen Untersuchungen und Gutachten zur Plünderung von Objekten aus Honduras (sowie aus Mittel- und Südamerika im Allgemeinen) in Auftrag gegeben, jedoch sollten wir die tausenden von Menschen, die sich gegenwärtig auf den Weg in die USA machen, als legitime Anwärter\*innen anerkennen, die ebenfalls Reparationen und Restitution einfordern. Sowohl gestohlene Objekte als auch die Menschen, die aus ihrer Heimat vertrieben wurden (einige von ihnen inzwischen von ihren eigenen Regierungen), tragen weiterhin das Zeugnis imperialer Plünderung und Enteignung. Es ist kein Geheimnis, dass Millionen Objekte, die nie für die museale Präsentation bestimmt waren, von verschiedenen imperialen Mächten aus der ganzen Welt geplündert wurden. Es ist ebenso kein Geheimnis, dass viele von ihnen sorgfältig in sterilen Museen aufbewahrt wurden und heute als wertvolle Kunstobjekte gelten. Gleichzeitig ist es kein Geheimnis, dass Millionen von Menschen, denen unzählige Objekte, aus denen sich ihre Welt konstituiert, gestohlen wurden - Werkzeuge, Ornamente, Gegenstände, auf welche sie noch immer ein Anrecht haben -, weiterhin nach einem Ort suchen müssen, an dem sie sich wieder ein Zuhause aufbauen können. Ein Beispiel eines aus Honduras gestohlenen Objekts aus den Museumsakten: Anhand seiner Form und Symbolik lässt sich erkennen, dass der hohle Stein, in dem Körner gemahlen wurden, nicht auf seine Funktionalität reduziert werden kann, sondern vielmehr Teil einer Welt von Werten, Kenntnissen und Ansprüchen ist, die die Menschen nutzten, um sich ein Selbstverständnis und Gefühl von Zuhause zu schaffen. Bewohner\*innen von Honduras die versuchen, den verheerenden Folgen des Imperialismus in ihrem Land zu entkommen, treffen an den Grenzen ein, wo sie in Fotografien als objektlose und weltlose Migrant\*innen dargestellt werden. Jahrhunderte des Imperialismus lehrten bewaffnete, imperiale Akteur\*innen, sie hätten die Befugnis, diejenigen zu erschießen, die lediglich Gepäck zum Stillen ihrer unmittelbarsten Bedürfnisse bei sich tragen. Da die erzwungene Migration der gemeinschaftlichen Objekte durch die imperialen Expeditionen erreicht wurde – nicht weniger als die erzwungene Migration, von der sie glauben, dass sie keine andere Wahl haben, als sich in die Vereinigten Staaten zu emigrieren – ist es an der Zeit, den “papierlosen” Status zurückzuweisen, der diesen Menschen von den imperialen Regimen aufgezwungen wurde. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/TanyaHabjouqa_2.jpeg) fig. 1 Es ist an der Zeit, ihre Bewegung als Gegen-Expedition von Menschen anzuerkennen, die sich gegen die Trennung von der Welt, die sie als ihre betrachten, auflehnen. Diese beiden ineinandergreifenden Systeme der Be- und Misshandlung von Objekten und Menschen – sich angeeignete Objekte werden sorgfältig dokumentiert und von Museums Expert\*innen gepflegt, gleichzeitig werden ihre Besitzer\*innen als “papierlos” bezeichnet und den Grausamkeiten der Grenzpolizei ausgeliefert. Diese Menschen stellen keine Bedrohung für die souveränen Staaten dar, in denen sie Asyl suchen, sondern sind zentrale Akteur\*innen einer politischen Realität, die sie herzustellen suchen. In dieser potentiell, transformierten Welt werden genau solche Grenzen und Rechtssysteme abgeschafft, deren Ziel darin besteht, Menschen und Objekte voneinander fernzuhalten. Nach den Plünderungen in Benin, im Kongo, in Honduras, Palästina und anderswo in der kolonisierten Welt wurden gestohlene Objekte für diejenigen unzugänglich gemacht, die sie geschaffen und genutzt haben. Es ist höchste Zeit, diese Missachtung kolonialisierter Gruppen zu beenden, die jahrzehnte und jahrhundertelang der Objekte ihrer Vorfahren beraubt wurden, welche nun in Museen, Archiven und Bibliotheken nach imperialen Prinzipien und Klassifizierungsverfahren konserviert werden. Es ist höchste Zeit, sich gegen die Autorität internationaler Kulturorganisationen wie der UNESCO oder ICOM aufzulehnen, deren standardisierte Sprache und Reglementierungen den lokalen Dialekten derjenigen fremd sind, die diese Objekte und Dokumente geschaffen und das in ihnen enthaltene Wissen und die Rechte an ihnen geerbt haben. Internationale Institutionen begründen ihre Plünderungen durch Institutionalisierung, Standardisierung und propagieren weltweit ein neutrales Regime der Objektpflege - Sicherstellung, Konservierung und Archivierung. Wir sollten jedoch imperiale Praktiken der Konservierung und Archivierung als das erkennen, was sie sind: Verbrechen. Die Signifikanz des Berichts von Sarr und Savoy lässt sich nicht allein auf das Argument der längst überfälligen Rückgabe reduzieren. Denjenigen, die dieser Gegenstände beraubt wurden, war dies schon immer bewusst, vom Moment der ersten Enteignung an. Der anhaltende Widerstand dieser Menschen ist es, der den Bericht ermöglicht hat. Die Relevanz des Berichts liegt in seiner Forderung nach der Abschaffung nationalstaatlicher Gesetze, die Plünderungspraktiken schützen und durch das Proklamieren einer Unverzichtbarkeit geraubter Objekte Gerechtigkeit illegalisieren, sodass sie niemals französische imperiale Institutionen verlassen. In diesem Sinne sollte die Rückgabe der ersten Objektgruppe von 23 aus Benin gestohlenen Teile - die, wie der französische Präsident ankündigte, "ohne Verzögerung" beginnen wird - nicht als ein Ziel an sich betrachtet werden, sondern als erster Anstoß für die Abschaffung des imperialen Kulturrechtssystems. Es handelt sich dabei nicht um eine einfache Reform auf der Suche nach einer besseren Zukunft in einer anderen Epoche. Vielmehr handelt es sich um einen Versuch, die Ursprünge der imperialen Enteignung selbst rückgängig zu machen, indem man zu dem Moment von 1492 zurückkehrt. 1492 ist zugleich der chronologische und ontologische Ursprung des Imperialismus und ebenso der nicht-imperialen Potenzialität. Wenn 1492 sowohl den Zeitpunkt der Eroberung als auch der Erfindung der "neuen Welt" darstellt, an dem sich das Recht genommen wurde nicht-weiße Menschen zu versklaven, Juden und Muslime aus Spanien zu vertreiben, dann beinhaltet es unterschiedliche Auswirkungen an verschiedenen Orten. Das Jahr 1492 ist in Palästina zum Beispiel 1948\. Für Honduras ist es 1524. Die Restitution gestohlener Objekte allein tilgt weder die Schuld imperialer Mächte noch die anhaltende Verwüstung, die sie in diesen Regionen durch internationale Militäreinsätze, korporative Machtausübung und Banken anrichten. Imperiale Gewalt manifestiert sich in einem Regime und kann daher nicht einfach freigesprochen, in der Vergangenheit besiegelt oder durch eine imaginäre bessere Zukunft überwunden werden. Vielmehr sollte sie verlernt, umgekehrt und aufgehoben werden. Menschen, die vor politischen Regimen in ehemaligen Kolonien fliehen und in Europa, den USA und Israel Asyl suchen, werden nicht in Verbindung mit den wertvollen Kulturgütern ihrer Kulturen wahrgenommen, die vor langer Zeit in US-amerikanische und europäische Museen gebracht wurden, aber sie sind es. Die erzwungene Migration von Menschen und Objekten macht dabei beide zu Migrant\*innen. Parallel zu den Prozessen der Restitution müssen "wir", d. h. die Gemeinschaften von Wissenschaftler\*innen, Studierenden und Künstler\*innen unseren Anteil an Museen und Archiven anerkennen und die Rückgabe geraubter Objekte fordern. Die Enteignung stellt einen ersten Schritt zur Befreiung dieser Objekte vom imperialen Joch dar, die es ermöglicht Zugänglichkeiten für andere zu schaffen und ihren rechtmäßigen Besitzer\*innen die Entscheidungsmacht über die Zukunft dieser Objekte zurückzugeben. Europäische Bürger\*innen handeln bereits hier und da gegen ihre Regierungen, um Migrant\*innen einzuschleusen und sie zu unterstützen, und verschieben dabei eine Tourists-Welcome Politik, in eine Migrants-Welcome Politik. Auf diese Weise stehen sie dafür ein, dass Migrant\*innen eine einmalige Möglichkeit für Bürger\*innen darstellen, das Erbe imperialer Gewalt in ein anderes Verhältnis zwischen den Nachkommen der Kolonisierten und der Kolonisierenden zu transformieren. Das Recht, dort zu leben, wo die eigene Kultur in einem sterilen Museum konserviert wird, sollte im berechtigten Zelebrieren des Berichtes von Sarr und Savoy nicht vergessen werden. \\\\ *Dieser Essay ist eine Adaption des Buches Potential History: Unlearning Imperialism (Verso, 2019) und wurde zuvor auf Hyperallergic veröffentlicht.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Tanya Habjouqa, Birds Unaccustomed to Gravity, Zanba, Occupied West Bank, 2017 © and Courtesy Tanya Habjouqa Palestinian community volunteers prepare a backdrop for kids theatre, showcasing East Jerusalem and the Dome of Rock, which they are not able to access despite proximity. fig. 1: Tanya Habjouqa, NOOR/Rawabi/Occupied West Bank, 2020 © and Courtesy Tanya Habjouqa Somaya was one of the first real estate agents in the first new Palestinian city of Rawabi. Here, she peaks out of Rawabi's PR office with its sleek visuals and models, selling the Palestinian dream: affordable homes and a comfortable life. *Ariella Aïsha Azoulay ist Autorin, Kuratorin, Filmemacherin und Theoretikerin in Fotografie und visueller Kultur.* *Sie ist Professorin für Moderne Kultur und Medien sowie für Vergleichende Literaturwissenschaft an der Brown University und freischaffende Kuratorin für Archive und Ausstellungen.* ### Lxs extranjerxs en nosotroxs URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/lxs-extranjerxs-en-nosotroxs/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:42.000Z Un pecho explosivo, un ojo que comparte verdades no reveladas, una mujer mitad serpiente que sostiene lo que parece un arma y un cable USB al mismo tiempo: Detrás de cada una de estas escenas dramáticas, Hayv Kahraman se ahonda en la descolonización del cuerpo, sensualizando la deconstrucción de las normativas de género y los estereotipos raciales que afectan a las comunidades migrantes. A través de una colección de más de cuarenta pinturas y dibujos, Kahraman, artista nacida en Bagdad, aborda su herencia iraquí-kurda y su propio periplo como refugiada en Suecia , invitando a lxs espectadorxs del Moody Center for the Arts en Houston a contemplar las complejidades del exilio y el choque cultural de quienes lo atraviesan. Con el título “*The Foreign in Us*”, la muestra individual se adentra en el intrincado tapiz de la migración forzada, tejido por millones de personas en el mundo y a través de estas pinturas, rompiendo fronteras geográficas y ofreciendo una profunda meditación sobre las normas estéticas occidentales. Kahraman es reconocida también por su apropiación de técnicas y tecnologías que marcan su particular desobediencia visual, desafiando los cánones de belleza eurocéntricos y la mercantilización de los cuerpos femeninos a través de varios contextos históricos y políticos. Su meticulosa atención al detalle, especialmente evidente en su destreza en caligrafía y siluetas impecables, muestran su constante preocupación por el trauma del desplazamiento y el poder curativo de la reconexión cultural. A través de fotografías de sí misma como modelo y vívidos pies de foto, Kahraman ofrece una visión de sus experiencias, confrontarnos con la dura realidad del exilio y la búsqueda de pertenencia. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/HK21.004_Drinking_Snake_HR.jpg) fig.1 En la obra de Kahraman es fundamental el significado metafórico de objetos como el mahaffa, abanico hecho con frondas de palma entrelazadas común en Iraq y el Golfo, que simboliza el desplazamiento y la resistencia de refugiadxs. Utilizando motivos y técnicas que recuerdan a las miniaturas persas clásicas, Kahraman impregna su obra de un sentido de continuidad histórica, tendiendo un puente entre el pasado y el presente. La exposición de Kahraman en el Moody Center for the Arts – a pesar de su convencional exposición dentro de un white cube –ofrece un viaje a las profundidades de la memoria y a los contornos de lo femenino a través de composiciones que invitan a la reflexión, marcadas por un activismo inherente y sin complejos. La extrañeza de las obras depende de la profundidad con la que se capten los legados de la guerra y el desplazamiento que ella muestra. Testigos de la resistencia del espíritu humano en medio de la adversidad, cada lienzo se convierte en un lugar de resistencia, un testimonio del poder de la narración visual para desafiar los relatos dominantes y reivindicar la agencia. *La exposición estará abierta hasta el 11 de Mayo del 2024.* *//* --- ### Image Caption Hayv Kahraman, *Defibrillator*, 2021 © Hayv Kahraman. Courtesy of the Artist, Pilar Corrias, London, Jack Shainman Gallery, New York, and Vielmetter Los Angeles. Fig.1 Hayv Kahraman, *IV*, 2021 © Hayv Kahraman. Courtesy of the Artist, Pilar Corrias, London, Jack Shainman Gallery, New York, and Vielmetter Los Angeles. ### Organizing plantation workers URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/organizing-plantation-workers/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:41.000Z One evening on a large-scale plantation (formerly called PT A) in Sambas, West Kalimantan, Indonesia, I arrived at the plantation’s guest house. We’re supposed to stay in the guest house before moving into one of the workers’ houses the next day. After the long trip to the plantations, which included motorcycle and boat rides, I decided to take a shower. When I opened the bathroom door, the first thing I looked for was water. For those of us interested in socio-environmental issues on plantations, this could be something that becomes a habit: observing the appearance of water, either in the houses or in the river near the plantations. Water issues have become one of the most prominent negative ecological impacts of oil palm monoculture plantations. I examined the water in the bathroom of the guest house. The color of the water was light brown with a few mosquito larvae on the surface. Just half an hour earlier I had been talking to the housekeeper of the guesthouse. Bu Ani was explaining how she preferred to stay in the guesthouse instead of the plantation workers’ housing. One of her reasons was the water. The water in the guest house, as Bu Ani described it, was better than the water in the plantation worker’s housing, although the water quality in the latter had improved. Bu Ani went on to explain that the improvement was illustrated by the lack of complaints from the plantation workers, unlike before. When we moved to the workers’ housing the next day, I checked the quality of the water in the bathroom. The water looked muddy and dark brown in color. Nevertheless, the muddy and dark brown water for washing and cleaning is perceived as an improvement by the plantation workers. One of the union officials I spoke with confirmed what Bu Ani had said, that the quality of the water was better than before. The story of the water quality in this large plantation and the workers’ impressions of it stayed with me for a while. I am sure that the workers realized that the muddy and dark brownish water was not good for them. However, every time I asked several plantation workers what they thought about the quality of the water on the plantation, I got pretty much the same answer. Since the workers compared their past experiences each time I asked them about the water quality, I think that memory plays an important role. Meanwhile, when discussing the relationship between labor and ecology, memory is somehow less discussed among the workers. Nevertheless, or perhaps because of this, memory is becoming an essential issue in the literature on labor and ecology, not only to address the very basic question of how workers relate to the ecology of the plantation and how to overcome this dualism, but also to understand how workers imagine the future. ## Plantation Memories and Embodied Labor Plantation landscape carries a certain memory. In this sense, landscape becomes a “repository of the memory of past event.” If we understand landscape as something beyond biophysical terrain that contains its own socio-ecological relation, then this memory also concerns the labor relations of the plantations. Introducing the concept of “social memory,” Aby Warburg and Maurice Halbwachs argue that memory is socially constructed. This shows how memory shapes and is shaped by the plantation workers themselves and the labor process on the plantations. The monocultural character of the plantations shapes the labor process. Monoculture certainly brings with it a memory of the colonial plantation because, as Walter Rodney argues, the monoculture plantation is a colonial invention. The colonial logic behind monoculture plantations is how they have benefited colonial authorities and colonial metropolises at the expense of colonized societies. This logic is still perpetuated in contemporary oil palm plantations when we remember how oil palm plantation workers face a food crisis at the micro level, even though the palm oil they produce is an important ingredient for the food industry. The cultivation and maintenance of monoculture plantations involves the use of fertilizers and pesticides. Both contain toxic chemicals that are foreign to the human body. The use of these chemicals can be traced back to the development of “industrial hazard regimes” resulting from the post-war development of petrochemicals. Women plantation workers, who are often exposed to these chemicals due to the sexual division of labor on plantations that forces them to work in maintenance activities, experience the side effects of heavy and repeated use of these chemicals. They report suffering from itchy and burnt skin, respiratory problems, and sexual and reproductive health issues. These health and safety issues become embodied experiences. Asking women workers what they think about working on plantations brings up some of the health issues they suffer from. The idea of working on plantations, in turn, brings up memories of the women’s bodily experiences. In this way, body becomes a site of collective memory, a means of remembrance. Of course, the chemicals in the fertilizers and pesticides also pollute the rivers on the plantations. According to Stefania Barca, this use of pollutants serves as an environmental violence that reproduces oppressive social relations and political control. In Indonesia, this heavy reliance on the use of chemical fertilizers and pesticides began with the Green Revolution policies adopted during the authoritarian Suharto regime. The modernization of agriculture – referring to mechanization, the use of agrochemicals and high-yield seeds – became a national development agenda at that time. One of the important events that gave further impetus to this was the dismantling of radical peasant and plantation labor movements associated with the 1965-1966 mass killings of communist members in Indonesia. Thus, the use of foreign pollutants in the form of agrochemicals shapes not only individual memories of nature, but also political memories of radical movements and alternative politics in Indonesia. ## Memory and the Totality of the Plantation There is no fixed boundary between working and living spaces on plantations, as workers are often housed on the plantations. Thus, the workers’ daily lives take place mainly on the plantations. This illustrates at least two things. First, it may imply seclusion, and the secluded nature of many oil palm plantations makes it easier for the company to control workers. Drawing on the experience of slaves on plantations, Grada Kilomba uses “mask” as a metaphor in plantation memories, in which the mask functions as an instrument to impose a sense of speechlessness and fear. Kilomba also uses “mouth” as a metaphor for possession and control. Meanwhile, Indonesia’s oil palm plantations have been described as a “state within a state,” a phrase that historically refers to the totality of the Deli plantations under Dutch colonialism. The seemingly mundane life on plantations is internalized by plantation workers. Second, the housing of plantation workers can be weaponized as a product of modern development. In this case, modern subjectivity is invoked, such as the compulsion to have a modern house, access to electricity, electronic devices, and modern transportation. This is linked to the narrative of oil palm development as an important driver of rural development and job creation. This modern subjectivity, in turn, shapes the social memory and desirable futures of plantation workers. This brings us back to the plantation workers’ responses to water in PT A, as recounted at the beginning of the article. Their articulation of improving water quality is shaped by political, historical, and environmental conditions in which social memory is implicated. ## Plantation Labor Organizing: Reclaiming Collective Memory When I asked plantation trade unions what they thought about environmental issues in relation to trade union activities, they replied that they were mainly concerned with “normative issues” relating to wages and working conditions. Indeed, the political space of labor unions is often seen as limited to a legalistic framework, i.e. labor unions only talk about labor rights. However, when I raised the issue of health and safety in the plantations, the unions were able to draw a parallel between the health problems of the workers and the negative environmental impact of the plantations. While the legalistic framework shapes the social memory of plantation unions, which limits their activities to “normative issues,” the embodied experiences of workers in relation to plantation ecology stimulate imaginations beyond “normative issues.” This shows how imagination is embodied and that it is not located in the mind, but involves sense and feeling. Worked and exploited bodies will imagine the world differently. But how? The history of social movements is intertwined with the production of social memory. This can be understood as how social movements are remembered. Alternatively, it can refer to how the practice of memory helps to forge collective identities. Through plantation labor organizing, where workers have opportunities to sit together and share their reflections on how they articulate the ecology of the plantation in their daily lives, workers can shape their social memory, not only in terms of how workers relate to the ecology of the plantation, but also in terms of how they relate to each other both as exploited workers and as a collective group of people with agency. The latter can refer to imagining lives beyond the plantations. Engaging workers’ imaginations is the first step, and failing to do so means that “people will just stick with the way things are.” The transformation from extractive and exploitative monoculture oil palm plantations to socio-ecologically just palm oil production can only happen if there is a strong social movement, including the labor movement, and this also means reclaiming collective memory. // *This article is a contribution to the Berliner Gazette’s “*Allied Grounds*” project, which engaged researchers, activists, and cultural workers to co-produce knowledge resources, including audios, videos, and texts on the ecological dimensions of work. Please take a look at the resources here:* [*https://berlinergazette.de/projects/allied-grounds/*](https://berlinergazette.de/projects/allied-grounds/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) --- ### Image Caption Colnate Group, 2023 (cc by nc) *Hariati Sinaga is a decolonial feminist and labor activist. Faculty member of the University of Indonesia, Gender Studies Program (Program Studi Kajian Gender), Faculty Member of the Friedrich-Schiller-Universität Jena, BMBF Junior Research Group on Bioeconomy and Social Inequalities, Post-Doc University of Kassel, International Center for Development and Decent Work (ICDD).* ### You're always already stealing URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/youre-always-already-stealing/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:39.000Z The *Sphere* is a DAO whose approach to tokenization and protocol experimentation reflects a broader movement of tokenized communities toward redefining governance and economics in art. This is how a protocol for making a *Sphere Art* asset could be formulated: **“Lick the scar of funding. Make Art. Capture your audience’s phantom limb. Now, kill your work by completing it. Let go and release. Find the magic transmission that keeps your authorship intact. Think thoroughly about whether you’re reducible to formalizable parameters. Release with love. Now, open yourself to nurturing. Re-version capture, or both. Recognize what you’re indebted to.”** I’ve joined the *Sphere* in mutual dissent to the accelerating shit show of post-2008 in a curatorial role at the intersection of the cyber-digital - and the bodily - in 2020\. The group formed around Live Art practitioners and recovering academics, exploring joint bond-making and risk-taking practices with financial effects, as part of its aim of forming new experimental ecologies of funding Live Art. The *Sphere*’s institutional fabric relies on elasticity, supplanting the normalization of the opacity of power of governmental funding bodies. Throughout art history, there have been previous spheres - let’s call them “performances”, in which the “mysterious” underpinnings of value and trading became visible. Yves Klein’s “*zone*” concept, and his “*Ritual for the Relinquishment of the Immaterial Pictorial Sensitivity Zones*” exemplify the transaction of value in the immaterial realm. The questions the work raises about sensitivity and value are akin to the inquiries driving the *Sphere*’s ecology. Klein’s “Zones” are transferable by their owner. He hints at the accumulated immaterial value that manifests in a price tag as he gives these instructions in 1959: Half of the purchased commodity must be thrown into the ocean, to really own the full immaterial value. Beforehand, the commodity had been relinquished against an intuitively, yet rigorously assigned, weight of fine gold. As the work above aims to reveal, sensitivity zones can be acquired for free: someone can perform this ritual without means. Value in the Post-fordist era after all is only consolidated using a contract, however encrypted, that ensures what we agree on valuing. We couldn’t hazard any guesses as to what Yves thought, what this kind of sensitivity is: this object, zone, performance, or *Sphere*, that creates exchange-value? But still, while appreciating an excursion into the immaterial, these zones of consensus transport us into the realm of the collective. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Governance-ritual-2022-08-06-Svetlana-Batura-1.jpeg) fig.1 There is a value that everyone owns without having had to purchase anything, and some of that value has been given to us by our communities. How to distribute the wealth of these encounters fairly is a valid contemporary question for every artist, not only because of the often occulted complexity in which value creates price, but also because of the incredible spread of culture that 21st-century people are working on top of, and increasingly have access to. This puzzle has been looming for decades because the very act of learning a technique is an act of appropriation. Knowledge production under these terms, and the constructed problem of representation, furthermore, yield the results of centuries of extraction and erasure of marginalized voices. This, and the question of distribution of the intergenerational matrix of artistic wealth, has become even more glaring in the face of the reality of anyone’s work being captured as AI data training set inputs. In both of these scenarios, art has turned into an asset without us even being aware. There is something that we keep to ourselves and something that we share. What is the vulnerable thing that we want to keep and register as our own? Which is the part that we allow to be open to others? What happens to the experience of sharing when it is confronted with the practical necessity of distribution, into digital governance rights, alter-monetary flows, or otherwise haptic, derivative, and anarchic shares? There is, as recalled in Jacques Rancière’s famous book “*The Distribution of the Sensible*” (2006), an inherent tension between the art of sharing the sensible, and its actual distribution. The feeling of interdependence is always at risk of being shattered by the various emplotments of ownership. When the Web 3 era began, it was almost as if one could have it all: co-constituting the financialization of one’s shared experience, while also stipulating the terms for negotiation. But how do we, as artists indeterminately indebted to cross-generational influences substantiate our claim to asset formation? Looking at the medium’s liveness in its relationship to the viewer, we enter the layers of the contract between them. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Swirl-Producers-will-to-self-destruction-cem-.png) fig. 2 In this light, the *Sphere* engages its community in a variety of games as part of an open-ended process: LARPs, and, most recently, a Live Art NFT trading platform called “Karmet”, interrogating the nature of value, ownership, and the financialization of shared experiences in a digital age. While the *NFT-augmented karmic funding campaign* (2021) enacts a mechanism that necessitates one artist’s work acting as a seed to be cited, credited, and reiterated by another artist, it centers the logic of mutual care and generosity; consequently leading to a dialogue between the generations of artists and their audiences. These resulting discursive lineages respond to the ancestral dream of creating a counter-canon of the marginalized art form of Circus, an art form that has become a considerable part of our community’s identity. Its institution has historically not been endowed with critics and curators, who in the “fine” Western art world, create the exteriorized memory upholding the ecosystem. The lineages, furthermore, respond to the ongoing threat of performing arts’ extinction using the prevailing machinery of performance production, which relentlessly churns out shows, often expressive of fleeting consumption. The entanglement of live art with what some in our circles would term its “digital soul” - signifying NFT + milieu-fortifying protocol – is a gesture towards co-immunity and a fluid approach to preservation. That the work is never performed by the artist alone, the spectator adds a significant contribution to the work, “by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications”, is a dynamic already observed by Duchamp in the *Creative Act* (1957). Letting go of self-possessed authorship - partially - means to let go of degrees of certainty; and rendering them conditional. But which degrees of certainty? The certainty of being appreciated for one’s uniqueness. The certainty in controlling the perception of your art. The ability to determine the significance of your work on your terms. The certainty of having what you’ve owned to yourself. The certainty of exclusive ownership over your creations. The certainty of keeping the earnings you have made for yourself. Mutual encryption necessitates the cultivation of generosity: what we give to one another informally cannot be owned, but it can be valued and cared for. That kind of valuation differentiates the financial category of “ownership” from the notion of “possession”. Modes of receiving, after all, rely on skill. Forming a friendship seems to be the complex answer to secure co-ownership. But how easy is it, after all, to build a friendship in the face of capitalist machinations? Can the conservation of live art maintain a fluidity that preserves its ephemeral quality without altering its core character? In this context, would engage in unstable methodologies, such as “*anarchiving*”, offer a way to capture and trace memory in a way that enmeshed both reflection and continuity resulting in an open access for self-collecting tribes? Shaping value in the long term could provide a network divinatory practice, different from how value shaping is done by curators in traditional museums. Rather than being monolithic, static value forms, the anarchive is subject to alteration, and marked by forms of commentary. It is a collaborative work. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/NPC-Workshop-Torino_LV.png) fig. 3 We wish to allow each seed artist to communicate their boundaries and necessities on their lineage contributions individually. Will a smart contract, forever etched on a/the blockchain, solve all issues? “Trust cannot be proxied to a code,” the lawyer Alessandro Mazzi of the *Sovereign Nature Initiative*, told us. Safety is never safe enough, regardless of how encrypted a contract that you consent to is. Relationships are continuously changing, and a contract positioned as immutable probably isn’t capable of representing that continuous change. Andrea Leiter (*Sovereign Nature Initiative*) posed the question of what if a contract were less transactional and more relational and community-driven? What does it mean to resolve a meeting of minds pertaining to a“*decisionist stance*”, one that may be called *consent absolutism*, in rituals that acknowledge a certain incommensurability of what can be expressed through consent? A contract’s rigidity does not render it impenetrable to create misunderstandings. It must be mutable, and its mutability must be negotiable by the collective. The essential step to dismantle the divide between informality and formality, inherent in what David Graeber calls “utopian bureaucracy”, is to create a distinct differentiation of scale. We need a kind of magic circle to be drawn that separates one group of people from a larger one. This is crucial for the entire network, not just between artists remaking one another's work. The act of Magic Circling is key to trust and confidentiality, not only for one interior and exterior but also for several interiors within interiors. To say it spatially: in the vein of a fractal. A platform of collective self-capture with a fractal-like understanding of relations, resembling the interdependency of a tribe. Because really, how can one care about the deeply personal slippages in art, the perhaps irrational, the shifting, delicate claims that we make to you, the viewer, as we dedicate our work to the world, handing them over to the lineage that will take care of these relics and make them bloom? Formal gestures are not cutting it. Out of these considerations, the love letter was born. We determined that one is written by every Seed artist who starts the lineage, as a call to the future derivative artists, and we ask the applying derivative artists to respond with their love letters back. These love letters are not unconditional: they shall encompass all you want to share with the future. As it is - emerging and fluctuating - the love letter is a theatrical element of informal jurisdiction creating swirls of fluctuating commitment, trust, and a hot minute of shared sense of hype. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Spherex2032-Kaunas.png) fig. 4 Beyond love letters, the *Sphere* has assemblages that are carried out IRL. The accounting for values inherent in the works is an open-ended question for an institution to tackle. Yet essentially, these questions create a lively conversation carried across artists’ bodies, subjectivities, and authorships, thus prompting collectively coordinated ownerships. We seek to shape values in the long term, just as any other institution does. You can call it “contract improvisation”. We playtest our source code and the decisions we need to take. The key is that in these performance assembly meetings, roles are mutable and different from what we do IRL; the roles are even not necessarily human, but they relate to the abstract items we have to work with. The items that we haven’t been able to grasp fully yet; some of them cause problems, or have a two-faced appearance. Some of them shine; some of them deflect. In these performances, we reassess our institutions’ performance. The community/assembly is here to “play” at being part of the wheel, cogs that through intuition and sheer dynamics emerge in the group. The performative assembly is a reversal of the cybernetic fantasy, which rejects fostering any conditions of engagement beyond the operation of code. These feedback systems accentuate the higher and lower order at the expense of peripheral, local knowledge. Another way of saying this is: to just do exactly what you’re told to do and have your experiential knowledge documented to inform the manager, who will take decisions based on that abstracted form of information. Managerial black-box aggregation in the name of rationalization. How about creating an active auditing culture allowing for cybernetic recursivity of interactions, where the possibility of accounting for labor rendered immaterial, and other types of value, do not fall prey to hierarchical modes of valuation? Contrasting to traditional managerial ontologies, Web3 institution-building technology unearths collective responsibility for divination. Without seeing into the future, we cannot organize towards it. This procedure, which we call “Embodied Mechanisms”, creates the possibility of collective, oracular divination with machinic allyship, rather than handing the power over to one machinic operation. Framing the conditions for an emerging derivative ecology, engaging in building a language of gestures collectively offers a way to invest in relational depth with more account for the various realms of influence that lie beyond immediate interpretation. Rehearsed in semi-public spaces, these are the forces that form political subjectivities. To correspond beyond self-centered worlds, in an embrace of trans-local, mutable subjectivity, is perhaps a way to get our bodies back, those stolen in the course of contractual agreements we agreed to, half-awake. // --- ### Image Caption Sphere Ecosystem, video still (3D rendering Tymm Novi), 2024 © and courtesy of the Sphere. Fig.1 Governance Ritual, the sphere x 2032, ConTempo 2022 © and courtesy of the Sphere. Fig. 2 Lene Vollhardt, “Swirl”, 2024, Video-still depicting Cem Dagdalen. © and courtesy of the artist. Fig. 3 Lene Vollhardt, “Swirl”, 2024, Video-still. © and courtesy of the artist. Fig. 4 Sphere x 2032 LARP at ConTempo Kaunas, dir. Lene Vollhardt, 2022 © and courtesy of the artist. *(\*NYC, Turtle Island) works as an artist and a member of the Sphere, in London, UK.* ### Guten tag, tristesse URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/guten-tag-tristesse/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:36.000Z Die bilateralen Anwerbeabkommen zwischen Deutschland und Ländern am Mittelmeer (1955 mit Italien, 1960 mit Spanien und Griechenland, 1961 mit der Türkei, 1963 mit Marokko, 1964 mit Portugal, 1965 mit Tunesien und 1968 mit Jugoslawien) sollten primär einen Arbeitsmarkt bedienen, und nicht die Zuwanderung von Menschen, die hier ein neues Leben beginnen würden. Frauen emigrierten nicht nur aus finanziellen Gründen, sondern auch im Wunsch nach Unabhängigkeit, doch ihre Arbeitsbedingungen waren oft prekärer als die männlichen Gastarbeiter. Von provisorischen Unterkünften bis zu übermäßigen Lohnabzügen im Tausch gegen komfortablere Wohnheimen variierten diese Bedingungen stark. Die Künstlerin auf dem Bild kam in den 60er Jahren nach Wilhelmshaven, arbeitete für die Olympiawerke und fotografierte dabei sich selbst und Freundinnen. Sie zeigte, was ihr als Arbeiterin geschah. Die Dichterin schrieb Gedichte in der Tram, verfasste Kurzgeschichten, überlegte sogar, diese als Buch zu veröffentlichen. Bei Asimina Paradissa (geb. 1945 in Vrasta, Griechenland) und Semra Ertan (geb. 1957 in Mersin, Türkei, gest. 1982 in Hamburg) vermischen sich künstlerischer Ausdruck und Arbeitsumgebung. Das Gewicht der objektiven Bedingungen und ihre subjektive Widergabe verstärken einander. Auch das Gruppenbild von Monica Sieveking (geb. 1944 in Potsdam), das Arbeiterinnen am Fließband vom Siemenswerk zeigt, ist ein symbolisches Bild, das eine Arbeitssituation zusammenfasst. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Mehmet-Gueler-Das-Schicksal-der-Frauen-1977.jpg) fig. 1 Die Ausstellung *Annem işçi – Wer näht die roten Fahnen?* die Gürsoy Doğtaş am Marta Herford kuratierte, bringt eine Gruppe von Menschen zusammen, die sich eher für Arbeiter\*innen stark machen als dass sie selbst strictu sensu Arbeiter\*innen wären, aber auch sie sind seit den 1960er Jahren als Migrant\*innen nach Deutschland gekommen. Der Kurator erzählt: ## ***„Ein Foto aus dem Familienalbum zeigt meine Mutter in der Fabrik. Sie und ihre Kolleginnen haben sich mit ihren blumengemusterten Arbeitsschürzen vor den großen Maschinen von Telefunken in Hannover positioniert. Sie fühlt sich wohl in der Gesellschaft ihrer Kolleginnen. Ihnen ist anzusehen, dass sie gemeinsam stark sind.“*** Die Ausstellung zeigt, wie aktuell die Notwendigkeit ist, dieses Kapitel der Migrationsgeschichte in Deutschland wieder aufzumachen. Die Arbeiten, meist aus den 1970er Jahren, regen dazu an, über Fremdheit und unsere Rollen in der Gemeinschaft nachzudenken. Sie erzählen nicht nur einzelne Geschichten. Sie fragen: Kennen Sie diese Realitäten? Wissen Sie, was es bedeutet, irgendwo anzukommen, unter prekären Bedingungen? Diese Fragen richten sich nicht nur auf die Realitäten von Migrant\*innen in Deutschland. Das Poster von Gülsün Karamustafa (geb. 1946 in Ankara), einer der bedeutendsten Künstler\*innen der zweiten Hälfte des 20\. Jahrhunderts in der Türkei, wo ihr Werk jüngere Künstlergenerationen seit den 1990er-Jahren maßgeblich beeinflusst hat, zeigt ihre aktivistische Seite. Auf dem Bild sehen wir eine Frau an der Nähmaschine. Sie näht rote Fahnen. Es sind die Fahnen politisch bedingten Nomadismus, feministischer Kämpfe sowie des Widerstands gegen den westlichen Blick auf Menschen des Nahen Ostens. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Guelsuen-Karamustafa-1977-First-of-May.jpeg) fig. 2 Thematisch sowie formell sind Karamustafas und Serpil Yeter (geb. 1956 Istanbul) sehr nah, auch wenn ihre Wandarbeit noch so frisch roch am Eröffnungstag. Yeters Allegorie ist durchdrungen von eindeutigen Bezügen zu aktuellen Diskursen, vom Widerstand gegen rechtsextreme Kräfte, Protesten für gerechtere Löhne in den Fabriken und Bildern für den Geist, den nur Gewerkschaften hergeben. Die Melancholie in Mehmet Gülers Graphik stellt neben ihr auf universeller Höhe fest, wie unbezahlbar die Schulden gegenüber Generationen ausgebeuteter Menschen bleiben. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Serpil-Yeter-Rote-Zukunft-2024.jpg) fig. 3 Der Marsch für Gerechtigkeit und gegen Rassismus fand zuerst 1983 in Frankreich statt, ausgelöst von Polizeigewalt. Im selben Jahr entwickelt Nil Yalter (geb. 1938 in Kairo) eine Serie von Photographien und Kollagen, die Gastarbeiter\*innen in Frankreich porträtiert. Auf der Collage lässt sich lesen: EXIL IST HARTE ARBEIT. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Nil-Yalter-u-gurbetlik-zor-zanaat-zor-2024.jpeg) fig. 4 Dieser Satz, der, in mehrere Sprachen übersetzt, auf Plakaten in Herford auftaucht, thematisiert eine Armut, die materiell und strukturell bleibt. Hinter dieser Aussage stehen Menschen, die gemeinsam stark sind. Die Ausstellung zeigt exemplarisch die graue Zone, in der Diskriminierung, Rassismus und Gewalt noch den Schicksal von tausenden Zwangsvertriebenen in der Welt prägen. Im April eröffnet eine Fortsetzung von Doğtaş kuratorischer Revision, in Zusammenarbeit mit Susanne Pfeffer, am MMK in Frankfurt. \\\\ *Bis zum 20\. Mai 2024 am Marta Herford – Museum für Kunst, Architektur, Design Goebenstraße 2–10, 32052 Herford, Deutschland.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Nil Yalter, *Exile is a Hard Job*, 1983-2023 © Marta Herford, Foto: Besim Mazhiqi. fig. 1: Mehmet Güler, *Das Schicksal der Frauen*, 1977, Mappe mit 10 Farb-Radierungen Courtesy der Künstler © Marta Herford, Foto: Besim Mazhiqi. fig. 2: Gülsün Karamustafa, *1977 First of May (Woman constantly sewing red flags with her sewing machine)*, 1977\. © and courtesy of the artist and BüroSarıgedik. fig. 3: Serpil Yeter, *Rote Zukunft*, 2024, Wandmalerei und Nuray Demir, together (dreiteilige Installation), 2024, Arbeitskittel aus Baumwolle, Rosenduft, Maße variabel Courtesy die Künstlerin © Marta Herford, Foto: Besim Mazhiqi. fig. 4: Nil Yalter, *Şu gurbetlik zor zanaat zor*, 2024, Courtesy die Künstlerin © Marta Herford, Foto: Besim Mazhiqi. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Dreaming of palestinian planes in the sky URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/dreaming-of-palestinian-planes-in-the-sky/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:35.000Z The weather was slightly chilly, with a refreshing breeze carrying the delicate scent of lemon through the air. As I slowly opened my eyes, I realized it was morning, and I found myself in the place I had always longed to be – my grandparents’ garden. This enchanting space was adorned with olive, fig, and guava trees, each holding its own allure. However, it was the fig tree that held a special place in my heart. With a desire to embrace the day ahead, I settled beside it, taking in the lush greenery that surrounded me. Clad in my cherished Palestinian thobe, a stunning black dress embellished with an upside-down triangle-shaped red Palestinian embroidery heart on its top portion, I felt at peace. The fabric of this dress was incredibly soft against my skin and exuded an aroma reminiscent of a luxurious perfume. I observed an aircraft soaring high above, gracefully gliding through the air, leaving behind a long white trail. Shortly after, another plane zoomed by at an astonishing speed, capturing my fascination. More planes followed suit, prompting me to ponder the unusual presence of these aircraft in our typically empty city sky. Normally, our sky remains empty, only interrupted by the terrifying presence of Israeli attacks accompanied by the deafening sounds of bombardment. However, these planes appeared serene and beautiful, causing me no alarm. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to ensure that everything was alright. I contacted my parents, who reassured me with immense joy, declaring that Palestine is finally free from war. They promised that more planes would grace the sky without terror or bloodshed, as the nightmare of occupation had come to an end.But within a second, my daydreaming was interrupted by reality. As I landed in Egypt on my way back to Gaza in my country, Palestine, the Moroccan girl I was sitting next to on the plane abruptly woke me up. It was a harsh reminder that my dream of a free Palestine was still just that – a dream, and that the nightmare of our situation was far from over, and the hope I held onto was just a small sip in comparison. **Lost luggage** This was my first journey back home to Gaza. Six months previously I had traveled as an Erasmus student to study in Spain and was now returning through Egypt, since Gaza’s (and Palestine’s) only airport had been totally destroyed by the Israelis. Due to the absence of airports in Gaza. I was gaining first-hand experience of the numerous challenges Palestinians face when traveling as a result of restrictions imposed by Israel’s occupation forces. Since 2007, Israel has enforced a lockdown on Gaza, severely limiting Palestinians’ freedom of movement. Only those with scholarships abroad or requiring medical treatment outside of Gaza are granted permission to travel. Tragically, many talented Palestinians from Gaza who have received scholarships abroad have been unable to travel. Others, in need of medical treatment, have also been prevented from traveling, some even passing away while holding onto the hope of someday being able to receive treatment. Once in Egypt, I approached a policeman at the airport with a question. I wanted to know if there was any way for me to go directly to Gaza without entering Egypt and paying for a visa. My plan was to avoid spending any nights in Egypt, but he informed me that unfortunately there were no other options: I would have to pay for the visa in order to continue my journey to Gaza. This came at a cost of $25\. All the money I had left was 170 euros. Upon reaching the baggage claim area, I was shocked and dismayed to discover that my two large bags, one black and one gray, were missing. Desperate for answers, I approached an airport employee, who informed me that all bags from passengers who had flown in from Spain via Royal Moroccan Air were still in Morocco. Despite explaining that I needed to return home to Gaza that day, she told me that my bags would only arrive the following morning at 8:00 a.m. She presented me with two options: either wait until tomorrow for my bags or return to Gaza while they sent them on separately. Having heard the stories of other Palestinian travelers who had never received their lost bags in similar situations, I reluctantly chose the option I least desired. I was both emotionally and financially unprepared for an extended stay in Egypt. **Overcharges** As soon as I left the airport premises, I encountered an Egyptian driver, whom I told about my predicament in the hope that he would assist me in finding an affordable hotel. The driver in whom I naively confided demanded 350 Egyptian pounds from me for a mere 15-minute drive from the airport. I was taken aback by this exorbitant fee, as I knew it was significantly higher than what was fair. The return journey to Gaza would cost 400 Egyptian pounds and take 12 hours by car. However, in my exhausted, fearful, and lonely state, I did not want to find myself in any further unfavorable situations, so I reluctantly handed over the requested amount. Then I rented a hotel room for 670 Egyptian pounds, only to realize later that I had been overcharged due to being a foreigner unaware of the local prices. The following day, I woke up early and arranged for transportation back to the airport. However, what followed was a grueling, four-hour ordeal of wandering through various airport buildings in search of my bags. Each time I approached a police officer for directions, he would send me to the wrong location. Exhausted and disheartened, I eventually found myself sitting in a nearby chair, sobbing uncontrollably. A sympathetic police officer approached me and inquired about my distress. Desperately, I explained everything that had transpired. He took down my personal information and checked my passport before assuring me that my bags would be returned within half an hour. Though I was skeptical at first, he proved true to his word. Half an hour later, a woman arrived with my bags, accompanied by the officer himself. It felt like meeting someone dear to my heart, as my bags contained cherished memories from Spain. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Shahd-in-Spain.jpg) fig. 1 **Border closure** I was filled with anticipation of returning home and seeing my beloved family. However, my excitement quickly turned to disappointment when the drivers informed me that the borders between Egypt and Gaza were closed on Thursdays and Fridays. Determined to find a solution, I contacted a friend who had previously traveled from Egypt to Gaza. She kindly provided me with advice on affordable hotels to stay in and the cost of transportation from the airport. Unfortunately, my joy was short-lived as I fell severely ill at midnight. Exhausted and in pain, I cried profusely before mustering up the courage to seek help from the receptionist. With debilitating headaches, stomachaches, and a sore throat, I explained my symptoms and gave him money to purchase medicine from a nearby pharmacy. Given the late hour and my fear, I couldn’t go there myself. The following morning, I realized that my funds were running low. Desperate for assistance, I contacted my mother through WhatsApp and asked her to send me some money. Thankfully, she promptly sent it, and it arrived in just 15 minutes. Time seemed to drag as I tried to push aside my anxieties and explore some of Egypt’s attractions, such as the Nile and Al-Hussain Market. Although these visits were enjoyable, they were overshadowed by my overall negative experience in Cairo. On Saturday, I discovered that in order to avoid paying any additional taxes, I needed to complete certain documents in Al-Abasiyyah. Reluctantly accepting this unforeseen delay, I spent another night in Egypt before finally being able to continue my journey back home. **A long microbus journey** Finally, Sunday arrived – the day for my journey back home. Near the airport, there is a gathering place called Al-Sheratun where Palestinians gather before returning home. At 11:00 p.m., I arrived there and boarded a microbus at 2:00 a.m. The microbus took us to Al-Emadiyyeah, where we had no choice but to sleep inside the microbus since there were no hotels nearby. In the morning, I disembarked from the microbus and was taken aback by the sight of numerous men sleeping on the ground. To ensure women’s comfort, they were allowed to stay inside the microbuses. Close by, I visited a coffee shop to freshen up, use the restroom, and have some tea. At 2:30 p.m., Egyptian policemen manually inspected our bags. The first microbus underwent this process at 9:00 a.m., and ours was one of the last ones to be checked. At 3:00 p.m., we proceeded to Al-Arish, where we had to spend another night. On Tuesday morning, I woke up at 6:00 a.m. and had a bar of chocolate and some juice for breakfast. Then I met other Palestinians who had traveled with me on the same microbus – two students, a married woman, a man in his 30s, and an elderly lady. We were all strangers to each other. The driver then took us to the Egyptian hall, where our bags were once again inspected manually and our passports taken away before we finally entered the Palestinian hall. From there, I made my way home, where I hugged and kissed my mother. As I sit here in Gaza writing this account of my journey, I ponder whether I will ever be able to travel again. My greatest dream is for Palestine to be free and for me to return to Qastina, my ancestral village. I long to visit my grandparents’ home and garden. And I would love to see an airport in Palestine governed by Palestinians, where we are not subjected to humiliation and where no longer is our suffering used against us. I look at the sky from my window: I see sparkling stars, they could be planes someday! *The text by Shahd Safi, written under the guidance of the mentor John Metson, was originally written for* [*We Are Not Numbers*](https://wearenotnumbers.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *and published on October 3rd, 2023.* *\\\\* **We Are Not Numbers** **(WANN)** is a youth-led Palestinian nonprofit project based in the Gaza Strip. It was conceptualized in 2015 by the American journalist Pam Bailey. The project was brought to fruition by Dr. Ramy Abdu, the chairman of the board of directors at the Euro-Mediterranean Human Rights Monitor (Euro-Med Monitor). It is registered under the umbrella of Euro-Med, and its fiscal sponsor is Nonviolence International, a U.S.-based organization. The project came to light after Ahmed Al-Naouq, a WANN co-founder, lost his 23-year-old brother, Ayman to an Israeli missile while he was simply walking on the street near his home in Dir-Al-Balah. Ahmed sank into a depression from which he thought he would never escape. During this time, he met Pam Bailey, who encouraged him to write his story. When the world talks about Palestinians living under occupation and in refugee camps, it is usually in terms of abstractions and numbers – how many are killed, injured, rendered homeless, and/or dependent on aid. However, numbers are impersonal and often numbing; they don’t convey the daily personal struggles, triumphs, tears, and laughter, the aspirations that are so universal that if it weren’t for their context, they would immediately resonate with everyone. The mission of WANN is to create a new generation of Palestinian writers who, by making their voices heard, can create a profound change in understanding of the Palestinian cause. The project is one of the very few Anglophone endeavors in the Gaza Strip. Thus, it provides the world with direct access to the Palestinian narrative without the need for foreign intermediaries to speak on their behalf. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: The ruins of Yasser Arafat International Airport. Gisha Access, CC BY-SA 2.0, via [Wikimedia Commons](about:blank) fig. 1: Shahd Safi. Courtesy of We Are Not Numbers. *Shahd Safi is an Arabic/English translator and writer from the Gaza Strip. In addition to We Are Not Numbers, she has contributed to the Palestine Chronicle, Palestine Deep Dive, and MZEMO.* ### We URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/we/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:33.000Z *This poem was written during the Israeli bombing of Gaza at the end of 2008.* We, who are strewn about in fragments, whose flesh flies through the air like raindrops, offer our profound apologies to everyone in this civilized world, men, women and children, because we have unintentionally appeared in their peaceful homes without asking permission. We apologize for stamping our severed body parts into their snow-white memory, because we have violated the image of the normal, whole human being in their eyes, because we have had the impertinence to leap suddenly on to news bulletins and the pages of the internWeet and the press, naked except for our blood and charred remains. We apologize to all those who did not have the courage to look directly at our injuries for fear they would be too horrified, and to those unable to finish their evening meals after they had unexpectedly seen fresh images of us on television. We apologize for the suffering we caused to all who saw us like that, unembellished, with no attempt having been made to put us back together or reassemble our remains before we appeared on their screens. We also apologize to the Israeli soldiers who took the trouble to press the buttons in their aircraft and tanks to blow us to pieces, and we are sorry for how hideous we looked after they aimed their shells and bombs straight at our soft heads, and for the hours they are now going to spend in psychiatrists’ clinics, trying to become human again, like they were before our transformation into repulsive body parts that pursue them whenever they try to sleep. We are the things you have seen on your screens and in the press, and if you made an effort to fit the pieces together, like a jigsaw, you would get a clear picture of us, so clear that you would be unable to do a thing. Translation: Catherine Cobham \*\*\* GERMAN WIR Wir, die wir als Splitter umherfliegen, als Fleisch herabregnen, entschuldigen uns aufrichtig bei dieser zivilisierten Welt, bei jedem Einzelnen, bei Männern, Frauen und Kindern, weil wir ohne Erlaubnis und ganz unabsichtlich bei ihnen zu Hause aufgetaucht sind, wir entschuldigen uns für den Eindruck, den unsere Körperteile in ihrem schneeweißen Gedächtnis hinterlassen haben, wir entschuldigen uns, weil wir dem Bild vom – ihrer Meinung nach – natürlichen, vollkommenen Menschen einen Kratzer verpasst haben, weil wir mit großer Unverschämtheit ganz unvermittelt über die Meldungen der Nachrichten, über die Internetseiten und die Zeitungen gesprungen sind, nackt bis aufs Blut und die verkohlten Überreste unserer Körper, wir entschuldigen uns bei allen Augen, die es nicht wagen, unsere Wunden direkt anzusehen, damit sie nicht zu zittern beginnen, und wir entschuldigen uns bei jedem, der sein Abendessen nicht beenden konnte, nachdem er von unserem frischen Anblick im Fernseher überrumpelt wurde, wir entschuldigen uns für die Schmerzen, die wir all jenen hinzugefügt haben, die uns so sahen, ohne Aufhübschung oder den Versuch, unsere Überreste und Körperteile wieder zusammenzusetzen, bevor wir auf den Bildschirmen erscheinen, und wir entschuldigen uns auch bei den israelischen Soldaten, die sich die Mühe machten, auf die Knöpfe in ihren Flugzeugen und Panzern zu drücken, um uns in Einzelteile zu verwandeln, wir entschuldigen uns bei ihnen für die hässlichen Bilder, zu denen wir wurden, nachdem sie mit ihren Bomben direkt auf unsere weichen Köpfe zielten, und für die Stunden, die sie jetzt in den Praxen von Psychologen verbringen, um wieder zu jenen Menschen zu werden, die sie waren, bevor sie uns zu abstoßenden Körperteilen machten, die sie sogar im Schlaf verfolgen, wir sind die Dinge, die ihr auf den Bildschirmen und in den Zeitungen gesehen habt, und wenn ihr euch Mühe geben würdet, sie wie ein Puzzle wieder zusammenzusetzen, dann erhieltet ihr ein klares Bild von uns, so klar, dass ihr nicht mehr in der Lage wärt, etwas zu tun. Aus dem Arabischen von Larissa Bender. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Ghayath Almadhoun, © Marte Visser. *Ghayath Almadhoun is a Palestinian poet born in Damascus, Syria, and emigrated to Sweden in 2008\. He writes in Arabic, and his poetry has been translated into over 20 languages. Now he lives between Berlin & Stockholm.* ### Camps URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/arts-of-the-working-class-30/ Last updated: 2026-09-04T12:58:46.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-30-camps](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-30-camps?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- EXILE IS A HARD JOB In our time of commodified panicked sociality, our capacity for interiority depends on how many of us can sit down together after a long day of darkness. There is too much ideological loneliness out there, too much exhaustion. How do we stop fearing disagreement and start cultivating it as a practice of conversation? With this question in mind, we seek to infiltrate the spaces where the replication of patriarchal, capitalist, and neo-colonialist desires takes place, and the mirroring of the shortcomings and violence of political polarization is reproduced. Guided by the spirit of questioning the internalized rules that shape our togetherness, our editorial frame in 2024 is *Codes of Conduct*. As an overarching topic across AWC’s five issues throughout the year, this frame will challenge the ecologies of our practices concerning discourses, institutions, and communities that plot against the interlocking oppressions that shape violent social patterns. *Codes of Conduct* will undertake a semantic shift by overwriting large-scale hegemonic formations with the vocabularies of locally rehearsed practices, replacing communal fatalism with risk-taking. The first issue of the year, No. 30, is entitled *Camps*. It will center the people migrating in search of marginal opportunities for survival, only to end up in camps to nowhere. Because the politics of concentration/isolation/agglomeration have deep colonial roots, we seek to make evident the control and dispossession of oppressed people in cities that employ them. These politics are an intrinsic feature of Germany’s imperialist legacy, which at the beginning of the twentieth century pioneered the use of then-novel “concentration camps” in its colonies in Namibia, perpetrating a largely forgotten genocide against the Herero, Mbanderu, and Nama people, later re-importing this technology for its genocide against Jews during World War II. This dark chapter of history emanates today as an unprocessed form of guilt in Germany’s facilitation of the expulsion and mass murder of Palestinians, as well as in the scrutiny applied in mainstream media to activists and even internationally recognized institutions such as UNRWA to undermine solidarity or calls for humanitarian aid to the Gaza strip. In this light, our first issue of 2024 amplifies the urgency of naming the links of the fence that partitions humanity into caravans of bodies and resources, in the language of the author and filmmaker Ariella Aïsha Azoulay. Increasing numbers of people may be familiar with the experience of forced displacement, Kafka-esque border regimes, and the rhythms of life in refugee camps, labor camps, and “high-density” camps. Others have different experiences of what “camp” means. Having spent summers camping, enjoying the outdoors, seeking reconnection with nature and the inner self under an all-encompassing capitalist system. Often these people are relatively privileged, yet powerless. Meanwhile, millions live in tents elsewhere without electricity, potable water, or food. This issue is thus broken down into two chapters: firstly: *The Policies and Politics of Encampment* which contextualizes the dialectical relationship between reasoning and the lived experience of de/re-territorialization. This chapter provides a historical capsule, introducing the notion of the “surplus population”, for example as discussed in the essay by Bue Rübner Hansen. The second chapter – *Cultures of Liberation* – in collaboration with the participants of the program We Who Move the World Forward: Listening To Resistance Inside Germany’s Migrant Histories at ACUD MACHT NEU in Berlin, shows how those once dispossessed continue to long for a genuine sense of belonging, counterposing the insolation/isolation of privilege with the joy of redistribution. Regardless of your state of privilege, you will, sooner or later, be awakened by the earth’s trembling fluxes of migrants fleeing from the south to the north and east to west, chasing a dream of better living conditions foreclosed in their native lands by global extractive industries, fabricated scarcity, climate crisis, war, and occupation. *With Contributions by Sheriff Abisoye Adenkule, Hossam Aldeen, Ghayath Almadhoun, Ariella Aïsha Azoulay, Leem Baha, Member of Arts and Cultural Alliance Berlin, Heath Bexley, Fetewei Tarekegn and Anguezomo Mba Bikoro, Nicky Böhm, Irus Braverman, Nino Bulling, DMT, Grieving Doves, Kuba Szreder and the Center for Plausible Economies, Holger Fröhlich, Sara Pierce x Gfzk, Bue Rübner Hansen, Artists + Allies x Hebron, Amelie Jakubek, Abolitionist Jelly, María Inés Plaza Lazo, Dalia Maini, Alesa Mustar, We Are Not Numbers, Lilo Ruminawi, Shibboleth, Hariati Sinaga, International Women\* Space, Didem Yazıcı, Huda Zikry, Rico Zyrrano* *And Artworks by Nil Yalter, Mehmet Güler, Gülsün Karamustafa, Tanya Habjouqa, Sigrid Weise, Hayv Kahraman* ***Impressum / Imprint*** **Founders / Publishers / Directors** Verantwortlicher i.S.d . 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Advising Editor** Max Haiven **Editor** Elisa Fuenzalida **Graphic Design** Manuel Bürger **Artistic Project Development** Theresa Zwerschke **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph **Distribution Assistance** Miguel Angel Espinoza **Proofreading** William Kherbek, Anne Waak **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **We thank our dear Volunteers:** Hassoumi Moctar Agali, Amina Zerourou, Manuela Miel **Druck** BV Berliner Zeitungsdruck GmbH Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Lynarstrasse 38, 13353 Berlin [hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org](mailto:hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org) Arts of the Working Class can now be read digitally, too. Please find our vendors who carry a STREAD badge and you will be able to scan a code to digitally buy a copy and additionally the STREAD issue of each month. Spendenkonto: Reflektor Monde gUG IBAN: DE64 1001 0010 0931 5031 07 BIC: PBNKDEFF paypal: p@artsoftheworkingclass.org --- ## In this issue - [Dreaming of palestinian planes in the sky](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/dreaming-of-palestinian-planes-in-the-sky/) - [Guten tag, tristesse](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/guten-tag-tristesse/) - [Organizing plantation workers](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/organizing-plantation-workers/) - [Die “Migrationskarawane” im Kontext von imperialer Plünderung und Enteignung verstehen](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/die-migrationskarawane-im-kontext-von-imperialer-pluenderung-und-enteignung-verstehen/) - [After gravity:](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/after-gravity/) - [I come from home: mental healt & identity politics.](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/i-come-from-home/) - [The olive tree](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-olive-tree/) - [Das sagbare und das sichtbare](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/das-sagbare-und-das-sichtbare/) - [Sigrid Weise](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/sigrid-weise/) - [This is not art. This is Politics!](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/this-is-not-art-this-is-politics/) ### Who are the women of allah? URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/who-are-the-women-of-allah/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:32.000Z *This essay was first published on Another Screen in December 2022 during the early months of the Woman, Life, Freedom uprising in Iran, in response to several Western art institutions’ attempts at solidarity that only reinforced oppressive representations of Iranian women. \[1\] One such attempt took place On October 29, 2022, when at the entrance of the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin at which was hung a banner depicting a 1993 self-portrait of visual artist Shirin Neshat onto which the slogan Woman, Life, Freedom had been superimposed. Called “Unveiling”, this self-portrait belongs to Women of Allah, a series of black-and-white photographs Neshat made between 1993 and 1997\. The event prompted a group of protestors to stand in front of the museum holding a sign addressing the museum’s director: “Hey Mr. Biesenbach, stop capitalising on the struggle of people in Iran!”.* *For the authors of this essay, who identify as part of a community of artists in the Iranian diaspora, this event exposed the need for overdue conversations about gendered representations that have been challenged by artists and by protestors on the ground, during and before the Woman, Life, Freedom Uprising. In this essay, we look closer at Neshat’s practice to point to the broader discourses in which her imagery functions. These discourses include the intersections of orientalism, Western institutional dominance, and the Islamic Republic’s visual rhetoric. Today, as the circulation of the imagery we set out to critique persists, we revisit the original essay to include the works of visual artists Parastou Forouhar and Chupan Mehraneh Atashi as embodied counter-representations of gender, life, death, and resistance in Iran, and of Iranians in exile.* At the beginning of the uprising, we did not have the language to describe what we were witnessing on our screens. Protests rapidly transformed into a movement, then an uprising, manifestations of a desire for *revolution*: something we had wanted for years, and sometimes expressed through silence, and at other times by crying out against an oppressive regime. Without suitable language, and given that we were not in Iran, we could only navigate the uprising via the bodies depicted in the images emerging from it. The bodies we witnessed on the streets and, at times, desperately desired to become: standing, running, lying dead, dancing, and setting fire to their mandatory veils chanting “Jin, Jiyan, Azadi – Zan, Zendegi, Azadi.” \[2\] The images emerging from Iran starkly contrasted dominant representations of Iranian women in the West. It took some days for the world to adjust to this new image of women burning the symbol of their oppression. And, even when they were seen, these women continued to be erased and appropriated. Supposedly progressive white feminists remained silent for an extended period, to make sure that expressing solidarity with protestors in Iran could not be interpreted as Islamophobia, while right-wing political parties and conservative media took the act of veil-burning out of context, appropriating gendered struggles in Iran for their own racist and Islamophobic agendas. The uprising continued, and expressing solidarity by sharing images of protesters, in particular women protestors, soon became a trend. Major art institutions in the West took to expressing solidarity, too, but instead of paying attention to the images that emerged from the protests themselves, a number of them - such as the Neue Nationalgalerie - decided to reproduce photographs by Shirin Neshat. Born in Qazvin, Iran, and based in New York, Neshat is a visual artist whose practice consists of staged photographs, and experimental and narrative films that revolve around images of Iranian women. For decades, Western art institutions have positioned Neshat as the epitome of Iranian artists, and the women she depicts as the only representation of Iranian women. She is represented by Gladstone Gallery, and Goodman Gallery, and has held solo exhibitions at art institutions including the Whitney Museum of American Art, New York (1998) and the Stedelijk Museum, Amsterdam (2006). In October 2022, The Cultural Institute of Radical Contemporary Art (CIRCA) displayed a photograph, “Moon Song”, which Neshat took in 1995, on the [digital billboard](https://www.archipanic.com/iranian-womens-freedom/woman-life-freedom-artwork-by-shirin-neshat-at-piccadilly-circus-london-courtesy-of-circa/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) in London’s Piccadilly Circus as a gesture of solidarity with the protestors in Iran. The photograph shows the artist’s open palms – one is decorated with pseudo-arabesque calligraphy, the other with paisley, an ancient Persian symbol, she is holding two bullets as if to reveal a truth. The words “Woman, Life, Freedom”, in English and Persian, have been superimposed onto the image for the occasion. This image, like the self-portrait displayed in front of the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin, is part of the Neshat’s series *Women of Allah*. We were introduced to *Women of Allah* for the first time when internet access became available in urban centers in Iran in the mid-2000s. Later, as art school students in Iran, we were mostly united in our disconnection from Neshat and the women she depicted, who were nothing like the Iranian women we knew. [Was this woman part of the Islamic Republic’s military forces](https://www.tehrantimes.com/news/458980/Angels-of-Sacred-Defense?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), with her gun and black chador? Was she the mother of martyrs from the Iran-Iraq war? Was she, with her thick black eyeliner and heavy jewelry, supposed to represent the region we were taught to refer to as “the Middle East”? Who are the Women of Allah? Neshat’s *Women of Allah* includes self-portraits and portraits of other women in black chadors holding either guns or flowers in their hands; women whose hands and feet - the only parts of their body permitted to be visible by the Islamic Republic - are decorated in either Arabic or Persian calligraphy. To a Western audience, the calligraphy is illegible and serves a purely decorative and exoticizing function that nevertheless refers to a specific geography. To a Persian-speaking audience familiar with the context of Iran, the combination of Arabic Koranic verses and poems by women poets, such as Forough Farokhzad, is a contradiction. Farokhzad’s poetry is marked by an anti-patriarchal undertone, and the absence of any distinct religious, or more specifically “Islamic” motives. It is unclear whether Neshat is constructing a connection or a disjunction between Farokhzad’s poetry and the Koran, so the choice appears to be solely aesthetic rather than conceptual. This choice is further complicated by Neshat’s juxtaposing of Farokhzad’s work against that of Tahereh Saffarzadeh. Saffarzadeh is one of the few women poets whose works are presented and celebrated in primary school books for their praise of the Islamic faith, her support of the Islamic Republic, and her poetry’s lack of explicit political and social critique. Was Neshat’s choice of these two poets’ works solely made on the basis that both poets identify as women? Neshat created *Women of Allah* after returning to New York from her first trip to Iran since she left the country in 1975\. \[3\] During this first and only visit in 1990, Neshat was shocked to find her country out of sync with the memories she held from before the 1979 Revolution, a revolution that led to the establishment of the Islamic Republic, and the legislation of mandatory hijab. This legislation led to the construction of a new image of the Iranian women: a woman covered from head to toe in a black chador. Upon her visit, Neshat was first confronted with this new image of the Iranian woman. An image that left Neshat in obsessive fascination bordering on fetishization, as evidenced by the abundance of similar imagery she has produced since that trip. \[4\] In Neshat’s imagery, the passiveness of women towards the compulsory veil as a concrete form of regime oppression is expressed through an orientalist eroticization of the veil: the figure hides defeated and passive, yet playfully behind the veil as she taps into the patriarchal colonial fantasy of unveiling the colonized woman. A fantasy that is materialized in colonial imagery such as in the French photographer Marc Garanger’s depiction of [Algerian women](https://www.icp.org/browse/archive/objects/femmes-algeriennes-1960?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) in the 1960s. Despite the historical differences between Neshat’s women and those depicted with rage in their eyes by Garanger both images are marked by inherently colonial visual motifs. *Women of Allah* not only taps into colonial dreams of unveiling the “oppressed, colonised Muslim woman”, but also painfully resembles the image of the Iranian woman as constructed by the Islamic Republic in its early years. *Women of Allah* reproduces the Islamic Republic’s propaganda of the 1990s, a decade marked by the state’s attempts at solidifying its political discourse following the end of the Iran-Iraq war in 1988, on which the regime drew to glorify martyrdom and symbols of armed resistance as the essence of Shi’a Islam and, thus, the regime’s political ideology. While state propaganda in this period is historically situated, Neshat’s staged photographs grant a timeless quality to the aesthetics the artist draws from. This timeless quality is intensified through the reproduction of *Women of Allah* on large scale-banners following the Woman, Life, Freedom Uprising more than 20 years later. In Neshat’s quest for the erasure of time, she deprives her supposed subjects of the right to evolve in representation, trapping them in a regime-centering ideology that occasionally allows women to appear with arms, but which always makes sure that all body parts except for their face and hands remain covered under a black chador. The chador holds a core place in the Islamic Republic’s political discourse and the position women occupy within that discourse. The regime’s obsession with the chador is manifested in discursive means, such as propaganda, that have material impacts on those living under the Islamic Republic’s rule. In school books, on national television, and banners in public spaces, the chador is depicted as a shell protecting a pearl - women’s dignity - from men’s penetrative gazes. In the collective mind, the figure of the woman with a black chador and a gun represents the Morality Police and the policing of our bodies. Whenever we refused to adhere to the Islamic Republic’s dress codes and compulsory veiling in the public space we were met by the violence of female Morality Police officers in chadors. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/State-propaganda-image.png) fig. 1 Iranian artists have picked up the chador as a visual element and theme, challenging this garment’s politics. One of them is Parastou Forouhar, who challenges this symbol of regime control over women’s bodies, playfully taking away its almost mythical power by approaching the black fabric with disarming humor. A kind of humor is embodied by her usage of banal objects such as office chairs and kitsch plastic objects such as balloons and swan pedal boats. Forouhar not only challenges the status granted to this veil but also the gender binary on which that status is based. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Parastou-Forouhar-Swanrider.jpg) fig. 2 The photo series *Blind Spot* (2001), depicts a figure almost fully covered with a chador, whose position changes slightly in each photograph. The only skin Forouhar’s images show is the back of the figure's hands and their shaven head. The figure’s face remains covered at all times refusing assumptions about their gender, thus, subverting the conventional association of the chador with those bodies the Islamic Republic perceives as female. These subversions, alongside the figure’s playful gestures, question gender by engaging audiences with the body made invisible underneath the chador. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Parastou-Forouhar-Blind-Spot.jpeg) fig. 3 The seemingly simple, yet inherently political, question of whose body and which parts of this body the Islamic Republic aims to cover is the driving force behind Forouhar’s photographic practice. In *Friday* (2003), a large four-part photograph, the hands, one of the only not forbidden body parts, resemble the contours of the most forbidden body part: the vagina. The vaginal form appears from underneath the patterned black chador as a piece of flesh simultaneously holding and swallowing the fabric. “Friday” does not reproduce the symbols that, according to the Islamic Republic, “make the Iranian woman” but uses them to bring shapes the regime deems “immoral” onto the screen. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Parastou-Forouhar-Friday.jpeg) fig. 4 Chupan Mehraneh Atashi \[5\] is another example of an artist whose photographic practice challenges gendered representations. In the series *zourkhaneh (bodiless, I)* (2004), Atashi takes to the *zourkhaneh*, a place where traditionally men gather to perform an ancient form of martial arts. Atashi became intrigued by this space after hearing that “in the *zourkhaneh*, women’s breath is haram.” \[6\] It took Atashi over a year to gain access to this space. When they finally entered, Atashi decided to bring the zourkhaneh’s mirror down into the ring so that they could take a self-portrait in the ring among the *zourkhaneh* men. Women are traditionally not allowed into the zourkhaneh ring. In this image, Atashi depicts themself in the corner of the frame, apart from the other figures: men standing against the frame’s edges, as far as possible from the photographer, and other men whose images hang above the photographer’s head. The images that hang above Atashi’s head depict the Islamic Republic’s Supreme Leaders, Shi’a imams, and figures from Persian mythology. These men’s victorious narratives constitute the identity of the *zourkhaneh* as a masculine space. Through their presence in the *zourkhaneh* in mandatory hijab, the state’s marker of Atashi’s femininity, the photographer positions the feminine figure in opposition to the heroic masculine history embodied by the men whose images hang on the *zourkhaneh*’s walls. A visual history of which the images of Islamic Republic leaders are part. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Chupan-Mehraneh-Atashi-Zourkhaneh.jpg) fig. 5 After “zourkhaneh (bodiless, I)”, Atashi continued to capture their presence in hostile spaces in *Tehran’s Self-portraits* (2008-2010). Atashi began capturing themself walking in a rapidly changing city filled with images and statues of men. One year after starting “Tehran’s Self-portraits”, the uprising known as the 2009 Green Movement began, and Atashi’s walks became tangled in the fabric of an emerging collective revolutionary desire. “Tehran’s Self-portraits” captures the dynamic process of banal daily walks transforming into revolutionary momentum. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Chupan-Mehraneh-Atashi-Tehran-Self-portraits.jpg) fig. 6 Atashi’s photos of Tehran’s streets center on the artist’s face, but they do not only depict the photographer: they depict Atshi as a figure that stands at a short distance from the marching crowds. On the streets, Atashi does not seek decorative aesthetics; they instead search for a self that always stands in relation to those who surround them, and those who change: bodies that are continuously opposing and negotiating with power and its changing forms of oppression, from obligatory dress codes to tear gas. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Chupan-Mehraneh-Atashi-Tehran-Self-portraits_2.jpg) fig. 7 While Atashi captured the emerging movement, the city’s surveillance cameras caught Atashi. Subsequently, they were brutally arrested and imprisoned for the crime of recording their presence on the streets. During Atashi’s imprisonment, their investigator stated that Atashi would only be allowed to continue photographing if they agreed to refrain from depicting themself and encouraged them to depict flowers instead. Flowers that the authorities use to erase the faces of those the regime marks as women. The Islamic Republic chose to punish Atashi through erasure, and by denying them the right to representation on their terms. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/State-propaganda-image-saying-hijab.jpg) fig. 8 Forouhar and Atashi’s figures are not submissive to power; instead, they stare power in the eyes and laugh furiously and disarmingly. It is a laughter we are familiar with as resistance in the face of death and the absurdities and banalities of violence. Their practices have emerged, grown, and changed in parallel to their embodied experiences of their refusals to compromise with power. Forouhar and Atashi’s artistic practices capture these artists’ attempts not only at navigating the construction of gender in power but also embody lineages of refusals that go beyond their acts of resistance. The lineages embodied in their practices exceed these artists’ selves because they draw on specific elements shaping collective memories of resistance: in Atashi’s practice, the *zourkhaneh*, the streets of Tehran, and the Green Uprising are concrete spaces and movements and belong to the collective memory. Forouhar’s practice offers an alternative, and deeply personal, narrative of the 1988-1989 Chain Murders, a series of brutal murders and disappearances of intellectuals who had criticized the Islamic Republic, of which both of Forouhar’s parents were victims. After her parents’ brutal murders, Forouhar has persisted in returning each year for her parents’ anniversary organizing gatherings and creating archives and video pieces “against forgetting”. In an interview responding to criticism of her lack of embodied experience regarding the themes she foregrounds in her practice, Neshat discusses the difficulties of migrating from Iran at a young age. \[7\] She speaks of a generation whose second home became their only home, as they witnessed Iran go through drastic changes and continued to seek their Iranian roots while abroad in the West. In this same interview, Neshat also states that her practice is deeply personal given that the women in her images represent herself. However, in *Women of Allah* we don’t encounter a personal representation, but an imagined woman with whom Neshat desperately desires to identify. Indeed, the lack of embodied experience of the themes she portrays fuels the complicity in replicating exotic imagery and the questions of identification with a Westernized representation of Iranian’s women struggles. Neshat’s imagery fabricates proximity to a brutal reality she has never lived. In her most recent film *The Fury* (2023), exhibited at Gladstone Gallery and the Tribeca Film Festival, we see a naked woman, seemingly bruised and possibly tortured, lying on the floor of a warehouse, likely symbolizing an Islamic Republic prison. She is surrounded by men in army uniforms, representing Neshat’s imagination of the Islamic Republic’s authorities. Political prisoners and ex-political prisoners in Iran employ carefully tailored language to foreground their agency and resistance. In *The Fury*, however, the struggle that preceded this political prisoner’s arrest is unclear, and her suffering is made into a spectacle. Neshat seems to persist in disempowering women political prisoners by fabricating a highly stylised image of authorities looking down on a bruised woman. Such a portrayal reinforces the patriarchal gaze that the Islamic Republic has long sought to instill in our minds. The work is showcased at a blue-chip gallery in New York City, reminding us of how the visual regime of gendered and racialised oppression extends beyond the borders of Iran. As an artwork, *The Fury* decontextualises and reproduces violence, capitalising on the pain of others. A pain the artist first imagines and then represents drawing on a kind of imagery the capitalist art market consumes easily and eagerly: a stylistically pleasing image of a racialised woman, defeated and oppressed. The commodification of the pain of others has a long history, and so does the commodification of political movements. It is a capitalist tool to empty politics of their context and meaning, allowing them to be recuperated back into the system. Returning to these art institutions’ reproduction of Neshat’s *Women of Allah* alongside the Persian translation of the Kurdish slogan *Jin, Jiyan, Azadi*, the art markets’ complicity in the commodification of political movements, once again, becomes visible. When attached to a giant billboard of an image that did not emerge from the same struggle without further explanation the inherently anti-capitalist meaning of the slogan *Jin, Jiyan, Azadi*, which finds its roots in the Kurdish Women’s Movement is erased. The sociologist Dilar Dirik articulated this beautifully at the International Women’s Conference in Berlin, saying: At the same time as we see a rise in women's liberation struggles, we see how liberalism is imposed on women's struggles as the safest and most viable option for equality and change. We see today that radical revolutionary slogans and symbols increasingly become commodified, mass-produced, emptied of their meaning, and sold back in plastic to the same people who gave their lives creating these values. \[8\] Under the conditions of liberalism, even though the commodification of a specific political aesthetic might not directly result in increased capital for either the artist or the institution, the performance of progressive politics is no doubt beneficial for both parties’ accumulation of cultural capital. The art institutions foregrounding Neshat’s imagery in light of the Woman, Life, Freedom Uprising accumulate cultural capital by reproducing stereotypes familiar to the Western gaze while adding progressive slogans onto these aesthetics. They rebrand these stereotypes according to the demands of a market whose survival is contingent on remaining in sync with a shifting political landscape. While Neshat’s depiction of so-called “Iranian women” hasn’t changed since the nineties, how marginalized bodies represent themselves in Iran has been transformed by artists such as Foruhar and Atashi, and by women in Iranon Tiktok, Instagram, and Twitter. On these platforms we have seen queer couples kissing on the main squares of Iranian cities; girls standing in the streets with faces covered and bodies exposed to show the words *Zan, Zendegi, Azadi* written in lipstick on their skin; and videos of women singing, dancing, and laughing loudly. It is, however, crucial to understand that even the diverse and dynamic representations that emerged from the ground up during the Woman, Life, Freedom Uprising do not offer an image as rich as the communities and geography that exist under the rule of the Islamic Republic. This is especially true as the bulk of the photos that eventually do reach us are taken in either Tehran or other big urban centers. Those individuals who are located on the margins of the centralist state’s territory and political discourse, those whose ethnicity and gender differ from the male, Fars, Twelver Imam Shi’a figure that constitutes the core of not only the Islamic Republic but also the mainstream and right-wing opposition against that regime, and those whose identity the state weaponises to surveil them are excluded from representation, and, more importantly, they are denied from the right to represent themselves and their struggles. This mechanism of exclusion not only occupies the core of the Islamic Republic and the mainstream opposition but also shapes the dominant centralist mindset of the Fars urban middle and upper classes. Despite the exclusion of gendered and racialised bodies from self-representation, we still have been confronted with voices and images from the margins, for example, images of [Baluch women](https://www.radiozamaneh.com/782512/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) holding banners saying “Baluch women don’t accept oppression” have emerged from Sistan and Balochistan province in Iran. We not only saw images of these marginalised bodies’ resistance, but also read their words when collectives such as Desgoharan began issuing statements navigating the specific intersections of being assigned female at birth and being assigned ethnically Baluch under the rule of centralist gender apartheid. These examples point to the diversity of representation that the Islamic Republic as well as Persian-speaking mainstream media, the mainstream and right-wing opposition, and Western art institutions do not foreground. The realm of visual art, not only in the West but also in Tehran, reflects this pattern of exclusion, as the artworks exhibited in the galleries of Tehran, or those known and represented by Western institutions as being “from Iran”, in reality, only represent a minor fraction of the geography referred to as such. Most of these artworks, thus, represent embodied experiences that are specific to certain segments of society and do not account for the lack of representations of marginalised and racialised Baluch, Kurd, Lur, Arab, Afghanistani, etc. individuals. This lack of representation is intersectional. It is not only a matter of race but also class and gender. For example, in the visual arts, representations of middle-class Fars women are more visible than that of working-class racialised women who do not have access to urban centers, and their art markets, and therefore are denied the right to represent themselves through their art. At times, however, these racialised and gendered bodies do become the subject of artistic production. In these cases, they are represented by a third party and are strictly as the victims of power. Moreover, Neshat and Western art institutions’ appropriation of the slogan Woman, Life, Freedom is only one form of capitalising on this chant and the struggle it embodies. We can not ignore that this Kurdish chants’ initial translation into Persian, and its subsequent overrepresentation by a vast range of political fractions within the opposition to the Islamic Republic, has also amounted to appropriation and the erasure of the Kurdish struggle from the revolutionary opposition against the state. \\\\ *This essay was edited by Ash Kilmartin and Nastaran Saremy. Parts of the first draft were written in collaboration with Saina Salarian as part of an event called Images of Resistance which took place in the art space Availabe and the Rat in Rotterdam, in November 2022.* --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] The first version of this essay was published on another-screen.com under the title “The Commodification of Jin, Jiyan, Azadi by Western art institutions” as a part of the program Films from Iran for Iran. \[2\] The notion of desiring to become the images of protestors that emerged from the ground in Iran is inspired by L’s essay “Women Reflected in Their Own History”: https://www.e-flux.com/notes/497512/women-reflected-in-their-own-history. \[3\] https://www.ted.com/talks/shirin\_neshat\_art\_in\_exile \[4\] https://www.ted.com/talks/shirin\_neshat\_art\_in\_exile \[5\] Today, Chupan Mehraneh Atashi uses the pronouns they/them. All pronouns in previous writings and works should be understood accordingly. \[6\] This was told by Atashi to the essay’s authors. \[7\] https://www.ted.com/talks/shirin\_neshat\_art\_in\_exile \[8\] https://womenweavingfuture.org/programm-2022 IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Protest against Shirin Neshat’s intervention at the Neue Nationalgalerie, Berlin, October 2022\. Source: social media. fig. 1: State propaganda image saying “In the supreme leader’s words hijab is a shell holding a pearl”. Source: the authors’ shared archive. fig. 2: Parastou Forouhar, Swanrider, 2004\. © and Courtesy of the artist fig. 3: Parastou Forouhar, Blind Spot, 2001\. © and Courtesy of the artist. fig. 4: Parastou Forouhar, Friday, 2003\. © and Courtesy of the artist. fig. 5: Chupan Mehraneh Atashi, Zourkhaneh (bodiless, I), 2004\. © and Courtesy of the artist. fig. 6: Chupan Mehraneh Atashi, Tehran's Self-portraits, 2008-2010\. © and Courtesy of the artist. fig. 7: Chupan Mehraneh Atashi, Tehran's Self-portraits, 2008-2010\. © and Courtesy of the artist. fig. 8: State propaganda image saying hijab. *Katayoon Barzegar (Tehran, 1990) is a visual artist currently based in the Netherlands. Through bodily interactions with objects and spatial interventions, Barzegar’s practice investigates the effects of power regimes on individual bodies. Barzegar holds a bachelor’s degree in sculpture from Tehran University, an MA in Artistic Research from Alzahra University, Tehran, and a Master of Fine Arts from HKU Utrecht.* *Pegah Pasalar (Tehran, 1992) is an interdisciplinary artist, filmmaker, and film editor currently based in Brooklyn. Their autoethnographic practice encompasses video, installation, and film and explores themes including identity convulsion, cultural memory, fragmentation, temporality, and displacement. Pasalar Pasalar holds a Master of Fine Arts from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is the recipient of City of Chicago’s Department of Cultural Affairs grant, the 3ARTS’ Make a Wave grant, and the New Artist Society grant.* *Niloufar Nematollahi (Esfahan, 1998) is a writer and artist. With a background in visual arts as well as Middle Eastern studies, International Relations, and Cultural Analysis, she has conducted research on the literary genre of Persian oil fiction and the politics of electronic dance music in Tehran. Her current research predominantly revolves around feminist conceptualizations of contemporary labor politics in Iran and the broader region. Nematollahi is an editor at Jacobin Netherlands.* ### Akte des loslassens URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/in-der-blumenhalle-michael-kleine/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:30.000Z ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/01_Bonner-Kunstverein.jpg) *plein air,* 2023, dimensions variable. Eine gute Erfahrung mit Kunst ist unabhängig von ihrem Medium. Der zwischen Bühnenbild, Performance, Architektur, Musik und Skulptur sich bewegende Künstler Michael Kleine weiss das. Er weiss, dass Kunst ständig etwas projiziert, das über die Intention der Autor\*innen hinausgeht. Kunst kann etwas sein, das nicht objektiv rekonstruierbar ist, sondern aus der Lust entsteht, sich etwas anzueignen; etwas zu machen, das als magischer Moment stattfindet, den man mit allen teilen möchte. Die Ausstellung oder auch das Gesamtkunstwerk, a.k.a. die raumübergreifende Installation “In der Blumenhalle” ist eine Ausstellung über diese Instanz, und Michael Kleine öffnete einen Raum dafür und für ein kollektives Aushandeln der Möglichkeit in Abwesenheit von Gegebenheiten. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/3_Bonner-Kunstverein-001.jpg) *Sitznischen*, 2023, 315 × 118 × 265 cm. "In der Blumenhalle" ging in diesem Winter über den Ausstellungsraum hinaus und fragte nach den Ursprüngen all ihrer Dimensionen: nämlich zu der intendierten Funktion des Gebäudes, in dem der Kunstverein wohnt. Der Bonner Kunstverein wurde als ein Großmarkt für Blumen konzipiert und gebaut. Durch Eingriffe und Verschiebungen gestaltet Kleine die Halle zur überdimensionierten, begehbaren Skulptur neu, wo Umwege eine Suspension von der Realität erlauben, wie auf einer Theaterbühne. Michael Kleine ist aber kein Dramaturg in dem Sinne, dass er vorher alles genau festlegt, wo was hinkommt. Vielmehr tauchen Dinge im Raum auf. Er schützt die Dinge, indem er sie sein lässt, wie sie sind: eine Treppe, zwei Nischen zum Verweilen oder kleine Fenster, die in einen anderen Raum blicken, ein Dachfenster durch den kalten Wind weht. Ein kalter, heller Raum. Ein Brunnen, aus dem leise Wasser fließt. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/31_Bonner-Kunstverein-054.jpg) *Brunnenraum*, 2023, ready-made, niches, steel, brass, silicon, motor, 490 × 560 × 600 cm. Ein Beispiel für Dinge die vom Künstler so ausgestellt werden, wie sie sind, wäre "*Il Gennaio von Bartolomeo Ammannati 1565"*; eine Büste auf dem Dach des Gebäudes, ein gigantisches Ready-made auf einer Stahlpalette, mit Warnleuchte auf dem Kopf, gesichert durch einen Spanngurt. Die goldene Skulptur, die als Prop aus einem Bühnenbild kommt, stellt einen Mann dar, der friert. Abgesehen von dieser Hintergrundinformation, dass diese Skulptur eine Geschichte hat, ist sie amüsant. Für Kleine sind jedenfalls die Kontexte, in denen Dinge ein Eigenleben haben mögen, weniger wichtig. Vielmehr steht im Vordergrund, dass wir sie wahrnehmen, als Dinge, die von ihrer Funktion befreit sind. ## "Begegne ich einem Kunstwerk, egal ob zeitgenössisch oder historisch, beobachte ich oft diese sehr spezifische Energie, die dabei entsteht – wie ein Transfer zwischen Künstler\*in, Rezipient\*in und den Gegebenheiten des Hier und Jetzt – all diese Faktoren spielen zusammen. In dieser Begegnung passiert irgendetwas, es ist wie eine Art Aktivierung…" Wie ein Brot, das für die Bühne gebastelt wird, und das 20 Vorstellungen überleben soll. Das klingt erstmals kompliziert. In der Theaterwelt gibt es verschiedene Werkstätten, die sich damit beschäftigen. So roh, wie es aussehen kann am Ende, damit es aus unterschiedlichen Entfernungen als Brot erkannt wird, behält dieses künstliche Brot eine Abstraktion vom Brot selbst. Das ist, was Michael Kleine interessiert: Was als reale Produktion und soziale Politik der Kunst funktioniert. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/43_Bonner-Kunstverein-105x.jpg) *Brotscheibe*, 2023, ready-made, iron nails, 23 × 8 × 13 Kleine formuliert in universeller Manier, wie viel Ressourcen wiegen: nicht als Material, sondern als Kraft. An dieser Stelle, vor dem Kunstverein, wird Kunst vielmehr ein Akt, der keinen bestimmten Raum und keine bestimmten Techniken braucht, und eher den ganzen Überschuss an Erklärung, Rechtfertigung oder Form in sich trägt. Kleine baut den Raum, in dem sich Alternativen zum Alltag öffnen, und somit ein Vakuum. Auch er muss es oder will es füllen, mit Anwesenheit, mit Spannung. In diesen Gesten manifestiert sich eine systemische Betrachtung poetischer Instanzen. Spazieren durch die Ausstellung, die den Akt des Erkennens und Differenzierens der Dinge ausstellt, ergibt sich durch seine feierliche und doch diskrete, konzeptuelle Komplexität. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/48_Bonner-Kunstverein-111-v2.jpg) *Thermobox*, 2023, ready-made, light bulb, wooden trays, stacking dishes, cutlery, napkin, porcelain vase, 42 × 70 × 56 cm. "In der Blumenhalle" hat was museales, und doch wird die Ausstellung nur vom Tageslicht und Kerzen erhellt, als wäre der Kunstverein ein verlassener Ort, eine romantische Ruine, ein Gespenst von sich selbst. Der Ausstellungsraum genießt sonst eine gewisse Dunkelheit, die andere Reflexionen erlaubt, als jenes grelle Licht von Neonröhren eines White Cubes. Ein paar Strahlern, die drei monumentale Tapisserien aus rohen Leinwand mit den Spuren aus einer Bühnenbildwerkstatt beleuchten, sind die einzige Lichter die an gehen, wenn man\*eine Münze in den Münzzähler dafür einwirft. Wie wenn man\* in der Kirche eine Kerze für eigene Gebete kauft. Diese Rahmung, gedimmtes Licht – oder auch wahrnehmbare Energie – verweist auf einen akustischen Raum, der sonst die nötige Intimität einbüßen würde. Es sind nicht nur Geräusche, die man sowieso hört; er integriert diese zu ihrer Klanglandschaft, die auch zurückgeht zu einer bestimmten Erinnerung, wie diejenige, die den Baumstamm verkörpert in "Bühne": Eine fragile Konstruktion, in der die Zeit und Abläufe von Vorstellungen eher subtil und selbstbezogen stattfinden, und als filigrane Installation in dem Raum schwebt. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/14_Bonner-Kunstverein-039x.jpg) *Baumstamm*, 2023, tree trunk, spray paint, 726 × 50 × 50 cm; Leuchter, 2017, aluminium sheet, steel, chain, candles, 50 × 47 × 50 cm. Es gibt also diese Momente in der Arbeit von Michael Kleine – Fatima Hellberg nennt sie "Container" – in denen ein Übergang geschaffen wird, zu einem Zustand von Zusammenhalt. Ein Gehäuse. “Sobald es diesen Container gibt”, sagt die Direktorin des Bonner Kunstverein in einem Gespräch mit dem Künstler, “spielt auch eine Durchlässigkeit nach außen eine wichtige Rolle(…)”. Die Gehäuse, Rahmungen und Übergänge zeigen sich in einer Vielfalt von Gestaltungsmöglichkeiten, die selten zu begegnen und zu genießen sind. Es sind Momente, in denen die Konzentration anders ist, zerstreut durch die Elemente im Raum. Sie landen ein, das eigene Gewicht loslassen kann. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/19_Bonner-Kunstverein-063.jpg) *Tapisserie,* 2023, ready-mades, wooden supports, padded cushions, ribbons, wax, cotton threads, 625 × 76 × 238 cm, 980 × 76 × 314 cm, 980 × 76 × 300 cm Es ist nicht zuletzt dem tiefgreifenden Sinn für Kollaboration geschuldet, die Kleines spezifische Vorgehensweise anderen aufmacht, wie für mehrere Performances –wie die von James Richards und Billy Bultheel gestaltet– und Veranstaltungen – wie das Jubiläum des Kunstvereins, gehostet mit der Künstlerin Gina Folly – oder Konzerte, die zusammen mit Asako Iwama und Roman Lemberg erstreckt wurden. Es gibt noch mehr schöne Gespräche, die ich hier erwähnen möchte, verbleibe aber erstmals mit einer Ankündigung der Begegnung mit dem Kunstkritiker und Autor Bruce Hainley, die am Sonntag, dem letzten Tag der Ausstellung, in der Halle stattfinden wird. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Michael-Kleine_in-der-Blumenhalle.jpg) in der Blumenhalle, Installationsansicht. // *Michael Kleine, in der Blumenhalle* 17 September – 25 February 2024 [Bonner Kunstverein](https://bonner-kunstverein.de/de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/12_Bonner-Kunstverein-033.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/18_Bonner-Kunstverein-044.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/41_Bonner-Kunstverein-107.jpg) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/9_Bonner-Kunstverein-021.jpg) --- ### Notes Review ohne Redigat / Published under a no-proofreading-policy. Slideshow: 1 *Il Gennaio by Bartolomeo Ammannati 1565*, 2023, ready-made, steel palette, warning light, cardboard, clamping belt, 167 × 94 × 203 cm. 2-3 Installationsansichten. 4 Glockenrad, 2023, beehive bells, iron wheel, motor, 83 × 80 × 29 5 Oberkörper, 2023, ready-made, velvet, wood, 52 × 28 × 72 cm. 5-6 Steinblock, 2023, ready-made, sandstone, 76 × 14 × 102 All works courtesy of Michael Kleine. Photography: Mareike Tocha. *María Inés Plaza Lazo is editor-at-large, publisher and founder of Arts of the Working Class.* ### Witnessing URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/witnessing/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:29.000Z In the wake of Russia's invasion of Ukraine, which marks its two-year anniversary, AWC echoes a conversation between two Ukrainian photographers, Oksana Parafeniuk and Marta Iwanek, as they grapple with the impacts of conflict on both personal and professional fronts. Through their dialogue, they reflect upon the chaos of evacuation, the weight of mental health challenges, and the enduring quest for resilience amidst uncertainty, from the struggles of framing personal narratives to the enduring impact of visual storytelling in shaping collective memory. **Marta:** How has Russia's invasion changed the work you do? **Oksana:** It's not just work that changed since Russia invaded all of Ukraine. Everything changed. And even though I am sitting in the same apartment where I was when the invasion happened, it’s not the same. My work has changed not only in regards to the full scale invasion, but also because of personal circumstances that can't really be put separately. It all came together because when Russia invaded, I was six months pregnant with my son. In the months leading up to the invasion, there was lots of news and a lot of interest from foreign media, so I was working nonstop. Already pregnant, I even went to the frontline near Avdiivka once, since back then it was still more or less predictable to navigate, but then decided to stop doing that for safety reasons. Back the, I was mostly working on stories around Kyiv. When Russia invaded, I decided with my husband, who is also a photojournalist, to leave Kyiv because we were scared that it might get surrounded, or occupied. Nobody knew what's going to happen. There were explosions. While working in eastern Ukraine I could still feel enough distance even though it was still in my country, and somehow my life was not really in the middle of it. But when the full-scale invasion happened we were right in the core. We had to think about our future baby. We had to think about staying safe, about our parents, our other relatives, whether they were safe, if they should evacuate. So it suddenly became very, very difficult to actually work. To do so, you need to leave everything behind. So we left Kyiv the next day. I didn´t even took one photo on the very first day of the invasion. I was in such a state of shock and it's hard to explain, but I really wasn't thinking about photographing. We evacuated to a friend's house where there were like 15 of us sleeping on the floor because it was not possible to book any hotel or any apartment. Everything was fully booked. My husband was still on assignment, and I did a few too, but we had to navigate all of these logistics issues, safety, stress, etc. We couldn’t sleep or eat during the first days. Eventually we decided to move farther west. I kept trying to do some work for a month in March. I got dozens and dozens of commissions, but I couldn't do any of them, because they were very high risk and involved traveling, carrying gear, and wearing body armor and being seven months (pregnant) and I couldn’t do any of this. What would it have been if I wasn't pregnant? Maybe I would have been too scared to work anyway. I don't know, because it was so dangerous. But I did a few stories with photographs when we were temporarily in the village as when we left Kyiv. We also photographed how the local community in a village nearby gathered together and built checkpoints and organized themselves to protect their community in case something happenned. It was a small story, but it was very representative of what was happening all over Ukraine because when we were moving, there was a checkpoint in almost every village. It was extremely hard because it took so much time to drive through all of them, but you could see how all the people in Ukraine just immediately got organized. In Lviv, I photographed a funeral of Ukrainian soldiers, which, of course, since the invasion, started taking place everyday, everywhere. It was such an emotional moment for me, seeing mothers crying over their dead children, killed by Russia, being pregnant with my son. It was just heartbreaking and very hard to pick up a camera and take the photo because on one hand, it's was an important thing to photograph and on the other, this was their intimate moment and it must have been strange for them to have dozens of photojournalists and journalists present at the funeral of their children. Anyway, I went so far from the question, but what I was trying to say is that of course the Russian invasion changed everything. My husband and I decided to leave to Poland to give birth to our son in a safer place. So a few months into the invasion both of us stopped working and suddenly found ourselves on the other side of the lens. We ended up watching and reading news and looking at photographs that other colleagues were doing. And it was very hard because if you're doing something and you are active, you don't feel as desperate, but when you are not able to work and constantly look at the terrible photographs and read the news, it becomes overwhelming and unbearable. I was crying everyday. I would go from being depressed and crying because of what's happening in my country, worrying for my friends and relatives, and then move on to crying being worried if the stress would be harmful to my son. Then, I would switch to crying, because I should be photographing and doing my job when it’s important, but I couldn't…After our son turned one month old, we wanted to go back to Ukraine. At least my husband could start working again and photographing. But he didn't want to not see our son for very long periods of time. We really wanted to be home and I wanted to be close to my family, all of whom had stayed in Ukraine. So we decided to come back to Kyiv and try to do some assignments here. I was breastfeeding and I started pumping in order to freeze breast milk so I could be away and working. I did a few assignments when Luka was three months old. On October 10th, Russia sent a huge barrage of missiles on Kyiv and other places. Suddenly, I realized that I wasn´t able to go on, so I had to cancel my assignments. I couldn't imagine leaving my son even for five minutes in this situation. It was so stressful and scary. I left Kyiv for the countryside and stayed with him there for a month. Russia kept shelling Ukraine and there were massive electricity shortages and a potential danger that there would be no heating or water, so we decided that I would go abroad with our son in the winter. We came back in April of 2023\. After a few months, I finally found enough strength and energy to start working again but I don't go away for long periods of time and I don't go to the very front line. I feel like I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if something happened and I wasn't close to him. I try to do a lot of work around Kyiv or go on short trips. I think what you were talking about, photographing daily life and photographing, you know, all of these other things…there are quite a lot of photographers who are covering big events, who are going to places where something happens, but maybe not enough work is done about quieter things and everyday life. This war affected literally every Ukrainian or every person that lives in Ukraine. And not only in Ukraine. Like you, you don't live in Ukraine, but it affects you too. So anyway, this is a very long answer. But in short, we still live here and sometimes there are still missile and drone attacks. We go to the subway, we don't really have a proper basement in our building, so we go to the subway for safety, even if the attack is in the middle of the night. Of course we don't sleep and then we are really tired. But we do what we can. I really feel like I want to at least be able to tell some stories. Also being Ukrainian and being a Ukrainian woman, I hope that I could bring in some kind of sensitivity and perspective that maybe someone else can't. **Marta:** I don't know if you remember, we were texting that night over the phone right before the bombs started flying, the full scale invasion. You don't remember that? **Oksana:** I don't remember what we were texting about. **Marta:** You weren't sleeping because… **Oksana**: I remember that I didn't sleep all night. I was so incredibly tired. **Marta:** You weren't sleeping that night, and then you thought it was going to happen that night because the airspace was closed over the Belarus border. And I was up because everyone was on this... **Oksana:** Yeah. In the evening the day before we heard from colleagues who heard from some intelligence people that the Russian invasion would start in the morning. We heard it at like 10 or 11 pm but what could we do? You just sit there and wait. And we still hoped that that was not true. But I went into the bedroom where my sister slept, and put some tape on the window to protect it from breaking into many small pieces in case of an explosion. I was crying while doing it. I couldn't believe I was doing it in my home in Kyiv. **Marta:** Yeah. And all of us here were staying up watching the UN Security Council emergency meeting live-streamed. And then, right after that, it was Putin's speech that morning and then seeing all the bombs dropped. I think that first week was a real blur. We were also not sleeping, not eating and trying to do what we could. I think, at that moment, a lot of friends here were trying to help people getting out and find spaces in Poland. You're doing whatever you can to help from afar and the whole country becomes your family. Even for people who didn't have family or friends in Ukraine, you still feel a connection to every single person. That first week or week and a half, I wanted to work on stories like the organizing process that was happening in the community here because we think the Ukrainian community is very good at organizing, mutual aid and support. That´s a big part of our culture. I pitched a story and then started looking for people whose whole living rooms were stocked with boxes or supplies and things to send.\[...\] I think when you talk about when you were on the outside and you weren't able to do anything, there's a really big feeling of hopelessness and at the same time, you feel guilty for feeling hopeless. And it's not your place to feel hopeless, because there are people that are actually experiencing air raids, sirens and bombs falling and evacuating. There's a big sense of survivor's guilt that you feel when you're here. And whatever you do doesn't feel like enough because the impact of Russia's full-scale invasion is so massive. I think maybe people don't really understand the genocidal intent with which Russia invaded Ukraine. It always feels like all these little hands working together, trying to fend that off. And every step is like a way to help, for Russia not to invade further because we've seen what happens when Russia occupied territory. **Oksana:** I feel like I actually didn´t do much work in the direction of helping. My strength was focused on survival and especially mental survival. It turned out that I was in a state of depression and anxiety for over a year until I decided to seek help from my psychiatrist. And now I realize that maybe I should have asked for help earlier. Maybe I would have managed to be more active and more productive and help others. I think everyone may feel like they did little, but at the very beginning, I remember how many friends and people that I know were texting and offering help, offering a place to stay or money. And a lot of countries and a lot of people abroad mobilized real fast. I think that was actually a big help. We are so thankful for it. And you, Marta, did all those print sales and fundraised a lot. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Marta_Where-my-house-once-stood.jpg) fig. 1 **Marta:** I think it's a common theme maybe because of the scale of the problem, you feel like nothing you do is enough. But then, at the same time, you have to start somewhere and every little thing counts too. You know, growing up, people were never able to place Ukraine on a map. Everyone that I met would call me Russian, growing up here. Even few months before the invasion, someone at work asked me what my background is and I would say Ukrainian, and they replied: “Oh, Russia”. I said: “No!” And then, just seeing this sort of support mobilized across the world was something so mind blowing and so touching, just to see how many people were able to support in any little way that they could. So, anyone reading this: thank you. I think in those kinds of moments, in a way yes, there's such a depression that hits but, at the same time, your heart opens in a different way. You also become a lot more compassionate to other people who are experiencing pain and want to show up for them in the same ways. Even with the print sale, all these photographers donated prints and a majority didn't had any connection to Ukraine. But out of the kindness of their hearts they did it. The printing house Smokestack printed everything for free and Edward Burtynsky donated as well to help with our printing costs. So many people came together to help. Our fundraising team, conformed by Ukrainian Canadian photographers and allies was able to raise $20,000 from people's donations for all these different charities, NGO´s and organizations that work in Ukraine. I'm grateful to have editors who have hired me for stories to work on, like stories about Ukrainian refugees. I worked on a story for The Globe and Mail about an eight grade class where half of the kids were from Ukraine and came, fleeing the war. It was about these kids graduating, and we were present on their graduation day. I really appreciate that I can contribute in telling and sharing those stories because the kids are amazing. **Oksana:** I constantly felt extremely guilty that I couldn’t do my job, and my American husband who has been living in Ukraine for almost ten years, offered a different perspective. In the beginning of the invasion there is an unlimited amount of things that had to be witnessed and told and there are a lot of journalists but, he said, after 2 or 3 years or more, inevitably there will be fewer. And maybe this is when what we do becomes more important. We're connected to Ukraine, and we will continue working here. The media interest will slow down. Inevitably, unfortunately, there will be less funding and less interest. It will be harder to cover stories or we'll need to find other ways to fund the work. I want to be optimistic and I don't want to believe that humanity will lose interest in continuing telling our stories, but of course, there are so many other places in the world that also need attention from the media like Israel and Gaza, as well as many other places that are often overlooked, but equally very important to be spoken about. **Oksana:** As a photographer and filmmaker yourself and someone who has grown accustomed to watching images from the war, how does it affect you and what are your observations about the images coming from the frontline in Ukraine and just in general from Ukraine? **Marta:** I'm very grateful to all the colleagues that have been documenting and have been bearing witness, showing the world what's happening. I think I'm in awe of colleagues like you, having to evacuate, worried for your own safety all the time, but still, finding that energy to continue to photograph… \[Your photographs\] bring this really tender, personal element, so you can really connect with them, quickly. They don't glaze the hard part, but they also don't sensationalize it either. I think your photographs are really honest and I think for a lot of people is possible to connect and see that part of Ukraine through your eyes. And you're saying you just watched the documentary *20 Days in Mariupol*, and you think about Evgeniy, Mstyslav and Vasilisa and the work they did in Mariupol, as the journalists working for AP, the only international publication that was there, showing the effects of Russia's full siege on the city and bearing witness to what the residents there are going through. In those moments, you really see how incredibly important the work of journalists and photojournalists is and we are incredibly thankful to those colleagues for working in such conditions where they're putting their own lives at risk to bring those stories to the world. We also followed Russia’s full-scale invasion through social media. A lot of social media is just inundated with images and videos from the front line and obituaries of people losing loved ones and so that's what your social media feed becomes, this very immediate window into Ukraine. It almost collapses time and space. I remember the first weeks, I would be walking down my street and I would be thinking about if a missile was going to fly into this building in front of me. Because I would see images of places where I used to walk past in Kyiv, bombed, you know, having a missile go right into them. It's so visceral because my memories are attached to it. Being in a place that is safe, but then experiencing that through the images and videos you see. Even though that's not the reality, in your very sleep-deprived mind, you're not thinking that there is that separation of space. I struggle to talk about this because it hasn't been good for my mental health. I was constantly watching the news and reading the news. And that feels like such a privileged thing to say too, because I am safe right now, I am in a place of safety. I definitely think finding a way to take better care of our mental health when we're watching these images is incredibly important because you still want to do good work. And you can't really do that when you're suffering from secondary trauma. There's this sort of immediacy of social media and especially because all of my networks are like your networks, they're connected to people in Ukraine and Ukrainian media and Ukrainian journalists. I didn't even have to go to the news. So much of that information is immediate and through people you know, and through journalists you know, who were there. I also think it's hard to talk about mental health, especially in our culture, because it's something really stigmatized. The importance of taking care of yourself in these situations, finding community here and connecting with it is that you could be of use and you could help to tell stories or to support a fundraiser or something like that. **Oksana:** I've tried to be pretty open about mental health. As I mentioned earlier, I seeked medical help to treat my anxiety and depression. And when people ask me how I cope with the war, I can actually say that seeking help made a difference. I hope that more and more people will be open about it, and more people will seek help. The number of people who started taking antidepressants and/or doing therapy has increased a lot in Ukraine. **Marta:** I think with war and coverage about war or invasion, we talk a lot about death, but we don't talk a lot about the different ways that it's a mass disabling event too. I'm seeing a lot more stories about soldiers who have lost limbs or have medical issues now, and I'm glad that's getting more coverage. But I think there is a long way for Ukrainian society to go in terms of its understanding of disability. I think I saw the same statistics of how many Ukrainians are now on antidepressants, have depression or are goig through mental health struggles. That is another form of disablement, right? I think that's a really important part of coverage and understanding the ways that Russia's invasion \[affects\] us. With mental health comes chronic illness. There're all these intergenerational layers too. We're a society that already dealt with a genocide. So there's intergenerational trauma. We can also look at the health effects of Chernobyl during the Soviet Union…All of these things are tied to trauma, but also have health effects. Russian imperialism and colonialism has been disabling Ukrainians and neighboring countries for generations. **Oksana:** If you have a hard time dealing with all of the stress, you become much less productive. You can't really be a supportive member of a family. You become the one that needs support. Someone told me about their relative in Kyiv and that she was walking on the street when a missile was shot down. It was one of those ballistic missiles that go very fast. So there wasn't time for an air raid alert. It was somewhere very close to her and very loud and while she wasn’t physically injured, it just really traumatized her. For two months she couldn't really function properly because of the stress. And I think many people actually have to cope with this right now. But, if we talk about photography…for stories like this, it's not very obvious how and what to photograph to actually communicate the problem in a way that will make people care and understand. So that's one of the stories I think that is harder to translate into visual language and we have to find ways to do it. \\\\ This text constitutes an excerpt from the original conversation, co-published with The Journal Collective (Ed. Yen Duong, The Journal). [The Journal Blog](https://the-journal.org/blog?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) features conversations around photography and collaboration among The Journal members, highlights as well as reflection on our working process. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Oksana Parafeniuk. Participants of the civil-defense training, organized by a far-right political organization National Corps and held on the grounds of an abandoned heavy machinery factory on Kyiv’s western outskirts, train with wooden makeshift weapons in Kyiv, Ukraine on February 6, 2022\. Courtesy of Oksana Parafeniuk, originally published via U.S. News & World Report. fig. 1: Marta Iwanek in collaboration with Lemko Language School no. 10 in Legnica, Poland. “Where my house once stood”. Courtesy of Marta Iwanek. *Oksana Parafeniuk (she/her) is an independent photographer based in Kyiv, Ukraine. https://www.oksanaparafeniuk.com* *Marta Iwanek (she/her) is an independent photographer and filmmaker based in Toronto, Canada. https://www.martaiwanek.com* ### "Weil wir nicht wollen, dass es bleibt, wie es ist." URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/weil-wir-nicht-wollen-dass-es-bleibt-wie-es-ist/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:24.000Z *Die bundesdeutsche Gegenwart ist geprägt von einem massiven Rechtsruck. Man könnte meinen, dass sich die Situation in Berlin besser darstellt als an anderen Orten, wo Naziaufmärsche fast zum Alltag gehören. Auf der Sonnenallee werden wie auch an vielen anderen Stellen die sich seit vergangenen Herbst noch einmal massiv verschärften Folgen rassistischer Politik wie durch ein Brennglas sichtbar:* [*Belagerungen durch die Polizei, Repressionen gegen rassifizierte Menschen*](https://www.aljazeera.com/features/2023/10/26/complete-censorship-germanys-palestinian-diaspora-fights-crackdown?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)*, insbesondere Palästinenser\*innen, muslimische und arabisch gelesene Menschen, linke Jüdinnen\*Juden und Israelis sowie gegen Protestierende, die für Freiheitsrechte für Palästina, gegen die israelische Besatzungspolitik, für eine dauerhafte Waffenruhe, für Grundrechte wie die Meinungs- und Versammlungsfreiheit auf die Straßen gehen.* Im Kulturbereich sind die Instrumentalisierung von Antisemitismuskritik und -prävention als rassistische Waffe genau wie die Aktivitäten und Erfolge von Rechten massiv spürbar. So wird Protest gegen die deutsche Beteiligung am Genozid in Gaza etwa durch Waffenlieferungen an Israel verhindert und Widerstand mit [Zensur und Silencing](https://news.artnet.com/art-world/germany-cancellations-2407316?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) begegnet. Um herauszufinden, wie antirassistische, antifaschistische und antikapitalistische Politik in diesen Zeiten zusammengedacht und praktiziert werden können, traf ich mich mit zwei Mitgliedern von Migrantifa Berlin, Camila Parks und Meryem Malik, die an dieser Schnittstelle arbeiten. Migrantifa Berlin ist eine klassenkämpferische Organisation von Migrant\*innen für Migrant\*innen. **Unter dem Motto „DIE KONSEQUENZ IST WIDERSTAND – Migrantifa jetzt!“ ruft Migrantifa Berlin anlässlich des 4\. Jahrestags des rechtsextremistischen Anschlags in Hanau gemeinsam mit Jewish Bund, Kreuzberg United, Palestine Speaks und der Initiative ‚Ihr seid keine Sicherheit‘ zum Gedenken an die Opfer und zur Demonstration in Berlin auf. Den 19\. Februar haben sie gemeinsam zum antirassistischen Kampftag erklärt.** Die Aktivist\*innen verstehen sich selbst im Widerspruch zum Staat und aus ihrer Arbeit über Hanau lässt sich vieles zu politischen Alternativen und aktuellen Entwicklungen schließen. 2020 kostete der rechtsextremistische Terroranschlag in Hanau Gökhan Gültekin, Sedat Gürbüz, Said Nesar Hashemi, Mercedes Kierpacz, Hamza Kurtović, Vili Viorel Păun, Fatih Saraçoğlu, Ferhat Unvar und Kaloyan Velkov das Leben. Betroffene, Angehörige und die daraufhin gegründete Initiative *19\. Februar Hanau* fordern seither von der Bundesregierung Erinnerung, Aufklärung, Gerechtigkeit und Konsequenzen. Doch all das blieb bislang aus. In Worten der Berliner Migrantifa-Gruppe: „Konsequenzen yok“ (yok = türkisch für “keine/nicht da”). Während viele Antirassist\*innen das „Versagen“ der Behörden beklagen, „haben Polizei, Justiz und Verwaltung doch im Gegenteil ganze Arbeit \[im Sinne ihrer eigentlichen Funktion, Anm. d. Autor\*in\] geleistet, so Migrantifas Analyse. Während sich die staatlichen Institutionen nach dem Untersuchungsausschuss gegenseitig für gut gemachte Arbeit auf die Schultern klopfen, „warten Angehörige weiterhin auf Antwort, warum beispielsweise der Notausgang an einem der Tatorte versperrt war, so dass die Opfer nicht fliehen konnten“ und warum sie, die Angehörigen, im Nachgang so schlecht behandelt wurden. Der Anschlag lässt sich ohne eine Analyse des „rassistischen Normalzustands“ in Deutschland nicht verstehen. „Für uns \[als Migrantifa Berlin\] war in Hanau nicht nur ein „verwirrter“ Einzeltäter am Werk, wie von Medien gerne dargestellt” so Camila Parks von Migrantifa Berlin. “Er hat bewusst die Arena-Bar, einen migrantischen Ort, eine Shisha-Bar, ausgesucht. Das sind Orte, die auch zum Beispiel durch die Polizei staatlich kriminalisiert und gesellschaftlich stigmatisiert werden. Das sind Orte, über die es unter dem Stichwort ‚Clankriminalität‘ krasse mediale Hetze gibt, Orte, die immer schon als “kriminell” markiert sind. Migrantische Menschen waren auch da im Vorfeld nur als Täter denkbar, als Menschen, die selbst Gefahr bedeuten, kontrolliert werden müssen und deshalb nicht weglaufen dürfen. Deshalb sagen wir, dass dem Staat auch eine aktive Rolle beim Anschlag in Hanau zukommt.“ „Der Staat ist kein Garant des Schutzes \[von Migrant\*innen und als Migrantisch gelesenen Menschen\], sondern vielmehr Akteur der Gefährdung“: Deshalb haben sich nach dem Anschlag in Hanau bundesweit Migrantifa-Gruppen gebildet. Seither organisiert und vernetzt sich Migrantifa Berlin nachbarschaftlich und überregional, unterstützt Arbeitskämpfe, bietet in Kiezen Arbeitsschutz-, Rechts- und Mietberatung an, macht politische Bildungsarbeit und regt zu gegenseitiger Hilfe und zur „Selbstaktivität“ an, mit dem Ziel, nicht länger auf staatliche Institutionen angewiesen zu sein und auch um gemeinsam „gesamtgesellschaftliche Alternativen zu erproben“. **Kapitalismus braucht Ungleichheit, Rassismus versichert diese** *„Ungleichheit ist im Kapitalismus kein Versehen, sondern vielmehr seine Regel“,* erklärt Meryem Malik von Migrantifa Berlin. *„Die aktive Rolle des Staates an der Produktion von Ungleichheit erkennt man etwa daran, dass manche Leute unter genormten Lohnverhältnissen arbeiten und andere nicht. Daran, dass Menschen, die kein Aufenthaltsrecht haben, in illegale Arbeitsverhältnisse gezwungen werden, um sich über Wasser zu halten. Rassismus fungiert hier als Legitimierungsstrategie, die erklären soll, warum manche Menschen vermeintlich weniger wert sind und es verdient haben, in diesen Verhältnissen zu stecken. Wo noch im Kolonialismus der Rassismus die Sklaverei wissenschaftlich begründen sollte, bezieht er sich heute meist auf diese Ausbeutungsverhältnisse, in denen Menschen inzwischen sogar überflüssig gemacht werden. Nicht alle Menschen werden in Lohnarbeit integriert, manche lässt man auch organisiert an den EU-Außengrenzen sterben, damit der erbeutete Wohlstand sich hier weiterhin in den Händen einiger Weniger konzentriert.“* Der Anschlag von Hanau steht demnach in einer Kontinuität, die nicht erst in den achtziger oder neunziger Jahren mit rassistischen Gewaltexzessen begonnen hat. Ein ausbeuterisches Ungleichheitssystem bildet vielmehr den „Nährboden“ und die Grundlage für die rassistischen Zustände und den massiven Rechtsruck, die wir heute erleben. **Hanau und Neukölln trennt nur der Zufall** Dass die diesjährige Demonstration am 19\. Februar nicht zufällig über die Sonnenallee in Berlin Neukölln führen wird, leuchtet unmittelbar ein: „Neukölln und Kreuzberg stehen regelmäßig im Fokus rassistischer Hetze und unzähliger Razzien in Shisha-Bars. Auch der sogenannte Clankriminalitäts-Diskurs konzentriert sich meist auf diese zwei Viertel. Regelmäßig machen Medien Stimmung, wenn es heißt: Neukölln gehöre nicht zu Deutschland oder wird zum Brennpunkt aller vermeintlichen Probleme gescheiterter Integration gemacht.“ Dabei macht Camila Parks auch deutlich, dass es sich „um soziale Probleme handelt, die soziale Lösungen brauchen“ und sie verweist darauf, dass diese politisch gemacht sind, „wenn \[vom schwarz-roten Senat letzten Sommer 2023, Anm. Autor\*in\] 22 Millionen aus dem Haushalt gestrichen werden.“ Diese Sparpolitik trifft in Neukölln vor allem die Tagesreinigung an Schulen, die Obdachlosenhilfe, die aufsuchende Suchthilfe, Müllentsorgung in Parks sowie Jugendzentren und Familieneinrichtungen, was die Situation im Bezirk drastisch verschärft. Für Migrantifa Berlin steht die sogenannte „Freibad-Debatte“ vom Sommer, die jährlich wiederkehrende „Silvester-Debatte“, die Debatte um „importierten Antisemitismus“, die Unterdrückung von Palästinasolidarität, „in einer Kontinuität rassistischer Hetze“, sagt Meryem Malik. „Rassistische Hetze und moralische Panikmache dienen der Erzeugung von Gefahr, um den Ausbau der Polizei und Aufrüstung generell zu legitimieren.“ Wichtig zu bemerken ist hier, dass die AfD zwar die Stichworte dafür liefere, zu verantworten hätten die sogenannte [Clan-Debatte](https://www.nd-aktuell.de/artikel/1176472.clankriminalitaet-clan-debatte-rassistisch-aufgeladen.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) jedoch die SPD und CDU. Bereits 2017 hatte Franziska Giffey (SPD), die damalige Bezirksbürgermeisterin, im Namen einer “Null-Toleranz-Politik” mit öffentlichkeitswirksamen Razzien den “Clankriminalitäts-Diskurs” gepusht. **Die Katze beißt sich in den Schwanz** In der Sonnenallee lebt auch ein Teil der palästinensischen Diaspora, der größten in Europa, die besonders von Kriminalisierung betroffen ist. Im Gespräch erfahre ich, dass es sich bei den vermeintlichen Clan-Angehörigen meistens um palästinensische Geflüchtete aus dem Libanon handelt, „die hierhergekommen sind und damals keine Aufenthaltserlaubnis, größtenteils auch keine Arbeitserlaubnis bekommen haben. Es handelt sich also um Menschen, die sich aufgrund dessen andere Lebensverhältnisse aufgebaut haben, um das zum Überleben Notwendige zu haben. Sie wurden und werden also von Tag eins an staatlich kriminalisiert und dann wiederum genau dafür ständig kriminalisiert. Die Leute werden von der Politik angegriffen, die sie eigentlich erst in die Position gebracht hat“, fasst Meryem Malik Migrantifa Berlins Analyse zusammen. Diese Doppelmoral zeige sich auch an der Kriminalisierung und den reihenweisen Verboten propalästinensischer Demos, während zeitgleich für ‚Demokratie‘ und „gegen Rechts“ auf die Straße gegangen wird. **Weil wir nicht wollen, dass es bleibt, wie es ist** An dieser Stelle legt Migrantifa Berlin den Finger in die bürgerliche Selbstverständniswunde: „Während seit Mitte Januar 2024 Hunderttausende gegen die AfD demonstrieren gingen, wurde im Bundestag das Rückführungsgesetz beschlossen, bei dem es letztlich darum geht, Abschiebungen zu vereinfachen und anzukurbeln. Auch wenn die Ampelregierung noch nicht so radikal handelt, wie es die AfD propagiert, schafft sie bereits die Grundlage für deren Ziele. Abschiebungen im Schnellverfahren und das Menschenrecht auf Asyl ist de facto abgeschafft: Ist das die Demokratie, für die Leute jetzt – nach Hanau, nach Oury Jalloh, nach Hunderten Toten im Mittelmeer – auf einmal auf die Straßen gehen?“, fragt Camila Parks. Es ist richtig und wichtig, gegen die aktuellen politischen Entwicklungen zu protestieren. Was es schwierig macht, ist, dass konkrete Forderungen fehlen, stellen die beiden Aktivist\*innen heraus. „Wenn die Demokratie verteidigt werden soll, bedeutet das auch, den Status Quo zu erhalten, und das heißt nichts anderes, als die Bedingungen aufrecht zu erhalten, die Hanau ermöglicht haben, die Abschiebungen ermöglichen, die die ausbeuterische Spargelernte unter widrigsten Bedingungen ermöglichen“, betont Meryem Malik. Vielen scheint es leicht zu fallen, sich in Opposition zur AfD zu wähnen. Gleichzeitig wurde vielfach darauf hingewiesen und beklagt, dass propalästinensische Protestierende auf den Demos ausgeschlossen und teilweise mit Gewalt und Hetze überzogen wurden – von Leuten, die Plakate mit der Aufschrift “Nazis essen heimlich Döner” für bahnbrechenden Antifaschismus halten. „Für Menschen, die sich als staatstragend sehen und die Staatsräson mittragen, ist es kein Widerspruch, jeden palästinensischen Ausdruck unter Generalverdacht zu stellen und als antisemitisch zu brandmarken.“ Camila Parks merkt dazu an, dass die Deutschen teilweise ein sehr „krudes“ Verhältnis zu Antisemitismus hätten, „weil die Lehre aus der Shoah nicht ist: Weil die Shoah passiert ist, sind wir besonders anfällig für Antisemitismus. Sondern: Weil die Shoah passiert ist, haben wir besonders gut gelernt, was Antisemitismus ist und deswegen können nur wir ihn erkennen und die anderen nicht.“ Das bedeutet, „dass auch Antisemitismuskritik zu einer Form von Herrschaftstechnik geworden ist, weil sowas wie Erinnerung, die staatlich geführt oder über staatliche Projekte finanziert wir, auch immer mit dafür da ist, den nationalstaatlichen Komplex und den Staat so wie er jetzt existiert mit aufrecht zu erhalten.“ Bei den Regierungsmaßnahmen kommen Jüdinnen\*Juden in ihrer Vielfalt nicht vor. Der hiesige Kampf gegen Antisemitismus und seine Instrumentalisierung erinnert vielmehr an die Dynamik des *War on Terror* nach 9/11: „Auch dieser Anschlag wurde genutzt, um gegen ganze Bevölkerungsschichten Hetze zu betreiben und diese Menschen zu stigmatisieren, sowie letztlich auch dazu, Abschiebungen vermehrt stattfinden zu lassen, die Grenzen zu schließen und diese für eigene imperialistische und nationalistische Politiken nutzen zu können.“ **Wir lassen uns nicht spalten** Die Erzählung von einem jüdisch-christlichen Abendland wird vielfach dazu benutzt, Polarisierungen zu verschärfen und eine Trennung zwischen israelischen und jüdischen sowie palästinensischen und muslimischen und arabischen Menschen zu behaupten, was einer Kriegs- und Feindeslogik hilft. Angesichts dieses heuchlerischen Narrativs ist es umso wichtiger, betont Meryem Malik, dass „wir uns auch zu unseren jüdischen Genoss\*innen nicht spalten lassen. Wir gehören zusammen, wir trauern zusammen.“ Dabei verweisen die beiden Aktivist\*innen auch auf den Anschlag in Halle am 9\. Oktober 2019, den Migrantifa Berlin mitbegleitet und der einmal mehr gezeigt hat, „dass wir von der mörderischen Ideologie zusammen betroffen sind und wir keine getrennten Anliegen haben. Der Kampf um Befreiung und gegen Unterdrückung von Jüdinnen und Juden und Palästinenser\*innen ist fest miteinander verbunden.“ **Eine real existierende Bewegung im Widerstand** Was die Frage nach der Organisation von Widerstand und den Umgang mit den Repressionen angeht, ruft Camila Parks ins Gedächtnis, dass die Berliner Polizei im Dezember mit Palästina solidarischen Orte und Organisationen wie Karanfil, ein migrantisches Café, das Interbüro sowie die Jugendorganisation Zora mit Razzien überzogen hat. Anlass für brutale Hausdurchsuchungen waren „ein Flyer und eine Besetzung an der FU Berlin. Einschüchterungsversuche passieren aber auch durch ‚Debatten‘ darüber, was noch gesagt und getragen werden darf, beispielsweise auf Demonstrationen.“ Während die Repression real ist und „bedrohlich“ wirken kann, „lässt sich gleichzeitig feststellen, dass sie offenbar als notwendig erachtet wird. Die internationale Palästina solidarische und Antikriegsbewegung ist nicht zu unterschätzen.“ Die Widerstandsformen hätten sich vervielfältigt. Migrantifa Berlin weist auch darauf hin, nicht den alltägliche Protest von Schüler\*innen zu vergessen, die sich weiterhin weigern, die Kufiya abzunehmen und damit trotz Einschüchterungen und Diffamierungen zur Schule gehen. In diesem Sinne: YALLAH YALLAH, hinaus auf die Straße zum antirassistischen Kampftag am 19\. Februar (S-Bhf Sonnenallee). Gegen die Scheinheiligkeit deutscher „Demokratie“ und für echte antirassistische, antifaschistische und antikapitalistische gesellschaftliche Veränderung! \\\\ Meryem Malik und Camila Parks sind beide politisch aktiv in der Migrantifa Berlin. Migrantifa ist ein selbstorganisiertes Netzwerk in Deutschland, das sich als Reaktion auf den rassistischen Anschlag in Hanau im Jahr 2020 gründete. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Migrantifa Berlin. *To Doan ist freie\*r Autor\*in, Schreibpädagog\*in und Peer-Researcher in Berlin und schreibt Theater- und Prosatexte, Gedichte und Artikel. To arbeitet u.a. zu Racial Profiling, rassistischer Polizeigewalt und Mental Health-Themen. Mit Patu hat To das Projekt BOOMZINES (BY OUR OWN MEANS) gestartet, eine unabhängige Webplattform von und für BIPoC sowie jüdische, nicht-weiße, (post)migrantische/ migrantisierte Zinemaker und Selfpublisher.* ### On the medical condition of a landscape URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/on-the-medical-condition-of-a-landscape/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:23.000Z What else is a landscape than a “backdrop for the experience of seeing”? \[1\] I’m sitting on the train to Galway, to attend the opening of the 21st edition of TULCA, an art festival in the West of Ireland. As my gaze slides over green fields divided by neatly stacked stone walls, some are occasionally inhabited by herds of sheep, confirming my presumptuous, romanticized idea of pastoral Ireland. I think of Lucy Lippard's definition of landscape as an activity, “a way of seeing the world and imagining our relationship to nature.” \[2\] Landscape as an actively produced image, emerging from an external perspective that gets mediated through experiences, knowledge, ideologies, and the historical narrative written into it. The exhibition *honey, milk & salt in a seashell before sunrise* addresses a landscape of medical incarceration. One that is deeply embedded in Ireland’s history of mental health institutions and inseparable from its colonial past. Tracing back to the 1830s, a time when Ireland was ruled by England, the institutions hold evidence of the aftermath of this period of domination and the implications it left on the medical complex. Consequences of the British occupation, such as oppression, poverty, or migration of family members played a role in the incarceration of many in those hospitals. The medical condition of the Irish landscape forms the backdrop for our experience of seeing. Questions around access, health, home, and belonging are posed and contested in the context of the festival. Spread over various locations in and around Galway, a harbor town of 83.500 in the West of the country, TULCA presented a festival including exhibitions, screenings, talks, readings, and a mediation program in November 2023. “In the 1950s, Ireland imprisoned more of its population than any other state at the time, the largest cohort of which were living in mental health institutions,“ \[3\] writes the curator Iarlaith Ní Fheorais in the accompanying publication. Committed for various reasons and labeled “mentally ill” or “socially dysfunctional”, inmates of these hospitals, which were located in many Irish towns were segregated from the local economy in sites that were, first and foremost, centers of control. The history of medical incarceration inscribes itself into the landscape of West Ireland, with mental hospitals, built in an “X” shape with a central watchtower, as is the case of the St. Bridgit Hospital in Ballinasloe in Galway. In its resemblance to prison architecture, the building presents itself as an almost perfect example of Michel Foucault’s panopticon: the surveilling architecture of the disciplinary society, which inevitably prompts understanding of the history of mental health institutions as being interconnected with the prison industrial complex. The Black Panther Party continuously addressed this connection in the US American context in the 1960s and 1970s, challenging the medical and legal abuse in both structures, but also the “racialized norms of able-mindedness, which constructed appropriate behavior, mental states, emotions, and reactions based on white male middle-class norms,” \[4\] as Sami Schalk writes in TULCA’s publication. In light of the Panthers’ abolitionist activism, it seems crucial to understand the structural workings of power in the history of medical incarceration through a confrontation with its intersectional layers of gender, class, and race. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Aisling-Or-Ni-Aodha-bless-every-foot-that-walks-its-portal-through-2023_Ros-Kavanagh.jpg) fig. 1 These controlling and regulating functions of mental health institutions are explored in Aisling-Oi Ní Aodha’s work *bless every foot that walks its portal through* (2023), which consists of collages and an accompanying audio essay. Depicting architectural drawings of St. Brigid's Hospital, reminiscent of classic landscape paintings, the collages break through their supporting structures; these include little wooden bricks, strings, and embroideries, which visiblize the structure of the work itself, as well as the constructed-ness of the system that produced St. Bridgit’s architecture. In contrast to the oral cultural tradition, painting was a medium imposed by the British, says the artist. Visuality, the sense that is connected most with measuring, categorizing, and control is imposed by the colonizer. Appropriating and disrupting a traditional way of representation, for Ní Aodha, is also a way of interfering with the colonizer's tools. Repurposing tools of display and presentation is not only seen in multiple works within the show but also in TULCA’s exhibition design. Access tools, which are often regarded as merely functional and in opposition to aesthetic, curatorial, and artistic decisions, seem to merge effortlessly into the exhibition architecture and contest ableist display standards. Frames are hung 110 cm from the ground, which orients to the viewing height of someone sitting in a wheelchair, creating a new norm of seeing in the show. Audio descriptions of video works become part of the formal language of the films. In Holly Marie Parnell’s *Cabbage* (2023), made in collaboration with her brother David, whose communication device - involving an eye movement tracing technology - gives the film its structure. By following David and their mother preparing for relocation back to Ireland (which they had to leave due to changes in disability services), the work documents the family’s relationship, and beautifully speaks of the wholeness of a human life beyond medical categorizations and care schedules. In the film, as their mother goes through boxes of old medical records detailing the clinical violence of fitting the essence of a human being into scales, the narrating audio carries the viewer into David’s reality. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Install-Shot_-Quilt-47-Charlotte-Wolf-2022.jpg) fig. 2 TULCA’s narratives do not remain in an observing position, but instead approach the medical landscape through lived experience. “A lived-in landscape becomes a place, which implies intimacy.” \[5\] This intimacy Lippard mentions is reflected in the booklet *Access Intimacy* \[6\] the exhibition offers, as well as in the language of those, who don’t enjoy the luxury of regarding the medical complex as a landscape; those for whom it conditions their experience of place. Bridget O’Gorman’s fragile installation, *Support I Work* (2023), was produced in close collaboration with her support worker. The hanging elements, made with medical support materials, both hold and fracture the sculptures, they document a translation of ideas into material, and thereby speak of the intimacy of their shared production. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Anna-Roberts-Gevalt_Ridegwood-Sick-Center_2023.jpg) fig. 3 In Anna Roberts-Gevalt’s work *Ridgewood Sick Center* (2023), featuring a billboard in the University Hospital of Galway, I find drawings of a mountain landscape built from the artist's bed sheets. Between references to “sick ancestors” the billboard invites visitors to an audio tour and a radio broadcast from the hospital, for which patients can request songs as wishes via their phones. Passing patients, nurses, and visitors while walking through the labyrinth of aisles not only puts the hospital itself on display but also makes everyone in the hospital a potential festival participant. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Sean-Burns-Dorothy-Towers-2022_Ros-Kavanagh.jpg) fig. 4 Sean Burns’ film *Dorothy Towers* (2023) sensitively records the lived experience of inhabitants of two residential blocks in Birmingham that were built in 1971, and which has been a long-time home for the LGBTQ+ community. Long-shot architectural sequences are merged with interviews and archival documentation of a generation of inhabitants, celebrating their togetherness amidst the horrors of the AIDS pandemic. His film - partly shot on 60mm - is shown at the 126 Gallery, the only artist-run space in Galway. The nostalgia connects with my own melancholy thoughts about the role of economic changes in erasing self-organized art and subculture. Walking from one festival location to the other, through cute little streets with stylish cafés and local shops, I can’t help but be struck by the contrast of the homeliness, with which contemporary Galway presents itself and the hauntings of its past. Leila Hekmat’s film, *Symptom Recital: Music for Wild Angels* (2023), which premiered in the Pàlàs Cinema on the fourth of November, troubles the landscape/place distinction using a sassy theatrical performance centered on the “Hospital Hekmat”, in which “the patients and staff share a hysterical language.” \[7\] Inhabitants of the Hospital share their stories and desires while shifting in and out of roles and chants, mocking and teasing each other (and their audience) and throwing rigid parameters of care, sexuality, and well-being into question. Acknowledging the fluidity and social determination of the protagonist’s positions on a scale between binary poles of sickness and health ties Hekmat’s film to the core demands of The Mental Patients Union, founded by both patients and hospital workers within the antipsychiatry movement of the 1970s. In their connection to Marxist ideology, the MPU demanded a questioning of the economic forces at play in categorizations of “sickness” and “health”, placing mental illness “in the context of capitalism, to disentangle it from the biological and psychoanalytic theories that defined it,” \[8\] as Roisin Agnew elaborates. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Rouzbeh-Shadpey-Forgetting-Is-the-Sun-2023_Ros-Kavanagh.jpg) fig. 5 The hegemonic indoctrination of collective remembrance is faced with the position of forgetting as a physical condition in Rouzbeh Shadpey’s video essay *Forgetting is the Sun* (2023). The film intercuts sequences of his grandmother’s hands repeating answers to a memory test imposed by an invisible narrator with archival footage of other video essays by Forough Farrokhzad and Ahmed Bouanani. Considering individual forgetting as both an act of resistance against biopolitical forces and a moment for achieving composure, the narrator states: “Through the lens of her camera, Fourough afforded those deep lepers the gift of the impossible - that is: the possibility to forget.“ \[9\] Philipp Gufler’s *Memorial Quilts* (2022) entangle the relationships between individual and collective memory by asking who are the ones that are remembered. The quilts offer a glimpse into Philipp Gufler's extensive, ongoing research into historically underrepresented queer personas upon which he works closely together with Forum Queeres Archiv, München. Depicting stylized, collaged portraits of queer German ancestors - the pop star Lana Kaiser, the painter Lorenza Böttger, the writer Daniel Paul Schreber, and the doctor, sexologist, and writer Charlotte Wolff - these quilts make those portrayed symbols for the celebration of queer life, and the work pushes against their systemic historical erasure. TULCA festival is dedicated to the Ballinasloe-born artist and sculptor J.J. Beagan, who according to Clair Wills’ extensive research, spent most of his life in institutions, such as the Netherne Mental Hospital in Surrey, England. While the decision to not display his work in the exhibition resulted more from logistical than conceptual reasons - his drawings, which are now part of the Adamson Collection, were too delicate to be transported, and instead are printed in the accompanying booklet - it does open relevant questions about the reproduction of medical violence through the displaying so-called “Outsider Art”. Is there a way of presenting a body of work, like J.J.Beagan’s without replicating the pathologizing gaze that perpetuates landscapes of medical incarceration within cultural spaces? To detach the artwork from the clinical language which justified their expropriation, collection, showcasing, and ensuing market value as Outsider Art, seems to provide a first step in changing the narratives attached to his art. Nonetheless, it also demands a shift in the way the works are displayed and perceived because as long as the ways we address, show, and review the art of disabled artists differ from those of able-bodied artists, contemporary art and culture will reproduce these stigmas. Dedicating the festival to J.J. Beagan instead of being *about* him, celebrating his work rather than pathologizing it, might offer a starting point to break with both the institutional erasure of subjecthood for artists who have been incarcerated in psychiatric hospitals, and of the framing of such artists’ remembrance through art historical categories. TULCA for me is a reminder that a changing of the means of representation is needed to form the basis for rethinking the narratives inscribed into the medical landscape, and onto the bodies that inhabit it. According to Carolyn Lazard: „To commit to disability justice is to redefine the terms of subjecthood“. \[10\] I am not a dreg of society I am a loved and wanted person I am not a dependent person I am an interdependent person I am a skilled poet I am not a heterosexual woman I am a survivor in today’s times. \[11\] In her opening speech, Iarlaith Ní Fheorais called the festival “a love letter to Galway”. This feels bittersweet when regarding it through the angle TULCA offers. Admittedly, though, this text is a little bit of a love letter itself. One written with a deep appreciation for the dedication to accessibility and disability justice of my dear friend Iarlaith, and for the impressive group of artists she brought together in this festival. What Iarlaith and I share is an abiding interest in the particularities of history in locality, and a persuasion that “the local” can never only be a static, romanticized image. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Lucy Lippard, The Lure of the Local: Senses of Place in a Multicentered Society (New York: The New Press, 2007) 8. \[2\] Lucy Lippard, The Lure of the Local: Senses of Place in a Multicentered Society (New York: The New Press, 2007) 8. \[3\] Iarlaith Ní Fheorais, “From Ballinasloe to Netherene: The Drawings of J. J. Beangan,” in honey, milk and salt in a seashell before sunrise (Galway: TULCA Publishing, 2023) 5. \[4\] Sami Schalk, “Making Connections: Prisons and Mental Institutions,” in honey, milk and salt in a seashell before sunrise (Galway: TULCA Publishing, 2023) 52. \[5\] Lucy Lippard, The Lure of the Local: Senses of Place in a Multicentered Society (New York: The New Press, 2007) 7. \[6\] Mia Mingus, Access Intimacy: The Missing Link, (Leaving Evidence Blog: https:// leavingevidence.wordpress.com/2011/05/05/access-intimacy-the-missing-link/) last access: 28.11.23 \[7\] Leila Hekmat, Symptom Recital: Music for Wild Angels, Video, 86 min, 2023. \[8\] Róisín Agnew, “The Mental Patients’ Union,” in honey, milk and salt in a seashell before sunrise (Galway: TULCA Publishing, 2023) 39. \[9\] Rouzbeh Shadpey, Forgetting is the Sun, Video, 14:34 min, 2023. \[10\] Carolyn Lazard, Accessibility in the Arts: A Promise and a Practice (Recess Publication: 2019) 9. \[11\] Carol K. Kallend, “The Lone Dreg Seaks Back,” in honey, milk and salt in a seashell before sunrise (Galway: TULCA Publishing, 2023) 17. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Leila Hekmat, Symptom Recital - Luzie Naters, Filmstill, 2023 © Leila Hekmat. fig. 1: Aisling-Ór Ní Aodha, bless every foot that walks its portal through, 2023 © Ros Kavanagh. fig. 2: Bridget O’Gorman, Support I Work, 2023 & Philipp Gufler, Quilt #47: Charlotte Wolf, 2022 © Ros Kavanagh. fig. 3: Anna Roberts Gevalt, Ridgewood Sick Center, 2023 © Ros Kavanagh. fig. 4: Sean Burns, Dorothy Towers, 2022 © Ros Kavanagh. fig. 5: Rouzbeh Shadpey, Forgetting Is the Sun, 2023 © Ros Kavanagh. *Theresa Zwerschke works as an artist, writer and organiser. She is the co-initiator of Catwings and part of the Arts of the Working Class team.* ### Toccaunotoccatutti (What concerns one concerns all) URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/toccaunotoccatutti-what-concerns-one-concerns-all/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:20.000Z The city of Prato, located around 20 km northwest of Florence, has 194,000 inhabitants, a good quarter of whom are foreigners. Since the Renaissance, it has a long history in the textile industry. To this day, the XIV century archives of the long-distance trader and wool producer Francesco Dantini are frequently cited by international researchers interested in the history of the city. In the Post-war period, Prato was the “rag center of Europe” and attracted workers from the south of Italy. In the 1980s, migrants from the small town of Wenzhou in the Zhejiang region in China came to the flourishing industrial metropolis - initially as guest workers. Ensuing years saw them setting up their own companies. Over time, Prato became the largest textile production site in Europe and it had the largest Chinatown in Europe with, officially, 23,000 Chinese residents and approximately 124 different ethnic groups living there. 42,000 workers were employed in Prato’s export economy in 2021, profits of which increased by 44% in the textile industry, and 94% in the clothing industry in the same year. Up to 1.5 million euros are transferred to China from the city every day. To sustain this exponential growth, labor in the almost 8,000 textile and fashion supply companies is largely based on illegal moonlighting and benefits from the almost rightless status of migrant workers. Unregulated working hours of up to 12 hours per 7 days per week are not exceptional in textile companies. Migrant workers are often recruited directly in the reception centers for asylum applications. For some of these workers, the situation is extremely precarious. In the best cases losing a job only means lost income, in the worst cases, workers lose their residence permits. In his book *Education as a Practice of Freedom: Prato and the School of Fight 8x5* (2023) Marco Ravasio, a communication consultant from Prato, documented the shifts within the textile sector amid new waves of exploitation of migrants. Ravasio considers the failure of the reception systems for migrants, the endless working hours, and the exclusion from the regular housing market, as the pillars on which their exploitation is based, and which separates the lives of migrant workers from those of the locals. A separation that, over time, has created a parallel society dominated by illegal practices. The national anti-mafia prosecutor Federico Cafiero de Raho called Prato “the European capital of the Chinese mafia” and the journalist Roberto Saviano, famous for documenting the doings of the Camorra mafia, has written extensively about the structures of organized crime in the Prato textile sector. Links between the 'ndrangheta and the Chinese mafia repeatedly have led to legal proceedings concerning money laundering and the illegal disposal of toxic waste. Contrary to the official (false) narrative that sees the excellent Made in Italy in Prato and that based on illegal migrant labor, as comprising two separate districts, thousands of small companies in Prato are surviving via disguised procurements by the big fashion brands. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/toccaunotoccatutti.jpeg) fig. 1 In 2017 the Italy-wide grassroots autonomous trade union SI Cobas (Sindacato Intercategoriale Cobas) opened its first office in Prato/Firenze. Their presence has encouraged textile workers to organize strikes and mobilize against exploitation. Protests by migrant workers began in the spring/summer of 2018 at the gates of three factories in Prato: the Tintoria DL dye works, the Tintoria Fada dye works, and Gruccia Creations, which produces plastic clothing hangers. Workers were protesting against 12-hour working days, 7 working days per week, hourly wages of 4 euros, and working conditions without regular contracts. In the summer of 2019, the author Simona Baldanzi summarized the industrial action in the article “[A uccidere è l’organizzazione del lavoro](https://jacobinitalia.it/a-uccidere-e-lorganizzazione-del-lavoro/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)” on *Jacobin Italia* where she recalled the exclamation of a striker: “This is not a war between Pakistanis and Chinese but between workers and exploiters. Now we are only Pakistanis, but slowly, slowly all workers will take to the streets!” At the beginning of 2021, the Texprint company summarily dismissed Pakistani, Senegalese, and Chinese workers after they denounced their working conditions, to which workers reacted with a nine-month strike. The strikers held out in tents outside the factory gates for 230 days and nights: Their banner reads: "8x5 ( eight hrs per 5 days per week) - No more slaves, we want a better life". They started a hunger strike in front of the town hall which was violently ended after two days, the workers were evicted and four arrests were made for "resisting public officials". On this occasion, several local artists got into conversation with the striking workers and the SI Cobas coordinators. This was the beginning of a new alliance, based not on “external solidarity” but on how to contribute to the workers’ struggle and support and amplify their voices through art practices. Over three years the community of struggles of migrant workers and unionists included a steadily growing collective of artists and curators who gave themselves the name of ToccaUnoToccaTutti. After the experience of the hunger strike, 15 different red stickers suddenly appeared all over the city of Prato. They depicted a heart, the text ToccaUnoToccaTutti, a date, and a QR code that directed visitors to short documentary videos depicting the actions and violent confrontations against the Texprint workers in 2021\. The stickers were produced by Toccaunotoccatutti and then distributed en masse among workers and strikers or sent by cell phone. The artists’ idea was to bring visibility of police violence, bring criticism of working conditions in the Prato textile industry from the periphery to the center of discussion, and agitate urban society. The films can still be seen today on their [website](http://www.toccaunotoccatutti.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) and, together with the material and actions planned for the following months, the footage will one day become part of an archive of migrant workers' struggles in Prato, possibly to be housed in the non-profit Istituto Ernesto di Martino, which is home to the largest private European collection of audio documents of proletarian and popular culture. In April 2022: the artist collective ToccaUnoToccaTutti invited Oppy De Bernardo, an Italian-Swiss artist colleague, to collaborate on a nomadic installation to express solidarity with the mayor of Riace, Mimmo Lucano. Lucano had revitalized the Calabrian village of Riace by welcoming and settling migrants there, and, due to his leftist policies, he was expelled from the town by the right-wing Interior Minister Matteo Salvini (*Lega*), who endorsed anti-migration policies. Oppy De Bernardo responded to the invitation by installing a light bulb sign on a truck that read: "La legge è uguale per tutti" (The law is the same for everyone) which departed from Riace to various other places and stopped in front of those factories in Prato where strikes had recently happened. Workers, trade unionists, and residents gathered next to the truck to talk about labor struggles against exploitation. Six months later, in November 2022, the artist collective - which had now grown to a group of around 20 people - met in front of the Iron&Logistics company in Prato and organized a one-day, unannounced exhibition outside the strike site in the area cleared by the police because it was not a “public” space. With the artistic action, it was occupied again, and it became a place for intensive discussions between workers and artists. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/8x5.jpeg) fig. 2 The alliance of migrant workers, trade unionists, and artists may seem a highly delicate balancing act: how to create awareness of the precarity of migrant workers and support their voices without tokenizing the struggle or “adorning” the position of the artist as socially engaged but untethered to the community’s wider struggles? In Prato the strategy of all participants has simply been to struggle together, not merely talking about the struggle, but being part of it. In this spirit, all interventions were coordinated in a dialogue between workers, unionists, and artists. and focus was placed on the relationship between workers and commodities, the concept of the inhuman, the language of justice, and the experience of different modes of time and different narratives. These joint discussions gave birth, in October 2023, to a one-day exhibition in various locations in Prato entitled *Arte e lotte operaie* (art and workers' struggles). Workers, trade unionists, and artists jointly reconstructed the activity of the struggles, the legal procedures, disputes, complaints, and “victories” from 2018 forward. They conceived the exhibition as a tour through the city to the periphery, from the studio spaces to the union headquarters. Installations, comic drawings, video texts, and a graphic timeline of workers’ struggles since 2018 are featured. ToccaUnoToccaTutti defined the exhibition as not only an expression of solidarity in support of the workers’ struggle but also as a way of working towards the construction of an artistic and economic model based on sharing and not on competition, on solidarity, not indifference. Currently, SI Cobas and ToccaUnoToccaTutti are working on a film to recount the history of the five years of battles, victories, and conquests, but also the trials, injustices, and the waiting, and militant togetherness between workers. The hope is to continue to disseminate the story of social transformation in other zones of worker conflicts and to encourage collective, self-organized fights for better working conditions. In Prato, meanwhile, the fight against the omnipotence of the big brands, their system of exploitations and illegal activities will continue in an ongoing community of struggles - and victories. Artists in the ToccaUnoToccaTutti collective: *Adriana Dantas Cabral, Erika Di Michele, Raffaele Di Vaia, Franco Menicagli, Dario Nincheri e Paolo Gallina, Zheng Ningyuan, David Behar Perahia, Mosè Risaliti, Tina Salvadori Paz, Guido Segni, Giovanni Tarducci, Tatiana Villani, Rachel Morellet.* Other participants: *Vittoria Colìni, Silvia Giagnoni, Elisa Maurizi, Marco Ravasio, Stefania Rinaldi, Francesca Ciuffi, Manuel Perna, Luca Sguanci, Luca Toscano.* \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2: Courtesy and credits toccaunotoccatutti. *Angelika Stepken is an author, curator, and researcher based in Pescia and Berlin. From 2006-2022 she directed the Künstlerhaus Villa Romana in Florence, and, before that, the Badischer Kunstverein in Karlsruhe. She has published many texts on art and she has curated international exhibitions.* ### Richtiges leben, falsches leben URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/richtiges-leben-falsches-leben/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:18.000Z Jede Gesellschaft entwickelt Regeln für ein gutes Leben. Das gute Leben basiert darauf, das Richtige zu tun und zu denken und das Falsche zu korrigieren oder auszugrenzen. Doch wer oder was berechtigt uns, zwischen dem Richtigen und Normalen und dem Falschen und Nicht-Normalen zu unterscheiden? Und vor allem: Was geschieht, wenn gar kein richtiges Leben möglich ist? Wenn man selbst oder alle anderen im fundamental Falschen leben? **Paranoia und Kritik** Als Kultur- und Medienwissenschaftlerin interessieren mich besonders die Bilder und Metaphern, in denen das Lebensgefühl des Falschseins seinen Ausdruck findet. Eine Beobachtung ist, dass die Kritik am falschen Leben in den letzten Jahren zunehmend im Muster der Paranoia erzählt wird. Mit der Formulierung „Muster der Paranoia“ geht es nicht um die Annahme, dass mehr Menschen an psychotischen Störungen erkranken, sondern um Diskurspraktiken, in denen paranoide Wahrnehmungs- und Argumentationsschemata zum Ausdruck kommen. Paranoide Personen, so das Alltagsverständnis, sind von aggressivem Misstrauen geprägt, glauben an eine [Verschwörung](https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Verschw%C3%B6rung?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) anderer gegen sich, reagieren extrem empfindlich auf Zurückweisung und neigen dazu, jede Kritik als feindlich oder verächtlich zu interpretieren. Dieses Ausgrenzungsmuster ist heute in nahezu allen gesellschaftlichen Konflikten virulent: Friedensaktivist\*innen sind Putin-Freund\*innen und Russland-Verschwörer\*innen, Ukraine-Unterstützer\*innen sind Bellizist\*innen und Erfüllungsgehilfen der USA; Personen ohne Corona-Impfung sind potentielle Totschläger\*innen usw. Kurzum: Allerorten ist man schnell bereit, anderen bösartige Motive zu unterstellen und ein Gefühl des Bedrohtseins zu kultivieren. In entscheidenden Fragen des gesellschaftlichen Zusammenlebens begegnen wir uns dementsprechend eher feindlich und in großer argumentativer Schlichtheit. **Feind\*innen und Patient\*innen** Dass solche Situationen nicht neu sind, mindert weder ihre Bedrohlichkeit noch enthebt es uns der Notwendigkeit, nach den Quellen paranoisch gefärbter Wahrnehmungs- und Ausdrucksmuster zu fragen. Dazu gilt es auch das Verhältnis zu klären zwischen dem Diskursmuster des „Paranoischen“ und jener Diagnose, die aus einer paranoisch wahrnehmenden Person eine\*n Patient\*in oder Opfer des Wahns macht. In beiden Fällen handelt es sich um einen bestürzenden Prozess, an dessen Ende aus einer anderen Wahrnehmung oder abweichenden Meinung entweder die Aussage einer feindlichen Person oder die eines\*r Patient\*in geworden ist. Trotz aller Unterschiede haben beide eines gemeinsam: Ihre Aussagen und Ansichten besitzen keinerlei Geltungsanspruch mehr. **Wahnsinn und psychiatrische Macht** Das Thema des Wahns ist vielfach beleuchtet und umfassend untersucht worden. Eine wichtige Position nehmen die Arbeiten Michel Foucaults zur Geschichte des Wahnsinns und der Entstehung der psychiatrischen Macht ein. Demnach ereignete sich um 1800 ein entscheidender Bruch. Vor 1800 galt Wahn als eine Form von Verblendung und Täuschung und konnte durch Therapien geheilt werden. Im 19\. Jahrhundert hingegen begann man, Wahnsinn als eine Störung im Handeln, Wollen und Fühlen zu betrachten und die Wahnsinnigen in Heilanstalten wegzusperren. Fortan wurde man als Irre\*r disqualifiziert, die\*der keinerlei Macht über die eigene Krankheit besitzt. Foucault beschreibt diese Entwicklung als Umwandlung des Wahnsinns in eine Politik der Psychose. Die psychiatrische Macht allein, so Foucault, ist fortan in der Lage, in abweichendem Verhalten Pathologien zu erkennen und die Normalität zu verteidigen. **Irrer und Arzt** Auf diesem Pfad der modernen Kulturgeschichte tauchte zu Beginn des 19\. Jahrhunderts erstmals ein neues Motiv des Wahnsinns auf, eine technische Apparatur, auf deren Einwirkung psychotische Patient\*innen ihre Erlebnisse der Fremdsteuerung zurückführten, ein sog. Beeinflussungsapparat – den Begriff prägte der Wiener Psychoanalytiker Viktor Tausk etwa hundert Jahre später. Es handelte sich um den „Luftwebstuhl“ des Kaufmanns und Handelsreisenden James Tilly Matthews, den man 1796 in die Londoner Irrenanstalt Bethlam eingewiesen und als unheilbar geisteskrank diagnostizierte hatte. Matthews Beeinflussungsapparat spiegelte den Stand der Wissenschaft um 1800\. Er bestand aus einer Vielzahl von Hebel- und Ventilmechanismen, Batterien und magnetischen Flüssigkeiten, und wurde zu Matthews Leidwesen von einer Verbrecherbande benutzt, um Gedanken und Gefühle direkt in sein Gehirn zu übermitteln und ihn mit Wahnideen zu quälen. Matthews Familie versuchte mehrmals, ihn aus den unhaltbaren Zuständen der Irrenanstalt zu befreien, doch jedes Mal gelang es seinem behandelnden Arzt, Joseph Haslam, eine Freilassung zu verhindern. Haslam hatte Matthews über Jahre ermutigt, seine eigene Geschichte zu schreiben und jenen bis ins Detail ausgeklügelten Luftwebstuhl zu entwerfen, der das Werkzeug seiner Qualen war. Es waren vor allen Dingen diese, von Haslam bestellten und bearbeiteten Schriften und Zeichnungen von Matthews, die vor Gericht als entscheidende Beweise für seine anhaltende Geisteskrankheit gewertet wurden. Der phantastisch-brilliant ausgearbeitete Luftwebstuhl, die Annahme, Menschen könnten mittels magnetischer Strahlung Fernwirkungen erzielen, bewog die Richter, Matthews als Irren bis zu seinem Tod einzusperren. 1810 veröffentlichte Haslam die Beweise für Matthews‘ Wahn unter dem Titel Illustrations of Madness. Er verhandelt darin weniger Matthews‘ geistigen Zustand, sondern rechnet mit jenen Ärzten ab, die es gewagt hatten, Matthews für gesund zu erklären und damit seine, Haslams, professionelle Meinung in Frage zu stellen. Das Buch spiegelt auf jeder Seite Haslams unbedingten Ehrgeiz, ein spezialisierter lrrenarzt zu werden und sein Diagnosemuster eines medientechnisch induzierten Wahns als zukünftiges Fachwissen zu etablieren. **„Falschsein“ und Kultur** Die Idee fernwirkender Beeinflussungsapparate durchzieht die Geschichte des Wahnsinns in Zeichnungen und Narrativen bis in die Gegenwart. Ihre Kenntnis verdanken wir Einrichtungen wie der Sammlung Prinzhorn am Psychiatrischen Klinikum der Universität Heidelberg oder der Sammlung Morgenthaler am Berner Psychiatrie-Museum. Hans Prinzhorn und Walter Morgenthaler gehörten zu den ersten, die künstlerische Äußerungen von Patient\*innen und Psychiatrieinsass\*innen zusammentrugen und einem kleinen Kreis von Interessierten zugänglich machten. Mittlerweile ist die Kunst von *Irren/Geisteskranken*, auch unter dem Titel Art Brut, einer breiteren Öffentlichkeit bekannt geworden, doch die Versuche, die Stimmen jener Aus- und Weggeschlossenen und die Zeugnisse ihrer Widerfahrnisse des „Falschseins“ in die Geschichte bzw. Kultur unserer zeitgenössischen Welt zurückzuholen, fangen erst langsam an, Früchte zu tragen. Die Bemühungen, einen tiefen Graben zwischen Vernunft und Wahnsinn zu erhalten und dem so Abgespaltenen jedes Diskursrecht zu entziehen, haben nach wie vor die Oberhand. Vor diesem Hintergrund ist es wenig überraschend, dass sich bis heute die Behauptung hält, Wahngebilde wie der Beeinflussungsapparat seien das Ergebnis einer grundlegenden Überforderung und mangelhaften Kenntnis der wissenschafts-technischen Entwicklung. Einige Menschen, so die landläufige Überzeugung, könnten mit den Anforderungen einer sich rasch verändernden Welt nicht mithalten und dächten sich deshalb verrückte Geschichten und Maschinen aus. Eine solche Deutung jedoch ist in den Bildern von Psychiatriepatient\*innen schlicht nicht zu finden. Denn Bilder von Kranken, so Gottfried Boehm, sind keine kranken Bilder, d. h. nicht nur Dokumente einer gesundheitlichen Beeinträchtigung oder eines intellektuellen Defizits, sondern kreative Überlebensleistungen von großer Intensität und Lebendigkeit. **Weltrettung und „Social Media“** Eine der bekanntesten Vertreterinnen der Kunst von *Geisteskranken* ist die 1949 geborene, in Berlin lebende Künstlerin Vanda Vieira-Schmidt. Nachdem sie entdeckt hatte, dass böse Menschen handliche Uran-Geräte benutzten, um ihr und anderen Menschen schmerzhafte Strom- und Uran-Schläge zu versetzen, startete sie ihr so genanntes „Weltrettungsprojekt“. Im Verlauf von zehn Jahren schuf Frau Vieira-Schmidt tausende von Zeichnungen mit magischen Motiven, Mustern und Zahlen, die aus ihrer Perspektive mittlerweile eine friedliche Grundsicherung geschaffen haben. Im Konfliktfall kann sich die deutsche Armee jederzeit an Frau Vieira-Schmidt wenden, die dann sofort eine ihrer Zeichnungen ins Verteidigungsministerium schickt, wo mittels eines speziellen Lesecomputers die Lösung des Konflikts eingeleitet werden kann. Ein gängiger Reflex auf die Arbeit von Frau Vieira-Schmidt ist der Hinweis, dass ihr „Weltrettungsprojekt“ ja nicht funktioniere, eben weil es auch keine Beeinflussungsapparate gebe. Solche Überlegenheitsgesten wirken umso befremdlicher in einer Zeit, in der die Mehrheit der Bevölkerung sich als Empfänger\*in wie Agent\*in in ein medientechnisches Beeinflussungsdispositiv globalen Ausmaßes eingekoppelt hat und einen großen Teil ihrer Zeit mit der Organisation eines virtuellen Bild- und Textschnipseluniversums verbringt. Während Frau Vieira-Schmidt mit ihrem Zeichenuniversum für den Weltfrieden kämpft, folgt die Social-Media-Logik von follow und like, von Bewerten und Be/Folgen, Verehren „und Verachten, einer polarisierenden Dynamik, welche argumentativ begründete Meinungsverschiedenheiten zwischen Gegnern zunehmend mit ideologisch geführten Hassreden unter Feinden zurückdrängt. Angesichts dieses Vernichtungsfurors scheint eine Einsicht Foucaults neue Aktualität zu gewinnen, nämlich dass ein Grund für die Ausgrenzung des Wahnsinns darin besteht, dass er einer verborgenen Wahrheit seine Stimme leiht. **Richtiges, Falsches – und die Welt** Es scheint aktuell kaum vorstellbar, dem „Wahnsinn“ in unserer von elektronischen Medien kolonisierten Gesellschaft zu entgehen. Zweifellos gibt es „Beeinflussungsapparate“ und ein Heer von Akteur\*innen, die versuchen, ihre Botschaften „in unseren Geist“ zu projizieren und unsere Emotionen zu konditionieren. Ich denke, dass wir einen Zugang zu unserem eigenen Wahn, unserer eigenen Paranoia finden könnten, wenn wir uns mehr mit jenem Vorgang auseinandersetzten, mit dem wir andere erfolgreich als paranoid, geisteskrank, als „wrong beings“, ausgegrenzt haben. Ich glaube, es würde sich lohnen, die „verrückten“, „irrsinnigen“ Bilder in unsere Gegenwart zurückzuholen, weil in ihnen auf plausible Weise oft etwas zum Ausdruck kommt, das sich eigentlich ausschließt; weil sie dazu auffordern, sich dem Wunsch nach Vereindeutigung zu entziehen, weil sie uns daran erinnern, dass es zwar Richtiges und Falsches geben mag, die Welt sich aber dieser Einteilung nicht fügt. Sollten wir nicht vielleicht paranoider gegenüber den Beeinflussungsapparaten unserer Tage sein? \\\\ Die Serie “Being Wrong” entsteht in Kollaboration mit der Zeppelin Universität Friedrichshafen. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: ig profile @affirmations *Natascha Adamowsky ist Medien- und Kulturwissenschaftlerin und arbeitet seit 2020 an der Universität Passau. Das Thema „Wahnsinn und Gesellschaft“ hat sie oft mit Studierenden diskutiert und viel dabei gelernt. Mehr zu ihrer Forschung: natascha-adamowsky.de* ### In the thick of the shift URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/in-the-thick-of-the-shift/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:15.000Z Rarely has the cultural landscape of Berlin in the 21st Century undergone an earthquake of such magnitude as the one currently shaking its structures. Already influenced by the rightward [shift of the German funding system](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/defunding-berlin/), and confirmed by the ongoing posture of unconditional loyalty to the Israeli state by Germany as an alleged measure to prevent anti-Semitism, Berlin and its cultural institutions are confronted with a turning point concerning the status of historical narratives and the role that cultural production occupies within them. This shift was made visible in a power move advocated by Senator Joe Chialo, that would force cultural institutions and individuals to comply with a highly controversial definition of anti-Semitism by means of[ a funding clause that from now until further notice is off the table](https://www.berliner-zeitung.de/kultur-vergnuegen/berlin-kulturfoerderung-antidiskriminierungsklausel-von-kultursenator-joe-chialo-vom-tisch-li.2179393?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). For the Berlin-based community of artists, activists, and cultural practitioners advocating for Palestine and freedom of speech, the epicenter of this upheaval is the decision of the Berlin Senat to revoke funding from the cultural center Oyoun, a move triggered by its refusal to cancel an event organized by the Göttingen Peace Prize-winning non-profit NGO, [Jewish Voice for a Just Peace in the Middle East](https://www.juedische-stimme.de/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). This decision by the Cultural Senat has become a flashpoint, exposing the latent tension between competing paradigms of freedom of expression and diversity in Berlin's cultural sphere. This divide manifests through critical [events ](https://oyoun.de/en/unsere-arbeit/threads-of-resilience/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)that have been supported by Berlin-based artists and researchers such as Zoë Claire Miller, Candice Breitz, Emilia Roig, Mojisola Adebayo, Lucas Febraro, and Dr. Anna-Esther Younes along with international figures, such as the writer and journalist Naomi Klein. An [open letter](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSd0Ni47hWpgKWZduBFe9TcFgfF37QwTj4Ejq97cxeo5HExl%5Fg/viewform?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) that presently has more than fourteen thousand signatures of cultural workers from different disciplines is circulating, among with other concerted actions. Oyoun has decided to challenge the measures imposed upon it using legal means and with support by the law firm Myrsini Laaser. An urgent mobilization of the artistic community has managed to [raise more than 80,000 euros for this action on Oyun’s behalf.](https://www.gofundme.com/f/save-oyoun-protect-artistic-freedom?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) Elisa Fuenzalida, along with Louna Sbou, director of Oyoun, delves into the emerging forms of institutionality that Oyoun represents at this crossroads in Berlin's cultural history. **On which premises was Oyoun originally supported by Berlin’s Senat?** Freedom of artistic expression is usually highly regarded, and may offer a more accessible path to the exploration of otherwise marginalized perspectives. However, despite Berlin’s self-proclaimed cosmopolitanism, there is a distinct lack of intersectional, BIPoC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Colour) led cultural institutions. This drove us, united by a sense of feeling deserted by the gender, racial, immigration, class, and cultural politics of the Western democracy we call home, whether by choice, luck or force, to found be’kech, a small co-working and cultural neighborhood café in a working-class area. Soon it became a home for minoritized perspectives across a neighborhood undergoing gentrification. Later, we realized the need to scale up. We won a public tender and took over the former brewery building in Berlin’s heavily gentrified district of Neukölln, also home to the largest migrant population in the city. Together with the collectives in our network and beyond we revived this space for us, by us, and, hence, broadened pluralistic discourse across local and international themes. This was the beginning of Oyoun. Oyoun launched in 2020, and secured funding and support from the Berlin Senat, along with third-party funders such as the European Union, the Robert Bosch and Heinrich Böll Foundations, the German Foreign Office, and the German Federal Culture Foundation, among others.[The Senate’s decision to back the project stemmed from its dedication to fostering queer\*feminist and diasporic cultural diversity](https://www.berlin.de/sen/kultgz/aktuelles/pressemitteilungen/2019/pressemitteilung.868720.php?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), a commitment rooted in the recognition of the urgent need for more inclusive and representative cultural expressions in Berlin and beyond. The announcement of the initial funding round in November 2019 saw the Senator for Culture, Dr. Klaus Lederer, praising the Kultur NeuDenken UG collective for presenting an original and professional concept. The concept outlined a space that not only offers artistic excellence in the realms of migrant, diasporic, decolonial, queer\*feminist, and class-critical perspectives, but also serves as a meeting point for neighborhood initiatives and communities. [Dr. Lederer emphasized the excellence, originality, and professionalism of Oyoun's concept, making their selection in the tender an easy decision.](https://www.berliner-zeitung.de/mensch-metropole/vielfalt-in-allen-bereichen-li.2066?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) Oyoun’s mission involves conceiving, developing, and implementing artistic-cultural projects through decolonial, queer\*feminist, and migrant perspectives. Since its opening, its [programs ](https://oyoun.de/programm/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)have served as a platform for critical debate that might not naturally occur elsewhere, as well as reflective experimentation, and transnational solidarity, as Oyoun facilitates dialogue between local, national, and international voices on an artistic level, bridging actors including civil society communities and representatives from culture and politics. **Can you describe the structural aspects of this economic support?** The economic support we received was initially structured as a 2-year funding cycle (2020-2021) and extended to a 4-year funding cycle (2022-2025) aimed at covering operational costs, including program curation, community outreach, and maintaining our physical space. This funding was crucial in enabling us to host a wide range of cultural events and support artists from diverse backgrounds. **What is the motive or clause from which the Senat grounds its withdrawal?** There has been significant public discourse linking the loss of funding to our hosting of the event by the Jewish Voice for a Just Peace in the Middle East on November 4th, 2023\. On November 6th, 2023, the Culture Senator, Joe Chialo, mentioned the review of our funding as a result of the event with the Jewish Voice for a Just Peace in the Middle East, as is audible in the [recording](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1asW8qh8rHA&ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) of the 25th meeting of the Committee for Culture, Engagement and the Promotion of Democracy on the sixth of November in the Berlin House of Representatives. Additionally, in[ response to questions submitted ](https://pardok.parlament-berlin.de/starweb/adis/citat/VT/19/SchrAnfr/S19-17295.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)by a member of the main committee, Dr. Manuela Schmidt, Berlin’s State Secretary for Culture, Sarah Wedl-Wilson explicitly mentions the event of November 4th with Jewish Voice for a Just Peace in the Middle East as the cause for their inspections and review of funding. After the backlash, and suggestions that the Senator’s decision was itself based on anti-Semitism (while accusing the Jewish Voice for a Just Peace in the Middle East of anti-Semitism), he now claims the funding was simply to “expire” at the end of 2023. We are currently seeking clarity on these reasons, as they seem to conflict with our understanding of the agreement. However, all attempts to have a conversation or dialogue have been ignored by the Senator and his administration. **What are the legal and symbolic implications of challenging the funding cutoff through** [**court**](https://www.theleftberlin.com/statement-from-oyoun-kultur-neudenken-gug/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)**?** Legally, challenging this decision involves questioning the administrative processes and justifications for the withdrawal. Symbolically, it represents a stand for the rights of cultural institutions to operate free from abrupt and unexplained changes in funding policies. It’s a fight for transparency and fairness in cultural funding. With the abrupt funding cut by [Berlin’s Cultural Senate ](https://oyoun.de/en/news/crowdfunding-kampagne/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)in December 2023, all of us at Oyoun were confronted with the inherent insecurity of institutionalization, which we were all already aware of. This prompted us to imagine alternative ways of sustaining our work. These pathways will inevitably continue to linger within our organizational structure in the future as well. With the city’s project funding constituting the major part of our annual budget since January 2020, Oyoun has been functioning as an intermediary between individuals and initiatives from different marginalized communities and state, public, and private institutions. We are the only organization running a state-owned building without institutional funding. Obviously the possibility of a sudden funding cut was always there. We were always grassroots, but at the same time, we were very close to being an institution. As my colleague Dami Choi has said: *Becoming institutionalized comes with dehumanization — tokenism, censorship, reductionism, and a potential for stigmatization. It might offer stability, for a while, but not security. This is the case not only in a few corners of the non-profit sector, but in most socio-politically oriented and artistic and culturally concerned organized movements, initiatives, and projects.* I’d add that this would be even more the case if the organization is run by and centering marginalized bodies. As a member of the Oyoun team enduring the current situation, it is inspiring to encounter works like *The Revolution Will Not Be Funded* (edited by INCITE! (2017)). \[1\] It is illuminating to once more recognize and criticize the capitalistic (hence naturally patriarchal and colonial) habits, intra-community tension, and the exhaustion that such a hostile funding environment brings about. Knowledge shared in the book gives me the courage to imagine scenarios and options beyond it. It is essential to dream of an autonomous, collaborative, resistant, and sustainable model of work. More than ever, we must stay vigilant against the system’s inevitable tendency to institutionalize effective grassroots movements. We must be aware of the inherent precariousness that institutionalization entails. Equally, we should not cease to demand the system to transform and for the institutions to care. Organizations close to institutions should continue to exist to serve the community and to secure, albeit temporarily, the momentum to reclaim our place in this society. We must insist to the system that it’s their job to worry about our labor being paid. **Looking back, what were the problematic aspects of the relationship between Oyoun and the Berlin administration from the beginning? Was there any form of contractualization around anti-Semitism and Israel that you needed to sign beforehand?** From the beginning, our relationship with the Berlin administration has been marked by bureaucratic challenges. Conditions from the previous structure of the Werkstatt der Kulturen had to be carried over, including unlimited employment contracts, which now present us with unexpected financial challenges. This situation underscores the complexity of the situation we face, and the need for constructive dialogue with all parties involved, especially the SenatKGZ. These issues have sometimes hindered our ability to operate smoothly. The “Landeskonzept zur Weiterentwicklung der Antisemitismus Prävention”, including the non-binding Anti-BDS (Boycott, Divestment, and Sanction) resolution, has been part of the grant notice. There has been no breach nor cases of anti-Semitism reported to our Awareness Team or to “AGG-Stelle”. **What does the community need to know in the event that a similar situation happens to them, and how can people support you?** Other cultural institutions or funded projects should be aware of the importance of clear, detailed, and written agreements with funding bodies, as well as the importance of regular, non-digital, communication, and they should prepare for unexpected changes in funding policies. The community can support us by continuing to spread awareness. Keep demanding freedom of speech and expression in the cultural landscape, and, above all, for the the de-linking of politics from funding. Your solidarity is crucial during this challenging time. **What have you learned about the current status of institutionality and about what institutions *could* be? From where do you see such transformations emerging?** This situation has taught us much about the fragility and the potential of institutionality. We see a need for more resilient, transparent, and inclusive structures in the cultural sector. The transformation, we believe, should come from both grassroots initiatives and from policy-level changes. As we navigate through the appeals process, our primary goal is to continue serving our community to the best of our ability. We are actively exploring alternative funding sources and collaborations to sustain our operations. This period, while undoubtedly challenging, also presents an opportunity for innovation and community engagement. Even if we end up losing the physical space, we are committed to holding spaces otherwise, all while remaining active and vibrant, focusing on smaller-scale, community-driven contributions that align with our mission. Several projects are still awaiting us at Oyoun in 2024\. It seems like the house we’ve had would not be there anymore and our team will have to disperse. But, as in our slogan, we are more than a house, more than one form of operation. The Senate’s funding withdrawal can never annihilate us. Through our current struggle, we hope to find each other in our communities, and in our solidarity, more desperately than ever. The cultural Berlin system, inherently, owes us. // *Parts of this interview are excerpts from the previously published „Curation as community work in a hostile funding context“, a text by curator Dami Choi written as Oyoun’s contribution for the project School of Commons.* --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] *The Revolution Will Not Be Funded: Beyond the Non-Profit Industrial Complex*, edited by INCITE!, Republished by Duke University Press, 2017. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Untitled. (Facade of Oyoun, 2023). Photo by Queer Analog Darkroom. Courtesy of Oyoun. *Elisa Fuenzalida is a researcher and cultural worker. She has directed research projects such as El futuro era tu cuerpo, Ensamblajes del Cuidado and Afectos en Re-existencia. She is coordinator and co-curator of the Cátedra Decolonial Anibal Quijano at the Museo Reina Sofía, co-editor of the journal Arts of the Working Class and mediator in the citizen laboratory platform Redes por el Clima.* *Louna Sbou is a curator, mentor, and cultural manager. She is the director of Oyoun in Berlin, an anti-disciplinary arts center with a special focus on queer\*feminist, decolonial, and class-critical perspectives.* ### The solidarity trinity URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-solidarity-trinity/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:14.000Z In recent years we’ve talked a lot about solidarity in collective actions in the art world, communal living, alternative economies, and more synonyms in the ethos. But what exactly is solidarity? And why does solidarity expression in the arts often feel inadequate? The following text gives an insight to the research done with my collaborator, Yiren Zhao, and her work in relation to the Dinghaiqiauo Mutual-Aid Society (hereafter DMaS), a process-based collective in Shanghai. This text specifically looks at the relationship between groups of people and organizations such as art institutions, and at relationships inside the collective. These considerations on the state of solidarity are directed towards offering concepts to overcome frustrating experiences in collectivity. **What is the role of labor in solidarity making?** The Solidarity Trinity theory emerged from a conversation between Josien Pieterse, co-director of Framer Framed, and myself. Framer Framed is an institution in Amsterdam that supports collective-driven artivist \[1\] initiatives and is concerned about the sustainability of these initiatives and their ability to self-govern after institutional support ends. The initial question was how to ensure these initiatives can sustain themselves beyond the launch of a great idea or show, as, often, the groups have a hard time to continue to work together after the show if they weren’t already. I suspect one key missing aspect was labor. My previous research indicated that maintenance labor, which facilitates understanding and immediate togetherness in a spatial-bodily context, played a crucial role. However, institutions often take on tasks of maintenance labor, such as providing organizational support for day-to-day communal life, alongside financial and material support such as artist fees, production budgets, workspace, and accommodation. The intention is to remove everyday hassles from the community and give space for them to focus on the “real work”. Despite the good intent, this particular type of offer faces two problems: firstly, maintenance labor; financial support and material support are not the only possible ways to support artists and collectives. Instead, they are just the most obvious and the easiest ones to give, in the false assumption that collectives are nothing more than an artist with multiple bodies. Secondly, it removes the most fundamental experience of a community, applying the conventional division between artistic production and the everyday work of a lonesome genius artist’s life to that of an artivist collective. Removing the everyday maintenance tasks means stripping a group from the opportunity to experience each other as full human beings. Observing others in how they pay attention to peoples’ needs goes beyond professional facades. Setting up a table together, cleaning the space and cooking allows us to connect to other humans. Human relationships are built on these everyday care moments and the observance of them. For example, DMaS member David explicitly stated that he has utmost respect for people who clean the dishes perfectly, and he feels most connected to them. Being in a collective that is not immediately profitable, a relational understanding of each other’s integrity through maintenance is a wise entry to trust. The problem is that a collective is made from multi-layered relationships and an intricate web of desires and pursuits of values. These relationships exist as a whole, but also each relationship within the collective can be regarded as being like a stomach. A relationship can contain much and diverse food if trained properly over time, but it can hardly take in a large dose of an unfamiliar subsistence in a short time. Collectives that are incubated by institutions that offer maintenance labor often “throw up” once the support is gone, as the collectives must learn how to maintain their everyday existence in a dramatically short time. Instead of connecting to each other in performing care labor for themselves, they instead shared the experience of care labor being delivered to them. This institutional service delivers a collective into a precarious stage, yet it is not a financial precarity that they are affected by, but the lack of knowledge of how to take care of each other. That usually turns out ugly. **Solidarity Trinity: Labor, Relationship and Space** We developed the concept of the Solidarity Trinity as part of our research in order to de-complexify the relationships between the coordinates of labor, relationship, and space, while body and time exist throughout and across the three. We propose that labor and relationships are inseparable. Furthermore, given that labor is intrinsic to the space in which it takes place and relationships are influenced by spatial conditions, space is the third coordinate. This concept asserts that labor, relationship, and space comprise an interdependent unified whole, as one coordinate cannot be changed without affecting the other two. The resilience of solidarity relies on all three aspects and their successful interplay. Yet there’s not a master’s recipe, but different forms of solidarity based on the different forms of relationships, spaces and maintenance labor. For instance, solidarity looks different in digital spaces, where relationships are long-distance instead of in person, and where maintenance labor means setting up meetings and writing minutes, and the spaces used are platforms designed for productivity and entertainment. The change of one coordinate will require a different quality of collective effort, and that’s often when their solidarity faces challenges to sustain. Through this lens, we can gain a deeper understanding of certain uncomfortable moments within the art world. For instance, institutions that seek to commission collaborative work from a group of individuals who don’t necessarily have prior relationships as a demonstration of collectivity, often fail to consider the importance of relationships within the Solidarity Trinity, and do not calculate the required time that would be necessary to build these kinds of relationships. Likewise, an exhibition that displaces local community practices into a white cube or a foreign country actively neglects the spatial coordinate of the trinity. Generally, the spectacle driven art world undermines relationships through spectatorship. While maintenance labor is necessary to sustain space and relationships, under observation it might become a labor of spectacle-making, and this will counteract solidarity. Maintenance labor needs its own, un-spectacularized space. Another aspect to consider within the framework of the Solidarity Trinity is the role of money. Specifically, the use of time-based payment systems that fragment the trinity into discrete units of time can hinder the free flow and interconnection between labor, space, and relationships. While a detailed understanding of how monetary resources precisely impact collectivity and solidarity is still needed, there is already substantial evidence supporting this hypothesis. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/SOLIDARITY-TRINITY-2.0.021.jpeg) fig. 1 **Plurality of Solidarity** The solidarity within the community is made from each member’s contribution: the contribution through working together, maintaining the space together, hanging out with each other, and putting resources together to make things happen; all these moments foster a *sense of belonging*. Next to the sense of belonging, a nurturing community is often able to make individuals feel a *sense of personal growth* through communal life and informal peer coaching. Meanwhile, many individuals who join a community with a mission also hope to *achieve something good for society*, to fulfill the purposes of their life. In other words, community members invest their own time, efforts, and money in the community, in the hope of obtaining a *Sense of Personal Growth*, a *Sense of Achievement* and a *Sense of Belonging*. \[2\] Here we have the basic condition of the Solidarity Trinity: individual nurturing. Having said this, each individual perceives these aspects differently and co-creates their own understanding of how the community influences their being in the world. In real-life instances, we can observe a plurality of solidarity within the community. This is because individuals may have different mappings of safe spaces within themselves, and varying levels of acceptance towards different community members. Some individuals may consider a smaller group within the community as their “true community”, while others may extend their idea of true community beyond the official boundary to include a broader support network of people. This diversity of senses of belonging within the community confirms the existence of different psychological realities and highlights the various ways individuals perceive the presence of the community. Even within the same collective, there are multiple interpretations of the community's significance and the multi-dimensional combinations of relationships within it. It is important to acknowledge and respect these differences, as they shape how individuals view the social organization and their role within it. Consequently, the heterogeneity of interpersonal relationships within a community can create challenges in meeting the community's expectations, as in the case of interpersonal conflicts. When a critical conflict arises, it becomes a political challenge for the community to address. The way individuals perceive and feel about the conflict may vary depending on their personal relationships with those involved. For instance, in cases of interpersonal conflicts, individuals within the community may have different reactions toward the individuals in conflict. This variation in response arises from the everyday relationships individuals have with those involved in the conflict. This discrepancy between the collective responsibility to address the conflict and individuals’ personal feelings can create a significant gap. In situations where victimhood is evident and there is a need for justice, individuals may struggle to reconcile their interpersonal dynamics with the collective responsibility to support the victim. For example, these discrepancies and tensions within the community can lead to a vacuum, or suppression, impacting overall community relationships. They contribute to a minefield of unresolved and unaddressed sentiments that may manifest in future conflicts and gradually wear down the collective’s overall resilience. In our research, only collectives that have the heart to embrace different projections towards the collective and different proximities between its members can build long-lasting solidarity. However, in a world that is increasingly reactionary, polarizing, and fixating on representational values, solidarity is ever more difficult to make. Instead of destroying relationships by putting them on display, the art world needs a complete rethink of its attention-driven economy and institutional practices to cultivate genuine solidarity. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] *Artivist,* or *artist-activist*, refers to art practitioners who work on socially-engaged art or projects of an activist nature, or activists that use art as a means of their activism. \[2\] This conclusion leads to the overall game structure of the Alchemy of Commons (alchemyofcommons.xyz), each individual invests their Personal Resources (Available Time, Personal Wellbeing and Disposable Income) to improve the overall status of the collective for gaining *Sense of Personal Growth, Sense of Achievement* and *Sense of Belonging.* IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Schematic visualiztion of the Solidarity Trinity. fig. 1: Diagram showing an example of the variations of the members' Sense of Personal Growth, Sense of Achievement, and Sense of Belonging over time in comparison to what the collective's status about theses senses is. ˝ Aiwen Yin. *Aiwen YIN is a practicing designer, researcher, theorist, strategist, and project developer, who advocates relationship-focused design as a strategy to redesign, re-engineer, and reimagine the relationship between technology and society. Although the text is written by YIN, Solidarity Trinity is part of the bigger gamification-as-research project, Alchemy of Commons, developed by YIN and educator and community practitioner Yiren ZHAO, hence authorship belongs to both of them.* ### Misquotations & affirmations URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/misquotations-and-affirmations/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:12.000Z January 8th, 2024\. -4 degrees is the temperature wrapped around us, a group of art and culture workers stands in front of the Abgeordnetenhaus in Berlin to express our concern about the implementation of the [IHRA](https://holocaustremembrance.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance)'s “Working Definition of Anti-Semitism” as a precondition for arts and cultural funding. The demonstration was organized by the newly-born [Arts and Culture Alliance Berlin](https://ugc.production.linktr.ee/2f4b6ddc-c20f-406f-a2db-ebd80cb736b2%5FArts-Culture-Alliance-Berlin-statement.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (ACAB), a collective committed to the urgent linking together of denunciation of anti-Semitism with wider anti-racist and anti-fascist struggles and the urgency of demanding a ceasefire and end of Palestinian occupation. On this occasion, a lineup of speakers, among them the activist Yasmeen Daher, was invited to voice their objection to the actions of those responsible for politically motivated selective defunding, as adopted by the Berlin Senate Department for Culture and Social Cohesion and promulgated by its Culture Senator, Joe Chialo. "Anti-Semitism is a certain perception of Jews that can express itself as hatred towards Jews. Anti-Semitism is directed in word and deed against Jewish or non-Jewish individuals and/or their property, as well as against Jewish communal institutions and religious bodies," reads the IHRA working definition of the term “anti-Semitism”. Its vagueness may be justified because it was never intended to be a legally binding text. In 2019, the German Bundestag, as part of its [BDS resolution](https://elsc.support/news/more-and-more-german-courts-confirm-the-right-to-bds?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), added a modification to the IHRA definition, which reads: "Manifestations of anti-Semitism can also be directed against the state of Israel, which is understood as a Jewish collective." This definition has been criticized by an international community of jurists, experts, and leftist Jews due to its incompatibility with a nuanced understanding of Jewish identities, as well as its potential interpretation as permanently indemnifying the State of Israel against charges of war crimes. The clause is seen as part of a broader dilution of freedom of speech protections for those willing to consistently criticize potentially genocidal acts (at the time of writing, Israel is facing charges of genocide brought by South Africa before the International Court of Justice). An alternative, and more clearly articulated potential definition of anti-Semitism is provided by the [JDA](https://jerusalemdeclaration.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (Jerusalem Declaration on Antisemitism), which not only disentangles anti-Semitism from criticism of the State of Israel but also explicitly disambiguates freedom of speech from hate speech. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Screenshot-2024-01-13-at-12.48.06.png) fig.1 The demand of the group Arts and Culture Alliance Berlin is that the IHRA definition of antisemitism be dropped from arts funding prerequisites. As a reference document to recognize and protect against antisemitism, the Jerusalem Declaration on antisemitism is endorsed as it clearly distinguishes critique from discrimination. IHRA’s 2019 modification is, nonetheless, the definition Germany has chosen to adopt and impose. This decision was rather arbitrary. It took place without any prior debate or consultation, no transparent decision-making process, and no affected persons, associations, or institutions being consulted. This was pointed out in an [open letter](https://openletterberlinculture.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org#english) compiled in protest of the implementation of the clause and signed by thousands of artists and cultural workers. This comes as no surprise but with a general sense of distrust for the right-leaning German government and disenfranchisement from the crucial funding system that makes Berlin the creative home for the working class, LGBTQ+, displaced, and self-empowered diasporas community of artists. Germany may be choosing to believe in a partial definition of anti-Semitism, or Israelbezogener Antisemitismus (Israel-related anti-Semitism), which ignores local expressions of anti-Jewish violence contained in its borders, including attacks on Jewish places of culture unrelated to October 7th, and for which existing prevention measures didn’t suffice. As the Jewish artist Virgil Taylor pointed out during the rally, the conflation of anti-Semitism with criticism of the State of Israel will affect in large part Jewish artists who reject the fixed image of the “Israeli Jew”. Taylor remarks that, through the generous system of German funding, varied Jewish identities could be nurtured and developed. Adopting the highly statist definition of anti-Semitism articulated by the Bundestag is a move that silences Jewish voices and self-determination. Senator Chialo, a member of the CDU, showed up during the demo and requested to speak to the crowd, an unexpected gesture, after his refusal in the past months to provide explanations on the decision to [revoke funding to the migrant-led cultural space Oyoun](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSd0Ni47hWpgKWZduBFe9TcFgfF37QwTj4Ejq97cxeo5HExl%5Fg/viewform?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), and for defining “art” as “free, but not unruled”. Chialo’s remarks included the following: “the diverse parts of the city come together in this demo, and there is a necessity to talk. We will communicate it publicly and I would be happy to start to talk with others without shouting at each other and throwing opinions against each other and give others the possibility to listen and admit that they are right in some aspect… from our side in your direction and the other way around”. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ESG03753.jpg) fig.2 His words resembled a mediatic gesture, contradicting his lack of response to the independent scene within the last six months of his tenure. Luckily, there were other, more powerful and knowledgeable addresses, such as that of Ahmed Abad, a lawyer and spokesperson for [The European Legal Support Center](https://elsc.support/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) (ELSC). The ELSC intervenes to end arbitrary restrictions and criminalization of advocacy, and it has provided substantial support and consultancy over the past weeks to the numerous activists who have been targets of the escalation of police brutality and abuses in Berlin. Additionally, Jesse Darling, invited to take the word from Arts and Culture Alliance Berlin, made us once again aware of enduring Islamophobia and anti-Semitism as a long-standing project of imposing official Christianity as the spiritual foundation of Europe’s institutions of culture and state. He noted how contradictory it is to make the world watch the contemporary crusade of children in Israel forced to fight in the IDF, and of others in Gaza to die. The adherence to the IHRA clause is only one of the many measures opening further doors to the normalization of racial profiling in institutional structures and procedures. Islamophobia is easily embedded in this clause, building on existing hatred against the Arabic community in Germany - especially as seen in Saxony - where the IHRA clause is officially employed as a form of discrimination for those who come from Middle Eastern or Muslim countries and who are applying for residency permits. The justification for the hard line drawn by Germany is the so-called [Staatsrasön](https://www.bpb.de/kurz-knapp/lexika/das-junge-politik-lexikon/321175/staatsraeson/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), defined for the first time in 2008 by the then Chancellor Angela Merkel on the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the State of Israel. Staatsrasön, the “reason of state”, claims Israel's security and existence as a reason for the German state to exist, and it creates a moral wall that seals off Germany’s unresolved relationship with the Holocaust and its history of imperialism. Following this unconditional pledge of loyalty to the State of Israel, the German government has deployed over the past three months operations of propaganda and policing to the detriment of all voices calling for an immediate ceasefire in the Gaza Strip, and for access by Palestinian civilians to basic needs and human rights. Specifically in the city of Berlin, the government has deployed abusive measures of regimentation that allowed police to raid the BIPOC Café Bar Karanfil and target the anti-capitalist, anti-fascist women’s organizations Zora, who, according to the [police press release](https://www.berlin.de/polizei/polizeimeldungen/2023/pressemitteilung.1398430.php?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), are accused of spreading propaganda on behalf of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP), and the cordoning[ off of the highly populated Palestinian neighborhood of NK](https://www.tiktok.com/@middleeasteye/video/7319277369179557152?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) during New Year’s Eve. Targeting specifically the vast and segregated Arabic, Palestinian, and Turkish communities, along with Jewish voices who reject narrow understandings of Jewish identity and anti-Semitism. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/ESG03778-v2.jpg) fig.3 Stubborn groups of people in Berlin have organized weekly demonstrations ([Jüdische Stimme,](https://www.instagram.com/juedischestimme/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) [Global South United](https://www.instagram.com/globalsouthunited/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), and [Palästina Spricht](https://www.instagram.com/palestinespeaks/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)), strikes ([Strike Germany](https://www.instagram.com/strikegermany/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)), interventions ([Gegen Kultur Zensur](https://www.instagram.com/gegen%5Fkulturzensur/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)), and archives of censorship ([Archive of Silence](https://www.instagram.com/archive%5Fof%5Fsilence/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)) to demand attention for Palestinians and their right to exist and to the manipulation of language and information. At the heart of this challenging multi-scalarity, it's easy to overlook that behind the rationale that distinguishes some definitions of anti-Semitism from others lie political interests. Such prompt coalition-building between groups whose existence is now threatened by the implementation of the IHRA definition demonstrates that a significant share of artists, theorists, academics, and cultural producers from all disciplines, who may already have overcome silencing, censorship, criminalization, and stigmatization due to their places of origin, sexual orientation, and normalized xenophobia, Islamophobia and Arabophobia in Germany stand ready to raise questions about their role in art and institutionality in the building of Berlin’s international prestige. In the meantime, the next meeting of the Cultural Committee will take place on January 22nd. *Until then, and always viva viva Palestina.* // This text has been edited by María Inés Plaza Lazo and Elisa Fuenzalida. --- ### Image Credits Header © and courtesy Veronica Shiavo Fig. 1/2/3 © and courtesy Esra @egultekin\_ All images are from the public demonstration organized by ACAB on January 8. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### A Notable Modus Operandi URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/notable-modus-operandi/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:11.000Z Ah, the visionary dance of art, an endless game of entwining itself in a dialogue with the intricacies of context, geopolitics, and the very essence of the artwork. Behold Ooooooooo-pus, an exhibition at the Ludwig Forum for International Art in Aachen, whose very title pirouettes around the Latin word opus meaning “work” or “labor” and the neo-avant-garde heroine Katalin Ladik as its muse, whispering, mumbling and murmuring by the means of a performance around and by her (art)works. The exhibition unfolds as a collaborative effort, a rendezvous orchestrated by HdK Munich, Ludwig Forum, and Moderna Museet Stockholm. This second act, an exhibition assembled anew by the minds of Fanny Hauser and Hendrik Folkerts, introduces nuanced deviations.The surplus of 'o's, a playful homage to the experimental utterances of Ladik and Atila Csernik, kindred spirits from the Yugoslav Bosch+Bosch artistic collective, conjuring cinematic spells in *O-pus* (1972). Ladik is a luminary born in the multicultural Yugoslav embrace, cradled in the arms of Hungarian heritage, has etched her artistic saga in the fabric of Budapest since the dawn of the century. She is a poet and writer who expands the boundaries of poetry phonetically, visually and kinetically. Her newest retrospective \[1\], a curatorially articulated body of artworks, beckons the senses into a multimedia tapestry of creation between poetry, theater, body art, performance and literature. Hauser and Folkerts, as co-curators, focus their artistic lens on the multimedia works that dance at the intersection of visual and verbal splendor and the reflections in sound. The framed collage *Die Meistersinger* (1980) \[2\] takes its place near the entrance to the second room of the exhibition dedicated to collaborative practices. It is a composition featuring a sheet of musical notes, a complete Cyrillic азбука (meaning alphabet), and a small historical stamp created by Ladik and two fellow male artists Peter Below and Bálint Szombathy, from her Mail Art series. While there is no direct translation of the Cyrillic text, its purpose here is to remain cryptic. But this is not about learning the language, Katalin Ladik’s abundant practice is all about reshaping and rearticulating it. The black and white notes, alongside vibrant letters, create a visually striking fusion, inviting viewers into a unique voco-visual realm. This realm either houses or guards the inscription, a sentence in Cyrillic letters that reads, "I can do whatever I want now”. The stamp is attributed to the “Rand Künstler Marginal Artists”, it dates itself back to 1978, but there is also an *ad infinitum* sign near the year. A retrospective is indeed a vision to be unfolded. The act of creation stemmed from a necessity rather than a pursuit of fame, a sentiment shared by the protagonists of the new artistic practices in the the 70s artists from Eastern Europe who believed that “life is equated with art” and that “art is not a closed sphere” \[3\]. Those challenging artistic norms often committed to a lifelong artistic marathon, treating experimentation as their essence. Upon emerging, their practices proved groundbreaking and exhilarating. The label "I can do whatever I want" serves as acknowledgment and readmission to the Western canon of art. Despite, Ladik took part in Documenta 14 and her artworks are in the collections of MACBA, MOMA etc, the signal sent here is not about being recognized, it is about the time where she was creating for a sake of art not career and thus made it to the history of art. In her own words “we didn't know it was significant, we worked freely, we didn't go abroad in order to succeed”. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Katalin-Ladik_Ooooooooo-pus_Ludwig-Forum-Aachen-17.jpg) Fig.1 The exhibition *Ooooooooo-pus* is less about validating the claim of relevance at the center of cultural production, and more about seeking original examples on the periphery. It comes from a genuine interest in an original art practice. However, Katalin Ladik's biography unveils what was initially a non-peripheric narrative. Unlike artists working behind the Iron Curtain, Ladik was already recognized and present in the West in the late 1970s. One of the novelties of the show at Ludwig Forum is a tablophone. It is a handheld multimedia device designed for the artist by a musical composer Ernö Király, her first husband. Progressive and original, she was not only aligned with the practices in the Western Europe but also fully acknowledged, as an example, she performed on the tablephone at the prestigious international “Text in Sound Festival” at the Stedelijk, in 1977\. Always determined to remain authentic, she knew that she had to work with the tools and tales of her surroundings, thus the inspiration from shamanism, local folklore and original toys like the cornstalk fiddle, for example. The practice of Ladik is locally labeled as “a speech of an artist in the first person”. Yet, her impact on language transcends a mere anti-authoritarian stance, echoing Kurt Schwitters' early forays into sound poetry, exemplified by *Ursonate* (1922–1932) \[4\]. Beyond challenging conventions, Ladik actively engages in the subjectification of language. However, her artistic journey extends beyond linguistic borders to encompass her own corporeal boundaries. Ladik's exploration of her body's imagery proved challenging, leading to her resignation from the communist party. Undeterred, she transformed this challenge into a platform to mock objectification, framing her torsi in a deliberately grotesque manner in *Poemin*, (1978 and 1980). An intriguing facet of her defiance against conventional norms is found in her anti-striptease performances. These further underscore Ladik's commitment to dismantling traditional expectations, using her body as a tool for subversion and social critique. *Cheat Sheet*, (1973), striking artwork in Ladik's oeuvre features a Serbo-Croatian word, 'A LIE,' overlaid on a Yugoslav flag ,a poignant commentary on the questioned identification with Yugoslav identity. In *Identification*, (1975), a photograph taken at the staircases of the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna, Ladik positions herself both in front of and behind a Yugoslav flag, raising further questions about national identity. Ladik's *modus operandi* intricately weaves together the mastery of language through her vocal capabilities, a strategic positioning within the geopolitics of the art world via her commanding presence in exhibition histories, and a profound connection with nature. A notable instance of her transformative approach is evident in "Painting the Sea" (1980). What might initially be perceived as a mere nude surrounded by menstrual blood, adrift in the sea, is alchemized by Ladik into an emblematic performance art piece, meticulously captured through the lens of photography \[5\]. In this artistic metamorphosis, Ladik not only asserts dominance over both formal and conceptual elements but also manages to channel intense emotions into an object that transcends societal boundaries, acquiring an additional layer of art historical significance. In her adept hands, what might be perceived as unconventional becomes a poignant expression with broad cultural resonance, skillfully navigating the intersection of acceptance and elevated art historical value. Ladik's artistic prowess lies not just in pushing boundaries but in the nuanced transformation of the unconventional into the socially resonant and historically significant. The creation of meaning in Ladik's art emerges organically, born out of freedom and an exploration of the otherwise unspoken. A recurring motif in her body of work is the letter “O”, a symbol laden with significance. Yet, her opera extends beyond personal symbolism, becoming a testament to the synchronicity of art histories. It reflects the interwoven nature of the Yugoslav art scene within the Western context, shedding light on a socialist legacy that originally approached gender issues and body art. Ladik is a long lasting pioneer in the relentless pursuit of new and unconventional forms of art, the newest vocal-visual artworks going a bit further by becoming a bit more spatial e.g. *Leda Grows a Blue Beard* (2019). Her uncompromising moves not only challenge artistic norms but also underscore the intricate connections between art movements and the broader cultural landscape. In a world where authorities often make us doubt language and infrastructures, Ladik's organismal poetry becomes a flavor that gives vitality and integrity to the alternative. She does not only embody the cult personality of the Yugoslav and Central Eastern European avant-garde, her vocal-visual prowess resonating through the ages. This exhibition also sheds light on the complexity of the context from which Eastern European artists emerged, a context not always comprehensible but one that adds a unique depth to their creations. It whispers that the traditions of this region, though nearly invisible today, bear a certain *differentia specifica*, especially within the Yugoslav narrative. This narrative reveals a richness and nuance that can be elaborated through every letter of the Cyrilic alphabet, but “O” does just as well by setting it apart in the grand art history. \\\\ Cover: Katalin Ladik, *Poemim*, (1980). Installation view, Ludwig Forum Aachen, 2023\. Photo: Mareike Tocha Fig. 1: Katalin Ladik, *Androgin 1-3*, (1978). Courtesy of Ludwig Forum Aachen, 2023\. Photo: Mareike Tocha. --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Unlike here, the previous retrospective was focused on illuminating and understanding the gender related aspects of Ladik’s artistic parcours, in relation to the specific position of gender in the Yugoslav socialist context. *The Power of a Woman: Katalin Ladik, Retrospective* (1962-2010). Curated by Dragomir Ugren, Catalog signed by Miško Šuvaković and Gabrijela Šuler, MSUV, Novi Sad, Serbia, (2010). \[2\] The Master Singers. \[3\] Ješa Denegri, *Teme srpske umetnosti, srpska umetnost,* (1950-2000, 2019). \[4\] A translation of the title is Original Sonata or Primeval Sonata.The poem was influenced by Raoul Hausmann's poem *"fmsbw"* which Schwitters heard recited by Hausmann in Prague, (1921). \[5\] This piece like the previous ones, also serves as confirmation that photography is a crucial media in the ‘70s. *is a neohuman—an independent yet inseparable curator and art critic. Her primary field of interest, the geopolitics of the curatorial, shifted to the multipolar geopolitics of planetary computation after the digital turn in 2020\. She became increasingly involved in phygital (physical + digital) projects, conferences, and exhibitions in the hybrid fields of art, science, and technology. Additionally, she curates in the metaverse.* ### Den revolutionen entgegen URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/den-revolutionen-entgegen-1/ Last updated: 2026-09-01T17:51:09.000Z Das Filmkollektiv hinter „[labournet.tv](http://labournet.tv/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)“ dreht seit 2011 Filme über soziale Ungleichheiten in Europa, Südamerika und Asien. Ihre Onlineplattform umfasst Filme aus ingesamt 65 Ländern und bildet dadurch einen unabhängigen Gegenpol in der Berichterstattung und Dokumentation von Protesten und Widerständen. Neben dem Material von [labournet.tv](http://labournet.tv/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) sind darunter auch Filme der Journalistin Sophia Boddenberg und dem Filmemacher Michell Moreno, der US-amerikanischen Organisation „More perfect union“, der italienischen Basisgewerkschaft „Si Cobas“, der journalistischen Gruppe „Nawaat“ aus Tunesien und dem ägyptischen Medienkollektiv „Mosireen“, das 2011 während der ägyptischen Revolution entstand. In den Filmen dokumentieren sie Proteste gegen prekäre Arbeitsbedingungen und staatliche Reformen, kollektive Selbstorganisationen, aber auch wie Proteste entstehen und welche Formen des Widerstandes sich dadurch entwickeln. Darunter die ökosozialistische Fabrik GKN in Florenz, das autonome Hafenarbeiterkollektiv CALP in Genua, die Neighborhood Resistance Committees im Sudan und die Nachbarschaftsversammlungen in Santiago de Chile. Film 01: Die Neighborhood Resistance Committees im Sudan, 2023, Englisch mit dt. Ut Die Neighborhood Resistance Comittees im Sudan entstanden überwiegend 2013 durch die Organisation von zivilem Ungehorsam gegen die Regierung von Omar al-Baschir. Sie bildeten sich aus den Basisbewegungen, positionierten sich politisch und entwickelten sich zu einem wichtigen Netzwerk während der sudanesischen Revolution 2019\. Im April 2023 brach mit Beginn des Krieges die staatliche Infrastruktur zusammen und wird seitdem überwiegend von den Neigborhood Resistance Committees ersetzt. „Im Sudan gibt es über 5.200 Neighborhood Resistance Comittees“, erzählt Marwan Osman von Sudan Uprising. „Während der anhaltenden Konflikte zwischen den Rapid Support Forces und den sudanesischen Streitkräften organisieren sie trotz der unsicheren Transportwege Trinkwasser, die Versorgung mit Lebensmitteln, medizinische Versorgung, psychosoziale Betreuung und sichere Unterkünfte für Frauen. Und auch Notaufnahmen.“ Daneben versuchen sie die landwirtschaftliche Arbeit und die Ernten genossenschaftlich zu organisieren. Sie sind informell, basisdemokratisch und resistent gegen die sudanesischen Geheimdienste. Die Neigborhood Resistance Committees unterstützen zudem die Evakuierung von Zivilist\*innen aus den umkämpften Gebieten und setzen sich politisch dafür ein, dass sich die lokale Bevölkerung weder auf die Seite der paramilitärischen Rapid Support Forces (RSF) noch auf die der sudanesischen Streitkräfte (SAF) stellt, da beide Gruppen die Demokratisierung des Landes sabotieren. „Jede Nachbarschaft hat ein eigenes Komitee, ein Stadtbezirk kann mehr als fünf Komitees haben und jeder Sektor hat ein Koordinationsgremium“, beschreibt Marwan Osman die Struktur. „Das Koordinationsgremium trifft keine Entscheidungen, es koordiniert nur die verschiedenen Bezirke. Es gibt innerhalb der Neighborhood Resistance Committees keine Hierarchien und Abstimmungen, aber laufende Diskussionen. Solange bis sich ein gemeinsamer Konsens ergibt. Der Vorteil ist, dass sich dadurch keine Konzentration von Macht in den Händen von wenigen ergibt. Außerdem hält es die Nachbarschaften unabhängig. Aber manchmal dauert es dadurch auch bis sich eine Entscheidung ergibt.“ Die Berichterstattung über die Lage im Sudan ist ein gutes Beispiel für einen der wichtigsten Aspekte in der Arbeit von labournet.tv. In der Berichterstattung über Proteste und Graswurzelbewegungen gibt es meistens zu wenig Informationen. Durch die Nachrichten bekomme man zwar einen Teil mit, erzählt eine Filmemacherin des Kollektivs, aber oft fehle der Kontext der Proteste. Dadurch verstehe man die Ursachen nicht und das führe zu Fehleinschätzungen der Proteste und beeinflusse auch die gesellschaftliche Diskussion darüber. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Fig.1.png) Fig.1 Film 02: Das autonome Hafenarbeiterkollektiv CALP, 2022 in Genua, Italien, Italienisch mit dt. ut Das autonome Hafenarbeiterkollektiv CALP setzt sich seit 2011 zum einen für bessere Arbeitsbedingungen der Hafenarbeiter in Genua ein und blockierte zum anderen den Transport von Waffen, die von Genua aus in Kriegsgebiete verschifft wurden. 2019 demonstrierten die Hafenarbeiter deswegen zum Beispiel gegen die Verladung von Generatoren für das saudische Militär auf dem saudi-arabischen Frachter Bahri Yanbu. Der Fall dieses Frachters zeigte deutlich, wie groß der Widerspruch der italienischen Politik zum Waffenhandel ist. Laut Artikel 11 der italienischen Verfassung lehnt Italien den Krieg in jeder Form ab, arbeitet für den Frieden und schürt auch keine Konflikte. Das schließt den Transport von Waffen ein und auch die Durchfuhr von Rüstungsgütern in andere Länder. Im Sommer 2019 liefen der saudi-arabische Frachter Bahri Yanbu und das libanesische Containerschiff Bana im Hafen von Genua ein. Die Bana hatte für die Verteidigungsgruppen der ENI-Ölkonzerne Rüstungsgüter nach Libyen gebracht, war dort entladen worden und nahm dann Kurs auf Genua. Der Frachter wurde von der französischen Marine vor Korsika abgefangen. „Sie zeigten an, dass Italien einen Frachter aufnimmt, der Waffen an dschihadistische Gruppen in Libyen liefert“, schildert José Nivoi. Er arbeitet seit 16 Jahren im Hafen von Genua und gehört zum Kollektiv CALP. Italien zeigte sich antimilitaristisch, der Frachter wurde beschlagnahmt und die Besatzung verhaftet. Artikel 11 wurde durchgesetzt, aber es waren keine Rüstungsgüter mehr an Bord. „Die Bana lief in den Hafen ein, als wir auch die Ankunft des saudi-arabischen Frachters Bahri Yanbu meldeten,“ erzählt Nivoi. „Aber das Gesetz wurde nicht auf sie angewendet. Stattdessen wurde es beladen und fuhr wieder ab.“ Die Hafenarbeiter blockierten den nächsten Frachter des Unternehmens Bahri und erzeugten dadurch nicht nur mediale Aufmerksamkeit, sondern auch diplomatische Konflikte. Der Transport von Waffen und militärischem Gerät wurde im Hafen von Genua verboten. Der italienische Staat reagierte mit Repressionen gegenüber CALP - wegen des Verdachts auf Gründung einer kriminellen Vereinigung und wegen Unterbrechung der öffentlichen Versorgung im Zusammenhang mit dem Unternehmen Bahri. „Es hat uns nicht beunruhigt, aber es gab uns einen Eindruck davon, wie der Staat reagiert, wenn du supranationale Wirtschaftsfragen berührst“, sagt José Nivoi. „Und versuchst die Ökonomie des Hafens zu bestimmen.“ Auch dem Team von [labournet.tv](http://labournet.tv/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) begegnen während ihrer Arbeit an den Filmen immer wieder verschiedene Formen von Repressionen und Gewalt gegenüber Gewerkschaften und Arbeiter\*innenbewegungen. Film 03: Sentido (en) común, Santiago de Chile, 2021, Spanisch mit dt. ut Im Oktober 2019 begannen in Santiago de Chile Proteste gegen die Erhöhung der Kosten für den öffentlichen Nahverkehr. Innerhalb von zehn Tagen nahmen die Proteste zu, die Regierung verhängte den Ausnahmezustand und reagierte mit massiver Gewalt, Repressionen und Ausgangssperren. Dennoch entwickelten sich die Proteste zu einer breiten kollektiven Bewegung gegen soziale Ungleichheiten und das neoliberale Wirtschaftssystem. In den ersten Wochen der Proteste entstanden in Santiago ungefähr 200 selbstverwaltete Nachbarschaftsversammlungen: Die Cabildos und Asambleas. In diesen Nachbarschaftsversammlungen wurden Informationsveranstaltungen sowie die Proteste organisiert und die politischen und sozialen Konflikte diskutiert. Es bildeten sich unterschiedliche Arbeitskommissionen wie zum Beispiel zur politischen Bildung und Kommunikation, zur Kultur und zum Widerstand, zu Gesundheitsfragen und Menschenrechten, Mieten und fehlendem Wohnraum, zur Lebensmittelversorgung und dem Klimawandel. Die Nachbarschaftsversammlungen sind horizontal und basisdemokratisch strukturiert und bestehen aus 70 bis 700 Personen. Das Ziel ist die Dezentralisierung der politischen Macht. Während der Pandemie weiteten sie sich auch auf die ländlichen Regionen abseits von Santiago aus und damit auch ihre Arbeitskommissionen. Ihnen wurden Themen wie die Nutzung von Pestiziden, Wasserverschmutzung, die hohe Gewaltrate an Frauen und prekären Arbeitsbedingungen auf den Plantagen hinzugefügt. Die Proteste und Graswurzelbewegungen, die [labournet.tv](http://labournet.tv/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) dokumentiert, sind durch ihre politischen und sozialen Zusammenhänge sehr unterschiedlich, zeigen aber auch grundlegende Parallelen. (1) Wie zum Beispiel, dass revolutionäre Praktiken vor allem aus der praktischen Auseinandersetzung mit dem Alltag und seinen Bedingungen entstehen, und nicht ausschließlich aus kritischen Theorien und theoretischen Diskursen. (2) Sobald der Schwerpunkt auf strukturellen Lebens- und Arbeitsbedingungen liegt, werden Proteste zu einer Notwendigkeit, anstatt zu einer Option oder moralischen Frage. (3) Das bedeutet auch, dass praktisches und akademisches Wissen gleichberechtigt und unmittelbar miteinander verbunden werden, vor allem bei politischen und sozialen Fragen. Der aktuelle Film des Filmkollektivs »Loud Spring« verbindet Klassenkampf mit den Auswirkungen des Klimawandels. Die Dokumentation diskutiert die Problematik am Kapitalismus und wie sich ein radikaler Systemwandel entwickeln könnte. Zum streamen online: [https://de.labournet.tv](https://de.labournet.tv/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) labournet.tv ist ein unabhängiges Filmkollektiv und Archiv über internationale Arbeiter\*innenbewegungen: [https://labournet.tv/](https://labournet.tv/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \\\\ Cover: Banner des italienischen Hafenarbeiterkollektivs CALP, abgebildet ist der Frachter Bana Beirut, darunter steht: »Schlisst die Häfen für den Krieg« Fig. 1\. : Marwan Osman von Sudan Uprising im Interview mit dem Team von [labournet.tv](http://labournet.tv/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), 2023 *arbeitet als freie Journalistin und Autorin, sie recherchiert u.a. zu sozialen Bewegungen, Desinformation und strukturellen Ungleichheiten.* ### Arab Nights URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/arab-nights-1/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:18.000Z The familiar ping sounds, and I look at my phone to find out if the message is from a friend or a foe. “Free Gaza from homophobic Hamas! If you were there you’d be killed!” Ugh, Foe. On a dating app of all places. I was used to this on social media, but it happens too often everywhere else these days. I was not prepared, but the floodgates opened and I needed to swim through this mess, again. … Homophobia permeated through the message, as it does in every part of the world, even in Berlin. Berlin - the so-called “queer utopia”, the most progressive city in all of Gay Europe, or Gay-ropa. We were told that the modern gay revolution started here, at the Eldorado cabaret, and Magnus Hirschfeld and Marlene Dietrich would embrace us with open arms if they could. In the real world, National Socialism destroyed it all, and, by 1945, Marlene, Magnus, and Eldorado were gone. But the queer spirit is strong, and Berlin flourished once again. I dreamed this spirit was real when I worked on the stage production, *Lila Lied*, a queer cabaret telling the histories of these icons with the production’s title referencing a queer liberation anthem. I danced in my fringe dress on stage as Annita Berber, ascending as the bright lights made me dizzy. I sang as Marlene Dietrich, looking in the mirror, trying to find some part of her, but I could not, even though her face stared back at me. The cast, mostly people of color - this was intentional, an attempt to show what could have been if this dream world continued to flourish. As an artist, a queer Arab artist, I wanted nothing more than to embrace this world and be a part of its claims to modernity. But people of my heritage pay a tax specific to them, and it does not pay forward in kind. In my career as a drag artist and performer, I have taken different names, trying to find something that would ensure my acceptance into the drag scene: something cheeky, bold, and international. “Cupcake” did not encompass my dark fascination with Medea; “Queen of Virginity” became too classist with its monarchical reference. However, the discomfort around my drag name was undoubtedly connected to my first name. How could I justify my identity with its masculine, Shi’a Muslim connections that I felt so troubled by? I would not be the performer I am today without struggling to come to terms with my culture and gender identity. I added a feminine suffix and became Hassandra. I am a queer, non-binary, Arab drag artist and I am tired of pretending all aspects of my identity are mutually exclusive. … The latest wave of racism has come with an emphasis on Islamophobia, and looming threats of pending anti-semitism. It crashed ashore on October 7th, and the Arab community of Berlin held in its collective breath. The post 9/11 world has conditioned all of us living in the West to fear inevitable aggressions against us after such attacks abroad, but it came at the bitterest of times. We’d pushed past the impasse of hate in Europe and pop culture finally noticed us. Young Europeans, especially in Germany, incorporated “habibi”, “yalla”, and “wallah” into their vocabularies. I remember watching the coming-of-age film *Kokoon* in 2021 and witnessing this shift for myself on screen. The sister of the main character, a German, says to her mother “Ich schwöre auf Allah!” to which her mother replies “Du glaubst nicht in Allah!” The sister replies that all the kids at school say that, implying her classmates are Arab and that it is a “cool” thing to say. When did Arabic-speaking culture become fashionable? When did we stop being scary and terroristic to European eyes? Was this the moment we’d been waiting for? When I first started performing in drag, I wanted to use it to reshape my memories and reconnect with parts of my culture I felt I had lost. I had only been in Berlin for a year then and wanted to reinvent myself. My first performance was to a Shakira song to which I belly danced, feeling proud to honor a Lebanese-Columbian like Shakira. My foolishness made me forget I was in the West, and my naïvety made me believe I could fit into this world as an Arab artist. The lustful stares and the strange comments after the performance made me uncomfortable, but I could not grasp why. It was only later, after several years in nightlife, that I realized I was not just an artist. I was the Token Arab: the person of color, the political element, utilized for flavor, diversity, and exotic entertainment. In retrospect, I felt disgusted and vowed I’d never put myself in such a powerless position again. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/IMG_0994.jpeg) Fig.1 Some years after this realization, contradicting my vow, I chose to compete in the Mx. Kotti drag pageant. In my performance, I put my identity and body hair on full display, speaking out about how I would not be objectified for it as an Arab, and I dared those in the audience to look at me for what I am: a person. I won that pageant, thinking my message was received loud and clear, and I was overwhelmed by perceived acceptance. I’d finally (finally!) made it. All parts of my drag, including my identity, came together at this moment. But to my surprise, several white Europeans were still confused over my message: “But isn’t it a compliment to be told that you’re *attractive*,” gossiped one drag queen. I could only swallow the lump in my throat. The racialized gaze of the Westerner still could not be swayed, even when I told them through my choreography, music, and costume that they should. A seed of resentment was planted inside me, the ground dry and infertile. I thought it would die before my desired community saw me for who I truly was. … I stare at my phone, the burning inside my chest familiar. It was not the sentiment that “all Arabs are homophobic” that bothered me, but the blatant reminder that even though I was queer, I was not welcome in this city. Maybe I was not trying hard enough to just be queer, as the Western image of queerness expected me to be. However, harsh memories are saviors to present doubt and sobered me instantly. … There were times in my career when I tried to play the part of the “queer artist”, white-washed to perfection. I developed my art, painted on pretty make-up, and used my training in acting and performance to create conceptual, moving pieces. I must have been mistaken because another venue told my former collaborator: “We love Cupcake, but their pieces are too artistic.” I wanted respect, but more than anything I wanted to be myself. I stepped out of the white-wash shower and founded Queer Arab Barty, a party centered on creating a space for the queer Arab\* community where we could finally claim autonomy over our entertainment and enjoyment away from prying European eyes. Funnily enough, the same European eyes noticed me there, and I was soon offered by a club to perform, book and curate a “Middle Eastern” party…for 75 euros. The regular fee for other performers was 75 euros, while Arab performers got 50 to perform at said party. The audacity. Even though I continued to grow as a performer, and my art became more complex, I got pegged simply as the “Arab” performer. Around me, fellow Arab performers were punished for their vocality, such as when a colleague made a joke about “BDS(M)” at the nightclub where I worked and did not meet the approval of the backstage manager who sarcastically insinuated that they would not be booked again. I often performed at another venue with a drag artist and collaborator who always negotiated my booking. It became a game of will they/won’t they ever want me as a solo performer. Alas, my day finally came…the day after the Beirut explosion in 2020\. The venue wanted a Lebanese performer to do a fundraiser for the victims of the blast. In my heartbreak, I did it. The burden of being a diversity hire can only be carried on the back of a good PR campaign, and, in my case, with extra glitter. I felt the bitter seed in my chest sprout roots deeper inside me. … I don’t want to answer this message. I want to scream through the abyss of the app so that the person on the other side can hear and know how it feels to be tokenized and racialized, to be both the water to wash away white guilt and the scapegoat to point the finger at when a Westerner feels endangered. But I don’t. I rise another day and face this stranger again, until another time. “Meet me outside. I swear I can’t take this. Queer people exist everywhere, including in Gaza. I’m done talking to you.” Block. In my analysis, Arabs exist in the West for three purposes: fear, sexualization, and tragedy. Every so often, a fourth is added: for political pandering. … But what is “political” for the European? For me, it is sharing my traumas, speaking my language, and showing my body hair. For white drag queens, it is sticking up the middle finger to Trump - a “safe” enough option - and preaching for “love and peace” but not once suggesting anything concrete. Yet I am the “more” political choice of the two, even if it seems that the queer Arab artist cannot claim anything, neither titles nor concepts, without the approval of a supervising Westerner. Gay-ropa does not want Arab queens with opinions on freedom, and sharp tongues (as well as strong as nails). Gay-ropa comes with concessions for the Arab person that in the end put our existence into a constant Russian roulette of identity. A fear of bodily harm emerges around every corner. Today you fear going out in public with make-up. *Click.* Tomorrow you fear how your untrimmed beards make you appear to bureaucrats. *Click.* Next week, it is people insisting you’re a boy. *Click.* A car passes by throwing out a slur. *Click.* Yet again, another terrorist attack. *Pow. Reload.* // --- ### Image Caption Cover / Fig 1.: photos taken at ADIRA PARTY on 08.07.2023 by Tansu Kayaalp Courtesy and credits Tansu Kayaalp *Hassandra is a Beirut-born, Berlin-based interdisciplinary drag performance artist, DJ, and co-founder of ADIRA Collective and Critical Queer Solidarity. Monica Gutierrez is a US American, Berlin-based writer, cultural researcher and trainer. She is a member of Critical Queer Solidarity.* ### Defunding berlin URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/defunding-berlin/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:16.000Z *Es gibt keinen Anspruch auf Förderung*. Diesen kurzen Absatz muss jede\*r zum Abschluss einer Antragstellung im Antragssystem des Berliner Senats bestätigen. Dieses Vorgehen ist bei individuellen Antragssteller\*innen nachvollziehbar, sonst könnte sich jeder Mensch Förderung einklagen. Doch ergibt sich daraus die Frage, ob es auch keinen allgemeinen Anspruch auf Förderung für die gesamte Berliner Kulturszene gibt? Mit jedem Haushaltsjahr des Berliner Senats können sich die Existenzbedingungen der freien Kulturschaffenden radikal verändern, denn es werden Fördervolumen umverteilt oder gestrichen. Die Entscheidungen sind politischer Natur, jeder neu gewählte Senat prägt mit ihnen das kulturelle Stadtbild und zwar indem er entscheidet, wie der Teil des Kulturbudgets, der noch nicht festgelegt ist, verteilt wird. Davon sind unterschiedliche Kultursparten betroffen. Als Teil der Kulturlandschaft Berlins stellt auch die Projektraum - Szene Ansprüche. Projekträume sind der erste Anlaufpunkt für bildende Künstler\*innen in Berlin. Sie sind neben den kommunalen Galerien die wichtigste Möglichkeit, an Ausstellungen teilzunehmen und sich künstlerisch weiterzuentwickeln. Dabei teilen Projekträume ihre Produktionsmittel und sind ein Ausgangspunkt für kollaborative Prozesse. Projekte finden hier oft in Gemeinschaft, in einer regenerativen künstlerischen Infrastruktur statt. Sie gelten in Berlin als „die vielen Gegenstücke zur Institution“ \[1\] abseits der großen Museen und teuren Galerien, als experimentelle, unabhängige, nicht-kommerzielle Orte, der bildenden Kunst. Etwas, wodurch sich Berlin als Magnet für die Kunst bezeichnen lässt, oder auch als die Stadt der Projekträume. Projekträume sind dabei Präsentations- und Produktionsorte. Oft wird in Projekträumen ausprobiert, was später von Institutionen aufgenommen und weiterverwertet wird. Da diese Räume im Gegensatz zu Galerien unkommerziell arbeiten, geschieht ein Großteil der Kulturarbeit, die dort geleistet wird schlecht oder nicht bezahlt. Daher sind sie auf Kulturförderung angewiesen, um trotz steigender Mieten und Lebenshaltungskosten existieren zu können. Für den Erhalt der aktuellen Projektraumvielfalt rechnet das Netzwerk freier Projekträume und Initiativen \[2\] Berlin konservativ geschätzt mit einem Bedarf von insgesamt etwa 4 Millionen Euro, den die etwa 150 Räume der Stadt 2024 an Strukturförderung pro Jahr haben. Tatsächlich stehen in der Basisförderung für Projekträume und -initiativen 925.000 € pro Jahr zur Verfügung. 2016 wurden vom Netzwerk 2 Mio Euro pro Jahr für eine Strukturförderung für Projekträume gefordert. Zu dieser Zeit betrug der Fördertopf des Projektraumpreises, was später die Basisförderung für freie Projekträume und –initiativen werden würde, ca. 800.000 Euro. Sieben Jahre später ist diese Summe also nur um 125.000 Euro gestiegen. Bei einer durchschnittlichen Inflationsrate von 2,7% pro Jahr hätte der Topf jedoch um 151.200 Euro wachsen müssen, nur um den Wert zu halten. Wir erfahren in unserem wichtigsten Förderinstrument also keinen Aufwuchs, sondern eine schleichende Entwertung oder Defunding. Der Bedarf, den Projekträume und freie Kulturarbeiter\*innen aus anderen Sparten haben und die Höhe der Mittel, die von der Politik zur Verfügung gestellt werden, driften immer weiter auseinander, anstatt sich kontinuierlich anzunähern. Dass Berlin die Stadt der freien Szene ist, ist zum einen auf die langjährige Geschichte der künstlerischen Selbstorganisation innerhalb der Stadt zurückzuführen, aber auch auf eine andere wirtschaftliche Lage der Stadt, in der es nach der Wende günstigen Raum für künstlerische Interventionen gab. Bisher spiegelt sich das nur ungenügend in der Kulturförderung. Zwar ist Berlin die Stadt, die freie Projekte und Gruppen am meisten fördert, doch etwa 95% des \[Kultur\]budgets kommen über 70 dauerhaft institutionell geförderten Kultureinrichtungen zugute. Rund 5% werden für Einzel- und Projektförderungen (inklusive Hauptstadtkulturfonds) aufgewendet \[3\].“ In diese 5 %, die hauptsächlich die freien Szene (warum nicht ausschließlich?) fördern sollten, sind auch Töpfe eingeschlossen, auf die auch die Institutionen Zugriff haben. Warum konnte bisher keine langfristige und nachhaltige Planungssicherheit für Projekträume und die Freie Szene geschaffen werden? Den Senatsverwaltungen für Kultur, die eine beträchtliche Rolle bei der Festlegung von Vergabekriterien haben \[4\], ging es in ihren Bemühungen bislang eher darum, eine kleine Anzahl repräsentativer Räume gut auszustatten, das Netzwerk freier Berliner Projekträume und -initiativen ist hingegen an einer möglichst breiten und langfristigen Förderung aller aktiven Räume in der Stadt interessiert. Daraus ergab sich 2012 als Kompromiss das Modell des Projektraumpreises, der zum einen den Anspruch einer Exzellenzvergabe erfüllte, zum anderen mit seiner Dotierung von 30.000 € für einige der sieben Gewinner\*innen eine finanzielle Absicherung für die nächsten ein bis zwei Jahre bedeutete. Mittlerweile verfestigt sich der Begriff Exzellenz auch innerhalb der freien Szene, ohne dass darüber diskutiert wird, was er im Kontext der freien Kulturszene bedeutet. Welchen Spagat übt beispielsweise ein Ort der freien Szene, der Klassenkritik für sich beansprucht, und sich gleichzeitig als exzellenten Raum für internationale Kunst und Kultur bezeichnet? Die Summe dieses Fördertopfes wuchs im Laufe der Jahre von 210.000 Euro auf 800.000 Euro an. So wurde die Voraussetzung geschaffen, den Projektraumpreis langfristig in ein nachhaltiges Förderinstrument zu überführen. Unter der rot-roten Regierung Berlins kam die zweijährige Basisförderung für künstlerische Projekträume und -initiativen, die mehr Stabilität und Planbarkeit für die Kulturschaffenden bedeuten sollte. Als sie das erste Mal 2020/21 vergeben wurde, betrug das Gesamtvolumen 800.000 Euro und es konnten fast 50% der eingegangenen Bewerbungen berücksichtigt werden. Bei der darauffolgenden Vergabe für die Jahre 2022/23 hingegen, verringerte sich die Anzahl der Geförderten, von ehemals 33 auf 26 Projekträume. Und dies obwohl die Anzahl der Bewerbungen gestiegen war. Ein Viertel der Räume, die in der ersten Vergaberunde berücksichtigt worden waren, standen plötzlich wieder ohne Unterstützung für die Miete und Kulturarbeit da. Die, von der Projektraumszene lang ersehnte Basisförderung zeigte sich also schon in der zweiten Vergaberunde nicht nachhaltig. Anstatt eine Entwicklung für einen Großteil der basisgeförderten Räume, also Aufwüchse, zu ermöglichen und gleichzeitig neue Räume in die Basisförderung aufzunehmen, fand ein fast kompletter Austausch der Zuwendungsempfänger\*innen statt. Ein Gedanke dahinter ist wohl, den vielen Projekträumen gerecht zu werden, sodass die Förderung nicht stagniert. Denn die Basisförderung reicht nicht, um den errechneten Bedarf zu decken. Trotzdem ist sie das bisher einzige bestehende Mittel, mit dem die freien Projekträume eine ähnliche Struktur wie die der freien Theater und Gruppen der darstellenden Kunst aufbauen können. Eine vierjährige Konzeptförderung, die es in dieser Sparte schon mindestens seit 2003 gibt, war ab 2024 für den Bereich der bildenden Kunst geplant. Sie wäre eine langfristige Existenzperspektive für freie Präsentationsorte. Als sich Anfang des Jahres 2023 abzeichnete, dass die neue schwarz-rote Regierung den Plan ihrer Vorgänger\*innen nicht weiterführen und die vierjährige Konzeptförderung einsparen würde, kam es im September und Oktober dieses Jahres zu mehreren Protestbriefen und Petitionen \[5\]. Zum einen von Projekträumen, die diese Mittel bereits für die Entwicklung ihrer Häuser fest eingeplant hatten, sowie durch das Netzwerk freier Projekträume und -initiativen, welches die Einsparung der geplanten 1.000.000 Euro als Kürzungen gegenüber dem gestiegenen Bedarf der gesamten Projektraumszene kritisierte. Diese Mittel werden dringend für die Projekträume benötigt. Allerdings wäre es erst dann sinnvoll, eine Konzeptförderung einzuführen, wenn es gleichzeitig einen beträchtlichen Aufwuchs der Fördermittel gibt. Das Problem einer schlecht ausgestatteten Konzeptförderung besteht darin, nur einige wenige fördern zu können, und „grundsätzlich wenig entwicklungsorientiert \[zu\] sein \[6\]“, wie es bereits 2018 in einem Gutachten über die Konzeptförderung der freien Berliner Theaterszene hieß. Schon damals fanden sich die Gutachter\*innen damit konfrontiert, dass die Förderung ohne regelmäßige ausreichende Aufwüchse stagniert, also nur noch neue Räume in diese höchste Form der Förderung aufgenommen werden können, wenn andere aus der Förderung entlassen werden. Die Projekträume sind durch den Regierungswechsel in einer Situation, in der die Hälfte der Fördergelder, die sie eigentlich zur Verfügung haben sollten, gestrichen wurden. Wie geht man mit einem Defunding in dieser Größenordnung um? Ein Ziel der Projekträume muss jetzt darin bestehen, das Gemeinschaftliche untereinander zu stärken. Beim Project Space Festival ging es in diesem Jahr um eine *Gemeinschaft von Räumen*. Der Vorschlag des kuratorischen Konzept beinhaltete: Nachdem wir lange Jahre zuvor ausgiebig die Unabhängigkeit von Projekträumen betrachtet und versucht haben darzustellen, müssen wir nun über die Gemeinsamkeiten und politischen Ziele nachdenken. Besonders jetzt, wo es auch darum geht auf den rechts-populistischen Ruck in den Landes-, Bundeslandes- und Städteparlamenten zu reagieren. Jetzt umso mehr muss anstelle von gegenseitiger Abgrenzung, der uns durch exzellente Selbstdarstellung nahegelegt wird, der Versuch unternommen werden auf wechselseitige Beziehungen einzugehen und über dringend notwendige Fördergerechtigkeit zu diskutieren. Die Künstlerin Katharina Grosse sagte kürzlich dazu: „Berlin ist eine Stadt, die das Offene und das Veränderbare opulent kultivieren könnte und wirklich ganz anders aussehen könnte, weil es neben der etablierten Kunstszene, großartige Initiativen der freien Szene gibt. „Deshalb braucht Berlin eine visionäre Politik, die sich der Magie dieses kulturellen Einflusses bewusst ist \[7\].“ Wenn es so weitergeht, wird aber genau diese Magie die Stadt verlassen und mit weiteren Entzügen von Finanzierungen nicht nur die freie künstlerische Szene stillgelegt, sondern damit auch der ganze Charme Berlins. Um es mit klassischen soziologischen Begriffen zu formulieren: Der Entzug des finanziellen Kapitals für Projekträume und -initiativen bedeutet den Entzug des kulturellen Kapitals für eine ganze Stadt. Defunding the Project Spaces = Defunding Berlin. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/0E2A8834.jpeg) Fig.1 Extra Box: Vorschlag für eine gerechtere Verteilung einer Basisförderung: Die Frage ist nicht allein, wie hoch diese Summe der Basisförderung veranschlagt wird, sondern wie der Gesamtbetrag in Zukunft die Vielzahl der künstlerischen Projekträume erreichen und fördergerecht verteilt werden soll. Dazu der folgende Gedanke. Es gibt in Wiener Kaffeehäusern ein Wiener Frühstück, eine Art Grundfrühstück bestehend aus Heißgetränk, Brötchen, Butter und Marmelade. Dazu kann, wer Käse und Wurst möchte, eine Erweiterung bestellen. Stellen wir uns für einen Augenblick die Basisförderung, wie dieses Angebot vor. Die Basis ist die Raummiete, die bewilligt wird nach einer einfachen Professionalitätsprüfung des Projektraums. Was darüber hinausgeht, ist eine Erweiterung und kann in einem Juryverfahren beantragt werden. Aber auch die Erweiterung ist nicht unbegrenzt, sondern auf Ausstellungshonorare, Betreiber\*innenhonorare, Buchhaltung und kleinere Anschaffungen für den Raum/die Initiative begrenzt. Alles weitere wird über Projekttöpfe eingeworben. Warum der Vorschlag? Es muss eine sichere Grundlage geben, auf die man aufbauen kann. Auch, wenn es mal mit keiner Förderung klappt, was nicht an der Qualität des Antrags liegt, denn, wir erinnern uns, ein Anspruch auf Förderung besteht nicht, darf nicht die Existenz des ganzen Raumes immer wieder in Frage gestellt werden. Auch möchten die meisten keine Projektanträge stellen, die das Fortbestehen des Raumes zum Ziel haben, sondern eine künstlerische Auseinandersetzung mit ihren Themen beinhalten. Es kann natürlich nicht der komplette Bedarf aus einem Topf kommen. Aber, wenn der entscheidende Topf, die Strukturförderung, künstlich klein gehalten und sehr ungleich verteilt wird, wirken die weiteren Fördertöpfe wie ein Tropfen auf den heißen Stein. Natürlich sollten die Mietkosten nicht unbegrenzt hoch sein dürfen und der Raum sollte bereits seit ein paar Jahren existieren. Die Folge, mehr Räume in ihrer Existenz zu sichern, anstatt einige davon mehr zu institutionalisieren, könnte beispielsweise zu einem Modell, einer der Stadt eher entsprechenden „dezentralen“ Kunsthalle führen. \\\\ Bilder: Project Space Festival Berlin 2016, Bruch & Dallas, Layout, 04.08.2016 Freigefegter Grundriss des ehemaligen Projektraums Bruch & Dallas auf der Freifläche hinter dem Kiosk neben der Neuen Nationalgalerie, auf der zurzeit das Museum der Moderne von Herzog und de Meuron gebaut wird. Foto: Joanna Kosowska --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Berlin Art Week: Die vielen Gegenstücke zur Institution, Marie Dorsch, der Freitag, Ausgb. 36/2023 [https://www.freitag.de/autoren/der-freitag/berlin-art-week-die-vielen-gegenstuecke-zur-institution](https://www.freitag.de/autoren/der-freitag/berlin-art-week-die-vielen-gegenstuecke-zur-institution?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[2\] „Das Netzwerk freier Berliner Projekträume und -initiativen ist ein seit August 2009 existierender loser Zusammenschluss. Nach einer Bestandsaufnahme von Wünschen, Ideen und Bedürfnissen finden seit Anfang 2010 in einem jeweils wechselnden Projektraum Arbeitstreffen zu den verschiedenen erarbeiteten Themenschwerpunkten statt. Ziel des Netzwerks ist, eine langfristige Struktur zu etablieren, um neue Formen von Kooperation und Austausch zu ermöglichen, sich politisch zu artikulieren und für die Verbesserung von Arbeitsbedingungen einzutreten.“ [https://www.projektraeume-berlin.net/](https://www.projektraeume-berlin.net/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[3\] Berliner Kulturförderung, Stand 2020, ,Senatsverwaltung für Kultur und Gesellschaftlichen Zusammenhalt [https://www.berlin.de/sen/kultur/foerderung/](https://www.berlin.de/sen/kultur/foerderung/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[4\] Die Vergabekriterien von Förderungen werden in Absprache mit den Verbänden der verschiedenen Sparten von der Senatsverwaltung für Kultur und Gesellschaftlichen Zusammenhalt festgelegt. Diese Mitsprache wird von der Senatsverwaltung gewährt, ohne dass ein rechtlicher Anspruch darauf besteht. \[5\] Netzwerk freier Berliner Projekträume und Initiativen: BRIEF AN DIE MITGLIEDER DES AUSSCHUSSES FÜR KULTUR, ENGAGEMENT UND DEMOKRATIEFÖRDERUNG, 12.09.2023 [https://www.projektraeume-berlin.net/netzwerk/statements/#65ee434d55e911697e39b88e0d001877](https://www.projektraeume-berlin.net/netzwerk/statements/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org#65ee434d55e911697e39b88e0d001877) Sinema Transtopia: Offener Brief: SİNEMA TRANSTOPIA ist akut in seiner Existenz bedroht!, 18.09.2023 ZK/U Offener Brief: Zentrum für Kunst und Urbanistik braucht Zukunft, 29.09.2023 \[6\] Evaluation bei der Neuvergabe der Konzeptförderung für die Jahre 2015 – 2018, Gutachten vorgelegt von Ute Büsing, Frank Schmid, Dr. Stefanie Wenner [https://www.berlin.de/sen/kultur/foerderung/foerderprogramme/darstellende-kuenste-tanz/2020neu\_konzeptgutachten\_2015\_2018.pdf](https://www.berlin.de/sen/kultur/foerderung/foerderprogramme/darstellende-kuenste-tanz/2020neu%5Fkonzeptgutachten%5F2015%5F2018.pdf?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[7\] Katharina Grosse: WAS PASSIERT MIT DIR, BERLIN?, Interview mit Janna Aljets, Katharina Grosse, Martin Henn, Marcel Weber; arte, Oktober 2023 [https://www.arte-magazin.de/zukunft-berlin/](https://www.arte-magazin.de/zukunft-berlin/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *Die Künstler\*innen und Kurator\*innen Heiko Pfreundt und Lisa Schorm betreiben seit 2011 den Projektraum Kreuzberg Pavillon. Seit 2019 organisieren sie das Project Space Festival Berlin.* ### The Creep URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-creep/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:15.000Z **Adriana Tranca: Our press release states: Melanie Jame Wolf’s exhibition *The Creep* at E-WERK Luckenwalde includes a new film installation, ceramic works, textile sculptures, and a performance. It is a continuation of the visual artist and choreographer’s ongoing ‘creep studies.’ What are creep studies? And how did you become interested in the topic?** Melanie Jame Wolf: Creep studies play out of my fascination with how phenomena move or operate in imperceptible and incremental ways. Things like pleasure, people, geology, and time; creep as a mode of being or as an organizing principle. Understanding ‘creep’ as both a noun and a verb, I’m exploring my curiosity with the idea that something can ‘happen before you know it’. Central to this is thinking about how power moves. What are the choreographies through which power is accumulated and maintained? In particular, through the insidious, the indirect. Invisible violence is a thing that creeps. It moves imperceptibly, relying on its abstracted forms as camouflage. I arrive here through the lens of my own experiences of everyday gender and class violence – on the street, in doctor’s offices, in workplaces; the subtle ways that people police one another through a loaded and complex energetics of threat to maintain an unjust status quo. These are things that are hard to talk about because they exist in the realm of the affective, the felt; things that are therefore hard to quantify, and so, hard to prove. With creep studies, I’m thinking about violence that is not directly or immediately physical; rather a torment of ‘vibes’ and inference, for want of better words. I mean the kinds of abuses that can be deployed in such a way that when the victim attempts to name them, they are framed as a hysteric, a liar, a fantasist – and their emotion, their distress, is weaponized against them. Storytelling is instrumental to creeping. Who gets to frame an incident as too slippery to fully grasp or believe, as ‘too complex’? We see this in sexual harassment cases all the time and in cases of racial discrimination. It’s present in the bourgeois rules of emotional containment that pervade institutional spaces. Wherein the status of credible full human subjectivity is liable to be withdrawn at any moment for anyone who isn’t (at least) middle class. Or at least in possession of the full complex social codes to pass as such in those spaces. These codes of ‘appropriate’ affective behavior only come through a lifetime of careful grooming, as an intangible inheritance of practicing not letting one’s feelings betray one’s success in the capitalist competition of being and staying alive. They creep into the ruling class idea of a reputation as a category of valuable property – as a tangible possession worthy of defense and deployable as a weapon. This is apparent in the subsequent defamation laws we see protecting creeps all the time through the containment of knowledge of the truth of their actions. Zooming out to a state political level, Walter Benjamin’s concept of mythic violence is a brilliant analysis of how storytelling and creeping dance together in flirtations with, and flat-out enforcements of, fascism. I think James Martell’s synopsis of Benjamin says it better than I can: Mythic violence is Benjamin’s term for the way that illicit economic and political power has asserted itself over all human life, projecting a form of authority out into the world that then becomes accepted as reality itself. It is mythic because there is no true or ontological basis for the powers of liberalism and capitalism; its right to rule is self-proclaimed and then naturalized so that it becomes seen as fated and inevitable. It is violent because, without a genuine basis for its authority, mythic violence must endlessly strike out, killing and hurting over and over again to establish its power and even its reality. Simultaneously, I’ve been thinking about the distinction between cruising and creeping; the erotics of the making known of desire in unspoken ways – locating the line between what keeps it sexy and what makes it gross. In tandem, I’m thinking about time, and death, and falling in and out of love – with one another, with the world, with values – as things that creep. The exhibition is an instance of my working through these creeping choreographies and phenomena with the tools at my disposal. To place their tensions within art objects. To let those art objects creep in and see what happens. **While we’re contextualizing and exploring concepts, let’s touch on Alison M. Jaggar’s outlaw emotions (1): emotions that are in conflict or tension with an individual’s established or predominant belief system. These emotions may challenge or contradict one’s core values, principles, or moral code. For example, from a feminist perspective, internalized misogyny or ambivalence towards motherhood. How do you read outlaw emotions about your artistic practice in general, and to *The Creep* in particular?** I’ve found myself mutating Jaggar’s phrase ‘outlaw emotions’, into ‘outlaw feelings’ instead. I like the pun it plays on itself – feelings that are outside the law – in the realm of danger and excess. Then conversely, as a demand to abolish feelings altogether; to dispense with them once and for all, to make them illegal. It’s funny, and it deliberately pokes fun at the privileging of dry, rational, quantifiable fact as the highest order of truth. Because we know that politically consequential ‘truth’, or better, judgment, is often conditional on the storytelling and show business capacities of whoever can speak loudest and longest. So I understand outlaw feelings as affects experienced, or transmitted when a marginalised person can no longer tolerate the oppressive conditions of the social contract they are living under. They are radical and defiant impulses – anger, sadness, rage, dissatisfaction, rebellion, boredom, hate. They are what choreographer Ligia Lewis refers to as staying with negative affects, and what filmmaker and choreographer Yvonne Rainer understands as feelings as facts. What German writer Seyda Kurt talks about as politically productive emotions in ‘HASS’ (Hate). I want to be clear that I’m not talking about a kind of ‘sad girl’ feminism. Rather, I’m feeling toward the radical potential of collective grief in the way that Gargi Bhattacharyya speaks about in ‘We, the Brokenhearted.’ Outlaw feelings congeal around the productive challenge of the messy. My interest in them is to examine this dialectic tension between the value of containment, and the value of the leak; the creeping out of the mess. I’m exploring a critique of a certain kind of hygiene of respectability. It’s been said the first rule of magic is containment. This also happens to be the first rule of moving like a bourgeois subject; taut, ice-cold affect; no leaks, no mess, no fuss; winning illusions. It’s an if you know, you know situation, but anyone who has experienced class violence in a meeting or at an opening or while cleaning someone else’s toilet, knows what it is to be made to feel that their lack of containment reveals the ‘truth’ of them as a beast, as ultimately undesirable, as an unwanted mess. It’s the rendering of the ‘difficult’ subject as gauche, uncontainable, uncivilized, and therefore a threat to ‘decent’ people – it’s a practiced move of dehumanization. I see Outlaw Feelings now as the name for a new body of work I hope to make across the next few years. I began with *The Creep* and unpacking my political suspicion of certain regimes of social and emotional hygiene further. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/CREEP_STILL_3_j_2.27.1-copy.jpg) Fig.1 **And how do these outlaw feelings manifest formally in the exhibition?** I’m exploring outlaw feelings through materials of containment; prophylactic materials: the red latex of the ‘ambiguous organs’ that one sees in the film and throughout the space. The ceramic tongues and the, what I like to call, ‘gristly curiosity’ that they are made from hopefully provoke in anyone who encounters them. Materials that begin as liquid and settle in their final form as impermeable. *The Creep* is also about the figure of The Outlaw. Not a cowboy, but *The Creep*, a person outside the law – whatever that might mean. He has his own set of leaky complexities. With this figure, I’m referencing the masculinist fantasies of the outlaws that appear in the so-called ‘Spaghetti Westerns’ made by Sergio Leone in the 1960s and 70s. They are films that made Clint Eastwood famous. When I first interrogated why I wanted to inhabit this ‘cowboy figure’ – as I initially understood him – I decided to dig into these films which I had up til then consciously avoided. I was kind of stunned by the innovative beauty of the cinematography that was framing this homo-erotic camp ultra-violence. These films are a low-budget Western European imagining of the Hollywood cowboy Westerns which in turn are a fantastical imagining of the colonial ‘Wild West’. They appropriate and inhabit ‘The Desert’ as a kind of mythic space in which morality can be radically rewired, or abandoned. There’s a lot to chew on with them – how death is staged, masculinity as a material. Renate Lorenz’s idea of ‘trans-temporal drag’ really resonates with me. Understanding ‘drag’ as a verb, she describes performance as an assemblage of references that are dragged across and through time. Arriving in the present moment covered in all kinds of sticky debris. This is the best way I can think of to explain how The Outlaw you see in *The Creep* comes to be. I found a lot of pleasure in this performance, it was an exorcism of sorts, and also maybe a strange self-portrait. **Throughout your artistic practice, you’ve demonstrated a remarkable engagement with language – for example, I find you’ve brilliantly summarised Benjamin’s mythic violence concept with ‘Oh! Get away with it for long enough, and it’ll start to look like fate.’ (as it’s sung by The Outlaw in *The Creep*, 2023). I’m also thinking of *Acts of Improbable Genius* (2021) where you play with words and meaning-making impressively. Could you delve deeper into how you engage with language? How does language serve as a medium for your creative expression, and in what ways does it contribute to the narrative or meaning within your work?** In writing the lyrics in *The Creep* I was trying to bring a few impulses together. One, I wanted to enact the creeping and insidious power of the repetitive hook in pop music, the earworm – as a self-reflexive texture in the work. This also occurs with Acts of Improbable Genius – where the stand-up comedian Ron repeatedly returns to his punch line: ‘Genius! Genius? Probably. Probably? Probably not!’. It’s repetition of language as a device – where layers of meaning reveal themselves through iterative exposure to what at first feels like perhaps an oversimplification or too great a distillation of a complex idea. In *The Creep*, I’m experimenting with the notion of the slogan as it entangles with the folk or protest song – with popular poetics and their political expediency or efficacy. The other thing I’m picking up on is the tradition of Sprechgesang in Brecht’s work, but also in the writing of Thomas Pynchon. Who often has his characters breaking out into absurd songs on the page. Text is a really important part of my work. It matters to me that it remains a poetic material within and amongst the other materials – that it doesn’t speak louder than the objects or the movements, that it doesn’t explain or neatly wrap up ambiguities. For me, the best words are ones that can go in the back pocket of the audience to hopefully show up as a kind of surprising metabolizing agent of other experiences long after the visit to the show. **You seem to have a great ability to explore cavernous spaces with one surprising tool: humor. Can you introduce us to your process/thinking?** I think it’s interesting, or telling, to think of humor in art as surprising. I remember standing in front of my video installation – Oh Yeah Tonight – with a critic at the press preview for the show, and he asked me: dare I say this is comedic? As though he wanted to be sure it was permissible to read the work that way, that I intended to be funny. Humor is a risk – which is why it pays. It’s bound tightly with very special kinds of vulnerability and intimacy. I guess it’s surprising because it can be dismissed as being deeply unserious, but for me, the opposite is true. It’s a great strategy to go deeper and faster with people. This is true in social situations – a quick, sparkling wit is almost always very sexy, and it’s true in performance – which is where I arrive at making films and exhibitions from – live performance. There, humor is much more a part of the anticipated palate. It’s disarming, and charming, but also produces a space of trust that can be both honored and messed with – bringing us back to risk. What I’m often trying to do is find a way in my work to balance that knife edge between the sublime and the ridiculous, the beautiful and the deeply critical, and using humor in a kind of rhythmic way to punctuate that cycling through. I dunno, I love the phrase: it’s not funny if you have to explain it, and that’s how it always feels to try and dissect ‘being funny’ in my work. But it is a material that I work with and a strategy. Where it emerges in *The Creep* film is in the shootout scene. Which is both a loving homage and a critical pastiche of the Leone-style shootout of famously ever-tightening close-ups. It’s a kind of absurdist, camp clowning around a lot of deeper threads converging at that moment in the film as The Outlaw conjures the phantom weapons at his hips. There is no gun, but there is a catharsis into a line dance of living and dying. Maybe that’s the punchline, a conjuring gesture toward the cosmic joke. **‘Being funny’ is more often than not a way to deal with the schisms of life. Similar to gut feelings, there’s an intricate web at work, a whole constellation of invisible knowledge. This brings me to a confession: I’ve been long interested in gut feelings, both from a deeply personal perspective, the way I can use instinct and how much I can rely on it, especially as a woman tryingto navigate this heavily gender-based violent environment, as well as from a more general societal view, how it’s perceived, who acknowledges its validity and who condemns it as non-rational, hence worthless (hello patriarchy and western dominant thought!). And then you and *The Creep* come along leaving a vibrant mark on me. Much like Pauline Oliveros’s idea of the yet-unheard being inherently part of the act of listening.** Right, and her rule: ‘listen to everything all the time, and remind yourself when you are not listening’. Which can be understood simultaneously as a score for deep listening practice and also a survival guide. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/E-Werk_Maleanie-Jame-Wolf_Joanna-Wilk_Doc_3-v2.jpg) Fig. 2 **Shall we continue by addressing the mountain in the room? The two wooden works, *The Mountain* (2023) and *Another Mountain Still* (2023) have been specifically produced for this show. What led to their existence?** Let’s talk about mountain in the room! Ok, so, the essential proposal for The Creep was to enact a series of creep studies through a duet between an outlaw and a mountain. As a kind of play with the rudiments of narrative, with the mountain as ‘The Metaphor’ and the Outlaw as ‘The Unreliable Narrator’. In the film, the mountain only exists through language – it’s never seen. It exists because the outlaw tells you it does. The two works that are encountered in the room are sculptural riffs on the theatre flat or scenography. Their scale and their credibility as ‘the real thing’ shift around according to the proximity of your body to them in space. They’re a continuation of my preoccupation with the idea of ‘show business’ – the liminal, the persuasive, the deceptive, the staged, the performed, as they operate as political strategies. I don’t want to unpack the mountains too much though, they need to maintain their secrets. **How about the tongues? Perhaps the smallest, yet the sharpest elements in the exhibition, I find – four ceramic tongues – are concomitantly libidinous, self-determined/with a mind of their own, intelligent, wild, and scary. To me, they’re proof you feel free to play: with words, with textures, with concepts, with fears. Would you agree?** The tongues come about throthe ugh me feeling a sense of freedom or permission to play with forms that are new to me. In this case, ceramics, which I have never made before. I’m looking for methods to produce objects that perform in space. I guess in that way, my practice is kind of tenaciously choreographic. In terms of ‘why tongues’? The name I have for these objects is *Tongue Army Got You Licked*. They are less about alluding to language and more about what I referred to earlier as my ‘gristly curiosity’. One day, when my child was about 2 and a half, we got on the bus and before I knew it, they had sat next to a stranger and licked his bare arm. Besides the mortification I felt at that moment, I was so aware of how strongly the stranger recoiled; the transgressive potential of the lick; the encounter with the wet muscle that speaks and sucks and offends and pleasures. I wanted to put all that into the space of *The Creep* in these compact forms. \* 27 January 2024 1.30pm Artist Talk & Performative Reading Melanie Jame Wolf will speak with curator Adriana Tranca about the research and conceptual inspirations behind *The Creep*, providing insights into her broader artistic practice, and offering a compelling introduction to *The Outlaw*, the central persona of the exhibition. Seating is limited, RSVP to [events@kunststrom.com](mailto:events@kunststrom.com)by 24th January 2024. // Melanie Jame Wolf is a visual artist and choreographer who lives in Berlin. She works solo and with friends, making interdisciplinary pieces about power, flows of capital, and the pervasive phenomenon of ‘show business’ in the atrical, political and everyday contexts. Coming from a background in contemporary performance, Melanie Jame works with text, sound, moving image, choreography, and sculpture. Her work often focuses on specific performance techniques, like impersonation, rehearsal, or stand up, understanding the body as an unruly political riddle. Leaning into a hyper-stylised pop aesthetic, she is invested in humour as a strategy for critical possibility, and in working with language in subliminal and surprising ways. --- ### Footnotes 1: Jaggar, Alison M., 2016: Love and knowledge: Emotion in feminist epistemology Image Captions: Cover, Fig1/2: The Creep (installation view at E-WERK Luckenwalde), Melanie Jame Wolf, 2023\. Courtesy of Joanna Wilk *Adriana Tranca is an independent curator, researcher and writer. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Linguistics and one in Art History from the University of Bucharest and a Master of Fine Arts in Curating from Goldsmiths, University of London. Currently Adriana works as a freelance curator at E-WERK Luckenwalde, where she is involved in several projects. Notably, she has co-founded CURRENTS, an electronic music festival that combines contemporary art and live electronic music, showcasing both established and emerging artists. Adriana’s curatorial practice is socially engaged, as evidenced by her involvement in organizing Speculative Properties (2023), a protest exhibition against real estate speculation in Berlin-Kreuzberg that forced artists out of their studios – a project that attracted the attention of the Berlin Senate. She has recently contributed to an artist book by Šejla Kamerić, published by Distanz Verlag.* ### A sprig of amaranth in the shit of the world URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/a-sprig-of-amaranth-in-the-shit-of-the-world-3/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:13.000Z From time to time, the story of Palmer amaranth, the sacred plant of the Incas that challenges Monsanto, goes viral. According to this tale, Palmer amaranth is an ancestral Andean cereal of the Quinua family that contains exceptional nutritional properties, and whose power lies in its ability to thrive in soybean and transgenic wheat monocultures without being affected by glyphosate, an herbicide developed by the agrochemical corporation to control weeds considered to be invasive. As for Monsanto, it is well known as a dirty business. In addition to being one of the first companies to produce dioxin (a defoliant known as Agent Orange and used as a chemical weapon during the Vietnam War), it has also repeatedly been responsible for toxic waste spills and other environmental disasters, as well as for introducing the proprietary use of transgenic seeds in the agriculture market. The mystical drift of this story emerges as the result of a collective construction, which gathers elements presented in regional agricultural publications as well as from scientific papers and activist pamphlets. It ends being absorbed and regurgitated by the decolonial discourse in the form of a postmodern myth. The myth’s origins can be traced back to *The Guardian*, in 2005, when Paul Brown, an environmental correspondent, introduced his scoop under the headline: “GM \[1\] Crops Created Superweed, Say Scientists \[2\].” In the article, Brown explained that one of the goals of genetic modifications by Monsanto is to achieve higher crop yields by creating herbicide-resistant seeds to eliminate other plants competing for nutrients in monoculture soil. The article was intended to raise awareness about the potential abuse of herbicides that could lead to the appearance of what the author called “superweeds, as well as to warn about the risk of other genetic alterations derived from these uses, but what transcended the context was the peculiar terminology he used. “Superweed” turned into so much more than just a noun. Militant publications picked up on the aura of exceptionality that the term superweed evoked, and rushed into drawing a connection between Palmer amaranth and another species of the same family and similar name, the ancestral Kiwicha (Amaranthus caudatus). They overlooked the fact that while Palmer amaranth and Kiwicha belong to the same family, they do not share the same characteristics and history. While Palmer amaranth has a high resistance to glyphosate, Kiwicha is vulnerable to it. On the other hand, Kiwicha has a significantly higher nutritional value than Palmer amaranth. Kiwicha is an Andean cereal that played an important ritualistic role in Inca society, while Palmer amaranth is native to North America, and, although it was occasionally consumed by the Navajo, Pima, Yuma, and Mohave, it has no known spiritual attributions. The headlines that were developed from this false equivalence were along the lines of “The Inca Sacred Plant Stands up to Monsanto \[3\],” or the euphoric “The Inca Empire against Monsanto \[4\]”. These texts assigned to this imaginary plant the resistance of the Palmer amaranth combined with the ancestrality of the Kiwicha, as well as a critical spirit, agentive capacity, and a sense of historical justice, among other projections attributed to indigenous and peasant struggles. Soon enough, the Catalan magazine *Kaosenlared* published an article encouraging the readers to sabotage Monsanto by preparing seed balls of this plant and humus and throwing them into their monocultures as if they were living bombs \[5\]. Prominent food activists, such as Vandana Shiva, also fell into the romantic confusion between the plants \[6\]. And that’s how Palmer amaranth was transfigured into Kiwicha and underwent a new phase of meaning, becoming a symbol of self-defense, an ancestral secret of the displaced against land-grabbing, complete with the ability not only to end world hunger, but also to make colonial temporality itself collapse into a great comeback of the dispossessed. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/DSC_9853-hor.jpg) Fig.1 The invincible plant issue was also raised in technical magazines by transgenic soy and corn farmers around 2018, in the USA, where glyphosate represents more than 50% of the herbicide used in extensive industrial agriculture. They also leaned into an interesting wording by referring to the Palmer amaranth through a set of metaphors with religious connotations such as: “dark prince,” “silent lurker,” and “weed demon \[7\].” Meanwhile, indexed academic publications incorporated the vocabulary of war in the discussion \[8\]. The repeated use of words like “battle,” “war,” and “attack” to address the relationship between plants and herbicides revealed a strong bias influenced by a view of nature as a territory of conquest and technology as a tool of domination. At this point, Palmer amaranth came to embody two symbols: the “superweed” as a ferocious enemy and incarnation of evil, or the “superweed” as a transmutation of the freedom fighter, the disobedient indigenous, the bearer of the good news of the resurgence of subjugated worlds and dignity trampled by the colonial-capitalist order. Interesting in this apparent opposition is the fact that although both positions appear to contradict each other, they start from a tacit agreement that they are dealing with an essentially exceptional entity. The problem with this transposition of meanings is that they feed off and reinforce each other, creating a parallelism between aggressiveness and resilience. From the perspective of the conquest logic that underlies the laws of the market, this serves beautifully as justification for the intensification of extermination methods. As for the resistance’s value system, the idealization of the guarantee of invincibility and return implies a loss of the sense of fragility and irreparability. What brought my attention to these facts is the notion of resurgence; be it that of the “indigenous warrior seeds”, hidden underground in the face of the expansion of transgenic monocultures, or as a metaphor of the pre-capitalist-colonial order, which could not be defeated and was only sleeping, waiting for the right moment to return. What possible values and meanings derive from the conviction that restitution, as the act of returning something to its former or original state, is not merely possible, but a promise to which history must adjust? What does it imply to organize resistance from that principle? There is a Greek word, “apocatastasis,” which refers to the restoration of a precedential order. It’s not a concept that strays too far from the idea of linear progress, just that it conceives it backward. Its genealogy can be identified in social movements from before the time decolonial theory intersected with speculative literature, and the concept of ancestral futures flooded cultural institutions. To mention the two examples that seem most relevant in this case: Inkarri myth and the relationship between indigenism and socialism in Latin America, and the use of the Hebrew expression “tikún olam,” which means “repair the world” evoked by the French-Italian radical publication *Tiqqun*. In the first case, the Inkarri myth essentially consists of the belief in the return of the dead Inca, whose head grows underground until the parts of his dismembered body are reunited and, with them, the order that colonial temporality destroyed. The second, according to Kabbalist thought, refers to the myth of the restoration of broken vessels as an allegory of the world. In both cases, the overriding theme is the idea of cosmic correction, a literal return to a pristine state of harmony before chaos. Currently, one of the slogans that has gained popularity in anticolonial activist circles is, “They tried to bury us, but they didn't know we were seeds”. The phrase is based on the epitaph written by the Nicaraguan poet Ernesto Cardenal for his friend Adolfo Baez. The original text reads: “They killed you and didn't tell us where they buried your body, but since then, the entire national territory is your tomb; or rather, in every inch of national territory where your body isn’t, you have been resurrected. They thought they were killing you with a ‘fire’ command! They thought they were burying you, but what they were doing was burying a seed.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/IMG_7705.jpg) Fig.2 As we create the symbols that shed temporary light in times of darkness, we often forget that they aren’t a literal depiction of who we are. Myth, poetry, and political slogans are not translations, and, even less, prescriptions. They are complex exercises in repair that never manage to bring back what has been lost, namely, the actual people, and their bodies. Slogans, songs, and words are by definition insufficient consolation and a collective search for hope that starts from a wound. Especially the words written over a grave. The ideas that unite individuals are not magical shields against the brutality of history, which erases, rewrites, and changes the heroic into the unworthy, and the exemplary into the cowardly. Today, in Nicaragua, the seeds are no longer the Sandinista *guerrilleros*, but those who rise against their transformation into tyrants. Herein lies the problem with the temporality of restitution, which operates within the same framework of principles as colonial temporality. By trying to unravel it, in the hands of the same figures it proposes, the untamed warrior, the martyr who will come back multiplied by a thousand, the hero built differently, the sacred seed, the chosen one, the magical ancestral plant, it confirms it. That's why it’s important to make the uncomfortable effort to remind ourselves, and each other, that as long as we keep building traps for “the traitor” and “the enemy,” we will keep falling into them. When we are moved by resistances that persist after decades and centuries despite clear imbalances of strength, we are tempted to interpret the resilience that coexists with collective trauma and irreparable loss as a quality of subjects built differently, but let us remember that this idea is also part of the internal discourse of those who already see communities involved in anti-colonial resistance as plagues of weeds whose exceptional endurance to unthinkable violence can only be faced down by extermination. While the fable of the Inca plant that brings Monsanto to its knees functions as a metaphor for the right to self-defense of the weakest, the reality that we can access from our bodies tells us that we are not super-seeds, but vulnerable individuals, and when one of us is exterminated, incorporating their memory in epic narratives can serve many purposes and historical projects, but not that of consolation for the need of the impossible embrace. Seed bombs are still a great idea, though. \\\\ Cover: Andrea Acosta. *The Importance of Possibilities*, (2020). Courtesy of the artist. Fig.1 Andrea Acosta. *Restless Objects,* (2022). Courtesy of the artist. Fig.2 Andrea acosta. *Becoming Forest,* (2023). Courtesy of the artist. --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Genetically modified organisms. \[2\] [https://www.theguardian.com/science/2005/jul/25/gm.food](https://www.theguardian.com/science/2005/jul/25/gm.food?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[3\] [https://we.riseup.net/zenit/la-planta-sagrada-de-los-incas-desaf%C3%ADa-al-gigante](https://we.riseup.net/zenit/la-planta-sagrada-de-los-incas-desaf%C3%ADa-al-gigante?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[4\] [https://soydondenopienso.wordpress.com/2011/03/06/el-amaranto-o-kiwicha-golpea-a-monsanto-la-planta-guerrera/](https://soydondenopienso.wordpress.com/2011/03/06/el-amaranto-o-kiwicha-golpea-a-monsanto-la-planta-guerrera/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[5\] [https://archivo.kaosenlared.net/la-increible-historia-de-como-el-amaranto-vencio-a-la-monsanto/index.html](https://archivo.kaosenlared.net/la-increible-historia-de-como-el-amaranto-vencio-a-la-monsanto/index.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[6\] [https://www.resurgence.org/magazine/article4751-exterminating-the-amaranth.html](https://www.resurgence.org/magazine/article4751-exterminating-the-amaranth.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[7\] [https://www.unitedsoybean.org/hopper/soybean-farmers-declare-war-on-palmer-amaranth/](https://www.unitedsoybean.org/hopper/soybean-farmers-declare-war-on-palmer-amaranth/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[8\] [https://read.dukeupress.edu/environmental-humanities/article/9/2/204/133011/The-War-between-Amaranth-and-SoyInterspecies](https://read.dukeupress.edu/environmental-humanities/article/9/2/204/133011/The-War-between-Amaranth-and-SoyInterspecies?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) *is a researcher and cultural worker. She has directed research projects such as El futuro era tu cuerpo, Ensamblajes del Cuidado and Afectos en Re-existencia. She worked as a coordinator and co-curator of the Cátedra Decolonial Anibal Quijano at the Museo Reina Sofía (2018-2023), and is a co-editor in the journal Arts of the Working Class.* ### Half the personality but double the accuracy URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/half-the-personality-but-double-the-accuracy/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:12.000Z Lawrence Lek compared *NOX*, his solo exhibition now on show at Kranzler Eck in Berlin, to road films of the sixties – daring movies in which a character leaves their familiar (and, therefore, restraining) environment in favor of the great spatial, social, and psychological unknown. In those flicks, space exploration is tangential to an investigation of the self. Someone experiences something somewhere else, and, all of a sudden, perspectives and outlooks begin to change. Where terrains are widened, morals blur. *NOX* is like that, too. Well, almost. We all know by now the exhausting mantra that it is not the destination that counts, but the journey. True enough. What is also true is that any journey is indicative of the historical period, culture, and means available during that time. For example, the original road films were the fables of the Wild West and of European troubadours, placing the protagonist atop a horse. Later iterations of the genre coupled the idea of freedom with the possession of an automobile – a particular moment in time where emotional drives became synonymous with actual driving. Streetcars became mobile incubators for desire. Then there’s *NOX*. Whereas past forms of the road trip as epic have set out to make a clear separation between the principle character and the transportation form used on the journey, *NOX* collapses that distinction by featuring Enigma, a self-driving, artificially-intelligent car. Enigma is both narrator and steed. Means *and* ends. Lek subverts several expectations in his exhibition. Entering the vast, gutted Kranzler Eck shopping center that spans three vacant floors that once hosted the delights of West German splendor. Today, visitors are given geolocated headphones before admission. Once inside, *NOX* (Latin for ‘night’, and an abbreviation for ‘Nonhuman Excellence’) welcomes its visitants with four empty black cars scattered across the darkened ground floor. Lit with headlights, one of them has crashed into the obsolete escalator, windshield busted. Upon approaching the crash site, an embracing voice begins to murmur from the headphones, welcoming us as both its owners and sponsors. The identity of the mumbling speaker is not immediately obvious. Nor are the misfortunes and nostalgia it decides to share. Suddenly, it all adds up: Enigma is sharing its biography with us. We are now the ones being guided by a machine, and somehow, that’s alright. Maybe most amazing of all is the creeping realization that nothing has changed in our established rapport with the voice now that it is clear we are hearing a widget with an engine rather than a person with a heart. Lek himself mentioned that we do not necessarily need to identify with a subject in order to empathize with it. In that, he is completely right. Perhaps this is one of the crowning achievements of *NOX*, an already stunning display of meticulous world-building with an emotionally sincere script. Straight from the get-go, there is an immediate understanding of a person with their tools. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/2_Lawrence-Lek-NOX-2023.jpg) fig. 1 Enigma is escaping. At least that is what it tried to do until it was summoned to be repaired at NOX– a repair facility for troublesome automobiles. Despite being a self-driving car that does not depend on human navigation, it still longs for company. ‘Maybe I’ve seen you before in the back seat,’ it claims. ‘You never know.’ It is this exact longing that has branded Enigma as a ‘mentally damaged car’ by his fellow self-driving friend, Guanyin. Enigma began to crave difference, and felt that it “ran out of space”; thus, making additional reference to the exploration as necessity as is presented in road films, but also highlighting how a lack of physical space also binds mental space. The two, sometimes we forget, are codependent. Behind the four empty black cars, an enormous video projection that visualizes Enigma’s journey occupies the entirety of the several-meter-long wall. Apart from the cars’ lights, these memories are our only source of light. Next to the screen, the audible narration changes once more. We watch Enigma on its path. Steering in cities webbed with razed skyscrapers and desolate highways. Shooting an entire cinematic sequence from a nonhuman point of view is undeniably tricky, but Lek pulls it off seamlessly. We learn that Enigma is undecided about its path. While it is just a matter of ‘five days of correctional upgrades at NOX,’ and then ‘cars are ready to go back on the road,’ most return with ‘half the personality, but double the accuracy,’ Later, Enigma enters its facility. Its architecture is unmistakable. The NOX facility shown in the film is the Kranzler Eck where the exhibition takes place. The projected film is a representation of the past, while the four black motorized carcasses stored in the space are our present. It is somehow their end, despite their having no beginning. Enigma is present in the film, but it is alone. Not a single person is spotted in the dismal streets it crosses. No operating cars are in sight either. Just a junkyard; a graveyard of its ancestors who possessed ‘bright minds and cheap bodies,’ from a time in which, according to Enigma, cars were ‘made not to drive, but to be driven’. But what is agency good for if someone lacks the means to express it? Or, in Enigma’s case, is punished for expressing it? Similar remarks on agency, and the lack thereof, suggest that while Lek compares *NOX* to adventure-loving road films, its content and tone are unequivocally existential. Transit and transitions are the same here. This budding relationship is expressed on the second floor of the exhibition. We are greeted by a painfully banal waiting room. Fluorescent lighting, gray walls, and four metal seats pressed together. Where the first floor was a solo performance by Enigma, the second floor was polyphony. Guanyin welcomes us as we remain in the waiting room, ensuring that our sponsored car will soon return to us after its time spent at NOX. Time and time again, Lek suspends catharsis while diffusing a sense of desperate sadness. In the most unexpected of places and through the most surprising of narratives, Lek achieves and retains a combustible idea of the tragic– a slow-burning sorrow. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/1_Lawrence-Lek-NOX-2023.jpg) fig. 2 Strolling around, the visitor discovers a dismembered automobile. It speaks. Vanguard is its name, and it is the last of its kind. It is afraid. It, too, wanted to escape. But Vanguard quickly ran out of figurative, and actual, fuel and was left to degrade and break apart. Vanguard speaks of its ancestors, too. Wondering about its past lives and incarnations. Injecting religious themes into technological destitution, Lek situates *NOX* as a Sino-Futurist artwork, weaving its themes with surprising grace, intuition, and an embracing quality that is sorely absent from other exhibitions that focus on similar themes. For an artwork centering on machines, *NOX* is incredibly humane. As on the ground floor, the second floor presents a film centering on Enigma. Joined this time by Dakota, a brown racehorse, we learn that ‘riding with horses promotes non-human excellence,’ since ‘bonding with animals helps AI address issues from its past.’ Many times, people are made to believe that humanity is an indispensable link between beast and machine. Yet in *NOX*, humans are completely absent and redundant. Seeing car and beast communicate with one another, comparing their horsepower with one another, a realization emerges that we are not as crucial in maintaining natural *and* technological harmony as we would like to imagine. Towards the end of the narrative, it is revealed that Enigma has become a first responder. Witnessing the desolate result of other self-driving cars that followed a similar path of fulfilling their agency, Enigma’s empathy has been reserved solely for the tragic, serving as testimony of all ends, but never enough, by itself to initiate a life. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/4_Lawrence-Lek-NOX-2023.jpeg) fig. 3 \\\\ **Lawrence Lek** is an artist, filmmaker, and musician working in the fields of virtual reality and simulation. Lek explores world-building as a form of multi-dimensional collage that can incorporate elements from both material and virtual worlds while developing narratives that reflect on alternate histories and possible futures. **NOX* is on display at the Kranzler Eck until the 14th of January, 2024, and is supported by the LAS Art Foundation.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Lawrence Lek, *NOX*, 2023\. © Lawrence Lek. Commissioned by LAS Art Foundation. Photo: Andrea Rossetti. fig. 1: Lawrence Lek, NOX (2023). Commissioned by LAS Art Foundation. © Lawrence Lek fig. 2: Lawrence Lek, NOX (2023), video game still. © Lawrence Lek fig. 3: Lawrence Lek, NOX, 2023\. © Lawrence Lek. Commissioned by LAS Art Foundation. Photo: Andrea Rossetti *Ido Nahari is a sociologist, researcher and writer who works in the fields of cultural revivalism, social welfare and the commodification of emotions. Born in Jerusalem and currently living in Berlin, Nahari holds a Master of Science in Culture and Society from the London School of Economics and Political Science, where he investigated the marketability of authenticity.* ### Complicity unions URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/complicity-unions/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:11.000Z *The paradox of political corruption is that it is the modality through which brutal institutionality is maintained. The paradox of biosocial corruption is that it constitutes the militant preservation of a general, generative capacity to differ and diffuse.* ***Fred Moten and Stefano Harney* \- All Incomplete** Since I started to ponder justice and community-making as the leitmotif of my cultural practice, as a white person from the Mediterranean fringe of Fortress Europe, and from a wage-labor-based middle-class upbringing, I embraced the sticky rhetoric of care and solidarity as a way of relating amongst individuals advertised by progressive cultural institutions. I will be honest with you, I got charmed by this relational propaganda of softness and comforting togetherness, which didn’t disturb my privilege, nor my romantic unsituated view of a society made of people with individual and collective agency. Some years have passed, and I have learned that coexistence is a philosophy that politics are programmed to dismiss. I rarely saw solidarity unconditionally between the dis-homogenous. Even when plurality, the child of solidarity, is pursued, for example, in institutions, such as museums and universities (I don’t even dare to go to international politics), the glue that sticks every part together is often a silent agreement on status, while advocacy for change is at a rhetorical level at best. Furthermore, we see, now more than ever, after several weeks into the intensification of the genocide of Palestinians, that confronting the layers on which society is built and asking for a swift change of actions, is rebutted by the repetition of history choreographed by racial-capitalist anti-human politics and interests. The obstacle is a race-gender-class-based society financed and indemnified by institutions of social reproduction that conform to an ideology that they distill and supervise, seeking not its dismantling, but its repackaging. I am suspicious of Western leftist intellectuals, or intellectuals acquainted and educated through Western institutions, demanding education to shape community and solidarity, or education before community formation, or a community grounded on an educated code of solidarity. They are well-trained to demystify, and they forget that education often creates a hierarchy of being, or a privilege of identity, reducing solidarity to a currency devoid of revolutionary value. Recently, I encountered an IG post shared by a British-Indian academic that illustrated in bullet points what “good allyship” looks like, and how it would be the premise of solidarity: 1. Unapologetic 2. Educated 3. Focused 4. Louder than the oppressor 5. Quieter than the oppressed. By reading the points, my attention was caught by points two and three, which depict a perfect, soft ecosystem, an echo chamber’s of one own, where amidst the chaos of life, the ally can sit and learn and be focussed on the situation that requires allyship. This is the life of the aristocrat, instead of the thief. I came to analyze the premises through which I disseminated my intellectual and practical allyship, and I couldn’t ignore a biased sentinel of affinity guiding me to those standing for the cause of the oppressed, and, beyond that, for a certain way of vocalizing and acting. Initially, I justified my parameters as a way to refuse and to find refuge in a different mode of recognition and belonging until I perceived my affinity through the parameters of class, education, and status. Ultimately my affinity justified and perpetrated exclusion too. This is not surprising though, as allyship is embedded in the rights-based discourse of identity politics, which fixes groups across different social axes according to their heritage and privilege, and spreads solidarity according to the motility of privilege, dispensed by those benefiting from the oppression in the form of allyship. Allyship becomes an adjunct of identity, and an identity itself. By transforming the relationship between the oppressed and the oppressor through a set of behavioral codes, including giving away privileges, or redistributing them; solidarity uses status as a currency of transaction that does not abolish the status itself, nor acknowledge the impossibility of an equal society under the racial-capitalist dominion. I felt a little trapped, like I was in a loop. I came to see something scary: little can be built on the self-reinforcing foundations of Western culture, the same rational and dehumanizing thoughts that shelter the comfortability of racial-capitalist-bourgeois hegemony, and which *a priori* creates the necessity for solidarity. Without the unmaking of the culture of class/status exceptionalism and economic privilege, and its academic roots, there is little place for the re-appropriation of solidarity to operate not only on an ideological and social level but on a practical, involved, dirty, nocturnal, impulsive, emotional, communitarian one. However, around and within the pivots entrenching “good solidarity”, those who are affected and oppressed by society are makers of their modes of it, not when the discourse directs the attention, such as when there is an explosion, or a hashtag, or a demo, but in the long-term, plotting the reorganizing of the life stolen and extracted by the Western cultures. Recently I commented with an Irish colleague about the prompt reaction of Ireland in revoking funds and political support to Israel, and by doing so confirming and deepening Ireland’s political distance from British power and imperialism. They told me that Irish people could empathize with Palestinians, as they recognized the violent system of land partition themselves. British did it with Ireland in 1922, India in 1947, and Palestine in 1948\. And I could hear them, but I wondered if solidarity is stronger when injustice and oppression are closer to us and more galvanizing. Shall we feel the pain and mirror ourselves in oppression to be in solidarity? Or, thinking with Jean Genet, could solidarity be more of an urge to call the whole of society into question? ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/nci-Eviner-Nowhere-Body-Here-Series-2000_2.jpeg) fig. 1 I may be delusional, but I would argue that solidarity should not be based on stereotypes and strategies, or perceived identities administrated through class-based concessions. Solidarity should not be imagined as a way of relating among individuals, but should rather fight the notion of partition (class/race/gender/nation) itself as a factor of exclusion. Guided by the sagacious words of Fred Moten and Stefano Harney, and a fond interest in resistance movements (my grandfather was Partisan fighting against the Fascist occupation of Italy, and a relative of mine was a member of the Communist Red Brigades), for example, the Black Panthers, and the Kurdish Woman Movement, which mined and reimagined systems on their terms, generally I have encountered complicity instead of solidarity as a driver of justice. The accomplice moves in the time-space of the undercurrents, not for discursive and political validation. One gives away their status when fighting back or forward, and, contrary to the ally, provides solidarity, not temporarily, nor on an identitarian basis, but on the premises of a form of faith, a form of romanticism, a form of deep implication between destruction and construction that refuses to move within the class-race-gender paradigm. If solidarity is the voluntary cooperation of homogeneous individuals with diverse struggles, complicity is no choice. Complicity is the *a priori* force that unifies to meet at the horizon of a non-subsistance form of hope people, and that welcomes different ways to relate collectively against power and its class-race-gender socializing rules on the same territories of struggle. I am sure you readers are lacking more concrete examples here, and I don’t want to upset you allies who fell into the trap of allyship, or those who proclaim solidarity like their faith, without knowing their bias and policed psychologies. But, have you ever imagined how, in the quest for belonging, those seeking to have a nation, for example, could stand with those who refuse to have one (without craving a hierarchy of beliefs and interests)? I am not proposing methodologies of action. You will not find them in a text; you will not find them in a well-formulated statement, or a rule. There is not merely one way to do things, contrary to the legacy history left us, the Grand Narrative. However, history is not simply a story, but a process full of impropriety, degeneration, and a generator of difference in a multitude of strategies, tactics, protests, direct actions, or prefigurative forms of politics. This diffusion is essential if we do aspire toward “a world in which”, as the Zapatistas have proclaimed time and again, “all worlds fit”, or at least those that do not enact the extermination of the non-aligned Other. The more shapes our actions will subtract from the scrutiny of Western supremacy and its ways of socializing, the more we will speak to a greater plurality of people. We can be creative, if not good allies, rather destructive accomplices, and the moment in history has never been closer to requiring us to be so. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1: İnci Eviner, Nowhere Body Here Series, 2000.© and courtesy of the artist and Dirimart. *DMT is a street poet and sworded knight.* ### Organizing in and against the institution URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/organizing-in-and-against-the-institution/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:09.000Z In 2018, I was working as an editor at the New Museum in New York when a handful of colleagues and I started talking about the issues we were facing at work: unlivable wages, particularly in an expensive city that the museum itself plays a role in gentrifying; impossible workloads that led to extensive unpaid overtime; a culture of disposability that resulted in high turnover and workplace abuse; and more. Over the following months, our conversations grew to include the majority of lower- and mid-level staff at the museum, and collectively we decided to form a union. Despite intense and sometimes illegal resistance from museum management, we overwhelmingly won our vote to unionize in January 2019 and affiliated with Local 2110 of the United Auto Workers. By fall 2019, we had ratified our first contract—another uphill battle against management, one that almost resulted in us going on strike. In the four years that have followed, countless other museums organized, formed unions and negotiated strong contracts that protect and improve the lives of their staff. These include the Guggenheim and the Whitney Museums in New York, the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles, the Museum of Fine Arts Boston, the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, and many others. These wins come amid a larger resurgence of unionization efforts in previously un- or under-organized sectors in the US: technology and digital media companies; coffee shops, particularly Starbucks, of which over two hundred stores have now submitted petitions for a union election with the National Labor Relations Board; and service-based nonprofits, where workers are also pointing to a chasm between these organizations’ progressive missions and toxic internal dynamics. All of this points to a new or renewed willingness on the part of those who work in the art sector to see themselves as workers alongside those in vastly different industries. In the summer of 2023, major struggles for workers’ rights have erupted across the US—and especially in Los Angeles, where I live. In early May, over 11,000 film and television writers organized with the Writers Guild of America went on strike, joined two months later by thousands of members of the Screen Actors Guild. After several months of highly visible picketing and, more significantly, the withholding of their labor, the Writers Guild of America and then the Screen Actors Guild (SAG-AFTRA) recently agreed on new contracts with major improvements. Alongside them, hotel workers organized with UNITE-HERE Local 11 have held short-term strikes all summer and into the fall at hotels across Southern California where they are attempting to negotiate new, more just contracts. In October, 75,000 nurses, medical technicians, and support staff who work for the Kaiser hospital network held a three-day strike for better pay, safe staffing, and more. And thousands of members of the United Auto Workers across the country—under new, more militant leadership—have just concluded their strikes against GM, Ford, and Stellantis/Chrysler, known as the Big Three automakers. Behind the recent cascade of highly visible union organizing in the United States lies the fact that working conditions in the United States have been bad—and worsening—for a long time. Union density continues to decline, a result of decades of anti-labor policy and the closure or decertification of unionized factories and other much larger union shops. The explosion of museum unions is an unequivocal good, but it has its limits in an industry and a country shaped by privatization, austerity, and the violence of racial capitalism. \*\*\* In 1920, artists George Grosz, John Heartfield, and Wieland Herzfelde wrote, “In a time of widespread hunger, \[the bourgeois\] invest their surplus capital in the accumulation, the hoarding, of … the masterpieces of master ‘creators’ (don’t insult such maestros by calling them workers!),” ironizing the unwillingness of most artists to see themselves as members of the working class. They vehemently call for artists to commit to working-class struggle in their art, in opposition to the bourgeois formalism popular at the time. A century later, museum organizing suggests a more widespread mindset shift among art workers, but Grosz, Heartfield, and Herzfeld’s structural critique holds. The art world still relies on the hoarded wealth of capitalists and ultimately exists to enrich them—not only through the buying and selling of blue-chip artworks but through the philanthropy that funds art institutions, which Ruth Wilson Gilmore calls “twice-stolen wealth”: stolen from workers whose labor creates capitalists’ profits and then stolen again from the people in the sanctioned tax evasion called philanthropy. Yet the art sector thrives on the sense of its exceptionality, on the idea that art is a special domain of freedom, unburdened by the brutal rules of the “outside” world. The *work* of art—of museum staff and studio assistants and gallery workers and artists themselves—is seen not as work at all but as an enactment of one’s passion and creativity, as something almost transcendent. Critic Marina Vishmidt writes that “the basis of art’s exceptionality to the law of value that obtains in capitalist societies is that art production is not conducted under the conditions held to be typical of this law”—that is, art is not produced by wage labor. Or so the argument goes. I’m reminded of one hostile New Museum manager’s offhand comment to a colleague during our organizing campaign: “Unions are for coal miners.” As in, that’s where the labor is, over there in the mines and the factories. Never mind that more people in the US now work in museums than in coal mines, as Rebecca Solnit has noted. Art’s supposed exceptionality has long been wielded as a justification for exploitative labor conditions: under the toxic sign of doing what you love, you’re lucky to have a creative or prestigious job and should be grateful—which is to say, stop asking for a living wage. In practice, however, art work is work, as the rank-and-file organizers of recent museum union campaigns continue to foreground. Art workers’ labor produces value, and not simply or even primarily artistic or cultural value; our labor serves to produce monetary value for the capitalist class: the collectors whose artworks are worth more and more with every museum show they’re included in, the dealers who also profit from these leaps in value, the museum directors who build careers on the backs of their exploited staff, and so on. Grosz, Heartfield, and Herzefelde remind us: “Workers! You create the surplus value that makes possible the very existence of exploiters who load their walls with ‘aesthetic’ luxuries.” Workers install exhibitions, create exhibition didactics, and conduct museum tours—on salaries that often tether them to the working class long-term. In many cases, workers also produce the art itself, toiling in the studio-factories of established blue-chip artists and emerging market darlings alike. The phrase “We Can’t Eat Prestige” appeared on union buttons as early as 1974, when Harvard clerical staff began what would be a fifteen-year fight to have their union recognized. But as white-collar jobs of all kinds increasingly privilege flexibility and employee initiative—a pattern described by Luc Boltanski and Ève Chiapello in the 1990s—it becomes clear how the art industry serves as a model for and exemplar of neoliberal capitalism. Examining management literature from the 1970s onward, Boltanski and Chiapello noted an increasing emphasis on workers’ autonomy and individuality. Rather than greater freedom for workers, this shift represented a cooptation by the capital of the 1960s fights for liberation and has resulted, for workers, in greater financial insecurity and an internalization of capitalism’s cult of individualism—characteristics epitomized by the figure of the artist, and ones intended to undermine working-class collective power. \*\*\* The risks of union organizing in museums—verbal abuse, targeted discipline and/or job loss, diminishing possibilities for a career in the art field broadly—are serious because unionization poses a real threat to institutional hierarchy and the hegemony of the capitalist class. Those risks, however, are not confined to museum unionism; they surface wherever organizing threatens the unspoken role of the institution—and, crucially, its leaders and funders—in maintaining racial capitalism. The recent upheaval at *Artforum* is an instructive example. On October 19, almost two weeks after the apartheid Israeli state intensified its brutal siege on Gaza in response to Hamas’s incursions into so-called Israeli territory and seventy-five years after the Nakba, in which Zionist forces violently drove over seven hundred thousand Palestinians from their homes, the US art magazine of record published a letter online expressing support for Palestinian liberation, signed by hundreds of celebrated and lesser-known artists and art workers. The crackdown was almost immediate: The following day, gallerists Dominique Lévy, Brett Gorvy, and Amalia Dayan published a response, also in *Artforum*, condemning the “one-sided view” of the open letter and foregrounding “complexities” over the original letter’s frank acknowledgment of genocide. (Notably, Amalia Dayan is the granddaughter of Moshe Dayan, the famous Israeli military commander and politician directly responsible for the dispossession and murder of many Palestinians.) Within days, *Artforum* publishers fired editor-in-chief David Velasco, several other staffers resigned in protest of his dismissal, and many well-known signatories—including Peter Doig, Tomás Saraceno, and Joan Jonas—withdrew their names from the original letter. This occurred in response not only to the three gallerists’ reaction(ary) letter but to direct counter-organizing by other members of the art-capitalist class—notably Bed Bath & Beyond heir Martin Eisenberg, a major collector of emerging artists and supporter of the New Museum, among other contemporary art institutions. Gallerists and art dealers urged their artists to withdraw their names, and collectors threatened to deaccession works by artists expressing support for Palestinians. Both publicly and behind the scenes, the machinations of the collecting class made clear their intentions—and more troublingly, their ability—to suppress dissent and consolidate support for capital accumulation and the maintenance of white supremacy via the Israeli state in occupied Palestine. Extending across the US and Europe, this fascistic campaign of repression targets anyone who dares to express solidarity with the Palestinian people—even, in some cases, to express that Palestinians are human, deserving of life. The Museum Folkwang in Essen just recently cancelled artist Anaïs Duplan’s Afrofuturist section of an exhibition in response to posts Duplan made in support of Palestine on his personal social media account. The cancellation reflects the increasing reach of anti-Palestine surveillance and repression from both the art world and the German government—and unintentionally underscores the longstanding relationship between Black and Palestinian liberation struggles. Further, this international repression campaign protects not only the reactionary viewpoints of many art world capitalists but their material interests as well: there are enormous profits to be made from investments in Israel’s massive global security apparatus as well as the significant oil and gas reserves in the occupied Palestinian territories. I am struck by something the scholar and critic Zoé Samudzi wrote and shared on Instagram very recently: “The past month and months have already been evidence of this, but we are in for an even ruder awakening about the by-design limits of ‘art’: art institutionality cannot be a stalwart against fascism because fascistic illiberalism thrives everywhere racial capitalism has made a playground, the art industry is that ground par excellence But artists and critics and writers are, or at least, we could be.” Art workers should continue organizing within the institution as well as beyond it, but as Samudzi makes clear, we must not let our organizing be *of* the institution, for the institution’s success depends on the impossibility of our shared liberation. *Parts of this essay have been adapted from Kopel’s essay “Proving the Rule: The ‘Exceptionalism’ Problem with Art-World Labor,” published by Momus in April 2022, and from her keynote presented at the Art Workers’ Summit on October 13, 2023.* \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Screeshots from different newspapers’ headings. *Dana Kopel is a writer, editor, and former union organizer living in Los Angeles, where she is pursuing a PhD in US labor history at UCLA.* ### Unions URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/arts-of-the-working-class-29/ Last updated: 2026-09-04T12:58:43.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-29-unions](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-29-unions?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- SORRY, INSUFFICIENT FUNDS! GOODBYE This issue was created in collaboration with the Kunstmuseum Stuttgart, in particular with Anne Vieth, who was the museum's curator until July 2023\. In the context of a world whose lines of conflict are overwhelming and complex, she conceived an exhibition that looks back on the “categorization mania” of the Weimar Period (1918-1933), in which German society was searching for new coordinates for orientation. Thus, as an aide mémoire, this issue features images of this exhibition, featuring “workers” seen from the perspective of the “New Objectivity” movement, and it poses the question of which images of workers dominate our imagination today. Back then, the worker was depicted as muscular, masculine, filthy, and monstrous or, if unemployed, as a sickly, wan figure. The work of cultural creation and care was not recognized as such within this image of the worker. Today, the complexity of work can no longer be categorized or represented by singular types (indeed, it could not then). In this Issue on “Unions”, we have deliberately chosen images that do not always correspond with the classic category of The Worker, and yet we declare them as such. The sleeping sisters on our chapter three cover are also at work, recharging before taking action to create a better world for us all. Kyrgyz painter Semyon Afanasevich Chuikov depicted children of workers joyfully eating melons and Inci Eviner’s photographs, video stills, and drawings interrogate how social forces influence and shape the self on both concrete and abstract levels. AWC understands the “working class” as all those who work. This understanding thus raises the question of how such diverse workers can come together to fight for a just society. Who actually has the right to be considered a worker politically? Also with this issue, we conclude this year's focus on “Bursts of Solidarity”. Across five issues, we have considered medium-sized organizations with the potential for practices of solidarity. After Decentralized Autonomous Organizations, Grassroots Organizations, Kinships, and Territories, communities that collectively manage land, we now come to Unions. In classical Marxist theory, labor unions play an ambivalent role; on the one hand, they lead to the necessary collectivization of workers, and, on the other, they merely challenge capitalists without being able to overthrow Capitalism itself. Through the pages of this publication, we assess a core element of union work: solidarity. Keeping the situation of cultural workers in mind, we look at its elements (chapter 1); examine the tools of division, working against solidarity (chapter 2); and have dreams of future unions (chapter 3). For this issue we hosted our own “Art Workers’ Summit” to pose questions about the future organization of cultural work. Our guests included the Berufsverband Bildender Künstler\*innen Berlin (represented by the artist Zoë Claire Miller), Art Workers Italia (represented on this occasion by the artist Alice Pedroletti), and the New Patrons (Die neuen Auftraggeber - represented by the curator Alexander Koch). Our host, Künstlerhaus Stuttgart, represented by the curator Eric Golo Stone, also took part. Aiwen Yin and Dana Kopel, whose contributions here take a written form, joined us online. We also invited three artists, Dina El Kaisy Friemuth, Jeronimo Voss, and Marta Stanisława Sala, to document the “Art Workers’ Summit”. Their takes on the gathering are found mainly in chapter 3. The questions raised in this summit affect society as a whole, perhaps foremost: how can we create organizations that truly represent us in all our diversity? What kind of creativity do we need to create this kind of “we”? This question is even more pressing when considering global political situations with multiple wars happening in parallel. In the creation of a “We”, we seem to stumble over our categorizations of people. If the age-old question “Which side are you on?” has been the leitmotiv of the past several weeks, the only possible answer for us is, that there is no side to be taken other than that of the oppressed. It is necessary to stand for the protection of Jewish lives and grief for the lives taken, as well as to denounce the forcible displacement, collective punishment, disproportionate violence, and use of genocidal language against the Palestinian population, both peoples’ vulnerability is the byproduct of an imperialist, racialized capitalist system and its intersections. As a street newspaper, we try to stand solidly on shaky ground, working against Islamophobia and Antisemitism. We are now forced to negotiate our relationship with both current and coming history. Maybe the Palmer amaranth plant can give us hope, as proposed by Eliza Fuenzalida, or we expand our intimate relationships, as seen in the work of Marta Stanisława Sala and her partner, Aman Cheong, who brought voices from Taipei, Hong Kong, Macau, and Singapore in order to find comrades. Perhaps we can find allies just around the corner, such as the new association of homeless people, the “Union für Obdachlose” in Berlin? “Sorry, Insufficient funds! Goodbye” - the slogan on our cover - might hint at a collective experience of not earning enough money to survive, but also to the self-activation of collective consciousness to turn away from an economy that strips us of our basic, common need of being together. ***Impressum / Imprint*** ***Founders* / Publishers / Directors** Verantwortlicher i.S.d Åò 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing / Artistic / Editorial Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **In Kollaboration mit** Kunstmuseum Stuttgart, Staatliche Kunsthalle BADEN BADEN, Künstlerhaus Stuttgart **Editors** Elisa Fuenzalida, Theresa Zwerschke **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph **Office and Distribution Assistance** Miguel Angel Espinoza **Proofreading** Lena Heubusch **Graphic Design** Till Sperrle **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Bildrechte** Alina Grehl **Druck** BV Berliner Zeitungsdruck GmbH **Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse** Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Lynarstrasse 38, 13353 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org **Editorial gefördert von** Stuttgart \\\\ --- ## In this issue - [Organizing in and against the institution](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/organizing-in-and-against-the-institution/) - [Complicity unions](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/complicity-unions/) - [Defunding berlin](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/defunding-berlin/) - [Den revolutionen entgegen](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/den-revolutionen-entgegen-1/) - [The solidarity trinity](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-solidarity-trinity/) - [Wypasanie kotów](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/wypasanie-kotow/) - [Richtiges leben, falsches leben](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/richtiges-leben-falsches-leben/) ### Water is thinking substance URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/water-is-thinking-substance/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:08.000Z On the 19th of October, Madrid experienced an unprecedented deluge of rainfall. Waves rolled in streams on the street in front of the Spanish Congress, a few meters away from the Thyssen-Bornemisza National Museum. The recently opened exhibition “Liquid Intelligences” takes over the museum’s dedicated contemporary gallery - a darkened basement space used by TBA21\. Over the years, the foundation has focused on the intricate relationship between contemporary art production and the ailing climate. A specific emphasis on water and the oceanic has been developed through exhibitions, commissions, and educational programs. “Liquid Intelligences” features works by Anne Duk Hee Jordan, Saelia Aparicio, Lucas Aruda, Ines Zenha, Beatriz Santiago Muñoz, Ana Mendieta, Jumana Manna, and Sofia Levy. The proposed language for storytelling, and a vital life-force of thought, digestion, and procreation, is water. The substance enables a form of knowledge existing outside our own form of human thinking, one that constantly produces strange new forms of life both precarious and unyielding. Chus Martínez, the curator of this exhibition, has long collaborated with the TBA21 collection, conducting independent research on oceanic themes, aligned with the foundation’s vision. This exhibition inaugurates a series that explores diverse facets of this subject, where the concept of liquid intelligence extends far beyond the ocean to infuse every inhabitable space. From the deep ocean to the human body, from the infrastructures of cities to the water-sculpted ravines of the Caribbean, water is like a fungal network that spreads from the trenches of the Atlantic to the torrential rainfall above Madrid. The first room is a darkened chamber filled with pillows and organically shaped furniture. *Ziggy and the Starfish* (2016-2022) a film by Anne Duk Hee Jordan, explores the subject of undersea sexuality. Society’s taboos disappear in coral waters where creatures ranging from starfish to barnacles show off their sexual organs to the slow soundtrack of romantic melodies. Fluid exchanges through thickened waters are the vitality of life as it blooms forth in a liquid cosmos. The film is directly followed by *Bodies of Water* (2023), a group of sculptures by Saelia Aparicio, among them a snaking glass sculpture that hangs from the ceiling. It is accompanied by standing androgynous bodies. Both snakes and humans represent the fluidity of gender and the constant permutation of identity. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Saelia-Aparicio_Entre-el-mundo-de-arriba-y-el-mundo-de-abajo-guino-a-Angela-Carter.jpg) fig. 1 In the center of the exhibition we find a single print by Ana Mendieta, *Untitled, Iowa*, (1981). Martínez explains: “The whole exhibition is an homage to her. She worked for a long time with trees and her work was described as overly spiritual or too vulnerable. In reality, her work is very political and pragmatic and shows the vulnerability of gender.” The print doesn't depict water itself, but rather prompts the viewer’s imagination to interpret the landscape as shaped by the force of torrents. Ditches carved out by flash floods and seasonal rivers slowly create the landscape of this portion of the artist’s famous *Siluetta* series. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Mendieta_Untitled_Iowa_1981.jpg) fig. 2 Similarly, the ceramic sculptures of Jumana Manna belonging to the series *S-pipe, Mouth, Gutted* (2021) may not immediately evoke an oceanic theme. Yet, the crafted pieces displayed lying on metal grates immediately open a channel from the imagination to the underground infrastructure of the cities, and the rains that pour down into the runnels and gutters of our man-made systems; like an enormous digestive tract, they funnel water, waste, electricity, and information across oceans to link populations together. Manna’s investigation of infrastructure relates the body as flesh to the complex networks that provide us with basic necessities – but also reveal the fragility of an existence that depends on the intricate collaborations of urban network systems carefully maintained and to be kept in operation. The connections between the works remain fluid in themselves; there is not a concrete focal point or investigation that ties them to each other. Rather than a curatorial text delineating theoretical connections, Chus Martínez accompanies these works with anecdotes, stories, and short texts that provide suggestions for the audience. The texts, conceived as accessible, still require knowledge of contemporary subjects to arrive at the conclusion that a work like Manna’s ceramics point towards a quasi-fungal global water network beneath the ground. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Inez-Zenha_Entanglements.jpg) fig. 3 Other works present clearer visual connections, such new paintings as *Entanglements* (2023), by Ines Zenha and *Untitled (from the series Deserto-Modelo)* (2019-2021), by Lucas Arruda, which respectively delve into the subjects of the sea and the rainforest. In *Bird, Eat Me (Philoctetes)*, a 16mm film installation, Beatriz Santiago Muñoz relates the unchanging ancient relationship between humanity and the sea through myth. The grand finale - a new commission by Sonia Levy - is a work that connects the show back to TBA21’s various locations and educational mission. Her image-based visual essay *We Marry You, O Sea, As a Sign of True and Perpetual Dominion*, (2023) alternates between slow underwater pans and fast-paced transmissions of archival footage, recalling the aesthetic urgency of artists such as Elizabeth Price while translating the medium into a divergent tempo. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Beatriz-Santiago-Munoz_Bird-Eat-Me-Philoctetes.jpg) fig. 4 While the exhibition takes place in Madrid, this work points back to the collection’s other locations, including Ocean Space in Venice which takes a close look at the marine ecology of the beleaguered lagoon. Algae, fish, and other sea creatures feature in the melodic composition interspersed which with photographs of the men who built a petrochemical station close to Mestre, an ecological disaster on the shores of this sensitive ecosystem. *We Marry You…* highlights the contrast between intelligences that lie below and the reckless actions of the profiteers who paved the way for companies including Shell and Esso to transform the shoreline into chemical storage and facilities. This example of “non-knowing” connects to Martínez’s thesis on the intelligence of water as compared to artificial intelligence, another prominent theme in contemporary art discourse. In the curator’s words: “Artificial intelligence is a relatively new idea that is still dependent on our idea of technology as building tools. It takes the idea of intelligence to a level of something that can be programmed and controlled. Yet we are surrounded by other forms of intelligence – ancient intelligences, animal intelligences, and liquid intelligences, we not only cannot control, but we cannot even comprehend. Life is an embodied value, and we have no right to go into an environment and decide to extract and interfere. The exhibition expresses this idea, but always in a joyful and poetic way, through fantasy and storytelling rather than a didactic imposition.” This spirit is expressed by the path taking the visitor out towards the entrance, and, once again, through Duk Hee Jordan’s installation. This work leaves the visitor with a gesture of kindness, generosity, and hope in the ability of the biosphere to find solutions to human-made problems. “Liquid Intelligences” avoids a strong identifiable focus and instead, broadens discussion of its subject matter in expanded directions. This ambiguity however, presupposes that the viewer is already familiar and agrees with its overall premise. As a whole, the exhibition suggests that liquid matter is not only far more intelligent than us, but is an inescapable condition of which we all form part. Attempting to resist submission to liquid rules is an attempt at the impossible. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Anne Duk Hee Jordan, *Ziggy and the Starfish* (2016-2022). Courtesy of TBA21, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. fig. 1: Saelia Aparicio. *Entre el mundo de arriba y el mundo de abajo (guiño a Angela Carter)*, 2023\. Courtesy of TBA21, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. fig. 2: Ana Mendieta. *Untitled, Iowa*, (1981). Courtesy of TBA21, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. fig. 3: Inêz Zenha. *Entanglements*, 2023\. Courtesy of TBA21, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. fig. 4: Beatriz Santiago Muñoz. *Bird, Eat Me (Philoctetes)*, (2022-2023). Courtesy of TBA21, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. *Àngels Miralda Tena is a Catalan-American writer and curator currently based in Terrassa, Catalonia. She writes on curatorial and institutional ethics and organises exhibitions internationally.* ### Farmville URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/farmville/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:06.000Z Antes de que el programa fuera vendido, entrábamos con los nombres de nuestro animal ancestral según el calendario maya, conocidos como *nahuales*. Ajmac y yo congeniamos muy bien a la hora de bloquear las cuentas sospechosas. Nos moríamos de la risa rastreando la ubicación desde donde estaban intentando acceder a la página. Aparecían lugares que ni siquiera encontrábamos en los mapas o variaciones de ciudades españolas en Latinoamérica, en donde solo se cambiaba una B por una V, una N por una M y de repente nos teníamos que imaginar cómo sería vivir en un lugar con el nombre de Berga. Las preguntas que teníamos que responder, como vacacionistas *Juniors*, eran tan sencillas como suicidas. Estábamos asignados al área de reclamo de un juego de granja *online*. A Ajmac, B’atz y a mí nos tocaba decirle a los clientes que llamaban que no les podíamos devolver el dinero de Farmville por el hecho que les haya tocado una mala cosecha, por ejemplo, o que era imposible cambiarles el género a sus animales a su santo gusto. Una de las respuestas piloto que aprendimos en la semana de entrenamiento, en la que trabajamos sin paga, era: “*Im sorry Msr. XXX, but the idea of this game is to make it as close to reality as possible, and our programmers configure the harvest development following the real weather diagnosis of the year*.” Estas eran las conversaciones que llenaban las horas en que se iniciaba el turno de las 4am, adelantados siempre en el tiempo, de acuerdo a la hora de Estados Unidos, adelantados siempre en el tiempo. Entrábamos en el sistema con nuestros signos espirituales y desde ese momento se registraba toda la actividad. En el turno de diez horas teníamos 6 minutos de *bathroom pause*, y 30 minutos de *lunch*. Con K’at, la dinámica era diferente. Teníamos la misma edad, pero nuestro sentido del humor era distinto. K’at se tomaba muy en serio a las personas que nos llamaban del norte, y tenía el mejor inglés de toda la sección. Él estaba en el grupo de los *Juniors* porque una ONG había financiado una inspección en *call centers* en Centroamérica y la nuestra había resultado denunciada por contratar a menores de edad. La consecuencia fue que a la empresa le tocó reorganizar los grupos por edad y ofrecernos un contrato de practicantes, en el que debía constar que sólo ganábamos por comisión y por reclamo recuperado. La razón por la que nos dejaron escoger un seudónimo era que les permitía no tener que dar nuestra identidad legal. K’at es un signo de fuego, tiene una energía fuerte y mucho poder de influencia.También significa “cautiverio” y es un recordatorio constante de nuestra falta de libertad. Cuando los gringos empezaban a amenazar con *traquearnos* y mandarnos a despedir, decíamos: “*One moment please, we will put you with our supervisor*” - y le extendíamos la llamada a K’at. Su parsimonia y su manera de explicarles a los clientes sobre la lógica de la granja nos sorprendía constantemente. K’at les invitaba a pensar en el ciclo de las cosechas y en la importancia de cultivar con paciencia, de acuerdo al ritmo de la naturaleza y no al del juego. No reaccionaba a los insultos de la forma que todos esperábamos. Más bien, fijaba su mirada en un punto lejano y oscuro de la pantalla con el teléfono a mano. Muy seguido, sobre todo a Ajmac y a mí, nos preguntaban de dónde éramos (*stupid mexicans*) y desde dónde trabajábamos. A Ajmac, que era muy citadino, se le notaba la procedencia en la forma en la que hablaba de las direcciones usando referencias como si todo el mundo supiera dónde quedan las cosas; “Recto, recto, y debajo del puente del árbol Coca Cola, hasta la calzada del hospital Roosevelt”, o “En el tercer semáforo después del Campo de Marte, se va para la izquierda y ahí no hay pierde”. Antes de la muerte de su padre, vivía en el complejo militar para familiares del ejército. A B’atz y a mí nos llevaba en auto al trabajo y nos encantaba preguntarle los detalles del condominio donde vivía, de qué colores eran los juegos para niños o si los hombres estaban todo el tiempo uniformados. Le pedíamos que nos describiera los momentos en los que veía a los militares hacer cosas tan mundanas como recoger la caca del perro en el patio. Para él esas preguntas no tenían sentido, no percibía grandes diferencias entre los militares y los demás, salvo la vez que vio a su padre pedir un helado de fresa y dejar que se le derrita en la mano sin darle un solo mordisco, mientras observaba, con tristeza, cómo las gotas iban explotando sobre unas hormigas que transportaban hojas en el suelo. El enredo que se armaba alrededor de las hormigas asesinadas era curioso, unas iban por las hojas que quedaban sin transporte, otras por el helado y otras por sus compañeras moribundas en medio de aquél asfalto caliente y podrido de la infancia de Ajmac. Tras la muerte del coronel no les quedó mucha herencia. El trabajo y las pertenencias de esa familia regresaron en su mayoría al ejército. Por eso se pasaba los días atendiendo quejas por teléfono y practicando inglés con la idea de irse a estudiar economía a Londres. Su nombre nahual es el símbolo del pecado, de la vida y la muerte. Tiene mucha sabiduría, y muestra valentía en momentos inesperados. Decirles a los clientes de dónde éramos y dónde estábamos estaba terminantemente prohibido. Los supervisores nos decían que eso baja inmediatamente la confianza de la gente. Los productos locales son de mejor calidad, nos decían, guiñándonos los ojos. Del grupo, sólo K’at conocía bien Estados Unidos. Cuando nos gritaban al teléfono que de dónde éramos, K’at nos acercaba un papelito con dos opciones: Dakota del Sur o Dakota del Norte. Era fácil de recordar y se podía pronunciar sin mucho inglés. De allá venía K’at, el lugar donde más maíz se cultiva en el mundo. Lo habían regresado de los *cornfields* un día que la policía soltó a sus perros y los dejó perseguirlo por los pasillos de aquel terreno amarillo arena. Lo más alienante para él era el orden del maíz, nos contaba. En su casa, el maíz se cultiva con el sistema “milpa”, es decir, que crece mezclado, por ejemplo, con frijol. —Las hojas de frijol nacen enredadas a la planta y los nutrientes lo agradecen— decía. Allá en USA había mucho espacio entre un maíz y otro, estaban enfilados como si fueran a la guerra, como si no se conocieran entre ellos, siendo lo mismo, dando lo mismo. No le gustaba caminar en esos pasillos enormes de matas tristes, altas y calladas. “Se escucha el silencio del viento sobre las corrientes de los pasillos”, nos decía, mientras volvíamos cada uno a su cuadrícula después de la pausa. Esa fue la última temporada de llamadas y reclamos en la que estuvimos con K’at. Él se marchó antes del período de recorte, pero no pasó la frontera de México antes de que colisionara el camión donde iba escondido. Se dio contra una montaña en una curva, dejando todo el capó sembrado contra la tierra. Algunos sobrevivientes desaparecieron antes de que llegara la *tira*, más tarde se encontraron cuerpos a unos kilómetros en el perímetro. No se sabe cuántos lograron seguir. Cómo contabilizar la muerte de alguien que en teoría no está ahí. Al parecer, alguien arrastró a K’at a la orilla del asfalto y quedó acurrucado en la línea entre el cemento y el granito con pasto. Muy rápido, sin embargo, se reorganizó la vida, y la carretera quedó nuevamente libre al paso. A Ajmac no lo he vuelto a ver. B’atz y yo quedamos en el *call center*, con un contrato *Senior* de más horas, más llamadas, más *pisto*. Farmville fue perdiendo clientela con el tiempo y ya no le importa una mierda a nadie. Ahora nos dedicamos a los reclamos de los clientes de Walmart. A veces, en mis momentos de nostalgia, no me resisto a entrar en la cuenta de K’at, que nunca me atreví a cancelar del todo. Le mantengo a sus animales, que viven bien, amontonados, mirando a la misma dirección. El *corn* en cambio, quedó débil. El juego me ofrece comprar refuerzos que lo hacen grande, fuerte y abundante. Imagino a K’at. Él pondría los cuatro colores del maíz: amarillo, blanco, negro y rojo. Entran llamadas para Walmart, y antes de proceder a la compra, cierro la sesión. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: courtesy Natalia Eduardo. *Estudió Ciencias de la Cultura y Filología en la Universidad de Potsdam y una maestría en Estudios Latinoamericanos en la Universidad Libre de Berlín. Investigadora en el campo de la filosofía y sociología de la ciencia y tecnología, memoria histórica y estudios de género. Gestora cultural y activista, forma parte de la colectiva VOCES de Guatemala en Berlín y de la revista Alba Lateinamerika lesen. Ciclista apasionada y escritora de poesía y cuentos cortos.* ### Daniel lie URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/daniel-lie/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:05.000Z How do they who are not human speak to us? In *Twelve Theses on the Economy of the Dead* (1994), John Berger stated that capitalism broke the interdependence between the living and the dead, and, with it, the collective consciousness of imagination and memory as manifestations of a perpetual exchange between what we call life, and death, which infinitely surrounds it. Confronted with evidence of the catastrophic consequences of the human treatment of the Earth as a usable and disposable commodity, the endeavor to repair this torn fabric has transitioned. It has evolved from a romantic notion held by poets, activists, peasants, and other entities labeled “unproductive” in the market’s perspective to an urgent paradigm shift, upheld by scientists and academics at the core of the institutions that underpin modern reason. For the artist Daniel Lie, ancestors inhabit the same territory to which we have confined everything that transcends the anthropocentric parameters of experience, what the anthropologist Eduardo Kohn referred to as the “more-than-human.” Over a decade ago, Lie initiated an exploration of the agency of organic matter using installation, drawing, dialogue, and a diverse array of other formats. Lie does not intend to “breathe life” into the spaces in which they intervene; instead, they engage with pre-existing conditions such as temperature or humidity, introducing agents that activate them to make life-death perceptible to human common senses. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Daniel-Lie.jpg) fig. 1 The material and symbolic devastation brought about by the pandemic, both structural and personal, had a significant impact on Lie’s practice. Questions about loss, mourning, and what they define as non-negotiable conditions (hunger, aging, putrefaction) acquire a much more complex character than earlier understandings. If we think about the work that the artist was conducting in *The Negative Years* (2019), as part of *Death Centre for the Living* and *Human Supremacy:* *The Failed Project* (2019), concerns were present regarding incorporating emotional dimensions into understandings of non-human actors participating in co-creation (fungi, gasses, organic pigments, fibers), as well as challenging the binary logic that separates and opposes nature and culture. In *Non-negotiable Condition* (2021), well into the pandemic, the question of communication and language becomes deeper. Circling back to the question that opens this text, the “ontological turn” in the social sciences found a way to legitimize ancestral knowledge related to interdependence by systematizing it and renaming it as “bio-semantics.” Similarly, in Lie’s work, there is something more than a quest for new words and new images at the gates of future. Perhaps it is precisely the opposite: a moving backwards; seeking pathways and processes that rekindle moments of uncertainty and fragility in which we have brushed against something we could call the infinite. Something that doesn’t fit neatly into commercial showcases, because it’s closely linked to the uncomfortable, unavoidable condition of vulnerability that reveals that we (species and individuals) will never, ever be self-sufficient. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Daniel-Lie.jpeg) fig. 2 \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Daniel Lie *Unnamed Entities*, New Museum, 2022\. Site and time-specific, installation. *Unnamed Entities,* A collaboration exhibition between other-than- humans and Daniel Lie. A site and time specific work. Curated by Bernardo Mosqueira; photo by Dario Lasagni. fig. 1: Daniel Lie, *Them Sculpture Garden*, Geneva Biennale, 2022\. A site-responsive installation in collaboration with sequoia trees. Turmeric, dyed cotton fabric, natural rope, terracotta ceramic vases. photos by Daniel Lie. fig. 2: Daniel Lie, *The Negative Years: Quing Jupiter Artland* \- Jupiter Artland, Edinburgh Scotland 2019\. Site-responsive and time-specific, installation. photo by Ruth Clark. *Elisa Fuenzalida is a researcher and cultural worker. She has directed research projects such as El futuro era tu cuerpo, Ensamblajes del Cuidado and Afectos en Re-existencia. She is coordinator and co-curator of the Cátedra Decolonial Anibal Quijano at the Museo Reina Sofía, co-editor of the journal Arts of the Working Class and mediator in the citizen laboratory platform Redes por el Clima.* ### Tender cannibalism: URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/tender-cannibalism/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:03.000Z Benign bulges gather in the hall of Berlin’s Hamburger Bahnhof for *Devouring Lovers*, the exhibition of works by Barcelona-born artist Eva Fàbregas (on view until January 14, 2024). The exhibition, curated by Anna-Catharina Gebbers, collects flesh-like Lycra fabric sewn around bulbous, swelling knots – stuffed but never wrinkled; perfectly taut. Wiggling in shape, pet-like, and humorous in scale, these synthetic jumbles of limb-like mutations mechanically shift and breathworming around the museum’s steel support beams, dangling downwards and interlocking on the floor. Vibrating ever-so-slightly in their bathing suit fabric, the installation mimics a machine, or an organism, with a sensual ferocity that intervenes in the museum's architecture. The title “Devouring Lovers” is affectionately biopsied from Glasgow-based writer Daisy Lafarge’s recently-released book *Lovebug* (Peninsula Press, October 2023). Gorging itself with mutualistic properties of language, pathogens, and parasites, Lafarge’s research finds a commonality with Fàbregas’s installation in the exploration and crossing of the self’s slippery boundaries as one fuses with the *lovebug*, defined in the book as a guest presence such a virus, pathogen, parasite, or illness. What begins with two prose poems leads into chapters covering subjects connected to love, death, devourment, science, and class at the interface of nonhuman species, which arose from Lafarge’s initial study into *zoonoses*, the diseases that can be transmitted between animals and humans. Sharp and critical, *Lovebug* mirrors gossip in syntax and subject – reveling in the regularity of change within scientific stances and sources, as well as the innate contradictions and plateaus of the hypothetical hearsay of theory and collective affirmation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Eva-Fabgregas-Devouring-Lovers2.jpg) fig. 1 What the book requires, though, is an open reading, referencing Donna Haraway’s philosophy of the “window of vulnerability,” which observes all living organisms as exposed to a wide definition of influences and intrusions. This vulnerability is crucial, an open portal into the microscopic details that have contributed to evolution. Fàbregas’s large-scale installation tickles and winces in candy-colored pinks, reds, and ochres within the grand hall, quivering with an abundance of energy like the splitting tension of asexual reproduction or immense hunger. Looking towards a fat yellow chain, one of us visitors convinces the rest, “*Some people must have touched it. Right?*” The voice echoes my own desire to touch these makeshift morphologies. Loveable and parasitic, they cross over our path in sex for sex’s sake – a yearning connection. Intimacy becomes a devotional topic in *Lovebug*, which contemplates love for the undesirable, openly considering the language of affection as a way to describe closeness with parasites and other nonhuman intruders to our bodies. Including fragments from conferences on the military metaphor of illness, religious custom, and scientific studies, and interjecting these with personal experiences that test the genre of memoir, Lafarge uses critical theory to read amorous relationships through the lens of the viral, bacterial, and parasitic behaviors within a host body. For example, the book looks at the language we use to describe the microscopic, dissecting how we animate illness through words equivalent to war, invasion, and other forms of militarism. *Lovebug*, wrapping itself around Susan Sontag's *Illness as Metaphor*, an analysis of metaphoric language as a potential threat to the body of writing vis-à-vis the patient, Lafarge widens the many crevices of human vulnerability and places them under a magnifying glass to engage with our sense of self when confronted by an intrusion. Referencing the virus that led to the synthesis of proteins responsible for the placenta’s ability to bridge two mammalian bodies in utero, Lafarge dutifully explains the many ways parasitic entities have become part of our own anatomy. As a reader, this information is absorbed like a spike of oxytocin, a chemical bond experienced by the reader through the author’s cunning insights and conversational structure designed for us to “acknowledge our own latent monstrosities,” as Lafarge states. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Eva-Fabgregas-Devouring-Lovers3.jpg) fig. 2 *Lovebug* and Eva Fàbregas’s installations mirror one another in their affection for the humor and playfulness within inter-species relationships. Latched onto the definition of love as neither human nor bug, but a closeness that is cross-species and -form, both book and installation emphasize and facilitate an emotive connection beyond the human. Fàbregas uses scale to achieve this effect – quieting visual associations of intestines, tumors, or giant placentas for genuine awe and amazement in her macro-sized sculptures. Still, the sculpture borders on a kind of exaggerated body horror due to a cultural fear of the unknown guest, which makes itself known inside a vulnerable body. Fàbreges’s and Lafarge’s work, although expressed through two vastly different mediums, complement each other, with *Lovebug* presenting a theoretical framework to analyze the exhibition *Devouring Lovers*. To do this, we must extend metaphorical language to how visitors in Hamburger Bahnhof’s entry space evoke microbes; cellular responders to Fàbreges’ possibly-toxic bodies. In the context of the museum, *Devouring Lovers* is introduced as a corporeal object that confuses boundaries between the organic and inorganic, the reflexive and the technical, the human and the nonhuman. And this substance, too – lending itself so easily to an active and animated language – seems to both live in and change the atmosphere of the Hamburger Bahnhof. This recalls the notion of Lafarge’s observation of the parasite: having the potential to be altered and to effect change. Questioning the relationship between parasite and host and how certain cells and cultures co-conspire, Lafarge acknowledges that the proximity to parasites, bacteria, bugs, viruses, and the like, opens a landscape of two-directional influence. As between lovers, fluids are shared, bacteria are passed, habits and phrases are adopted; the human/host metamorphosizes with the parasites until it tips over into something toxic, harmful, or dangerous. While Fàbreges's sculptures can be understood as a physical animation of the very language Lafarge explores in her book – pulsing, moving, and exercising – *Lovebug* also suggests that the installation opens the exhibition space up to harm, becoming vulnerable, too. But is the installation a toxic love, or is it still masked by the cover of perfect symbiosis? I argue neither, and that it is instead one of the occurrences of beneficial or evolutionary parasitic change. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Eva-Fabgregas-Devouring-Lovers4.jpg) fig. 3 The evidence of this can best be seen in the audience gathering around the sculptures. We, visitors, giggle, gossip, shout, pose for pictures, even kiss under the Lycra installation. Fàbregas’s work stirs something within us, resulting overwhelmingly in general enthusiasm and excitement despite the work evading categorization in its abstract nature. “*I bet they’re filled with laughing gas or something*,” I hear, and phrases like it, passing through the crowd as we collectively decide what to make of *Devouring Lovers*. Meanwhile, in *Lovebug*, Lafarge makes an interesting connection – that even the smallest parts of our bodies and their origins come from devouring lovers. It is hypothesized that life on Earth can be traced to a single, starving cell that, in search of survival, attempts to eat its sibling. This act resembles something closer to sex than cannibalism, bringing forth sexual reproduction and genetic differences, as opposed to the mitosis of a single cell splitting into more versions of itself. To this end, Lafarge writes, “Love is mixed in with death, the eater rises out of the eaten.” She goes on to suggest that our love for the metaphor of devourment might stem from these simple cells that broke off from asexual reproduction. We are perhaps, she writes, “voicing ancestral muscle-memory, ventriloquised by the biological unconscious.” This suggests that Fàbreges's title, *Devouring Lovers*, comes from a similar notion: while parasites can and do cause harm when they latch onto a host, not all acts of devouring lead to a harmful result. *Devouring Lovers* is instead like the viral protein chain that made the placenta, the lover that took a bite and bred evolution to bring forth change. Leaving the central hall of the Hamburger Bahnhof, more often than not, visitors seem to exit more bubbly and light than how they arrive, a consensus of general affection for Fàbregas’s unfamiliar guests in the museum’s entry exhibition space. With a deeper understanding that we always remain open to grand and small vulnerabilities, perhaps we can view our other lovebugs with more multiplicity than just fear or fright. In *Devouring Lovers*, life continues in the museum space, its round Lycra tentacles balancing in the homeostasis of art and architecture. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Eva-Fabgregas-Devouring-Lovers5.jpg) fig. 4 \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2, fig. 3, fig. 4: Ausstellungsansicht "Eva Fàbgregas. *Devouring Lovers*", Hamburger Bahnhof - Nationalgalerie der Gegenwart, 6.7.2023-7.1.2024 Courtesy Eva Fàbregas, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Hamburger Bahnhof – Nationalgalerie der Gegenwart / Foto: Jacopo La Forgia. *Nina Hanz is a German-American writer based in Berlin. In 2020, she graduated from the Royal College of Art’s MA Writing program, where she cultivated her practice around time and place, geology, and ecology. Both her prose and poetry deal with unexpected iterations of the ground, from the grit that gets stuck in a clamshell to the gunk that gets stuck under our fingernails. She has read her work at the National Poetry Library, London; Floating University, Berlin and Assembly House, Norwich, and elsewhere. Nina's poetry can be found in places such as Vogue, Daisy World Magazine, Ache Magazine, and the Attention anthology. Her first poetry pamphlet, Placeholders, was published by Bottlecap Press in February 2022, and her second pamphlet, Mycoglossia, co-written with Fiona Glen, was published by Haverthorn Press in December 2022.* ### Diffused futuring techniques URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/diffused-futuring-techniques/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:02.000Z Fifteen years ago, Museion opened to the public for the first time as an extraterrestrial capsule offered to the city of Bolzano, Italy by Manifesta 7\. However, three years ago, under the new curatorial light of its director, Bart van der Heide, and curator Leonie Radine, along with a young capable team, the enterprise seemed to take off to the infinitude of hopeful whims and political visions. Since then, Museion has seen a consistent shift in trajectory configured to be a triennial project titled *TECHNO HUMANITIES* (2021-2023), which inquires into new epistemologies conjured by technological progress, economy, and ecologies. The multidisciplinary program unfolded in the past years through two exhibitions: *TECHNO*, on the community of resistance found in rave cultures, and Kingdom of the Ill, on the power dynamics that constitute a healthy and productive body or an unhealthy, unproductive one. Together, these shows have discovered new orbits, not only for Museion, but also for all of the communities and artists who gravitate around it. Driven by the signals sent into the artistic galaxy by *TECHNO HUMANITIES’* first two chapters, I found myself teleported in front of Museion, and below the two stars coming from the installation *Kur dielli të ikë, do ta pikturojmë qiellin* (When the sun goes away we paint the sky) (2022) by Petrit Halilaj, now located at the museum’s entrance. The stars, originally commissioned for Manifesta 14, bridge Museion with the Grand Hotel in Pristina, Kosovo, by brightening a horizon of possibilities for art as a social practice in time and space, one that keeps renovating itself. The stars greet me and invite me to enter the exhibition *HOPE*, the concluding chapter of *TECHNO HUMANITIES*. **When does hope start? When does it end?** Hope, like every rational-emotional object, is situated in social temperatures. It is a lens through which one can locate oneself between conflicts and historical imaginations. The situatedness of this state is implemented in *HOPE*, the exhibition, through works from 30 international artists that challenge the time specificity of the media employed in their various works, which tend toward future narratives that seem evergreen in a shared trajectory of linking human desires with the unknown of discovery. Bart van der Heide and Leonie Radine curated this last iteration of *TECHNO HUMANITIES* in collaboration with musician, theoretician, and curator DeForrest Brown, Jr.. The trio is interested in confronting the cancellation of the future as prophesied by leftist theorist and philosopher Mark Fisher. Departing from Fisher’s explorations into the uncanny and the eerie, *HOPE* leverages the different cognitive, emotional, and technological layers provoked by hope and dismay; between scientific progress and fiction. Thus, what represents a scenario of hope – historically and materially – for someone can determine the ruin of another. Hope fluctuates, and is always in a negative dialectic with the ruinous and the unjust, and complicity with the resourceful. Triggered by an instinct of predominance or survival, hope responds to the expectation of things turning out for the better, and therefore, is a *futuring* sentiment. According to this worlding quality of hope, the four floors of the glass architecture of Museion have been redesigned by Diogo Passarinho Studio to contain the sections that transform the exhibition into a multidimensional maze, where the future is a category in constant obsolescence. The museum thus becomes a place in which looking at the past is a gesture of inquiring about the present, one that is consumed by the forces of transitions, and not accumulation anymore. **OBSERVATORY** The journey into states of *HOPE* starts from the lift. Transformed into a sonic time capsule by the audio piece *AUI OI* (2012) by Ulrike Bernard & Caroline Profanter, the viewer’s ascension to the fourth floor sets the mood for the promises of post-human alliances. However, when the mechanic doors of the lift open onto the “Observatory,” section the visitor is welcomed by a mosaic of scales and practices that follow one another, silent and erratic, in a constellation that proclaims that the future is a metaphysical construct carved into loops of euphoria and of techniques of time *fictioning*. A considerable area of the floor is devoted to two works by the collective Black Quantum Futurism, whose research has long stood with the re-appropriation of Black narrative through the deconstruction of racial-capitalist time. The installation *Black Hole Viewfinder* (2021) and the video *Write No History* (2021) create a relationship between the suspended time of memory and its poetic-political reconstruction. The visitors need to bend down to little peepholes to enter a new dimension embedded in the walls of Museion, where objects, charms, and footage are preserved in chests, while screens display videos of an ancient secret society of Black scientists, or “Temporal Disruptors,” as the artists names them, who gather and unearth objects and stories to renovate rituals, hacking colonized timelines. The obscured evidence of a Black indigenous past, one that could have existed but has been refused by the brutality of colonialism, is made visible. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Black-Quantum-Futurism-Write-No-History.jpg) fig. 1 Are the debris of erased cultures, objects, and affects dispersed in the cauldron of history? Matthew Angelo Harrison replies to this inquiry by becoming a gatherer for an archeology of the future, showcasing a series of African ritualist masks bought online in the second market and preserved in polished polyurethane. In his works *Tip of the Tongue* (2021), *Noumental Drift* (2022), *Dark silhouette: Composition of borrowed inlets* (2018), *Bodily Study: Inverted Labor* (2021), and *Paternal Veil* (2021), the artist links economic profit and cultural displacement. The masks, decontextualized by their geographical and cultural connotation and neutralized by their new cerebral packaging denounce their fetishization by the Western market, an alterity that it continues to annihilate and exploit. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/09_Harrison_Dark-Silhouette-Composition-of-Borrowed-Inlets-2018.jpg) fig. 2 The human obsession for preservation on an institutional scale as exemplified by the museum is exhibited by Bojan Šarčevič’s sarcastic *Sentimentality is the Core* (2018), a freezer that runs for the entire duration of the exhibition, diffusing songs from the ‘80s all the while. Questioning the sustainability of the archive in a constantly perishing ecosystem, the installation brings the imagination to a delusional landscape, in which human techniques of memory-keeping disperse its energies in the effort of ideological conservation – in the case of Šarčevič, the Communist one. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Bojan-Sarcevic-Sentimentality-is-the-Core-2018.jpeg) fig. 3 The delusions of grandiose aspirations of expansion versus the poetic quest for a change of perspective are presented in Nicola L.’s *Sun & Moon Giant Pénétrables* (1996/2021). In this wall installation, two wearable canvases labeled “Moon” and “Sun” take the form of overall suits, which one could wear as a second skin to embody the perspective of celestial bodies gazing on the earth and its affairs, and vice versa. Nicola L.’s suits recall astronauts' fashion, mocking the vain human urge to conquer the universe. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Nicola-L-Sun-Moon-Giant-Penetrables-1996.jpg) fig. 4 The vastness of space, once accessible only with sophisticated technologies, is altered by the infinite possibilities encountered in the virtual realm of our screens. For Suzanne Treister, this deep space represents the nodal point between interplanetary co-existences. Through her multimedia work, she links human consciousness with technological development. In *HOPE*, along with canvases from the series *The Escapist BHST* (2018-2019) and *Survivor* (F) (2016-2019), Treister presents costumes for her alter ego, Rosalind Brodsky. In Treister’s project, Brodsky tries to rescue her Jewish ancestors from the Holocaust by participating in an expedition organized by the Research Institute for Time Travel. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Black-Quantum-Futurism-Write-No-History-2021.jpg) fig. 5 **ARCADE** The curatorial choice of creating a landscape of hope in the “Observatory”, one that results in analog remnants of the past, continues on the third floor in the “Arcade”, a mise-en-scene of immersive technological environments that deals with the twofold meaning of the Arcade notion. Through both designed gaming environments and a pervasive melancholy for an idyllic past, this section emphasizes the dominion of classical mythologies on imaginations of the technological future. The artists providing these visions of hope – LuYang, Shu Lea Cheang, Maggie Lee, Ilaria Vinci, Lawrence Lek, Tony Cokes, and Neïl Beloufa – are familiar with the gaming craze, and with the playable abstraction that it can create. Lawrence Lek opens the sequence of artworks showcased in the “Arcade” in a two-room installation reflecting on the future of museums. Part of the series is named *Nepenthe Zone* (2022-ongoing), a multimedia installation that acts as a portal into the fictional island of Nepenthe, where one has access to switching from oblivion to remembering as a surgical definitive gesture. Lek’s installation has an aseptic, yet captivating, aesthetic, devoid of any human emotional smearing, suggesting a future where the machine has artificialized its way through the human psyche and is now disposing of it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Lawrence-Lek-Still-from-Nepenthe-Zone-2022.jpg) fig. 6 The museum then becomes a self-referential apparatus of data for data. *If you want to start to remember why you are here, trace your steps back. If you want to keep forgetting, then just keep walking.* The voice of Nepenthe follows me while I move toward Neïl Beloufa’s relief paintings, which – in a camouflage leather pattern – depict the parasitic symbiosis between humans and their portable technologies. Screens of different sizes in *Jelousing people that don’t care about their surroundings* (2022) become supplementary eyes through which an internet-born generation observes a world derealized in its violence. The immanence of technology and its anesthetic effects is examined by the continuity of embodied experience and information, where every political struggle and revolutionary gesture is reduced to an actionless virtual signaling – or as the title of one of Beloufa’s artworks on display suggests, to *whistling before the end of the world* (2022). On the notes of a controversial relationship with the use of technology – one that moves between fear, fascination, and addiction – the work transitioning the visitor into the next section of *HOPE* is Tony Cokes’ *Testament* *A: MF FKA K-P X KE RIP* (2019). This fast-paced video essay flashes the commemorative speech for Mark Fisher given by Kodwo Eshun, in which the lengthy waves of subcultural movements are praised and encouraged as the last hopes to mobilize bodies and minds in the necrotic structure of capitalist realism. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Tony-Cokes-Testament-A-MF-FKA-K-P-KE-RIP-2019.jpg) fig. 7 **THIRD EARTH ARCHIVE** The Third Earth Archive’s section stands out from the two galleries preceding it. Assembled by DeForrest Brown Jr., Third Earth Archive is completely devoted to the cosmology of the mythological Black civilization of Drexciya, its imagination and sounds propelled by the fusion of DJ’s body with the machine of techno music. This floor is divided into listening and reading sections curated by DeForrest Brown Jr., crowned by a timeline of illustrations (Third Earth Archive) by AbuQadim Haqq. The digital paintings visualize sci-fi narratives that tap into the empowering submarine world of Drexciya, imagining a Black society flourishing from the ghosts of the slave trade and the racial capitalist state. Channeling a balance between the destruction of the white supremacist modes of social reproduction and the formulation of Black liberation that can only be pursued in a fictional future, DeForrest Brown, Jr. puts an accent on the dialogue created between Afro-pessimism and Afrofuturism. The Black embodiment of future theory sees the re-appropriation of culture and complete self-determination of the Black subject by mining lost technologies and throwing the mighty sonic power of techno rhythms into space. “Third Earth Archive” eludes deconstructing the relationship between the oppressed and oppressors – and, simultaneously, makes hope neither an option nor a choice, but the only resourceful technology of the historically dispossessed. **PASSAGE** The space-time travel provided by *HOPE* lands on the ground floor, where the section “Passage” concludes the wormhole of the exhibition. There, I was encouraged by ALMARE to push my cognition to think toward a further layer in the future, one of language and sounds engraved in matter. In ALMARE’s *Life Chronicles of Dorothea ïesi S.P.U.* (2023), presented still a work in progress in the form of three audio pieces, or audio diaries, catalog the futuristic adventures of researcher Dorothea as she extracts (and resells) sounds from the past. The realization of the project is inspired by the symmetrical growth of pseudo-scientific theories concerning recording technologies. By listening to the vernacularity of a language familiar to me (Italian) – but grammatically awkward – as it described a future society, I was teleported into a time where the archaic does not mean antiquate, but specific to the liveliness of its surroundings. During my journey, I noticed a figure moving across the floors. Not a visitor, not a technician, but a third presence. He, as a guard and mediator, scrutinizes the artwork and indicates directions to the audience as a mediator. However, his body carries the device on which Irene Fenara’s *Struggle for Life* (2016) is displayed: an Apple watch displaying images of the sky from surveillance cameras, disarmed due to the small size of the gadget’s screen. We are under the sky that observes us, but for which sign are we waiting from its immensity? How much do we need to see in the abyss of space to better know who we are? If surveillance would not be a control tool, would we learn how to be better attuned with each other? The subtle artwork seems to leave a trace of questions following the movement of its emissary. After the mediator showed me his wrist, a gesture that felt intimate, I felt closer to him and driven to speak with him, breaking the wall between the audience and museum workers. His name is Saman Kalantari, and he is an Iranian artist, but no artworks by him are part of the exhibition. He confessed to me that being inside of Museion but outside of the show is inspiring. He is one of the few remaining glass artisans mastering traditional Iranian glass techniques, now a proxy for someone else’s abstraction of hope – but hopefully soon to express his own, albeit in a Western context. While embracing the high given by the temporal nexus suggested by the exhibition, I had to wonder what *hope* looks like in the time of *now*. The major wish transmitted by the exhibition *HOPE* is to leave the spaceship of modernity behind and to practice the museum as a sociogenic space to belong, and for new forms of belonging. However, the process of landing somewhere to assemble a non-extractive vision of society requires further points of contact with the complex contemporary socio-political landscape from which hope and its provocateurs stem. As the gigantic *OPEN* (2015) sign by Riccardo Previdi suggests in the museum’s foyer, Museion’s gate is open to welcome the time traveler to the maze provoked by this question. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Riccardo-Previdi-Open-2015-exhibition-view-HOPE-Museion-collection-2023-Photo-Luca-Guadagnini-.jpg) fig. 8 \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: AbuQadim Haqq, exhibition view *HOPE*. Museion 2023\. Photo: Luca Guadagnini. fig. 1: Black Quantum Futurism, *Write No History*, 2021, exhibition view HOPE. Courtesy the artists. Photo: Luca Guadagnini. fig. 2: Matthew Angelo Harrison, *Dark silhouette: Composition of borrowed inlets*, 2018\. Lafayette Anticipations - Fonds de dotation Famille Moulin. © Tim Johnson. Courtesy the artist and Jessica Silverman Gallery, San Francisco. fig. 3: Bojan Šarčević, *Sentimentality is the Core*, 2018, exhibition view HOPE. Museion 2023\. Photo: Luca Guadagnini. fig. 4: Nicola L, *Sun & Moon Giant Pénétrables*, 1996\. © Nicola L. Collection and Archive Courtesy Alison Jacques, London and Nicola L. Collection and Archive. Photo: Makenzie L Goodman. fig. 5: Suzanne Treister, *SURVIVOR (F)/Museum of Cosmic Ecstasy*, 2019\. Courtesy the artist and Annely Juda Fine Art. fig. 6: Lawrence Lek, *Still from Nepenthe Zone*, 2022\. Courtesy the artist. fig. 7: Tony Cokes, *Testament A: MF FKA K-P × KE RIP*, 2019, exhibition view HOPE. Museion 2023\. Photo: Luca Guadagnini. fig. 8: Riccardo Previdi, *Open*, 2015, exhibition view *HOPE*. Museion collection 2023\. Photo: Luca Guadagnini. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Cuando el viento conoció el miedo URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cuando-el-viento-conocio-el-miedo/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:41:00.000Z El 24 de marzo el sol amaneció endeudado, y los rostros de los pobladores de Tantaccalla, preocupados. Esta comunidad campesina, ubicada a tan solo dos horas de la ciudad de Cusco, en Perú, de pronto se veía bajo amenaza de desalojo a causa de una querella legal iniciada por una familia de ex hacendados \[1\] que reclamaban la propiedad sobre el territorio. El operativo policial desplegó por lo menos 300 policías antimotines, con el fin de sacar a las personas de sus casas, incluso por la fuerza. Cuando el juez dio la orden de interrumpir el desalojo ancianos con palos, mujeres con niños en brazos y jóvenes a caballo, estaban decididos a defender a cualquier costo sus hogares. ¿Cómo se llegó a este punto? Según la abogada de la comunidad, Karina Baca Gómez: “La comunidad campesina registró su existencia desde el 10 de diciembre de 1926 y obtuvo su título de propiedad de acuerdo a un procedimiento administrativo de deslinde y titulación en el año 1988\. En el año 2005, la comunidad fue demandada por la familia Paz Vizcarra por nulidad e insubsistencia parcial del título de propiedad, cancelación parcial del asiento de inscripción registral y reivindicación de las tierras del predio rústico Mallma Alto. Los ex hacendados hicieron valer un certificado de inscripción registral derivado de un testamento fechado en 1946 (es decir, veinte años después del registro de la comunidad campesina) y denuncian que la comunidad tramitó su inscripción sin notificarlos, a pesar de lo prescrito en el Art. 2003 y 2006 y la ley 24657 sobre caducidad de la acción y vencimiento de plazos en la tramitación administrativa”. Es decir, la pugna legal es por definir si la comunidad registró legalmente su existencia y sus fronteras por sobre el derecho a herencia de la familia hacendada. Sin embargo, hay un elemento fundamental para entender las razones por las que la comunidad tiene derecho sobre la tierra: el uso. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Photo-Miguel-Gutierrez-Chero2.jpg) fig. 1 El territorio que se encuentra en litigio se extiende a lo largo y ancho de 218 hectáreas, acoge a la mayor parte de la población y es en donde se hallan las principales instituciones. En el lado demandante se encuentra la familia del ex hacendado Luis Gustavo Paz Vizcarra, la cual argumenta que este terreno no fue afectado por la Reforma Agraria y continúa siendo de su propiedad. Vayamos un poco hacia atrás. A partir de 1969, el gobierno Peruano, liderado por el militar Juan Velasco Alvarado, implementó una serie de medidas con el objetivo de transformar la estructura social del país, a través de un cambio en el sistema de distribución de la riqueza y la propiedad de la tierra. La medida más importante fue la promulgación del Decreto Ley n.º 17716, más conocido como Ley de Reforma Agraria. El primer paso fue sustituir los regímenes de latifundio y minifundio por un sistema de redistribución que implicaba las expropiaciones de predios rústicos. Dichos terrenos pasaron en un primer momento a ser de dominio estatal, y luego fueron otorgados a campesinos y agricultores organizados en cooperativas y sociedades. De este modo, se intentó eliminar el sistema de gamonalismo y peonaje. Sin embargo, la Reforma Agraria fue un proceso que empezó “desde abajo”. De hecho, las medidas adoptadas por el gobierno de Velasco no hacían más que intentar apagar los fuegos de un incendio rebelde que empezó precisamente en Cuzco, en la Provincia de La Convención. A este linaje de lucha pertenecen compañeros como el recientemente fallecido, Hugo Blanco. La Reforma, entonces, pasó por agua tibia las raíces coloniales de la división territorial latifundista, implementando el derecho a indemnización de las personas expropiadas según una tasación realizada por el Estado, y sobre la base de un justiprecio cuyo pago era imperativo por mandato constitucional. Pero quedó el lema y la narrativa: “La tierra es de quien la trabaja”. Volviendo al s. XXI, los herederos del ex hacendado de las tierras de Tantaccalla no han tenido relación alguna con el territorio que reclaman y por generaciones, ni siquiera tuvieron conocimiento de su existencia. Mientras tanto, Tantaccalla es una comunidad inscrita en la base de pueblos indígenas del Ministerio de Cultura de Perú. Esto se traduce en el reconocimiento oficial de que es anterior a la constitución del Estado. Sin embargo, perdió el juicio en dos instancias debido a la negligencia del abogado que representaba sus intereses, lo que habilitó el dictado de la orden de desalojo. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Photo-Miguel-Gutierrez-Chero3.jpg) fig. 2 El día que Tantaccalla iba a ser desalojada, los pobladores se despertaron a las cuatro de la mañana para organizar la resistencia. “Teníamos mucho miedo, pero qué podíamos hacer, necesitábamos defender nuestro hogar”, me dijo Daniel Quispe, actual presidente de la comunidad, quién se reunió con otros líderes durante varios días y varias noches en busca de una solución. Ellos fueron quienes me invitaron, con la idea de que mi presencia como periodista podría ayudar a ejercer algún tipo de presión mediática que ayude a impedir el desalojo. Todo estaba en silencio cuando llegué. La gente hablaba en voz baja. Las mujeres preparaban el desayuno y se miraban con tristeza mientras los hombres acordaban los puntos estratégicos desde donde podrían bloquear el camino de acceso, en caso de que la policía decidiera entrar. “No vamos a negar que tenemos miedo, pero el viento sabe que esta es nuestra tierra, y la vamos a defender aún con nuestra vida. Aquí vivieron nuestros abuelos y aquí vivirán nuestros nietos”, me confió otro poblador, durante la reunión comunal. Efectivamente, el sonido del viento acompañaba las palabras de cada participante, como si también quisiera decir algo. A las 7 de la mañana pasaron listas y distribuyeron palos. De pronto, una mujer se arrodilló, luego otra, luego todos los demás. Oraban. Y entre los susurros de sus rezos, caían lágrimas de sus ojos cerrados. Mientras tanto, yo miraba alrededor y tomaba fotografías. Sobre las montañas había un grupo de jóvenes. Sobre las rocas, mujeres con bebés en brazos. Las doscientas personas presentes se distribuyeron estratégicamente en el terreno. Los jóvenes, a caballo en las zonas altas. Los varones adultos, organizados por grupos a lo largo de la angosta carretera. Y en la entrada principal del pueblo, mujeres entre los cincuenta y setenta años, vestidas con sus tradicionales polleras, trenzas, y sombreros que, formando una muralla humana, sostenían la bandera de Perú. La Policía llegó a las 10 de la mañana. Los agentes bajaron de varios buses en un descampado a casi dos kilómetros y allí se quedaron. Quién sí se acercó fue el juez. Juntó a los abogados de ambas partes, pidió opiniones de la Fiscalía, de la Policía, de los representes de la comunidad y de la familia de ex hacendados. La tensión se rompió cuando el juez pidió ir a ver las casas y comprobó que el informe oficial, que indicaba que Tantaccalla era una población improvisada y sin arraigo, estaba errado. Había casas de concreto, casas de dos pisos, una iglesia, un colegio, un local comunal, luz eléctrica, servicio de agua, hasta internet y servicio de televisión por cable. Confirmado el carácter infundado de la base sobre la que se levantó la órden de desalojo, la Fiscalía, la Policía y el abogado de la comunidad pidieron al juez que esta se suspenda. Sin embargo, el abogado de la parte demandante argumentó: “Tengo en mis manos el documento en el que se ha previsto contingencias de esta naturaleza (de seguridad, en caso de uso de la fuerza policial) y contamos con el apoyo de los bomberos, una ambulancia y todo lo necesario para realizar el desalojo”. Sin embargo, las autoridades deliberaron y el juez decidió parar el desalojo de forma definitiva. Las emociones explotaron. Las mujeres que componían la barricada humana empezaron a llorar y luego los hombres. Sus sombreros fueron lanzados al cielo en señal de júbilo. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Photo-Miguel-Gutierrez-Chero4.jpg) fig. 3 Sin embargo, la historia no se acaba en esta imagen idílica de victoria campesina. El peligro del desalojo ha dejado una huella traumática en entre los habitantes del pueblo. El miedo no se ha disipado y genera tensión en diferentes aspectos de la vida cotidiana. Los comuneros se encuentran enzarzados en disputas internas, y muchos jóvenes han migrado a la ciudad, por temor a ser despojados, lo cual ha tenido un impacto muy negativo en la actividad agrícola. Si bien este proceso migratorio con dirección a la urbe no es algo nuevo, el contexto de un posible desalojo lo ha acelerado notablemente. A pesar de ello, la conexión entre la ciudad de Cusco y la comunidad de Tantaccalla es de doble vía. Los fuertes lazos de parentesco forjados en comunidad hacen que muchas de las personas que se fueron a vivir fuera, vuelvan constantemente. La ciudad y el campo son, realidad, dos manifestaciones de una relación permanente. En cuanto al proceso legal, está congelado. Las fechas se aplazan una y otra vez, lo cual representa una carga económica impredecible y acumulativa, debido a los gastos que implica la contratación de defensores legales y los traslados a las ciudades en las que se llevan a cabo las audiencias judiciales. ¿Cuál es el futuro de Tantaccalla en esta historia de fantasmas que vuelven de un sepulcro mal sellado? “Hayk’ataraqchá kusikuwaqhkaran llapa punakunamanta urayamuspayku. Qosqoman haykusqaykumanta, manaña k’umuspañachu, qaparispayku, kallin kallínta: “¡wañuchunku gamonalkuna! ¡kausachun llankaqh runa!” nispa qaparispayku, Mistichakunataqh t’oqochankunaman huk’ucha hina pakakuqh karanku”. \[2\] ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Photo-Miguel-Gutierrez-Chero5.jpg) fig. 4 \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Terratenientes. \[2\] Primera Carta de Hugo Blanco a José María Arguedas (El Frontón, 11 de noviembre, 1969): “ Cuánta alegría habrías tenido al vernos bajar de todas las punas y entrar al Cusco, sin agacharnos, sin humillarnos, y gritando calle por calle: “¡Que mueran todos los gamonales! ¡Que vivan los hombres que trabajan!”. Al oír nuestro grito, los “blanquitos”, como si hubieran visto fantasmas, se metían en sus huecos igual que pericotes”. IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2, fig. 3, fig. 4: Photo Miguel Gutiérrez Chero. *Miguel Gutierrez Chero es fotógrafo y comunicador social. También es postulante a magíster en antropología visual por la PUCP-Perú.* ### Kritzeleien und erschütterungen URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/scribbles-and-shakes/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:59.000Z Performancekünstler\*in zu sein, in einer Zeit, in der fast alle öffentlichen Selbstinszenierungen als performativ gelten, bringt Herausforderungen mit sich. Wenn es nur darum geht, sich auf eine bestimmte Weise zu kleiden, zu sprechen oder zu verhalten, was unterscheidet dann eine Performancekünstler\*in wie Pan Daijing von allen anderen? In ihrer aktuellen Ausstellung im Grazer Kunstverein, *Until Due Time, Everything Is Else* (noch bis zum 19\. November zu sehen), setzt sich Daijing mit der Sackgasse auseinander, vor der die Performancekunst steht – eine Kunstform, an der wir alle jetzt freiwillig oder unfreiwillig teilhaben. Einen Körper zu haben, reicht mehr als aus, um sich selbst und andere zu interpretieren oder zu symbolisieren. Mit dieser Erkenntnis bleibt die Rolle der Performancekünstlerin umstritten, wenn nicht gar zunehmend schwierig. Als Komponistin und Choreografin verschafft sich Daijing Einsichten in dieses Dilemma, die allzu oft beiseitegeschoben werden: Einsichten über Abhängigkeit, Unvollständigkeit und die Sisyphusarbeit, irgendwann, irgendwie Harmonie zu erreichen – Harmonie mit der Umgebung, in der man sich befindet, den Menschen, mit denen man Zeit verbringt, und dem eigenen Körper. Beim Betreten von Daijings Ausstellung im Grazer Kunstverein schweben zersplitterte Geräusche im Raum. Es handelt sich um zwei oder drei gedehnte musikalische Klangsprachen, die sich dehnen und ambient wirken, während sie auf höher klingende Klaviertöne treffen – ständige Erschütterungen. Die schroffen, atonalen und schamlosen Versuche von Daijings melodischer Übereinstimmung setzen den Ton für den Rest von *Until Due Time, Everything Is Else*. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Installation-view-of-Pan-Daijing-Metal-2023.jpg) fig. 1 *Metal* (2023) bildet den visuellen Hintergrund zum Hörbaren. Zwei große, glasierte Platten mit körniger fotografischer Qualität konzentrieren sich auf Körperteile wie Fäuste, einen Rücken und einen Torso. Diese Körperteile befinden sich alle in Bewegung: Modalität, Unsicherheit. In *Metal* entfaltet sich eine schleichende Wirkung, die den Ton für den Rest der Ausstellung setzt; etwas Spannendes wird gewebt. Keine perfektionierte Performance auf der Bühne, sondern rau gezackte Versuche, sowohl die Bewegung als auch den Geist, der sie animiert, zu definieren. Denken Sie an eine Show in der Entstehung – kraftvolle Präsentationen, die ihrer Feierlichkeit beraubt sind. *Dry Score* (2023) füllt den Raum weiter nach vorne; ein schmaler Durchgang ohne Lichtquellen, gesäumt von einer Reihe nach unten gebogener Bögen. Wie *Metal* sind die drei Tafeln, aus denen *Dry Score* besteht, auf Metallplattformen platziert. Balance finden, geerdet sein, den Kopf nicht hochhalten – diese Elemente von Daijings Praxis situieren sich in der verstörenden Dunkelheit der Künstlerin. Bei näherer Betrachtung sind diese „geerdeten“ Tafeln mit Kritzeleien gefüllt: wiederholte Wörter, mit verschiedenen Handschriften, die um Platz konkurrieren, radieren und kratzen in die begrenzten Freiräume zwischen anderen hinein. Auf diese Weise trägt *Dry Score* zur sanften Kakophonie bei, die das Leitmotiv der Einzelausstellung ist. Zusammengesetzt aus Fragmenten einer Reihe großformatiger Gemälde, die größer sind als die Hände, die sie eingraviert haben, wurde *Dry Score* während einer dreitägigen Performance im Tai Kwun Contemporary in Hongkong produziert – einer kulturellen Einrichtung in einem ehemaligen Gefängnis und Polizeirevier. Die Kritzeleien sind Namen, nicht unbedingt als Ergebnis des Memorierens, sondern frenetische Schriftzüge als Trotz gegen das Auslöschen. In dieser Rekonstruktion der eingravierten Gefängnismauern politischer Gefangener nähert sich eine Klippe: der Rand – das Ende der Handlungsfähigkeit. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Installation-view-of-Pan-Daijing-Dry-Score-2023.jpg) fig. 2 Bevor wir zum letzten Raum weitergehen, wird der fast absolute Mangel an lebendiger Farbe, der Daijings Kunstwerke und die überzogene weiße Architektur des Grazer Kunstvereins beherrscht, zu stark, um ihn zu ignorieren. Daijing überzieht den Ausstellungsraum und ihre Kunstwerke mit Grautönen. Monochrom erzeugt hier auf wundersame Weise Dramatik. Daijings Beherrschung des Schwarz-Weiß in Until Due Time, Everything Is Else reflektiert beide Schattierungen als das älteste und elementarste Kunst-Binärsystem. Hier bietet Daijing leuchtende Ambivalenzen, indem sie den Fokus erneut verschiebt. Anstatt einen weiteren Karneval zu organisieren, der Dualitäten trotzt und nicht-binäre Gedanken und Existenzen feiert, zeigen ihre Ausstellung bewusst die Abnutzungseffekte von Polaritäten. Sei es zwischen Farben, Körpern oder musikalischen Noten, die antagonistisch zueinander bleiben. Immer wieder lotet Daijing brillant die Möglichkeit der Katharsis des Betrachters aus, nur um sie ihm zu verweigern. Ohne Bühne, klare Choreografie oder eine Definition des Publikums bleibt der zukünftigen Performerin nur das Aufwärmen. Kein Wunder also, dass der erste Fernseher, der *Grief Lessons* (2023) ausmacht, eine einzelne Person zeigt, etwas weit entfernt, gefangen im Rahmen der Kameralinse. Gekleidet in einen grauen Overall, schaukelt die Person von einer Seite zur anderen, die Arme um die Brust gelegt. Die wiederkehrende Bewegung ist mehr als ein wörtliches Aufwärmen. In dieser Einsamkeit ist die Person unschuldig; ein Baby, das sich selbst in den Schlaf wiegt. *Grief Lessons* schlägt erneut mit Unvollständigkeit zu, aber auch das anfängliche Verlassenwerden, das alle frischen Anfänge von Leben, Sprache, Klang und Bewegung umfasst. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Installation-view-of-Pan-Daijing-Grief-Lessons-2023.jpg) fig. 3 Zwei weitere Fernseher befinden sich hinter der aufgewärmten Performerin, die den Rest von *Grief Lessons* zusammen mit zwei weiteren Videoprojektionen ausmachen. Zuerst läuft in einem pechschwarzen Raum der Ausstellungsfläche ein Schleifen-Video eines Leuchtturms bei Nacht – Erleuchtung im Dunkeln. Bei seiner 360º-Drehung ist der Leuchtturm sowohl auf der Suche als auch Beobachtungsobjekt; eine scharfsinnige Metapher für die Performance. Doch als Ziel, als sicherer Hafen, kann man ihn nie erreichen. Der Leuchtturm wird aus der Perspektive eines Bootes knapp vor der Küste gesehen. In der Endlosschleife bleibt es für immer auf dem Wasser treibend, ohne jemals das Ufer zu erreichen. Nie erreicht, dauerhaft zuschauend. Ebenso ist der letzte Teil von *Grief Lessons* ein Lackmustest der Ausdauer. Zwei Performer, vielleicht mehr, rennen durch einen lichtlosen Tunnel. Anderswo sehen wir andere Performer in einem Wrestling-Match. Auch hier keine Einheit. Im Gegensatz zu Metall das sich auf ein körniges Bild konzentriert, um Idealisierungen abzuwehren, oder die metaphorische Verlassenheit, die auf den anderen Bildschirmen gezeigt wird, hinkt hier der Film hinterher. Zwei scheinen fast eins zu werden, aber in unterschiedlichen Tempi, einer fällt zurück. Was Daijings Arbeit auszeichnet und ihre Brillanz als Komponistin, Performerin und Künstlerin zeigt, ist ihr angeborenes Talent, das Disjunkte kohärent zu machen. Ihre thematische Kohärenz sorgt für einen belebenden Besuch im Grazer Kunstverein, auch wenn die Töne, die Daijing erreicht, düster, existenziell und schwer verdaulich sind. Gerade deshalb ist die plötzliche, abrupte Verschiebung in Grief Lessons ein überraschender Abschluss der Ausstellung, wenn auch völlig widersprüchlich in Ton und Wirkung. Plötzlich schalten alle Monitore auf Farbe; scharfe Kamerabewegungen und Geschwindigkeit, die sich der ständigen Stabilität der anderen Kunstwerke widersetzen. Ein Schimmer Hoffnung; ein paar Sonnenstrahlen. Romantik? Kaum. Für das große Finale versucht Daijing dennoch, die Bewegung eines Vogels einzufangen, in der Hoffnung, dass ihre Augen und Hände so schnell sein werden wie das Schlagen der Flügel. Freiheit kommt schneller, als man sie beobachten kann. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/2_Installation-view-of-Pan-Daijing-Grief-Lessons-2023.jpg) fig. 4 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/3_Installation-view-of-Pan-Daijing-Grief-Lessons-2023.jpg) fig. 5 *Diese Rezension wurde ursprünglich am 2\. November 2023 auf Englisch veröffentlicht.* \\\\ --- ### Image Cover: Installation view of Pan Daijing, *Grief Lessons*, 2023, as part of *Until Due Time, Everything Is Else*, Grazer Kunstverein, 2024\. Courtesy of the artist and Grazer Kunstverein. Photo: kunst-dokumentation.com fig. 1: Installation view of Pan Daijing, *Metal*, 2023, as part of *Until Due Time, Everything Is Else*, Grazer Kunstverein, 2023\. Courtesy of the artist and Grazer Kunstverein. Photo: kunst-dokumentation.com fig. 2: Installation view of Pan Daijing, *Dry Score*, 2023, as part of *Until Due Time, Everything Is Else*, Grazer Kunstverein, 2024\. Courtesy of the artist and Grazer Kunstverein. Photo: kunst-dokumentation.com fig. 3, 4, 5: Installation view of Pan Daijing, *Grief Lessons*, 2023, as part of *Until Due Time, Everything Is Else*, Grazer Kunstverein, 2024\. Courtesy of the artist and Grazer Kunstverein. Photo: kunst-dokumentation.com *Ido Nahari is a sociologist, researcher and writer who works in the fields of cultural revivalism, social welfare and the commodification of emotions. Born in Jerusalem and currently living in Berlin, Nahari holds a Master of Science in Culture and Society from the London School of Economics and Political Science, where he investigated the marketability of authenticity.* ### Regina jose galindo URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/regina-jose-galindo/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:56.000Z A partire dagli anni 90 le opere di Regina Jose Galindo hanno abitato luoghi pubblici, appezzamenti di terra, sottoscala di gallerie; luoghi in cui lo sguardo è animato da una realtà in cui il capitalismo-razziale-patriarcale si giustifica e replica come unica ideologia. Le opere performative di Galindo, vedono il posizionamento del suo corpo, nudo, tremate, avvolto da drappi, nello spazio, come contro-parte di un’oppressione sfrenata della donna, del territorio di sacrificio e di occupazione della sua nazione di provenienza il Gautemala. Galindo, infatti è una delle prime femministe intersezionaliste a riconoscere il corpo femminile come corpo sociale in constante allerta, archivio che custodice il riverbero continuo di abusi storici e culture cancellate. Un corpo tuttavia partigiano e duraturo che non ha paura di mostrarsi sanguinante, nudo, esausto, per denunciare le violenze di genere, i femminicidii la bigotteria del cattolicesimo fascista, un corpo che infesta la memoria collettiva, seppur nascosto e che si rigenera, cosí come la terra. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Regina-Galindo-Mazorca-2015-Photo-by-David-Perez.jpg) fig. 1 L’estrazione e lo sfruttamento del territorio sono metafore, nelle performance di Galindo, della condizione della donna e viceversa, in un sodalizio che di sfondo denuncia il pensiero patriarcale dietro le diverse dittature militari che a partire dagli anni 50 si sono susseguite in Guatemala, compromettendo il territorio e la sua popolazione per interessi economici. L’opera *Tierra* (2013), in cui Galindo posa nuda su una zolla di terra, circondata da scavatrici, che dilaniano il suolo, ad alludere alle fosse comuni in cui erano gettati gli oppositori al regime dittatoriale di Carlo Castillo Armas, immediatemente rimanda a questa mesta metafora. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Regina-Galindo-Tierra-2013-Photo-Bernard-Huet-Courtesy-of-the-artist.jpg) fig. 2 Tuttavia le conseguenze del progetto politico estrattivista si manifestano oltre la metafora, nell’espropriazione delle comunità indigene dai loro territori, nel lavoro precario di estrazione, nella migrazione verso nuovi non-luoghi di deprivazioni. Galindo coinvolge le comunità afflitte dalla piaga capitalista, unendo il suo corpo al loro, come nell’opera collettiva *Ríos de Gente* (2021), dedicata a Bernardo Caal, difensore dell'acqua, della terra e dei diritti dei popoli indigeni in Guatemala. Una lingua di tessuto blu sorretto da centinaia di persone, ricorda i luoghi dove un tempo scorreva un fiume, deviato ed inquinato dalle industrie estrattive. Galindo, Leone d'Oro alla 51a Biennale di Venezia, nel tempo è riuscita a creare un’eredità di pratiche in cui l’ideologia influeza la materia o la sua assenza. Il territorio che ne deriva non vede discriminazione tra il messaggio artistico e quello di sensibilizzazione politica, entrambi, unendosi ampliano la voce collettiva dell’oppressione. Le sue performance cosí disturbano la censura invitando ad una rivoluzione sensibile, carnale, ecologica, di *de-conquista* del mondo. Come incita l’omonima campagna di manifesti affissi per le strade di Madrid e Barcellona nel 2020. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Regina Galindo. *Ríos de Gente* (2020). Photo by Juan Esteban Calderón. fig. 1: Regina Galindo. *Mazorca* (2015). Photo by David Pérez. fig. 2: Regina Galindo. *Tierra* (2013). Photo: Bernard Huet. Courtesy of the artist. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### La lucha es porque no nos apaguen URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/la-lucha-es-porque-no-nos-apaguen/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:54.000Z La Cañada Real no es un poblado chabolista, un asentamiento temporal o un campamento transitorio. A pesar de estar fuera del plan urbanístico y contar con un alto número de infravivienda, nosotros, sus habitantes, entre los que nos encontramos mujeres activistas pertenecientes a diecisiete grupos étnicos y nacionales, hablamos de un barrio en construcción. Su origen se remonta a cincuenta años atrás y se divide informalmente en seis sectores. En 2011, el Estado dejó de considerarlo una vía de pastoreo y comenzó a tomar medidas para abordar los problemas sociales y urbanos que surgieron durante este proceso de integración. Los seis sectores que componen el barrio de Cañada Real se enfrentan a riesgos significativos, especialmente en lo que respecta a sus conexiones no oficiales a la red eléctrica. La empresa Unión Fenosa, que forma parte del grupo Naturgy y es responsable de suministrar electricidad al barrio, no solo no ofrece contratos a los residentes ni propone soluciones para el problema de la falta de electricidad. En cambio, trabaja intensamente para desmantelar la red ya existente. El 2 de octubre de 2020, la electricidad se cortó de repente y sin previo aviso. Inicialmente, creímos que se trataba de un error, y el comisionado de la provincia de Madrid trató de confirmarlo con la teoría de que la causa era una sobrecarga debida al alto consumo en las granjas de marihuana ilegal. Para nuestros vecinos, algunos de los cuales son expertos en redes de alta tensión, esta explicación no fue convincente. Así que fueron a las torres eléctricas para investigar por sí mismos y descubrieron la presencia de dispositivos que no estaban allí antes. Estos aparatos funcionaban como limitadores de energía y efectivamente, habían sido instalados para impedir que la electricidad alcanzara determinadas zonas del barrio. Se trataba de las viviendas de los sectores cinco y seis, donde residen personas de todas las edades, incluyendo recién nacidos, adultos y personas mayores. Ante esta situación, decidimos reunirnos y presentar una queja que fue respondida por un juez de instrucción. El juez envió un perito que confirmó la existencia de dispositivos limitadores de energía. Han pasado más de dos años desde el corte de energía, y La Cañada sigue sin suministro eléctrico. En esta etapa, nos encontramos en una crisis humanitaria crónica que ha cobrado la vida de un menor debido al frío durante la tormenta Filomena. Es evidente que estamos enfrentando una campaña de desalojo forzado que coincide con los planes de desarrollo urbano en el sureste de Madrid. La asociación de mujeres a la que pertenezco, Tabadol, existía antes del corte de energía. Se fundó en 2007 como un intento de abordar las tensiones intergeneracionales y de género en los conflictos de vecindario, y desempeñó un papel crucial en la lucha por obtener electricidad para el barrio. En colaboración con varias organizaciones, formamos la plataforma Luz Ya para Cañada Real y logramos un hito sin precedentes al obtener el reconocimiento de la Comisión de Derechos Sociales del Consejo de Europa, que ordenó la restauración inmediata de la electricidad. Sin embargo, esto no se ha cumplido. Nuestra nueva estrategia incluye presentar una petición al Parlamento Europeo y enviar una delegación por segunda vez. Intentar normalizar una situación tan vergonzosa en términos de derechos humanos no tiene una sola dimensión, sino muchas. Nos encontramos de cara frente a la mecánica del racismo institucional bajo las prioridades de los planes de especulación inmobiliaria. Por lo tanto, los residentes de La Cañada responden con resistencia y acción positiva. Actualmente, tenemos un proyecto para un parque infantil que está siendo diseñado en colaboración con los niños del barrio y el colectivo de arquitectos Todo por la Praxis. Sin duda, será un lugar de entretenimiento y alegría, pero sobre todo será un lugar de lucha. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Regina Galindo. *Tierra* (2013). Photo: Bernard Huet. Courtesy of the artist. *Houda Akrikez es mediadora multicultural, defensora de los derechos humanos y fundadora y portavoz de la Asociación Tabadol. También es miembro de la plataforma “Luz Ya para Cañada Real."* ### Patchwork gala URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/patchwork-gala/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:53.000Z *The Turkish artist Kavachi has carved a distinctive artistic path over the past decade. With his textile-based creative practice, the artist’s dedication to the medium results in his ongoing performance work The Carpet Covers the Earth (2016-ongoing). The project’s* latest iteration *takes place outside of the Ausländebehörde (foreigners' office) in different German cities including Weimar and Munich, where he assembles a red carpet, piece by piece in a daily performance, inviting real visa-seekers to walk on it. In the following interview, AWC’s Elisa Fuenzalida sat down with Kavachi to discuss labor as a performance, borders and the role of the community in his work.* **What inspired your choice to incorporate textiles as a recurrent medium in your creative practice?** More than a decade ago, I started to work with textiles. At the time, as a fresh artist, I was looking for new materials that could be used in a sustainable way, are affordable, and are easy to find. So, I started to collect textiles from friends, and friends of friends. Each of these fabric pieces have their own story and function. I bring all these different stories together with a new narrative by stitching and sewing. **In works such as *I Cleaned* (2018) and *We Welcomed The Guests Together* (2022), you examine the performance of manual and domestic labor from a very personal position. How is this exploration connected with the work you are carrying out in *The Carpet Covers the Earth*?** I feel like I exploit myself a lot through my work and around it. I worked as a dishwasher for a period of time, and the working process as a dishwasher led me to think that, if I could perceive that kitchen as a studio, the actions that I was undertaking carried the potential for an artwork. *I Cleaned* refers to the repetition of an extremely alienating work process: cleaning the kitchen tools sometimes aggressively, sometimes smoothly, and sometimes without any feeling... ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Kavachi-4.jpg) fig. 1 The work *We Welcomed the Guests Together* uses text to address domestic activities that occupy our daily lives at home, and it was developed during the Coronavirus pandemic. Who should do the household chores, and how should life be sustained? I collected kitchen fabrics, such as napkins, dishtowels, and tablecloths from different parts of the world. Each textile scrap had its own story. Some of them were quite old and out of use, as they were inherited and people didn't know what to do with them. In *The Carpet Covers the Earth*, I continue to involve recycled textile pieces in this particular performance, this time actively inviting the local communities to donate, aiming to create a bridge between the artwork, locals, and foreigners. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Kavachi-5.jpg) fig. 2 **What is the relationship between the visual aspect of the red carpet concept, with all its connotations of exclusivity, and the collaborative collage dimension of *The Carpet Covers the Earth*?** *The Carpet Covers the Earth* is an ongoing site-specific performance that takes place in front of an Ausländebehörde. The first activation took place in 2016 in Weimar, and was a collaboration between the MFA program “Public Art and New Artistic Strategies” at the Bauhaus-Universität Weimar and Kunstfest Weimar. This time, I will be performing during SPIELART Festival Munich directed by Sophie Becker. Thanks to the invitation of one of the co-curators, Eva Neklyaeva, the performance will take place in front of Ausländerbehörde München at Ruppertstraße 19 each day of the festival (October 23-27), from 9:00 to 13:00 daily. The carpet itself is a metaphor, usually an expression of appreciation for distinguished and famous people at official events, that I want to redirect to people with migrant backgrounds. It is a way to make visible and acknowledge the time-consuming bureaucratic processes in which non-European foreigners find themselves immersed. During the performance, passers-by, new residents, and new citizens are welcome to walk on the red carpet. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Kavachi-11.jpg) fig. 3 **What questions do you perceive that your presence as a “seamstress,” so to speak, in the performance opens up in terms of traditional roles and gender divisions of labor, and conventional perceptions of migrant and refugee communities?** It is a very interesting question because I didn’t think of myself as a seamstress. Actually, I have a sewing machine at home but I can't mend my clothes. For me, it's more about encouraging people to bring their textile pieces to the studio or as a contribution because they all have their own story. My role is to connect these stories, and stitching them is one of many ways to do it. Borders are becoming very rigid, and we can discuss whether we need them or want to abolish them, but as long as they exist, I feel it is important to keep them flexible and porous for connection and exchange. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 3: *The Carpet Covers the Earth*, Performance and Installation, during the performance, in front of Ausländerbehörde Weimar © Kavachi. Ongoing Photos 2016 by Iva Kirova & Thomas Müller. fig. 1: *I Cleaned*, 2018\. © Kavachi. Photo by Anya Marchenkova. fig. 2: *We Welcomed the Guests Together,* 2022 © Kavachi. *Elisa Fuenzalida is a researcher and cultural worker. She has directed research projects such as El futuro era tu cuerpo, Ensamblajes del Cuidado and Afectos en Re-existencia. She is coordinator and co-curator of the Cátedra Decolonial Anibal Quijano at the Museo Reina Sofía, co-editor of the journal Arts of the Working Class and mediator in the citizen laboratory platform Redes por el Clima.* ### Making a home from a floating structure URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/making-a-home-from-a-floating-structure/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:51.000Z Water flows in a mesh of currents and spills onto banks and shores of disparate geographies. From this spill, which feels like a reciprocal caressing of the water on the land and vice-versa, a memory is inscribed. A memory of subterranean, flowing interconnectedness that gives birth to new mythologies and which resurfaces the stories of those who perished in its undercurrents. Hence water becomes an ideological metaphor for the political conspirator who sees tides as emissaries of silenced knowledge, and, in their fluidly, they become a tool to touch, affect, hold, and change, while still retaining a certain degree of mystery. Attempting to emerge from the depths of the abyss of cultural tokenization by means of restless political labor of the imagination, the collective of practitioners named *Kal*, initiated in 2020 by Aziz Sohail and Suza Husse, of The Many-Headed Hydra collective, together with Fiza Khatri, Pomona Sengupta, Sakina Aliakbar, Sandev Handy, and Zahabia Khozema, made me approach the new spaces of nGbK. A former McDonalds, a shelter for tourists, lost globetrotters, the political homeless, and substance addicts located in the heart of Alexanderplatz, Berlin, it is now an art space, suggesting the deepening relationship between culture and gentrification in the city. It is a relationship of dispossession that in nGbk momentarily supplants the struggle of the social surplus with that of the political activist; transforming the space into an intersectional port to harbor artists, activists, and militant captains from South Asia, the Levant, and Africa, constituting the exhibition House of Kal. Whether the actions promoting a more just socio-political reality are anchored on the battlefield of society, the practitioners invited to make the Hause of Kal a temporary home know that, for them, and for many citizens of the Global South, the undertow is coming, and in order to keep afloat, discourse needs to be revitalized by the multi-headed body of a community of decolonial non-conforming desires. Here nGbK, is conceptually transformed on the occasion of House of Kal into a *khNuti*, a water device commonly used in the Bengal delta to tie boats and cattle. In Berlin the metaphor becomes tying ideas of belonging as a fluid process of gathering, recharging, diffusing, and eventually dispersing them again in the fluxes of perennial fugitivity as imposed by racial capitalism to dissident political subjects. The first installation visible in the space is that of the activist group **Women\* in Exile** which advocates for the rights of refugee women\* in Germany. A series of images and textual documentation of the seminal anti-fascist and anti-racist work carried out by the group document three different actions of the Tour on Rafts. Footage is scaled up and fixed on the wall, while little manifestos and reading materials are scattered around the room (and on the softness of pillows) documents the manifestation, started in 2014, when women activists traveled for seven weeks on self-built rafts across various rivers in Germany, connecting with women\* in refugee and deportation centers. The action showcases the political creativity needed to find ways of reconnecting using water, beyond the false division imposed by border regimes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/The-Many-Headed-Hydra_Harbour-Failures03.jpeg) fig. 1 In the combined effort to find a new epistemology of belonging that could address the complexity of the relationship between settlers, the indigenous, class and caste, and to confront the perennial hegemony of white supremacy, Haus of Kal welcomes on the background of the grey-skied Alexanderplatz, in an environment that dissimulates the pain from which it arises. A palette of bright colors, banners, textiles, and archival materials camouflages the trauma of displacement and political oppression borrowing a directness that emerges from slogans and protest codes. The invitation is for viewers to become acquainted with the more digestible aspects of the decolonial struggle: the joys and solidarities between comrades. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/The-Many-Headed-Hydra_Harbour-Failures02.jpeg) fig. 2 Specular in the space to the women\* in refugee we find **The Many-Headed Hydra** (Aziz Sohail, Bryndís Björnsdottír, Emma Wolf Haugh, Suza Husse & Aziza Ahmad, Khalida Hussain, Laakkuluk Williamson Bathory, Ni6369\. Shell samples, Pia Arke, and Zahra Malkani), who, on this occasion present *Harbour Failures*. A research-based work focussing on the failed hope of modernity, and the looming consequences of climate change. The multimedia installation tells the story of anthropocentric mirages of two fictional deep-water port settlements in Iceland and Pakistan. The work operates as a prophecy of different futures rooted in indigenous knowledge of the land, where practices do not follow the logic of slavery and capitalist imperatives. Further, into the fluid structure of the Hause of Kal, the effects of precarization and the marginalization of entire classes of people are manifested by a symbolic object of memory. A light structure made of plastic, wood, and textile is the central pivot around which the exhibition floats. The kiosk teleports the visitor to Colombo, replicating a waterfront structure from the Slave Island/Kompanna Veediya neighborhood, a place where products and refreshments typical of the region could be found, but also a symbolic place of sociality, where members of different communities could meet and support each other. Aside from this central *khNuti*, the video zine *rituals for coastal commons* is projected. It is a collaborative work made by inhabitants of the different branches of the Houses of Kal in Karachi, Colombo, and Berlin in 2021, a sensual homage to the relations between bodies of water and the possible future societies that grow around them. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/rituals-for-coastal-commons_9.png) fig. 3 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/rituals-for-coastal-commons_6.png) fig. 4 The precarious architecture of the kiosk, which during the exhibition bears food and book offerings for the audience, is given further meaning by **Vicky Shahjehan**, whose long-standing practice consists of marking the walls of buildings with gigantic portraiture murals. In the amplification of the interstitial resistance of women\*, *This Land Belongs To Us*. *We Belong To This Land*, a large-scale painting presented in nGbK, portrays seven women of different ethnic backgrounds united by a stream of water against the backdrop of symbols of construction, cranes, and displacement tents. They look at you, they know where they stand in their indissoluble bond of struggle, and fiercely they seem to question the visitor’s complicity in the replacement of groups of people with wealthier, more profitable others. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Vicky-Shahjehan_This-is-Our-Land03.jpg) fig. 5 The submerged issue of international investments benefitting from natural calamities is addressed by **Zahabia Khozema**. The artist reconstructs the ghostly structure of the working-class neighborhoods that grew around the sewage of Gujjar Nullah during the Karachi flood of 2020 after a violent monsoon. The population living there was evicted after the World Bank saw investment opportunities in the area. It was never relocated to the city. The traces left on the walls of soon-to-be-demolished houses are documented by the installation *Is this Progress? Progress for You or for Us?* a series of photographs illustrating the marks left on the walls of the houses to announce their impending dismantlement. A layer of three-dimensionality is added through the presence of debris, cement blocks, and metal wires in the nGbK and the work is soundtracked by poems that emerged from protests and the mobilization of the former community of inhabitants reclaiming the area. Remaining in the space, sitting on the carpets and sipping the tea offered, the visitor recognizes that the relationship to decolonial positionalities presented by the House of Kal is devoid of violence, but is supported by a sense of human divinity that reaches the universe, from where, according to **Pomona Sengupta**, the captain of the social-fictional spaceship *Beben*, it is easier to imagine another world and to act upon that vision. The show is infused by a speculative branch of activism, inherited by feminist social sci-fi, where imagination is transformative and speaks about the relationship to space and natural elements as technology to befriend, not to extract and exploit. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Spaceship-Beben.png) fig. 6 A large segment of the space is inhabited by a radio station, where on a weekly basis, **Radio Kal** and **Radio We Are Born Free** + **Onelove Radio** with **Spaceship Beben** amplify, in sonic landscapes, the voices of those who cannot be physically present in the exhibition. The free frequencies of the radio have been an ally of indigenous and marginalized communities across the globe, and, in the context of the show, fill a gap left by the information ostracized by oppressive regimes with dispatches of queer forms of hope. Broadcasting from spacious intellectual and bodily collectivity geographies, the sonic waves disseminate information about political activism from indigenous and FLINTA perspectives. The sonic objects offered by **Bino Byansi Byakuleka** and **Promona Sengupta**, and a roster of international guests familiar with the brutality of states of exile, enlarge not only the sonic spectrum but the formats through which decolonization can happen. From sensing, listening, and subverting the historical and contemporary implications of capitalist state violence can take place. I imagine House of Kal as a DIY ideological dispositive that can be implanted everywhere and whenever a reconciliation between pessimism and hope is sought. It formulates a radial proposal of togetherness, where the cohabitation between artistic and activist practices is solidified by the wavelength of affection, a connection that reaches vast territories of political sensibility and poetry. The floating archipelago assesses the continuity of time past with the future, bridging lands and water, materiality, and tools. The word “kal” کل means, in many South Asian languages - including Hindi, Urdu, and Bangla - both yesterday and tomorrow, a time-space where the complexity of history needs to be addressed by the continuous labor of community building, not in isolated ponds of solidarity, to sprinkle its wetness on the brutality of regimes of oppression until their aridity is turned into fertile relational languages of justice. \\\\ The exhibition House of Kal will be on show at nGbk, Berlin, until November 12\. For more info direct [here](https://www.ngbk.de/de/show/820/house-of-kal?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: House of Kal, neue Gesellschaft für bildende Kunst (nGbK), Ausstellungsansicht, 2023, Foto: Jourdan Dorn. fig. 1, 2: The Many Headed Hydra, Harbour Failures, 2022. fig. 3, 4: The Many Headed Hydra (Ayesha Chaudhry & Ayesha Alizeh, Emma Wolf Haugh & Suza Husse, Paloma Ayala, Sabeen Omar, Vasi Samundra Devi, Veenandari Lakshika, Promonona Sengupta & Vicky Shahjahan & Zahabia Khuzema), Rituals For Coastal Commons, kal Videozine, 2021. fig. 5: Vicky Shahjehan with Fearless Collective, This is Our Land, 2023. fig. 6: Spaceship Beben, a language where yesterday and tomorrow are the same word. Kal, 2021. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Cities made differently URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cities-made-differently/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:50.000Z *In the following interview, Vera Mey and Nika Dubrovsky discuss their shared experiences as part of the conference series “Challenging Capitalist Modernity,” in which Dubrovsky had taken part on behalf of her organization, Anthropology for Kids. This conversation reflects on Dubrovsky’s experience at the workshop in collaboration with Kurdish activists, touching on themes of urbanism, community, and imagination. The conference took place in Hamburg, Germany, from April 7-9, 2023, and under the title* We Want Our World Back*, focused on the arts, education, and construction of democratic confederalism.* **What is the objective of the Anthropology for Kids (A4Kids) project, and how was it initiated?** I began A4Kids 15 years ago after meeting my late husband, David Graeber. Since he’s the one who actually introduced me to the discipline of anthropology, in a sense, I learned anthropology like a child learning about the world from an adult. Eventually, the project grew out of that relationship. Throughout its existence, A4Kids has taken different forms, including interactive books and an in-person workshop series. But the purpose has always remained the same: introducing people – as I was introduced myself – to the various ways in which essential social institutions such as Family, City, Museum, and so on, have been perceived in different cultures and at different times. A4Kids invites people to imagine new ways of organizing society around the values they hold dear. Originally, I imagined the project as being less of a product and more of a community-oriented educational tool. I thought I would create “doodle books” – notebooks, or some sort of collective drawing practice. Something that can be easily integrated into the everyday life of a parent taking care of their kids; that would look like play, without requiring lots of resources – something equivalent to singing songs together. However, that was proven to be very difficult to pitch to publishing houses, and so David and I began adapting the project from doodle books to more traditional educational books. (The doodle designs are still available for download from our website, https://a4kids.org/.) Another project born out of the initial idea was the City of Care Assembly, which David and I designed together during lockdown in London. This time, we were working with our adult friends from the art group and environmental movement Extinction Rebellion. We drew on the pavement with chalk, collectively visualizing urban social alternatives by literally drawing onto the city. Ever since, lots of international A4Kids workshops have been organized with people of all ages from different cultural, economic, and social backgrounds: 6 and 7-year-old kids from Havana, teens from central London, homeless 18 and 20-year-olds from Berlin, and Romanian teens from Timișoara have all taken part in it. Even though the groups have been very diverse, one aspect that has remained the same throughout has been the gender dynamic: despite being from very different backgrounds, they have shown a similar behavior pattern of assuming gender roles. The moment when children start to invent social scenarios, boys in almost every country start building robot factories to kill their enemies. They fantasize about taking over the city, building roads in a way that would either cut off supplies from one part of the city or protect the city from future attacks. While the boys were engaged in warfare with each other from start to finish, the girls would look for ways to provide care. Girls would say, “Looks like it will be a war. There will probably be wounded people. Let’s build a hospital.” Or, “We should make a community garden and a school for our future kids.” If they were to build a factory, it would be something like a toy factory. Only in Iceland, a country with an inspiring feminist history, did the girls choose to take over a part of the city and state, not to adapt to the rules created by boys, but to make their own. **How did it happen that a kids' educational project ended up at a conference with such a name like “Challenging Capitalist Modernity”?** Anthropology promises an incredible opportunity to examine our society through the prism of others organized in different times and by different cultures. A4Kids came about as an attempt to create and spread non-academic and egalitarian knowledge with links to practice – meaning, learning by doing. Gradually, the A4kids project changed its audience from kids to adults. A similar process happened with the A4kids book series. They are now being published by MIT Press under the title *...Made Differently*. The reference to children has been removed from the title. The invitation to participate in the conference was very personal, as David and I were friends with the organizers. David was doing everything he could to help the most important revolution since the Spanish War: the Rojava Revolution. David was an anarchist like his father, Kenneth Graeber, who, as a young American anarchist, went to fight in the International Brigades during the Spanish Civil War. Just before I left for the conference, I learned that the administration of the University of Hamburg had refused to hold the event. The preparation of an international conference with more than 1,000 guests takes a long time. It is almost impossible to coordinate infrastructure and logistics at the last minute. The conference would have to be canceled. The interference of the administrative powers in the affairs of an independent university caused outrage among activists and students in Hamburg and around the world. Amazingly, through a collective effort, organizers managed to get the conference going within just a few days. **How was the practice and agenda of A4Kids embedded into the conference?** My experience of delivering the A4Kids workshop at the “Challenging Capitalist Modernity” conference was unlike any other I have had in the 15 years of running this project. I brought a large piece of paper containing initial outlines of Hamburg and proposed the joint planning of a new city to the 20-some people who had signed up for the session. Participants were from all over the world: there were Kurds, Germans, Brits, Indians, Romanians, and people from the Balkans. Despite coming from different places, they shared a lot; it felt like they already had a common language and had known each other for a long time. Thus, it was easy to collaborate. People supported each other in developing ideas. Having come to the conference about "different modernity," they were already geared up to collaborate on building an alternative world. My workshop simply provided a place where they could discuss the details of this world with each other. An important detail that stood out to me about the workshop in Hamburg was how the participants approached the concept of security. David admired how, in Rojava, collective safety became an integral part of the society, rather than the mission of an outside force set up to police society itself. David recounted how, in his visit to Rojava, there were almost no traffic police. It seemed like adults were just making sure that kids would not attempt to drive cars. The street traffic was pretty safe. Interestingly for me, at the workshop in Hamburg, participants began creating their city by building a river. When it was time to think about the police, they suggested that the police would be a group of citizens who always float on the river, constantly going from one neighborhood to another. When the police were absent from a neighborhood, they were replaced by local members of the community. This way, the population would remain in control, and the police would only exist for society’s protection. I thought that was a brilliantly smart and well-thought-through city design. There were numerous other clever ideas; for example, a girl from India combined a food cooperative with an art space for women. So many brilliant ideas were born about how to build a world where very different people could live freely, respecting each other and the world around them, that it would be hard to recount them all here, but I felt like I had taken part in an incredible сrash course in the making of the Rojava revolution. Even though I was supposed to run this workshop, I didn't actively participate; I simply observed the group as they collaborated on designing this city of freedom and care. Some might describe what I saw as utopian, but I don’t think so. Indeed, in my experience taking part in the workshops over many years, when people have lacked ideas for crafting a solution, they tend to create dystopias based on dark fantasies. Many people get a bit lost when asked to join in planning social spaces together since it's not something they've done much in their lives. There was no confusion among the participants at the Hamburg conference, only a cheerful confidence in their ability to build something beautiful together. They were both highly practical and meticulous while thinking most of all about social justice. I couldn't help but imagine how fortunate I would be to have such people nearby when the inevitable catastrophes, environmental or otherwise, hit our part of the world. This impressive, solutions-focused way of thinking was also present in the approach of the conference's organizers. When the venue canceled the event, it came as a total shock. Despite being faced with this massive problem, the organizers of the conference were results-oriented, just like the way participants in my workshop approached building a city. The organizers spread the workshops and panel discussions across several venues in Hamburg, so everything went as originally planned: without a hitch! It looked magical. As if they were being helped by magical fairies or superheroes. But the secret was the solidarity of a large network of activists and sympathizers, ready to react in unusual situations towards a common cause. The University of Hamburg administration surely didn't anticipate this amazing unity and vibrant spirit from the conference organizers and participants. I wish to think that the Anthropology for Kids project will at least partly follow this example. \*\*\* *KURDISH* **Dijberiya Modernîteya Kapîtalîst:** **"Bajarê Pêşerojê" - atolyeya Antropolojiya Zarokan a Nika Dubrovsky transcript** *Çapa 4'emîn a rêze konferansê "Dijwar Modernîteya Kapîtalîst" a li Hamburg, Almanya, di 8'ê Adara 2023'an de hate lidarxistin. Di bin sernavê çarçoveya Em dixwazin Cîhana xwe vegere, bal kişand ser huner, perwerde û avakirina konfederalîzma demokratîk.* **Armanca projeya Antropolojî ji bo Zarokan (A4Kids) çi ye, û çawa hate destpêkirin?** Min panzdeh sal berê dest bi "A4Kids" kir piştî ku bi hevjinê min yê rehmetî, David Graeber re hevdîtin kir, ji ber ku ew e yê ku bi rastî min bi dîsîplîna antropolojiyê da naskirin. Di vî warî de, ez fêrî antropolojiyê bûm mîna zarokek ku ji mezinan fêrî cîhanê dibe. Di dawiyê de proje ji wê pêwendiyê derket. Di tevahiya hebûna xwe de, A4Kids formên cihêreng girtiye, mînakî pirtûkên înteraktîf û forma rêze atolyeyên kesane. Lê mebest her tim maye ku zarokan bi awayên curbecur ên ku saziyên civakî yên bingehîn ên wekî Malbat, Bajar, Muze û hwd, di çandên, cihê û di demên cuda de hatine dîtin, bidin nasîn. A4Kids xwendevan û beşdarên xwe vedixwîne pêvajoyek afirîner, ji wan dipirse ku rêyên nû yên rêxistinkirin û rêzkirina civakê li dora nirxên ku jê hez dikin xeyal bikin. Di eslê xwe de, min projeyek kêm hilberek û bêtir amûrek perwerdehiyê ya civatê xeyal kir. Min fikir kir ku ez ê pirtûkên doodle, notebook, an cûreyek pratîkên xêzkirina kolektîf biafirînim. Tiştê ku bi hêsanî dikare di jiyana rojane ya dêûbav de ku lênêrîna zarokên xwe dike, dê mîna lîstikek xuya bike û gelek çavkaniyan hewce nake - tiştek wekheviya stranan bi hev re digotin. Lê belê, hate îsbat kirin ku ew pir dijwar e ku meriv ji weşanxaneyan re ragihîne, û ji ber vê yekê min û David dest bi adaptekirina projeyê ji pirtûkên doodle berbi pirtûkên perwerdehiya kevneşopîtir kir. Sêwiranên doodle hîn jî ji bo dakêşanê ji malpera me a4kids.org berdest in. Projeyek din a ku ji ramana destpêkê çêbû Meclîsa Bajarê Lênihêrînê bû, ku min û David bi hev re di dema girtina Covid-ê de li Londonê sêwirand. Vê carê, me bi hevalên xwe yên mezin ên koma hunerî û tevgera hawîrdorê ya Serhildana Vemirandinê re dixebitî. Me bi kelmêş xêz kir û me alternatîfên civakî yên bajarî bi hev re xêz kir û bi rastî li bajêr xêz kir. Ji hingê ve me gelek atolyeyên navneteweyî yên A4Kids bi kesên ji çand, aborî, temen û paşerojên civakî yên cihêreng organîze kirine: ji zarokên 6-7 salî ji Havana heta ciwanên ji navenda Londonê, ji zarokên 18-20 salî yên bêmal ji Berlînê heta ciwanên Romanî ji Timişoara. Her çend kom pir cihêreng bûn jî, yek aliyek ku di tevaya beşdaran de wekî xwe ma dînamîka zayendî bû: her çend ew grûpên pir cûda bûn, lê dîsa jî şêwazek tevgerê ya wekhev a wergirtina rolên zayendî nîşan dan. Wexta ku zarok dest bi îcadkirina senaryoyên civakî dikirin, hema hema li her welatî kur dest bi avakirina kargehên robotan dikirin da ku dijminên xwe bikujin. Ew ê xeyal bikin ku bajar bi dest bixin, rêyan bi rengekî çêbikin ku an dabînkirina beşek ji bajêr qut bike an jî bajêr ji êrîşên pêşerojê biparêze. Ji destpêkê heta dawiya atolyeyê piraniya xortan tevlî şer dibûn. Berevajî vê, keç dê li rêyên lênêrînê bigerin. Digotin, “Baş e, dixuye ku dê şer bibe. Ji ber vê îhtîmal e ku kesên birîndar jî hebin. Werin em nexweşxaneyek ava bikin." an "Divê em ji zarokên xwe yên pêşerojê re baxçeyek civatê û dibistanek çêbikin." Ji ber vê yekê, heke ew fabrîqeyek ava bikin, ew ê bibe tiştek wekî kargehek pêlîstokan. Tenê li Îzlandayê, welatek xwedî îlham dîroka femînîst, keçan hilbijartibûn ku beşek ji bajar û dewletê bi dest bixin da ku ne li gorî qaîdeyên ku ji hêla kur ve hatine afirandin, lê ji bo xwe bikin yek. **A4Kids beşdarî konferansa Dijberiya Modernîteya Kapîtalîst bû. Tevlîbûn çawa pêk hat?** Antropolojî soza fersendek bêhempa dide ku em civaka xwe bi prîzma çandên din vekolînin. A4Kids wekî ceribandinek di afirandin û belavkirina zanîna ne-akademîk û wekhevîxwaz de bi giranî li ser fêrbûna destan an fêrbûna bi kirinê derket holê. Vexwendname ji bo beşdarbûna konferansê pir kesane bû, ji ber ku ez û David bi organîzatoran re heval bûn. David bi hemû hêza xwe alîkariya şoreşa herî girîng ji Şerê Navxweyî yê Spanî, ku bavê wî tê de beşdar bû, guhertina civakî û siyasî li Rojavayê Kurdistanê kir. Kesên ji welatên cihê beşdarî konferansê bûn: ji Meksîka û daristana Amazonê, ji Bakurê Kurdistanê bi xwe û ji Dewletên Yekbûyî yên Amerîkayê, ji Almanya û ji Fransa. Hemûyan li ser îmkana jiyîna li cîhaneke din axivîn. Helwesta hevpar a li hember qeyrana avhewa, şer û neheqiyan ev e ku ew ne neçar in, lê bi tercîhên me ve girêdayî ne. Bi xwe, min axaftinên panelîstan pir bi bandor dît. Tewra ez ê bibêjim ku wê ruhê min bilind kir, ji ber ku di van salên dawî de nûçe ji xemgîniyê wêdetir bûn, û li vir hûn bi mirovên ku bi awayekî çalak dixebitin ji bo afirandina herêmên azadî û lênihêrînê li çaraliyê cîhanê diaxivin. Demeke kin beriya ku ji Londonê biçim konferansê, ez hîn bûm ku li ser daxwaza Polîsê Veşartî yê Alman, Zanîngeha Hamburgê red kiriye ku ev çalakî were lidarxistin. Ev bê guman dibe sedem ku konferansek were betal kirin. Jixwe, amadekariya bûyerên wiha demek dirêj digire. Bi gelemperî, her tişt di pêş de tête saz kirin, û ne gengaz e ku di deqeya paşîn de binesaziyê û lojîstîkê were hevrêz kirin. Destwerdana polîsên veşartî di karûbarên zanîngeha serbixwe de bû sedema hêrsa organîzator û piştgirên konferansê, di nav de gelek akademîsyenên navdar û rewşenbîrên giştî, wek Naomi Chomsky û Silvia Federici. Xwendekarên zanîngehê jî wêrekî û yekîtiyê nîşan dan. Bi xebatek kolektîf, organîzator bi ser ketin ku konferans tenê di çend rojan de pêk were. Wek gelek caran, hewldana têkbirina hevgirtinê, tirsandina çalakvanan, bû sedema berevajî vê yekê: bilindbûna hevgirtin û coş. **Di konferansê de pratîk û rojeva Af4Kids çawa hate bicihkirin?** Tecrûbeya min a lidarxistina atolyeya A4Kids a di konferansa " Dijberiya Modernîteya Kapîtalîst" de ne mîna ya din bû ku di van panzdeh salên birêvebirina vê projeyê de hebû. Beşdar ji çar aliyên cîhanê bûn: Kurd, Alman, Îngilîz, Hindî, ji Balkan û Rûman û gelek kesên din. Dema ku ji cihên cuda dihatin, gelek tişt parve dikirin û jixwe zimanek hevpar hebû. Wisa hîs dikir ku mirov ji demeke dirêj ve hevdu nas dikin. Ji ber vê yekê hevkarî hêsan bû û mirovan di pêşxistina ramanên kolektîf de piştgirî da hev. Wan ji bo afirandina şert û mercên jiyanê yên wekhev li bajarê xeyalî hevkarî kirin, û pêvajoyên hilberîna xwarinê yên kolektîf, wek nimûne, çêkirin. Tevahiya komê yek beşdarê astengdar li ber çavan girt û pêdawîstiyên taybet ên welatiyên astengdar xistin nav plansaziya bajarvaniyê. Bi kesane, tiştê ku herî zêde bala min kişand ev bû ku çawa mijara ewlehiyê hema hema yekser di navenda nîqaşa komê de bû. David Graeber heyranê xwe hişt ku çawa li Rojava ewlekariya kolektîf bûye parçeyekî bingehîn ê civakê, ne ji hêzeke derve ya ku ji bo polîskirina civakê bi xwe hatiye avakirin. David diyar kir ku hema bêje polîsên trafîkê tune bûn, lê di şûna wê de, mezinan temaşe dikirin ku zarok hewl nedin ajotina otomobîlan, û xuya ye ku seyrûsefera kuçeyê pir ewledar bû. Di vê atolyeya taybetî de, beşdaran bi avakirina çem dest bi afirandina bajarê xwe yê xeyalî kirin. Beşdarên komxebatê dema ku behsa polîsên bajêr dikirin, pêşniyar kirin ku polîs ji komek welatiyan pêk tê ku di keştiyek li ser çem de difetisin, serdana deverên cuda yên bajêr dikin û berdewam li her navçeyekê ji aliyê xelkê deverê ve tên guhertin. Bi vî awayî dê ne hêzên polîsên xweser, lê dê celebek tîmê alîkariya taxê ya sivîl hebe. Bi vî awayî dê gel her tim di bin kontrola xwe de bimîne û polîs tenê ji bo parastina civakê hebûna. Min fikir kir ku ew sêwiranek ewlehiyê ya biaqil û xweş-fikir bû. Gelek ramanên din ên jîr hebûn, wek nimûne, keçek ji Hindistanê kooperatîfek xwarinê bi cîhek hunerî ya jinan re li hev kir. Zarokan meclîsek ava kirin ku tê de dikarin bi awayekî komî biryarê bidin ka dê çawa bi sêwirana navenda bajêr bimeşin. Tecrûbeya min a bi vê atolyeyê re mîna derseke bêbawer bû di afirandina bajarekî de, ku ji aliyekî ve garantiya azadî û ewlehiya her welatiyekî bi berfirehî hate fikirîn û ji aliyê din ve jî mafên kolektîf ên tevahiya bajar û hevpariyên wî hatin parastin. Her çiqas diviyabû ku ez vê atolyeyê bi rê ve bibim jî, min zêde nekiriye. Min tenê temaşe kir ku ev koma mirovan bajarek lênihêrîn, komînal ava kir. Dibe ku hin tişta ku min dît wekî utopîk binav bikin, lê belê ez nafikirim ku ew rast e. Bi rastî, di atolyeyên din de min gelek caran dît ku zarok nizanin ka mirov çawa li cîhê hevpar, wek bajarekî, ji pirsgirêka muhtemel re çareseriyek çêbike, ew ê li ser bingeha xeyal û tirsên tarî, an li ser senaryoyên dîstopîk dîstopiyayan derxin holê ku medyaya tirsnak pêşkêşî me dike. Beriya her tiştî, her fîlimek apocalypse ya zombî bi ramanên xwe yên li ser cewhera rastîn a mirov wekî "şerê her tiştî li dijî her tiştî" pêkvejiyana utopyaya Thomas Hobbes e. Tiştê sosret e ku mirovek bi ramanên wiha eşkere nemirovî li ser mirovan, bû damezrînerê sêwirana siyasî ya civaka ku em tê de dijîn. Ji ber vê yekê ne ecêyb e ku em ji zarokatiyê ve têne fêr kirin ku dinya tirsnak û xeternak e û ku tenê hukûmet dikare me ji xwe xilas bike. Mirovên li Hamburgê mîna komek endezyar bûn, pir maqûl û hûrgulî bûn. Min difikirî ku gava felaketek rast derkeve, ez dixwazim bi vê komê re bim! Ev şêwaza ramana berbiçav a çareseriyê di awayê ku organîzatorên konferansê de rêve birin de jî hebû. Dema ku konferans di nav çend rojan de ji ber şîretên polîsên nehênî yên Alman hate betal kirin, organîzatorên konferansê neçar bûn ku cîhek nû ji bûyerê re bibînin, û cîh ji bo hemî atolyeyan bibînin. Ev karekî lojîstîkî ya mezin e. Bûyerên wiha bi gelemperî ji hêla pargîdaniyên rêveberiya lojîstîkî yên profesyonel ve têne amadekirin. Bifikirin: bi sedan û bi sedan beşdar, bi dehan atolye, werger bi gelek zimanan, diviyabû her kes bihata xwarin, belavkirin, rêberîkirin, rêwerzên li ser çawaniya gera li Hamburgê û hwd. Organîzatoran di nava çend rojan de her tişt bi rê ve birin. Ti kêmasiyên lojîstîkî tune bûn. Çawa ku mirovên di atolyeya A4Kids de bi baldarî û bi baweriya xwe nêzî karê plansazkirina bajarekî bûn û encamek bû 'Bajarê Azadî û Lênêrîn', mîna ku min û hevjinê xwe David Greber xeyal dikir. Dibe ku bajarên wiha jixwe li deverek hebin, û mimkun e ku bêtir û bêtir biharin, û ez dixwazim bawer bikim ku em bixwe dikarin li ser wan yek bijîn. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Images from Anthropology for Kids, workshop. *Is a transdisciplinary researcher which practice evolved from visual arts, journalism, internet culture and publishing. After an artistic career in Israel in the early Nineties, Dubrovsky was among the pioneers in Russia's new media start-up scene and specialized in social media and open source culture. Moving to New York in 2001 she became a significant voice in Russian blogging. Her critical position on educational regimes led to the development and publishing of doodle books for children. Her current project Anthropology For Kids aims at creating a publication series with a participatory approach. Reframing crucial aspects of human life – family, money, migration, privacy, and alike – Anthropology For Kids seeks to deconstruct conditioned notions of how we (should) live, demonstrating the diversity of perspectives and possibilities that exist in different cultures. Nika Dubrovsky was born in Leningrad / St. Petersburg. She currently lives and works in Berlin.* ### Santiago roose URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/santiago-roose/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:48.000Z Esteras, caña, plástico, calamina, *triplay* y ladrillos. Las estructuras que construye Santiago Roose, en las que estos materiales conviven, remiten inevitablemente al proceso de transformación a partir del que ha crecido, desde mediados del s. XX, su ciudad natal, Lima: oleadas masivas de migración, toma de terrenos baldíos y autoconstrucción. Formado como comunicador y fotógrafo, Roose volvió su mirada hacia esa forma particular de entorno construido al volver a Perú, tras vivir 10 años en Europa. Contra aquella narrativa que desde inicios del s. XXI celebra el “milagro peruano”, un crecimiento económico sostenido sobre un modelo extractivista/exportador de orden colonial, se habían seguido multiplicando allí bajo distintas configuraciones esos asentamientos espontáneos que, sin planeamiento estatal, conforman hoy una vasta periferia que cerca a la llamada “Lima moderna”: paisajes poblados de construcciones improvisadas y endebles, que aún progresivamente transformadas en edificios de material noble, \[1\] permanecen siempre inacabadas. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/SantiagoRoose3.jpeg) fig. 1 Al mirar hacia los conos, \[2\] el quehacer artístico de Roose se ancla en la experiencia renovada, tras su retorno, del afianzamiento y reproducción a diversas escalas de ese régimen que traduce ansiedades coloniales y capitalistas en férrea segregación. La mancha urbana crece; se consolidan nuevos núcleos; rejas y muros proliferan y rebasan los distritos de las élites capitalinas tradicionales, que se aventuran fuera de ellos solo para llegar a los balnearios privatizados, el aeropuerto o la casa de campo familiar. Usando prácticas arquitectónicas populares como lenguaje, Roose configura ocupaciones del espacio que nos trasladan al siempre cambiante paisaje urbano del desborde: lo improvisado, lo marginalizado y lo eternamente inconcluso. Pero, ¿qué nos dicen? La figura resultante es inexorablemente ambigua, y ahí reside su potencia. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/SantiagoRoose4.jpeg) fig. 2 Acaso a la vez testimonio del coraje, creatividad y lucha de las clases populares; evidencia de la tensión entre la posibilidad de un proyecto colectivo y el ahondamiento de la subjetividad neoliberal; crítica de la honda precarización tras décadas de políticas estatales de *laissez-faire*; y manifestación de un imperativo de exclusión colonial, la obra de Roose se muestra como emblema de un proceso trunco y una promesa siempre postergada. En suma, evidencia tanto de una conquista como de un fracaso. Al margen de su heterogeneidad, es ese el signo de los procesos de urbanización en América Latina, e incluso de la condición urbana global: invasiones, pueblos jóvenes, favelas, callampas, villas miseria no son más que el correlato ineludible de la ciudad oficial: amenazantes, pero fundamentales para el status quo. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] En algunos países latinoamericanos se llama así a los materiales empleados en los sistemas constructivos occidentales –concreto y ladrillos industriales–, asociados al progreso y a la modernidad, en oposición a aquellos que se emplean con más frecuencia en la arquitectura vernácula y popular. \[2\] Nombre que se le da en Lima a los distritos formados mediante sucesivas olas de migración desde mediados del s. XX. Entonces alejados y claramente discernibles del casco urbano consolidado de la capital, hoy están totalmente conurbados, y de hecho reúnen a los distritos más populosos de la ciudad. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Santiago Roose. Determinaciones Socio-territoriales: Techo Común (2012) Photo: Santiago Roose. Courtesy of the artist. Santiago Roose. Determinaciones Socio-territoriales: Colonia Litoral. (2013). Photo: Jacques Custer. courtesy of the artist *(Lima, 1998) has a Master's degree in Anthropology from FLACSO-Ecuador. She lives between Lima and Pucallpa, investigating the intersections between planetary urbanization, Amazonia, indigenous peoples and green capitalism.* ### Liberated spaces: URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/liberated-spaces-1/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:47.000Z After the city’s fiscal crisis in the 1970s, New York City has endured decades of violent restructuring by the interlinked complex of real estate, financial capital, and neoliberal governance. As I write these lines, the city is in deep crisis, with over 100,000 unhoused people and a severely botched effort to provide services for a population of 90,000 immigrants dispatched to NYC by the right-wing governors of states including Florida and Texas. Making the crisis far worse, the Rent Guidelines Board, under the direction of Mayor Eric Adams, recently voted in favor of a 3 percent rent hike on over one million rent-stabilized tenants. In the face of such savage forms of urban enclosure, social movements in the city are fighting to reclaim empty buildings and land for public use. These movements – which are overwhelmingly driven by organizers based in working-class communities of color around the city \[1\] - are increasingly employing community land trusts (CLT) to provide genuinely affordable, collectively-controlled housing. Given the scale of the crisis in New York, CLTs alone cannot provide a solution to the intensifying social and ecological problems presented by what I call the extreme city. Nonetheless, CLTs offer a potent symbolic alternative to the brutal injustice of the racial-capitalist urban project. By virtue of their very existence (and their increasing expansion), they inspire community mobilization for more sustainable cities. CLTs allow organized citizens to take land off the private, speculative market, where they cannot control its value. They are nonprofit organizations chartered to hold land in perpetuity. The rights of residents on land held by the CLT are protected through long-term leases that can be bought and sold. Individuals cannot own (and/or attempt to sell off) the land on which their property is built, a model that counteracts the tendency for one generation to cash in on social housing by selling it at market rate, as has happened with previous affordable housing efforts in NYC, such as the Mitchell-Lama program. \[2\] The CLT model of land tenure was created as part of the struggle against racist land dispossession during the era of the Civil Rights movement. This history underlines the CLT’s role in the fight for self-determination. As the urban planner Cassim Shepard has documented in an essay published in the journal *Places*, the first community land trust in the United States was New Communities, Inc., which was established by Shirley Sherrod and the Reverend Charles Sherrod near Albany, Georgia in 1969\. \[3\] The couple set up the CLT after realizing that wealthy white landowners were kicking Black sharecroppers off their land in retaliation for registering to vote. Civil rights would be hollow, the Sherrods concluded, unless people made poor by racial capitalism could assert control over the land that they worked and lived on. As Rev. Sherrod put it, “All power comes from the land.” The Sherrods worked with the white peace activist Robert Swann to buy land in rural Georgia that — like the land collectivized by the Gramdan movement in India in the mid-20th century — allowed for individual ownership of homes, but would be communally farmed and remain collectively controlled. \[4\] The CLT thus developed as a way to decouple the ownership of property from the ownership of the land on which a property is built. The Cooper Square Community Land Trust, NYC’s first of this sort, was born out of the fight against the community-destroying “urban renewal” plans of Robert Moses during the 1950s and 1960s. Cooper Square now controls 23 buildings in the city’s Lower East Side, protecting homes, small businesses, and community spaces in an area of the city that has been subject to decades of disenfranchisement linked to disinvestment and subsequent rampant gentrification. Cooper Square Community Land Trust helped establish the paradigm for CLTs in New York, where the boards that control the trusts are democratically elected and generally three equal parts comprise the structure: one-third of residents of the CLT, one-third of residents of the neighborhood, and one-third public stakeholders who support the CLT with various skills. Today, nearly thirty CLTs are organizing across all five boroughs of the city to ensure permanently affordable housing and community-led development. Elise Goldin and Will Spisak of the New Economy Project, a nonprofit that functions as a resource network for CLTs across the city, explained to me that the growing interest in, and enthusiasm for, CLTs is a result of the failure of previous housing programs. \[5\] Members of the City Council are reaching out to the Project to find out how to organize CLTs as part of a renewed push for social housing in the city. Goldin and Spisak told me that housing advocates across the city are fighting for passage of the “Community Land Act” (CLA) in the state legislature, one part of which directs the city to prioritize nonprofits and community land trusts (rather than private developers) when it sells off city-owned land. The CLA would enshrine in law the idea of public land for the public good. While providing decommodified housing will certainly remain a crucial aspect of CLTs, it is important to note that they also play other key roles in building community power and self-determination. CLTs are also being used to create spaces of communal liberation and cultural rejuvenation in city neighborhoods long afflicted with economic marginalization and environmental injustice. Many of the CLTs developing in NYC today can be seen as contemporary versions of what the activist architect Nandini Bagchee, author of the important book [*Counter Institution*](https://www.fordhampress.com/9780823279265/counter-institution/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org), calls “activist estates”: buildings or other urban places occupied by social movements providing a base through which communities can build cultural power and launch critiques of the city or the nation. \[6\] One prominent example of such a version of the CLT is the H.E.ARTS complex proposal, a project of the Mott Haven-Port Morris Community Land Stewards CLT in the South Bronx. \[7\] H.E.ARTS is to be located in an abandoned city-owned building that was built during the New Deal era as a local health clinic, and which was subsequently taken over by the Young Lords and Black Panthers in 1970 as part of a community mobilization for better health care. Arif Ullah, executive director of sponsoring local environmental justice organization South Bronx Unite, told me that the H.E.ARTS Center will continue this tradition of community-based care, with health defined in preventative terms through arts and education-based healing. \[8\] The building will house a culinary arts kitchen, classrooms, performance spaces, and meeting and office spaces for local organizations that have been doing critical work for decades in the Bronx, but which are now faced with displacement as a result of gentrification. Demonstrating the important role that radical architects can play in these struggles for community self-determination, Nandini Bagchee helped design renovation plans for the building that would house the H.E.ARTS Center. The model of community cultural mobilization advanced by the H.E.ARTS Center is being replicated in other parts of the city. In Western Queens, for example, a successful struggle to fight off a massive land giveaway to the Amazon corporation by local community groups has led to a proposal for the establishment of the Queensboro People’s Space in an under-utilized government building. As the Western Queens CLT argues in their proposal, the Queensboro People’s Space would serve as “a people-centered hub tailored for manufacturing, art-making, and the provision of community benefits, including workforce training, food and nutrition services, and family-centered care.” \[9\] Set near the luxury housing towers that line the riverfront in Long Island City (among the city’s most massive development projects of recent years), as well as next to the nation’s largest public housing complex, the Queensboro People’s Space will constitute an important example of democratic and equitable land use. Linked to their role as liberated cultural spaces, CLTs such as the H.E.ARTS Center and the Queensboro People’s Space are playing a growing part in community-based climate adaptation projects. South Bronx United’s Mychal Johnson wrote that: “as environmental justice advocates, we see the potential for the Community Land Act to enhance public health equity, access to green space in underserved communities, and a chance to mitigate the disproportionate pollution burden that communities of color have been forced to bear as a result of racist public and private land use decisions.” \[10\] Johnson’s colleague Arif Ullah emphasized to me that the Mott Haven-Port Morris Community Land Stewards CLT has made such environmental justice aspirations tangible by developing a waterfront plan that would give 100,000+ people access to the waterfront along the Bronx River. In a part of the city with some of the nation’s highest asthma rates (linked to the heavy traffic associated with highways and other infrastructure in Bronx), this greenspace would be a life-saving piece of urban infrastructure. Additionally, the waterfront plan would also help offset the potentially toxic effects of storm surges such as the one that devasted NYC during Hurricane Sandy. Linked to their role as liberated cultural spaces, CLTs are thus playing a growing part in community-based climate adaptation projects. The provision of affordable food to economically and racially marginalized communities in NYC is another role that community advocates envisage for CLTs. Boris Santos, co-founder of Brooklyn-based East New York CLT, shared with me that their project envisages a series of spaces that include spaces for urban agriculture and food distribution. \[11\] The East New York CLT’s *Black Paper* publication emphasizes that the neighborhood has been heavily targeted by racist policing practices for decades, resulting not just in criminalization of residents, but in police ownership of significant portions of land in the area. As the *Black Paper* puts it, “\[t\]his land must be brought into public ownership. This is why we are telling the City, ‘Don’t cop out on community ownership!’.” \[12\] As this survey of the struggles around land, housing, and community self-determination in NYC underlines, community land trusts are a pivotal element in broader efforts to establish liberated spaces in the city. These efforts to decommodify land are key to the contemporary insurgency against collective displacement and ecological emergency in NYC. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Ashley Dawson, *Extreme Cities: The Peril and Promise of Urban Life in the Age of Climate Change* (New York: Verso, 2017). \[2\] Lauren Gill, “Mitchell-drama: Clinton Hill Co-op At War Over Whether to Cash In,” Brooklyn Paper (23 Feb 2019), [https://www.brooklynpaper.com/mitchell-drama-clinton-hill-co-op-at-war-over-whether-to-cash-in/](https://www.brooklynpaper.com/mitchell-drama-clinton-hill-co-op-at-war-over-whether-to-cash-in/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[3\] Cassim Shepard, “Land Power,” Places (2022), [https://placesjournal.org/article/community-land-trusts-and-civic-empowerment/](https://placesjournal.org/article/community-land-trusts-and-civic-empowerment/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[4\] “The New Gramdan Movement,” Center for New Economics (10 Dec 2019), [https://centerforneweconomics.org/newsletters/a-new-gramdan-movement/](https://centerforneweconomics.org/newsletters/a-new-gramdan-movement/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[5\] Elise Goldin and Will Spisak, Personal Interview, 1 Aug 2013. \[6\] Nandini Bagchee, Counter Institution: Activist Estates of the Lower East Side (New York: Fordham University Press, 2018), 2. \[7\] See South Bronx Unite, “H.E.ARTS Center,” Feasibility Report, [https://www.southbronxunite.org/hearts-health-education-the-arts-center](https://www.southbronxunite.org/hearts-health-education-the-arts-center?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[8\] Arif Ullah, Personal Interview, 28 July 2023. \[9\] Western Queens Community Land Trust, Queensboro People’s Space Feasibility Report, [https://wqclt.org/current-projects/qps](https://wqclt.org/current-projects/qps?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[10\] Annie Carforo and Mychal Johnson, “For a Healthier City, New York Must Pass the Community Land Act,” City and State New York (17 July 2023), [https://www.cityandstateny.com/opinion/2023/07/opinion-healthier-city-new-york-must-pass-community-land-act/388591/](https://www.cityandstateny.com/opinion/2023/07/opinion-healthier-city-new-york-must-pass-community-land-act/388591/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[11\] Boris Santos, Personal Interview, 9 Aug 2023. \[12\] East New York CLT, Black Paper #1, [https://www.eastnewyorkclt.org/advocacy/current-campaigns/nypd-land-redistribution/](https://www.eastnewyorkclt.org/advocacy/current-campaigns/nypd-land-redistribution/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) IMAGE CREDITS Santiago Roose. Determinaciones Socio-territoriales (2022). Photo: Eduardo Hirose. Courtesy of the artist. *Ashley Dawson is Professor of Environmental Humanities at the Graduate Center/City University of New York and the College of Staten Island. He has published many books on the ecological emergency, including the forthcoming Environmentalism from Below (Haymarket), as well as People’s Power: Reclaiming the Energy Commons (O/R, 2020), Extreme Cities: The Peril and Promise of Urban Life in the Age of Climate Change (Verso, 2017), and Extinction: A Radical History (O/R, 2016). Dawson is an activist with the Public Power NY movement and the abolitionist campaign for a Renewable Rikers.* ### Where art is fertile URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/where-art-is-fertile/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:45.000Z In 1962, Rachel Carson published *Silent Spring*. This event was considered to be the origin of the shift from the science of ecology to the social movement of environmentalism. Since then, approaches, ecosophies, and political ecologies, from deep ecology to green corporatism, have multiplied. In those early years of environmentalism, where did artists, critics, gallery owners and the art milieu look for reference? After the depoliticisation of Abstract Expressionism, a growing anguish in the face of the nuclear threat, and the ideological polarization of the world, Pop Art emerged in the United States as a meta-entertainment identified with the consumer society, and, a few years later, drawing from conceptual art premises, Land Art and the earthworks proposed a form of public art existing beyond the gallery space. One could find therein veiled references to the ecological crisis, with the notion of entropy and Robert Smithson’s fascination with the crumbling anti-landscapes of Passaic, New Jersey — or any urban periphery after the Great Acceleration of Post-War thermocapitalism. But, in general, the group, a largely WASP male cohort, built the anthropocentric proposals on a conventional notion of the role of the art and the artists, blind, somehow, to the land as an eco-political subject, its histories and potential as substrate for life, not only for spectacle. In those same years, some other proposals (such as those by Helen and Newton Harrison, Mierle Laderman-Ukeles, Hans Haacke, Gianfranco Baruchello or Joseph Beuys, and many other erased or elided contributors from the Global South) begin to reckon with the complex interaction of their present moment between people, models of production and consumption, and biomes, leading, for example, to involvement in forms of Social Plastic, and in the creation of Die Grüne, a strong grassroots organization that is a milestone in the anti-nuclear struggle in Europe. From then until today the bonanza of the 1990s and the first years of the 21st century have been distinguished by a triumphant neoliberalism, new economic growth cycles, monetary discipline, globalization and hypermobility which have fuelled the contemporary art production system, and the art fairair-Biennale industrial complex. The economic engine linked to the financial sector (driving the growing gap between elites and other social strata) seemed to falter after the crisis of 2007-2009\. dOCUMENTA 12 (2013) unfolded a theoretical scaffolding defined in the realm of ideas and featuring Object-Oriented Ontology, New Materialisms, and a possible transmodernity, complete with hybrid sensibilities and bodies that transcend classical humanism (in the words of Dussel and Mignolo, and all thinkers who articulate feminisms) . T.J. Demos’s analysis of the trope of the garden at dOCUMENTA 13 explored what was becoming a trend in contemporary art. Demos writes: “As a result Christov-Bakargiev’s project betrayed a (non)position of uncommitted pluralism, a tendency familiar in the liberal milieu of contemporary art, happy to allude to crises and emergencies but take no clear stand in relation to them.” \[1\] Within such a transformative theoretical framework, art, once again, privileged aesthetic reflections that circulate, like memes, through channels of influence. This generated common points of reference, linking art and ecology, and criteria of validation that allow us to “authorize” (i.e. connect with an author) proposals in a system still largely governed by the idea of the autonomy of art ingrained within a model of unquestioned growth, as well as a wide formal plurality and a spectacle that privileges simulacra over root-work and conscious change. Thus the question still remains: what could be the use of art in the heat of the climate crisis? In the present moment, the celebration of ecological wonders, such as the mycorrhizal *fungi* networks, or fluctuating gender behaviors in animals, are part of a necessary acknowledgment by the cultural field of the importance of building another civilizational paradigm beyond the dogma of economic growth. But that re-presentation (sometimes simplifying, to the ecological scientists’ dismay) if it’s not connected to a radical questioning of many aspects in which the art system functions, and the role of the cultural worker, would only work to sublimate anxiety in times of eco-social breakdown and to green-wash institutions. As exhibitions on art and ecology keep coming, the frustration with their futility increases, as recently pointed by the art critic Marv Recinto in her text, *Eco Exhibitions Won’t Save Us*, \[2\] or as in Taru Elfving questioning of the artist-in-residency model. \[3\] Another recent case is that of also documenta fifteen, last year, more polemical than any previous edition, and claiming a divergent perspective on how art exists and functions, Ruangrupa’s proposal looked at localized practices, sustained involvement, and radical approaches to art. Their take on the exhibition went beyond topical issues, but also involved exposing and turning upside down infrastructural aspects, such as the finances of the exhibition, the participants’ invitation process, and more broadly, the decission-making guding the exhibition. More than bringing eco-critical questions in art exhibitions, Ruangrupa’s dOCUMENTA showed the importance of questioning how art manifests today, and how it could be otherwise. Therefore, we must be able to acknowledge theoretical frameworks that are in need of constant redefinition, incorporating, for example, the analysis of the Anthropocene, or of the post-humanism from the perspective of racialized and indigenous identities, as in the work of Zakiyyah Iman Jackson and Zoe Todd, or how agroecology goes beyond western-centric notions of post-nature or Re-wilding. Within the innumerable discussions around the concept of *lumbung*, \[4\] those within the network directly involved in ecological practices came to create the Lumbung Land Group, with the central idea of liberating land to transform it into territory. The *lumbung* interlokal aims to create an interdependent collective economy based on *lumbung* values of generosity, regeneration, independence, humor and self-sufficiency. Between June 2020 and September 2021, the *lumbung* economy working group has held discussions to define collective values, ways of governing the collective rice barn, and projects that would build the collective economy. As part of the latter, the *lumbung* created the Kios and Gallery as a way of using documenta fifteen to “transvest” money for the *lumbung* collective, and for local ecosystems through rethinking the sales of merchandise and artwork. Alongside this, we developed both the *lumbung* land and *lumbung* currency, which are seen as projects that can build a *lumbung*\-value based economy in the long term. Since the origins of the *lumbung* land working group we have realized the importance of looking at land-based projects and economies as a political commitment to divest from the dependence of art as a service-sector activity funded by the public or by private investment. The vision involves a form of care for the land as a living support structure with whom we co-exist. In this sense the projects have in mind the agency of the land as living aspect of the biosphere, and, therefore, the need arises to root our practices in allying to peasant and indigenous communities and becoming custodians of the land to prevent extractivism and speculation. Members have been working for many years in this direction and started to exchange their practices and knowledge on these approaches include Jatiwangi Art Factory, Wajukuu, INLAND, and Mama. The discussion has been focussed on collective governance of land, and development models that start from community, as well as the non-human needs combining agriculture, biodiversity, human culture and the spiritual. Also, we think about how to see “investment” of the *lumbung* in specific pieces of members’ land: what would be the return, financial and symbolic? Meanwhile, a land-discursive working group started to come into being. This group focuses on connecting the differing public programs of *lumbung* collectives that look at reconnecting to the memory of the land, and how to build an imagery connected to land which is based on artistic processes and indigenous poetry, songs, and images in order to move beyond extractivist modernist uses, as well as to think about restitution of land and what that means for ownership, collective re-creation of narratives, and memories. These two groups became intertwined as learning processes. Currently we continue looking at the importance of schools, as developed by, amongst others, Inland (Shepherds School and the Inland Academy) \[5\], Wajukuu and Jatiwangi Art Factory (New Rural School), and we are discussing the possible form of a collective Lumbung Land School. The focus we take for the proposed projects for this *lumbung interlokal* land project is aligned with our vision of agroecology, which has a holistic approach and encompasses the social, economic, environmental, and cultural dimensions. This is not a school in the classic sense, but rather it is a container where the collective learning, harvesting, and experimentation happens, to be brought to the lumbung rice barn. The project has three major strands: 1. Collective harvest and learning from specific land development projects in the *lumbung* that focus on creating autonomy for communities and holistic development of land combining culture, agroecology, nature, spiritual, and the social; and/or that look into the relation to non-human histories and cultural practices around land, memories, and restitution. We started with three case studies, JaF, Inland and Wajukuu. Each has specific land-based projects with much in common, but also different starting points. Inland starts from the need to experiment with and develop tools for land cultivation based on agroecology as a way to overcome the confined realm of contemporary art, and the academic incorporation of ecological concerns using shallower approaches. Placing the rural in the center as a space to explore non-hegemonic models to live, we are experimenting with the transition from a eucalyptus monoculture to a biodiverse forest, the coordination of a World Alliance of Mobile Indigenous Pastoralists/Nomads, or beekeeping as multilevel healing. Jatiwangi Art Factory, based in Indonesia, builds on the concept of soil (*tanah*) as a starting point for a life in balance with nature and community. From this origin they look at reforestation, ecology, agriculture, spirituality, and memory in relation to land, and community led entrepreneurship. Currently, it has two small plots of land on which it experiments: the soil bank and the sacred forest. They want to expand these two plots in the school to create a New Rural Agenda in the midst of a rapid land-grab and mega-development. Wajukuu is developing a farm project in rural Kenya. The farm is the sustainability model for its community and collective. A place where the community can reclaim its autonomy, create a livelihood, and where the children of Mukuru, an important slum of Nairobi where they are based, can reconnect to their family histories and to nature. 2. Development of the *lumbung* economy and the idea of collective harvest and governance of specific pieces of land within the *lumbung*. We look into the economic side of the collective governance of the three land projects mentioned above. The idea of a possible rotative land fund, where the productive and non-productive return from the land would be defined and assessed collectively and returned to the *lumbung* rice barn to then be distributed to other members in the *lumbung*, is also being tested at Inland’s project, the Office for Direct Cultivation. ODC offers accompaniment for art projects in the rural areas, looking at conceptual, social, and economic aspects with the intention of developing further the existing network of the Confederacy of Villages. \[6\] For example, working with the Palestinian street theater collective Basta to set up a base in rural areas, between Palestine and Spain, which is financed by the production and commercialization of Habibi Tahini sesame paste, which is processed in the Old City of Jerusalem. 3. Further exchange of creation and experimentation with imagery, knowledge, spirituality and cultural production in relation to the land, to develop collective publications, public programs or exhibitions anchored in the practices mentioned above. This form of a collaborative grassroots system that connects with its respective localities and contexts might be just an attempt, a form of questioning and learning by doing, in moments that pull us back — feet on the Earth — to reconsider the place of art. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] T.J. Demos, “Gardens Beyond Eden: Bio-aesthetics and Eco-Futurism and Dystopia at dOCUMENTA (13),” The Brooklyn Rail (October 2012), [https://brooklynrail.org/2012/10/art/gardens-beyond-eden-bio-aesthetics-eco-futurism-and-dystopia-at-documenta-13](https://brooklynrail.org/2012/10/art/gardens-beyond-eden-bio-aesthetics-eco-futurism-and-dystopia-at-documenta-13?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[2\] Marv Recinto, “Eco Exhibitions Won’t Save Us,” (July 18 2023), [https://artreview.com/ecocritical-art-hayward-dear-earth-climate-crisis-exhibition/](https://artreview.com/ecocritical-art-hayward-dear-earth-climate-crisis-exhibition/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[3\] Taru Elfving, “Residencies and Future Cosmopolitics,” (May 26 2020), [https://www.kunsten.be/en/now-in-the-arts/residencies-and-future-cosmopolitics/](https://www.kunsten.be/en/now-in-the-arts/residencies-and-future-cosmopolitics/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[4\] Ruangrupa, “lumbing,” (2022), [https://universes.art/en/documenta/2022/short-concept](https://universes.art/en/documenta/2022/short-concept?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[5\] Inland Academy “About,” [inland.org/academy](https://inland.org/academy?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[6\] Confederacy of Villages, “Home”, (2021), [www.confederacyofvillages.org](https://www.confederacyofvillages.org/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) IMAGE CREDITS Urban shepherding, by INLAND´s Forest-Flock-Classroom in Casa de Campo Madrid´s park. *’s practice develops social systems, cooperatives and durational actions around the land as a space to rethink cultural conditions under post-Fordism, and to confront the eco-social collapse. These include Inland, a project about a para-institution he initiated in 2009\. Based in the Northern Spanish Mountains, where he is resuscitating an abandoned village, he studied Fine Art and Rural Sociology, and he is currently working towards a Ph.D. in agroecology at the Institute of Sociology and Peasant Students at the University of Andalusia, Spain.* ### Momentum 12 / together as to gather URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/momentum-12-together-as-to-gather/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:44.000Z *Momentum*, the art biennale taking place on Jeløya, the Norwegian island floating on the greater Oslofjord, goes against an elementary geographic component that makes up most art fairs and biennales. Considering the fact that a desire to mold art as a global experience is spatially lackluster, the so-called “art world” in Europe is hardly a *world* at all; rather, it almost always boils down to its Western part, rotating between twenty affluent cities, and usually situated within the same three neighborhoods of each metropolis. It is also crucial to pinpoint that celebrated art fairs and biennales are typically walking distance from either an organizational institution that represents state power – be it a police station or a parliamentary building – or at least one ATM crammed into a nondescript wall. What that ultimately signifies is that art is implicitly aligned with two other forces that are perceived as being where people are obliged to come together: state and market. Now, obvious bonds between the production of art and metropolitan areas suggests that it has become almost impossible to imagine creative or cultural production that is not mired in explicit forms of control. Think of guards protecting art fairs and biennales from undesired visitors who do not have enough cash to take part in its globality, or conversations about horizontality that take place in privately-owned institutions. The situation is dire. Situating biennales outside the coercive borders of a Capital-bent metropolitan area could be a good start: to begin with a form of redemption; a place not teeming with confusing monetary and transport systems, but one abundant with shrubs, pebbles, and indifferent cows. This is, of course, not to say that the rural is necessarily pastoral, that all ruralities are somehow the same, or that situating art in such environments does not bear a social, political, or ecological toll. Indeed, certain artworks in MOMENTUM’s 12th iteration, *Together as To Gather* (curated by Tenthaus), intentionally stray from the anticipated romanticization of the rural. In *Forest* (2023), Germain Ngoma’s site-specific artwork, the fjord’s pebbles have been placed on hacked trunks, addressing locality by decontextualizing the island’s elements. Acknowledgements such as these act as underlying themes for MOMENTUM. Like so many other similarly bountiful congregations, the rural biennale professes non-hierarchical curation. While the Oslo-based Tenthaus collective is officiating the role on paper, the final result of the exhibited biennale is diffuse, as members of the team invited other groups and individual practitioners to hop aboard and discover unexpected commonalities with one another. Doing so meant that each participant had a shared responsibility in the exhibition’s cumulative presentation, since artists essentially curated the works of their equals, and visitors were encouraged to participate in communal creation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Germain-Ngoma-Forest-2023-2-PHOTO-CREDIT-Eivind-Lauritzen-A-2023-Galleri-F-15.jpeg) fig. 1 Most surprising was the location of MOMENTUM’s latest iteration. True, it is by no means the first or only biennale to position itself outside of the urban hustle and bustle. But MOMENTUM succeeds in eliminating the element of the city altogether. Placed in red barns facing the fjord and an agricultural estate, the setting effortlessly defines itself as a far cry from typical seats of power, which showcase faux notions of collectively made artworks. Despite the fact that all participants in the biennale had a rather loose orientation from Tenthaus in regards to what could be displayed, recurring themes emerged, particularly a sense of *play*. Take the case of Gudskul – the Jakarta-based art collective that centered itself in the centerpoint between all barns, close to the other MOMENTUM venues. Its contribution to MOMENTUM is a communal kitchen, *Gudkitchen-​Tentsku*, decorated with Indonesian food packaging that rustles like little trinkets. Funnily enough, the ambition for shared nourishment was foiled by local bureaucracies, who claimed that artists do not have permission to cook, thus rendering the practice impossible. Despite the fact that it is difficult to make new friends on an empty stomach, Gudskul’s presence during the biennial’s opening weekend was a welcoming one. The collective’s professed curiosity to make meaningful bonds is echoed by the nearby banner by Nayara Leite, which gleefully states, “I AM GLAD WE ARE PLURAL,” as well as by Gudkitchen-Tentsku’s mobile karaoke, which boomed well into the midnight summer sunset. Inside Galleri 15, which hosted the bulk of MOMENTUM’s artworks, Gudskul devised a *Gudhaus* – a makeshift home adorned with mock family photos of the collective, along with a sofa and some shelves. While the world-building of the room was unconvincing, even when its sarcasm is taken into account, a game of four-dimensional chess proves to be a heartfelt occasion to meet others and entertain the notion of a game based not on competition, but cooperation. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Gudskul_Stitching-Ecosystems_Gudkitchen-Tentskul_Photo-credit_Eivind-Lauritzen-Galleri-F-15.jpg) fig. 2 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Gudskul_Stitching-Ecosystems_GUDHAUS_Photo-credit_Eivind-Lauritzen-Galleri-F-15.jpeg) fig. 3 Creating meaning by sharing is central elsewhere at MOMENTUM, too. In *National Utopia* (2023), Jaanus Samma suspends harnesses and jock straps – arguably, some of the most intimate corporeal decorations imaginable – and beautifies them with Baltic embroidery patterns. With *Collectivity Painting I & II* (2023), Stephanie Lüning also focuses on participation. Here, the artist instructs viewers to splatter the residue of naturally-colored ice cubes made from local flora across on a large, white surface. Each visitor shooting their shots must wait for the sun to melt the ice, watching as the sacred transformation of crude material slowly seeping into an art form took place. Without a doubt, the urge to have fun and make works communicable dominates this iteration of MOMENTUM. Yes, it’s joyous and refreshing, but, at times, it’s also reductive and simplistic. Gabo Camnitzer’s *50 Million Windows* (2021) are essentially Sharpie doodles drawn on a wall by passers-by. This raises a question general to participatory curatorship and art: if art is a shared creation, what is the use of a single artist’s authorship? Still, projects such as *Fotobook DUMMIES Day*, a treasure cove of art photography books and zines conceived by Lin Junye and Liu Chao-tze, are anything but schematic. Presenting a library collection of self-published books spanning from all over, the *Bread and Butter Workshop* that presented the artists’ extensive Fotobook DUMMIES Day library was reflexive in form, containing a literature of sex workers, night hawkers, and karaoke bar singers. In this project, written works and presentations fuse anthropological questions of what is considered culturally “valuable” with the difficult matter of assessing beauty as a single criteria on an interconnected planet. Initiatives of diffused curation pose a tension. If all are welcome to gather, as the biennal’s title for 2023 suggests, how were certain practices and artists chosen to participate in MOMENTUM 12 over all others that were not? This decision-making process was made by a simple word-of-mouth invitation. Cheesy as it might sound, gathering is a means rather than an end. What matters most, as a member of Gudskul told me, is to make friends. While it is intuitive to decry experimental curation as being entangled in an unjust geopolitical system of social divisions over which it has little control, the fetishization of others is – luckily – difficult when the environment itself is as generous and welcoming as MOMENTUM 12. Collectivity, non-hierarchical art practices, and locality are by now accepted narratives in the art sector. Yes, horizontality is the latest curatorial trend. But that does not mean its coordinates are well defined. This is not to suggest that the process of art presentation should be an exact science, but rather an enjoyable experience; a welcoming and generous one. The fact that a biennale could serve as home for so many practitioners coming from all over evokes togetherness better than any place where all are fighting to be a part in one of the centers of the world. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Nayara Leite, *Homodagene,* 2022\. Photo by Eivind Lauritzen, 2023, Galleri F 15. fig. 1: Germain Ngoma, *Forest,* 2023\. Photo credit Eivind Lauritzen Â, 2023, Galleri F 15. fig. 2, 3: Gudskul, *Stitching Ecosystems, Gudkitchen-Tentskul.* Photo credit Eivind Lauritzen, Galleri F 15. *Ido Nahari is a sociologist, researcher and writer who works in the fields of cultural revivalism, social welfare and the commodification of emotions. Born in Jerusalem and currently living in Berlin, Nahari holds a Master of Science in Culture and Society from the London School of Economics and Political Science, where he investigated the marketability of authenticity.* ### Long-distance friendships URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/long-distance-friendships/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:43.000Z It is necessary to begin with a disclaimer. I curated Survival Kit in 2019 and now, for the first time, I am enjoying the festival from the position of the visitor and of a friend. As the festival opened, curator Alicia Knock described the premises behind the title of the festival *Long-Distance Friendships*. It functions not as a theme but as a way of looking at the relationships that occur naturally in research-based international artistic practices. This posture manifests itself in the friendship between the co-curator of the exhibition Inga Lāce, as well as many of the collaborations with artists and collectives that are involved. That’s also among the reasons why I was invited to join the audience. The complex mesh of friendships (artistic, intellectual, intimate, personal, economic, and political) is investigated by the festival through the ideological and economic alliance put in place between the USSR and Eastern Bloc with African and Latin American countries during the Cold War. These alliances – perpetuated through grants, student and worker exchanges and inter-nations funding; forms of soft power – shaped the contamination between cultural community and long-lasting economic benefits. A curatorial choice that comments on the attempt of the Soviet Bloc to create a horizontal economic approach, which promoted the mutual growth and nourishment of the participating nations. These are reflected by the exhibition venue: the Vidzeme Market, a section known for the sale of butter, sauerkraut, and flowers, built in Riga in 1902\. Meandering through old butcher and cheese stalls, the artworks produce a bold thesis spanning from historical examples of friendships formed in the Soviet Union, non-Western contemporary feminist and queer decolonial practices, to works that document the influence of Soviet education on African culture and cinema. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Installation-View-Inga-Erdmane-Imprints.jpeg) fig. 1 The first work I encountered in the halls was Inga Erdmane’s *Imprints* (2023), a site-specific archive that includes photographs of student groups in Latvian Universities during the ‘60s and ‘70s. This work stems from the encounter between the artist and Dr. A.A. Duchi in Zanzibar – a former African student who received a stipend in the ‘60s to study medicine in the Soviet Union, and still has fond memories of Riga. From his personal archive of uncanny images of student life – which would not be different from those of Western universities today – with young people from all over the globe, the idea of an isolated and uniform population in the USSR is dispelled. The artist duo Janek Simon and Max Cegielski examine the cultural relations between post-independent African states and Eastern Europe through an archival display of photographs, video footage, and news reports. The two artists traveled to Ghana to research a short-lived monument created in 1965 by Polish sculptor Alina Ślesińska. The sculpture, destroyed after a CIA-backed coup in 1966, depicted the revolutionary Prime Minister Kwame Nkrumah. Under the influence of the Soviet Union and a commitment to pan-African diasporic communities, Nkrumah led Ghana to independence from Britain and was awarded the Lenin Peace Prize in 1962. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Janek-Simon-and-Max-Cegielski-one-man-doesnt-rule-a-nation.jpeg) fig. 2 Also in the market hall is a large-scale photograph installed by Ilona Németh. Taken in the 1970s, the photo depicts Németh’s father at the opening of the flower show *Flóra Bratislava,* which contained flowers coming from Africa. Through her own experience, on view in a collection of smaller photographs arranged around the market hall, Németh illustrates the moment when, as a student in Hungary, she met her friend Lemlem Sissay, who today lives in Ethiopia. Sissay was an international exchange student of agriculture in Hungary during the 1980s and today runs a flower farm that exports to Europe. Németh critically exposes the extractive processes hidden within supply lines that contribute to the wage imbalances that make buying Ethiopian flowers cheaper than buying those which are locally grown. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Ilona-Nemeth_Flora-Bratislava.jpeg) fig. 3 These exchanges between Eastern Europe and African countries were not only the source of friendships, but also grew into multi-ethnic families. Natalie Perkof, an Afro-Czech artist, grew up in a small farming community in a Moravian village, under a deep connection with nature and the influences of Czech mythology. In her personal story, she recounts the struggle of being the only biracial child in the area, a struggle that fueled her interest in the fusion of African sensitivity to materials with Czech agrarian traditions. This results in her practice in subtly-arranged, painterly collages made from carbon and aramid fibers that create rough patterns of internationalism. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Installation-View_Anna-Ehrenstein-together-with-DNA-Vidisha-Fadescha-Shaunak-Mahbubani-and-Rebecca-Pokua-Korang-The-Albanian-Conference.jpeg) fig. 4 In neighboring Germany, Anna Ehrenstein's life story similarly determined her artistic focus and political ambitions. Born in a refugee camp shortly before her father was deported from Germany, she presents an installation practice dealing with topics of migration, decoloniality, Islamophobia, and solidarity across the Global South in the digital age. The work *The Albanian Conference* (2021) was made in collaboration with DNA, Vidisha-Fadescha, Shaunak Mahbubani, and Rebecca Pokua Korang. This project is a choreographed restaging of the Afro-Asian Writers Conference that took place in Tashkent in 1958\. The Soviet Republic of Uzbekistan hosted the fourth iteration of the festival, opening the door for audiences within the USSR to literature from what was at that time labeled the “third world,” \[1\] and re-imagined the potential for internationalism without the West -–a goal that was never achieved. Ehrenstein’s reenactment results in a series of videos in which the group creates philosophical and choreographed rhythms with glitched callipygous moves. By evoking accountability, political action, and the abolition of gender, these scenes update the potential conversations in Tashkent with considerations on technology and queer theory in Eastern decolonial positionalities in the Global South. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Installation-View_Anna-Ehrenstein-together-with-DNA-Vidisha-Fadescha-Shaunak-Mahbubani-and-Rebecca-Pokua-Korang2-The-Albanian-Conference.jpeg) fig. 5 The influence of the Soviet Bloc on moving image production within African culture is not overlooked in the exhibition. School of Mutants, a collective formed in 2018 by Hamedine Kane and Stéphane Verlet-Bottéro, invited filmmakers and artists Valérie Osouf, Hannah Tayler, Moise Togom, and Tejswini Narayan Sonawane to contribute to the investigations on the role of academia and culture in post-independence nations such as Senegal. In an installation, they honor the celebrated Senegalese filmmaker Ousmane Sembéne, whose artistic approach was influenced by techniques encountered in universities in Moscow and Prague and later brought back to Africa. In this context, Tejswini Narayan Sonawane presents a series of prints of the covers of books and posters of films that were translated into the Latvian language. Further, this is complemented by a video by Jihan el Tahri titled *Cinema Died at Camp Boiro* (2017), in which she interviews family members and friends of more fathers of African cinema, including Costa Diagne and Kalifa Condé, who also studied in Moscow with scholarships during the same time. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Jihan-El-Tahri-Cinema-Died-at-Camp-Boiro.jpeg) fig. 6 The exhibition carries the proposition to resume the side of historical relationships that flourished despite the hegemonic threat of the west, which is relatively unknown today due to the decline and disassembly of the Soviet Union in the ‘90s. The exhibition actively resists the idea of “the East” of Europe as a uniform society separate from global influences (as promoted by conservative politicians) and creates its own history of friendships separate from Western Europe. Friendships created by the movement of students, artists, agricultural workers, and scientists have always led to fruitful exchanges, cultural improvement and science at both ends – contrary to systems that create economic and cultural dependency between nations. Finally, culture would be impossible without friendship. This powerful personal tool reaches beyond political strategy and state borders; it creates ties where international policy attempts to sever relations. In 1994, Jacques Derrida published *The Politics of Friendship* precisely in reaction to the collapse of the Soviet Union and the West’s premature celebrations of the victory of the Cold War. In it, he makes the case that true friendship is about recognizing the self inside of the other, and what that means in terms of empathy and the recognition of difference. To make a friend is to approach the other with an open heart and vulnerability – and this is why friendship remains an important technology for political transformation in our society, one that continues to justify alienation and division. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Rossen Djagalov, “The Afro-Asian Writers Association and Its Literary Field,” Sygma Journal, 15 July, 2021\. [https://syg.ma/@sygma/rossen-djagalov-the-afro-asian-writers-association-and-its-literary-field](https://syg.ma/@sygma/rossen-djagalov-the-afro-asian-writers-association-and-its-literary-field?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) IMAGE CREDITS fig. 1: Installation View, Inga Erdmane, *Imprints*. fig. 2: Installation View, Janek Simon and Max Cegielski, *One man doesn't rule a nation.* Cover, fig. 3, fig. 4: Installation View, Ilona Németh, *Flóra Bratislava.* fig. 5: Installation View, Anna Ehrenstein together with DNA, Vidisha-Fadescha, Shaunak Mahbubani and Rebecca Pokua Korang2; *The Albanian Conference.* fig. 6: Installation View, Jihan El Tahri, *Cinema Died at Camp Boiro*. *Àngels Miralda Tena is a Catalan-American writer and curator currently based in Terrassa, Catalonia. She writes on curatorial and institutional ethics and organises exhibitions internationally.* ### Notes on vienna URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/notes-on-vienna-2/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:41.000Z The first art piece I met on my arrival in Vienna was a red spray-painted demand on the concrete wall of the train station. *EU, SOLIDARITY NOT CHARITY!* with an anarchist symbol for the exclamation mark's point. As the protest statement on the wall confirmed, linking solidarity and economy is always a conflict, especially in a regime where even a gesture of kindness is thought to be transactional. It is even more difficult to imagine the relationship between solidarity and the art market when the latter is ruled by the same principle of luxury and scarcity that makes art a factor of class identity. However, the graffiti announced the spirit that would guide the 36 hours ahead of me in the city, in which I roamed around some of the most recognized art endeavors of the eastern conglomerate: the art fair Vienna Contemporary (VCT), the gallery festival Curated by which animates multiple institutions around the city. In Vienna, representing the borderland between European slopes, the sentiment of solidarity breaks through general anti-social-politics and the economic benefits brought to Europe by the ethnic conflicts in the Balkans, the demise of the Soviet Bloc, and the war in Ukraine. On this note, this year, Vienna Contemporary (VCT) and Curated by sought to emphasize the importance of, as they put it, political homelessness and contemporary citizenships by showcasing galleries from the fringes of the European art market and artists who shed light on the disparity in citizenship classes in Austria and Europe. On a more speculative political claim, Curated by manifested a hope for *the time of the not yet*, through the Barthesian theme of the Neutral. The participation of Ukrainian galleries, a few representatives of the queer community, a handful of BIPOC artists, and a series of public panels, tried to unsettle the capital moved during the week of cultural bulimia, and to make visible the struggle of those who cannot afford to express political neutrality or indulge in bourgeoise forms of art. The art fair, hosted in the opulent venue of the Kursalon at the city center, was inhabited by fair-specific portable art formats and gendered wealth – however, a form of horizontality between blue-chip and smaller galleries was pursued by the artistic director Boris Ondreička, who, during our meandering conversation about the fair and art market, revealed the strategy behind the juxtaposition of galleries of different calibers; that which invites visitors and buyers to navigate the fair as a territory in which relationships of cultural and aesthetic affinity are more valuable than international prestige. It may be my romantic eye, but by structuring the fair sections according to a web of interferences and reference, and not notoriety and price ranges, I felt the director’s attempt to recharacterize the fair as a constellation of places of social and artistic representation, where citizenship and aesthetics are not founded on national identities and juridical possibilities, but a belonging informed by conversation and formal intensities, without competition. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/03_EXILE_Sharif-Baruwa_trespassing_2023.jpeg) fig. 1 As the role of art objects as commodities becomes increasingly demystified, there is still a tendency in even the most progressive institutions to present overly stylized perspectives that reduce complex political struggles to mere symbols. However, many artists presented during the fair not only spoke *about* political, cultural, and economic displacement but also spoke *from* these conditions before an audience not coming from the same struggles. For example, Bildrecht SOLO award winner Abdul Sharif Oluwafemi Baruwa (presented by EXILE Gallery) presented intimate portraits of daily life on poor and ephemeral supports, wood and paper scraps, and broken furniture to affirm that the condition of the artist in perennial movement is that of making art on the debris of a stable life. “Or art that can be carried across places on our bodies,” as Vienna Contemporary ZONE1 curator Francesca Gavin, quoting Alfredo Jaar, told me in our conversation on art formats in relation to conditions of exile and nomadism. This adjustment to extreme conditions made me think about the work of the Hungarian artist OMARA – Mara Oláh, presented in the exhibition *Not Either Or, But And* associated with VCT and curated by Laura Amann. OMARA’s work on display, cigarette boxes unfolded and used as tiny canvases, was created during cold winters, when the possibility of oil to dry outdoors was obstacles by the rigid cold. The work subverted the expectation of OMARA’s large-scale oil paintings and highlighted the strong connection between life circumstances and creative processes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/OMARA-Mara-Olah.jpeg) fig. 2 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Robert-Gabris-22Vierka-vastu-merav-Vierka-I-die-for-you22-aus-der-Serie-22The-Blue-Heart22-2014-Bildrecht-Wien-2023.jpg) fig. 3 Despite political values of anti-patriarchy, anti-racism, anti-fascism, and anti-nationalism being flaunted by the more progressive institutions in Europe, little effort is put into accompanying them into a process of deconstructing the privileges that sustain the aforementioned political projects. However, a welcoming impression was served to me by listening to the many forms of gratitude expressed by artists from marginalized and underrepresented communities who were invited to share a piece of the stage by participating in institutional exhibitions. This was evident for the Roma artist Robert Gabris, who premiered their exhibition *This Space Is Too Small For Our Bodies* at Belvedere 21\. Their heartwarming solo show, an ode to the soothing power of community and many-ness of queer bodies against gender normativization, in the face of a life of grief and discrimination, pierced the relatively traditional posture of Belvedere 21\. Through the unfolding of their extensive body of works, consisting of drawings and installation, I felt that a little fissure of hope was granted to Gabris and their community. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Installation-view_-No-Feeling-Is-Final.-The-Skopje-Solidarity-Collection-Kunsthalle-Wien-2023-photo_-www.kunst-dokumentation.com.jpeg) fig. 4 The dynamic of power between the host and guest institution, which often exemplifies the same rules of welcoming and acceptance guarding national borders, was deconstructed by the collective/collaborative exhibition on show at Kunsthalle Wien. Titled *No Feeling is Final. The Skopje Solidarity Collection*, the show brings together modernist works from the MoCA Skopje with those from the Kunsthalle. Bridging geographies and historical landmarks through artistic encounters, the exhibition celebrates forms of international solidarity that partook in the rebuilding of Skopje in the ‘60s after a devastating earthquake. The exhibition, arranged through displays conceived by artists from the Kunsthalle sheltering artworks from Skopje, created a clashing atmosphere, where the common thread between artistic gestures was to demolish hegemonic aesthetics and structures of power. Exemplifying this idea is Brook Andrew’s inflatable large-scale object and mural wall, sheltering works by Pierre Alechinsky, Jasper Johns, Wifredo Lam, Oto Logo, Zoran Mušič, Kumi Sugai, Vladimir Veličković, Marjan Vojska, and Pablo Picasso, allowed the visitors to admire the works from a position of kaleidoscopic softness. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Beatrice-Gibson-I-hope-Im-Loud-When-Im-Dead.jpeg) fig. 5 By moving the sentiment of belonging away from coordinates of nationality and normative-patriarchal ideologies and grounding it in a spectral atmospheric chant coming from generational struggles is the proposition carried by Lucrezia Calabrò Visconti, who curates the exhibition *Motherless Daughters* for the gallery VIN VIN. The main core of the show consists of screenings by Maria Iorio with Raphaël Cuomo, Beatrice Gibson, and Delphine Seyrig, with interludes by Harun Farocki and introduced by a series of twelve poetic invocations titled *Grazia* (2023) by Giulia Crispiani and an uncanny installation *Peaux de dame (Waste Bin)* (2020) by Pauline Curnier Jardin. Through the relationship between moving images, video footage from feminist assemblies, and a divine relationship with mourning a landscape where sisterhood is not a blood relationship but a political act of choosing comrades, affects the visitor. Such as in the video work *I hope I’m Loud when I’m Dead* (2018) by Beatrice Gibson, a collaboration between the artist, poet CAConrad and Eileen Myles, through poetry, footage from political protests, reckon with the effects of political upheaval on an uncertain present. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Giulia-Crispiani-Grazia.jpg) fig. 6 The time spent in Vienna, submitting myself at my own pace to the game of meetings and greetings, but observing the components that create the mesh of the so-called institutional(ized) system of arts, made me hope for a momentum of equality, even if the social and political contradictions are gangrenous. The collaboration between independent institutions, artists, and bigger players in the cultural definition of the city and of a broader geopolitical sphere summoned a form of friendship that may become a way to plot for redistribution. By attempting to intertwine luxury markets and fields of displacement, poverty, and cultural agonization, that result in existential depauperation, maybe those who are forced to minimize their narration for the sake of receiving crumbles of solidarity will learn to steal back dignity. I don’t know if recognition as a luxury good can compensate for stolen lives, but if stealing is spilling, that is creating a relationship, and then from this gesture, a bond can be formed. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: viennacontemporary 2023 | Credits: [kunstdokumentation.com](http://kunstdokumentation.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) fig. 1: Abdul Sharif Oluwafemi Baruwa, *Trespassing*, 2023, oil on canvas, 30x24cm. Courtesy the artist and EXILE. fig. 2: viennacontemporary 2023, Installation View Exile Gallery, Photo: Mariia Yeroshkina. fig. 3: Robert Gabris, *Vierka vastu merav (Vierka I die for you)* aus der Serie "The Blue Heart", 2014\. © Bildrecht, Wien 2023 fig. 4: Installation view: *No Feeling Is Final. The Skopje Solidarity Collection*, Kunsthalle Wien 2023, photo: [www.kunst-dokumentation.com](http://www.kunst-dokumentation.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) fig. 5: Beatrice Gibson, *I hope I'm Loud When I'm Dead*, 2018\. Courtesy the artist and LUX, London. fig. 6: Giulia Crispiani, *Grazia*, 2023, 12 poems, A3 edition 1/50 ita / en. Courtesy the artist. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Dachas rooting at the european periphery URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/dachas-rooting-at-the-european-periphery/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:40.000Z As an Estonian environmental sociologist interested in agroecology and degrowth, I have long been frustrated with the mainstream postcolonial narratives that tend to stigmatize various practices common in the postsocialist East as backward and outdated. In contrast, the ‘West’ always seems to offer real sustainable and green alternatives. In this light, I set out to demonstrate how the European ‘periphery’ can provide some valuable lessons. Additionally, I was motivated to explore the complex social polarization within Estonian society, particularly after the Russian invasion of Ukraine. While being painfully aware of the manifold political perspectives present in the Eastern Estonian Russian-speaking community, many of which do not comply with the ideas of a democratic, emancipatory society, I hope to explore the human side of their individual stories and biographies. Not only did I find *dachas* — a Russian model for a plot of land with a seasonal allotment house, mostly used for food production — as examples for convivial, sufficiency-oriented, low-impact lifestyles, as well as a practice of (re-)rooting. In probably one of the biggest dacha garden cooperatives in Eastern Estonia, called Sputnik, I encountered a magical micro-universe of Russian *babushkas* (grandmothers), and not a few *dedushkas* (grandfathers). They all lit up when telling me about their dacha gardens, the taste of home-grown tomatoes that enclose their hearts, and the need to feel nature by pressing their fingers in the soil. It seemed to me a rather special place where interpersonal competition and a more-is-more-logic had been kept away as a distant dystopian realm. Instead of finding distrust, what I detected in most conversations with the gardeners was almost Buddhistic wisdom, humility, and hospitality. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Lilian-Pungas-Eastern-Estonia-Sputnik-near-Sillamaee-2022.jpeg) Simone Weil contended in her book *The Need for Roots* in 1943 (here quoted according to the English translation, published in 2002/1952) that “to be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul” - yet it is the hardest to define. \[1\] The uprootedness, as a social, spiritual, and cultural malaise, that Weil diagnosed, and which she held responsible for the horrors of World War II, was a condition in which people lacked deep and living connections with their surrounding environments. Uprooting not only resulted from violent military conquests but was also due to deportations and the suppression of local practices and heritage — both practices were common in my studies of Eastern Estonia during the 20th century. Right at the border between Europe and ‘the East’ tens of thousands of ethnic Estonians were deported overnight to faraway Siberia by the Soviet regime (the deportation period lasted from World War II until the beginning of the 1950s). The deportees were then, quite boldly, replaced by hundreds of thousands of Russian-speaking minorities, or ethnic Russians. This led to a significant demographic shift within Estonia, a Russification of politics aimed at uprooting the cultural and ethnic identities to create a ‘new Soviet citizen’. The newcomers were encouraged to relocate into (erstwhile) Soviet Estonia by means of economic incentives and employment opportunities in the growing local industries. However, in some cases, as I found out in my interviews, some of these “settlers” were 13-year-old girls following their older sisters over thousands of kilometers. But how and where does one root herself if home and family are thousands of kilometers away? In my qualitative research, I have come to believe that *dachas* might have played a central role in such abstract rooting processes. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Dachas_2.jpg) The history of *dachas* reaches back to 18th century Russia, when Peter the Great handed out plots of land (*dacha* is derived from the Russian verb ‘to give’: *дать*) as gifts to his courtiers. \[2\] However, this only became a “mass phenomenon” during the Soviet era’s shortage economy, when factory workers throughout the USSR received a 600 square meter dacha garden plot from their employer (e.g., state-owned farming enterprises) for long-term use of the land. The goal was not only to ensure a diverse food supply for millions of families. The Soviet regime propagated the concept of “active leisure” (productive use of leisure time in contrast to “bourgeois” recreational activities). At the same time, various restrictions were implemented to discourage excessive individualism; and dachas were hoped to absorb potential political frustration. These pieces of land (in Russian *земля*) thus ended up being one’s only private retreat from the regime's sight, an individual and personal space, something Virginia Woolf might have called “a room of one’s own.” It was a place for connecting with one’s longings and could be shaped in exactly the way one desired. As such, in Eastern Estonia, dachas became the ultimate place for (re-)rooting and overcoming alienation for the relocated population. The uprooting and alienation of workers results from their inability to experience the production process, own the product of their labor or enjoy the fruits of this work. According to Weil, this can be countered by recognizing the spiritual nature of work. Dachas offer a prime opportunity for that – the *dachniki* literally shape the “production process” when attending their gardens, only to later savor and cherish the harvest — the fruits of their dignified labor — together with family and friends. For many, *dachas* also played a crucial role as a source of sustenance and supported impoverished and unemployed families during the economic transition period in the 1990s across postsocialist Europe. It is thanks to the dachas and the potatoes grown on them that numerous families survived the socio-economic hardship and political turmoil that followed the neoliberalist and nationalist restructuring of the Estonian state in the 1990s. \[3\] ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/2-Lilian-Pungas-Eastern-Estonia-Sputnik-near-Sillamaee-2022.jpeg) Uprootedness also results in destroyed ties with the past, and the dissolution of communities. Thus, communities as “food for mankind” \[4\] must be cultivated, especially ones based on generosity, common sense, of sharing “out of abundance,” and transcend of personal interest. In dacha gardens informal networks of solidarity and mutual aid are flourishing, despite the garden cooperatives not being called “community gardens” as is common in Western European urban centers. I had conversations with elderly people who had been relocated to Eastern Estonia while youngsters from Samarkand due to the civil war among Tajiks, others came from Krasnoyarsk Krai, or Orenburg. Despite divergent backgrounds often involving potential political tensions, the community sense at the dachas was praised: “\[i\]t feels like people here are better people.” What can dachas and *babushkas* then teach us? Simone Weil was convinced that the “rooted” ones do not engage in activities of “uprooting” others, \[5\] and, therefore, held the “(re-)rooting” of humankind for the most crucial task. Being grounded and rooted in (and thanks to) their dachas while engaging in practices of sustenance not only offers dignity, autonomy, and self-worth, it also allows the gardener to be a *human being*, not an uprooted robot worker, or an alienated mindless consumer. \[6\] \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Weil, Simone (2002 \[1952\]). The Need For Roots, Routledge Classics, p. 40. \[2\] Lovell, S. (2003). Summerfolk: A History of the Da- cha, 1710–2000\. Cornell University Press. \[3\] Ehlers, Kai (2010). Kartoffeln haben wir immer: Über- leben in Russland zwischen Supermarkt und Datscha. Horlemann. \[4\] Weil, Simone (2002 \[1952\]). The Need For Roots, Routledge Classics, p. 6f. \[5\] Ibid. p. 45. \[6\] Smith, Jeff (2003). From házi to hypermarket: dis- courses on time, money and food in Hungary. Anthropo- logy of East Europe Review, 21(1), p. 180. IMAGE CREDITS Lilian Pungas, Eastern Estonia, Sputnik near Sillamäe, 2022, © and courtesy Lilian Pungas. *Lilian Pungas lives in Berlin and has just submitted her Ph.D. on the Eastern Estonian dachas and their potential for the degrowth movement at Friedrich Schiller University in Jena. In the thesis, she writes dachas may become an inspiration for future socio-ecological transformation. Currently, she is co-organizing a summer university, including exhibitions, concerts, and dacha excursions at the Sputnik dacha cooperative near Sillamäe, in an effort to build bridges between urban food activists and the local babushkas.* ### Your name will become a code: URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/your-name-will-become-a-code/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:37.000Z **Intro** Mahsa (Kurdish: Žina) Amini’s murder a year ago and the ongoing revolution it inspired in Iran have been the direct result of the Iranian women's transgenerationally accumulated grievances against the power and control the Iranian state has assumed over their bodies since the establishment of the Islamic Republic in 1979\. It is an asymmetrical fight between an inclusive form of feminist secularism and a contemporary variant of political Islam uninterested and unable to evolve in order to reflect social transformations that have taken place in the country over the last four decades. However, as local and specific as it appears at first glance, the Woman, Life, Freedom (WLF) Revolution needs to be seen within the broader tapestry of Middle Eastern women’s fight against ingrained patriarchal norms enforced through the alliance between local traditional cultures and political Islam — a contemporary form of political backlash and cultural war waged against progress and emancipation in the Middle East. The movement, consisting mostly of very young women, is the direct consequence of 40-plus years of sexual and gender apartheid in the country. The policing of women’s dress has historically underscored more than the application of the so-called “Islamic law”. It highlights how hijabs and women’s bodies serve as a litmus test for the Islamic Republic’s grasp on power, its governance of individual liberties, and its quest for ideological consistency. Thus, exploring the events following Mahsa Amini’s demise is not just a matter of looking back at a year of protest and struggle, but a future-oriented probe into the dynamics that might dictate the trajectory of the Islamic Republic and its eventual demise. **Before Mahsa** As a political slogan, “woman, life, freedom” originates from the Kurdish women’s movement, in the wider context of the struggle for Kurdish autonomy and rights in the Middle East. By integrating gender equality into a national liberation movement, WLF captures the fact that women’s liberation is integral to achieving freedom itself. This slogan was already known in Turkey in the early 2000s, but it gained widespread recognition during the Syrian Civil War. Particularly, the resistance against ISIS in Rojava, and the pivotal role of women-led Kurdish militias including the YPG, brought it to the forefront. It’s important to understand that, while Kurdish minorities exist in several nations, and that Mahsa Amini was, herself, Kurdish, the slogan, subtly exposing political Islam’s inherent hostility towards women's rights and freedoms, has become a universal rallying point not only for Kurds and Iranians, but also for others in the region who have been fighting for equal rights. **September 2022** Mahsa Amini was arrested in Tehran on September 13 by agents of Iran’s morality police and accused of improperly wearing the hijab. Initial reports suggested that after her detention, she would be released following notification. However, while still in custody, she was hospitalized and she subsequently passed away. Officials claimed that the cause of her death was not physical and mental abuse, but a heart attack that led to a coma. What sparked the initial protests was the public’s contestation of the cause of death itself. Mahsa’s funeral in the Kurdish city of Saqqez was virtually the ground zero of the revolt. Shouts of “Beloved Žina \[Mahsa\], you will not die quickly!” transformed into demands for a general strike, and for the death of the Iranian dictator, the Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei. Later, protests flared across the country, with participants facing intense street-level repression, media censorship, and internet blackouts meant to hamper their coordination. Anonymous, the global hacktivist group, intervened by assisting protesters in circumventing censorship. They took down Ali Khamenei’s official website, and also publicized the personal information of judges from Iran’s Supreme Court. Back in Iran, as protests broadened to encompass various grievances, state retaliation intensified. Iconic videos and photographs circulated of women defiantly burning their hijabs and cutting their hair. In a tragic event in Zahedan on September 30th, following an outcry over the sexual assault of a 15-year-old Baluch girl by the chief of police, citizens demanding justice were attacked from helicopters during Friday prayers, marking one of the regime’s harshest responses to WLF protests. The attacks caused hundreds of deaths and injuries. On September 28th, people from the Iranian diaspora started mobilizing their outrage through demonstrations in support of the protestors, such as in Berlin in front of the Brandenburg gate, which saw a gathering more than 1800 people. **October 2022** In October, protests erupted globally, spanning countries including Canada, England, New Zealand, the United States, France, Italy, Korea, Sweden, and Switzerland. The protest against the Iranian regime in Berlin on October 22 was joined by thousands of Iranians who were amongst an estimated 80,000 people, the largest of several protests in cities around the world showing solidarity with protesters in Iran. In Iran, artists dyed public fountains with red color to protest against police repression. Simultaneously, the actresses Juliette Binoche and Isabelle Huppert followed by hundreds of other women from around the world in joining the campaign initiated in Iran by protesters by cutting their hair in a gesture of rage and solidarity. At the Guggenheim Museum in New York, a group of anonymous artists staged a protest attempting to draw the attention of the art world to Iran’s ongoing protests. This involved placing 12 banners with Amini’s portrait in the museum. Ali Khamenei issued his first public statement in response to the unfolding events in October. Notably, he emphasized three main points: firstly, he viewed the protests as a scheme orchestrated by foreign adversaries — a stance also shared by President Ebrahim Raisi. Secondly, he asserted that the Kurdish and Baluch communities were predominantly in favor of the Islamic Republic. Lastly, he contended that the acts of burning Qurans and hijabs couldn’t be interpreted as spontaneous reactions. Following the disappearance of a 16-year-old protester, Nika Shakarami, in Tehran in October, Iranian schoolgirls launched a wave of protests. They resisted the entry of government officials into their schools, and were photographed making gestures of dissent against Khamenei. University protests were also prominent during this time and they were harshly repressed by the authorities. The Iranian government attempted to connect a suspicious terrorist attack at the Shah Cheragh shrine in Shiraz, carried out by the Islamic State, to the protestors. This narrative was further advanced by Hossein Salami, the head of the Revolutionary Guard, vowing to quell the “riots,” a pronouncement that ignited further protest. **November 2022** Funerals and memorial ceremonies became focal points of further protests, serving as direct responses to police brutality. Additionally, accusations began to surface against the regime, alleging the use of gas poisoning targeting schoolgirls in various provinces of Iran. As the streets became increasingly more dangerous for protests, universities, particularly art schools, became the new epicenter of protests in Iran. As a result, Tehran Art University and Sharif University were heavily targeted by the security forces in spite of the outrage and international support for students offered by artists from around the world. As a result, repression became even more intensified at universities, with classes being canceled to prevent students from gathering. Coinciding with the anniversary of the “Bloody Aban” protests, which had resulted in massacres in several cities in November 2019, a surge of demonstrations and strikes erupted throughout the country, some facing the most severe repression from the government to date. Additionally, November signified a shift in the regime’s approach to the protests, as Iran’s Revolutionary Courts began enforcing judicial processes to sentence participants to death and long prison terms. **December 2022** By December 26th, the protests had grown into one of the most significant protest movements since the Iranian Revolution of 1979\. Taraneh Alidoosti, a well-known Iranian actress, was arrested after condemning the execution of a young protester and publishing a photo of herself without a hijab. Asghar Farhadi, who directed Alidoosti in the Oscar-winning film The Salesman, wrote on Instagram: “If showing support like Taranech has done is a crime, then tens of millions of people of this land are criminals.” Overall, the greatest achievement of the protest movement was that, for the first time, Iranians from different backgrounds were not only standing up for women’s rights, but they were doing so by frankly questioning the religious underpinning of cultural oppression and political repression that had previously been protected through a polite reluctance to connect social maladies to Islamic ideology. What aided this new form of cultural militancy was the support it was receiving from religious women who, despite wearing hijab as a personal choice, were joining the protest to support women’s right to control their bodies. “Turban throwing” became a protest method practiced widely during the uprising to belittle the Islamic Republic system and the Shi’ite clergy (mullahs) and express disgust towards them. This act involves throwing a turban off the heads of the clergy, filming it, and sharing the image on social media. Ironically, the late Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini was the first to speak out against “corrupt mullahs” during the 1960s, calling for their turbans to be removed. After more than forty years of humiliation by a political system legitimized by religious institutions, protestors were finally finding creative ways to restore dignity to those seeking secularism by breaking religious taboos. **January 2023** A demonstration drawing over 10,000 participants was held in front of the European Parliament in Strasbourg in solidarity with Iranian women. This took place around the same time the US Congress passed a resolution condemning Iran’s human rights violations. The Nobel Peace Prize-winning Iranian lawyer and human rights activist Shirin Ebadi, alongside Amnesty International UK Chief Executive Sacha Deshmukh, were among the speakers at a rally in Trafalgar Square that was staged in solidarity with protesters in Iran. **February 2023** Responding to the execution of Mohammad Mehdi Karami and Seyyed Mohammad Hosseini, a wave of protests take place in Khuzestan in western Iran. **March 2023** The Alliance For Democracy And Freedom, an organization that brings together monarchists, republicans, and activists from different political backgrounds, released their “Mahsa Amini Charter,” a call for a unified front against the Islamic Republic to establish a secular democratic system, and to be implemented after a referendum. For the first time since the hospitalization of schoolgirls across multiple provinces in November due to intoxication, the government addressed the incidents. They denied any responsibility for the attacks, and refrained from sharing information with independent bodies. UNESCO criticized the government’s stance and called for comprehensive investigations into the poisonings. While there were reports of decreasing tensions in most provinces, Sistan and Baluchestan — where Kurdish and Baluch minorities are concentrated — still have regular protests involving hundreds of people. **April 2023** Hamed Esmaeilion, an opposition figure representing the families of victims of the Ukraine Airlines flight that was shot down by the Islamic Revolutionary Guards in January 2020, and who is supported widely by feminists, leftists, and socialists, left the Alliance For Democracy and Freedom because of what he called the usage of “undemocratic methods” by some within the alliance. According to Esmaeilion, positions attributed to the former Shah son Reza Pahlavi were reportedly the reason for his resignation a month after the release of the “Mahsa Amini Charter.” The policing of hijab laws reportedly was reintensified during this period with the installation of cameras in multiple cities. **May 2023** Authorities initiated a crackdown on businesses run by women not wearing the hijab. There were also reports of citizens confronting women without head coverings on the streets and sharing these incidents on social media. Following more executions in May, a fresh wave of protests began. **June 2023** In response to the re-imposition of a strict dress code, Iranian art school students initiated a sit-in protest expressing their vehement opposition. Facing violent repercussions, arrests, threats of suspension, and even death threats, this movement gained significant traction online, as thousands echoed the students’ sentiments by posting “no” on their social media accounts. Further amplifying the resistance, students from multiple universities across the country penned open letters, backing the Tehran art students in their stance against the dress mandate. Conflicts between government officials and Kurdish groups became more intense during this time, resulting in the death of at least one Iranian official. **July 2023** The morality police announced a new campaign pushing women again to wear the hijab, and strengthening the enforcement of this policy, a move criticized by people such as the former president Mohammad Khatami, who says that these new restrictions could bring even more social tension in Iran. **August 2023** Further intensifying the enforcement of hijab dress code, President Raisi stated that “the removal of the hijab will definitely come to an end,” reiterating the newly announced position by the morality police in July. **The future of the Islamic Republic** Nearly a year has passed since the first days of the WLF revolt, and even though the Islamic Republic has yet to give way to a democratic system, the social transformations caused by the protests are undeniable. They signal a positive feedback loop where women’s struggle for freedom is not merely an accessory but constituting the central motif for mobilization against the regime. Everyday, thousands of brave women defy the hijab laws and venture into public spaces dressing as they wish. On the global stage, Iran has been forced to make compromises with both the West (i.e. the USA and its European allies) while reestablishing diplomatic relations with its regional rival Saudi Arabia, which has a history of funding opposition political groups and media. **What needs to be done locally** At this juncture, it's essential for the political wing of the WLF movement to redirect its focus and prioritize its core demands, rather than relying solely on the intervention of the international community and the existing opposition abroad.The movement’s demands need to be clear, directly addressing the nation’s leadership rather than the Western or opposition leaders : A). The initiation of a referendum supervised by global monitors to determine the nature of a new political system for the country; B). The establishment of a constitutional assembly, elected transparently. This assembly should reference the 1906 and 1979 constitutions as foundational texts, and craft a fresh democratic constitution for Iran. The cultural success of the WLF movement has to do with its political limits, that it is not solely a leftist or socialist or even a purely secular movement but made up of a coalition that even includes conservative Muslims, nationalists and royalists. This is why ideas about the new constitution should be adaptable, leaving room for a democratic navigation between an updated Islamic Republic, a constitutional monarchy, or ideally, a secular democratic republic with social democratic characteristics. C). Participation in these elections should extend to every Iranian, encompassing members of the diaspora. D). As we lay the groundwork for revamping Iran’s political framework, it will be paramount to introduce a truth and reconciliation process along the way. Such a mechanism would enable various segments of Iranian society to come to terms with the country’s tumultuous past. It would pave the way for a consensus on how diverse ideological and religious groups can coexist and engage with each other in a nation as multifaceted as Iran and how a synthetic but common understanding of the past can help the country move to the future. **Beyond Iran** The impact of Mahsa Amini's death is deeply intertwined with the future trajectory of Iran, but its significance stretches far beyond national borders. Although the protests that arose in the wake of her demise primarily addressed specific local concerns within the Islamic Republic, they broke beyond these boundaries. They challenge the global community to re-examine the existing narratives about the relationship between religion and political power in the Middle East. However, the ensuing globalization of the movement cannot be depicted as frictionless: the international feminist movement has a history of swiftly identifying and rallying against gender-based injustices. However, in the case of the Iranian women’s movement — which prominently opposed the state-enforced Islamic dress code — there were hesitations. The WLF movement's perceived anti-religious stance, combined with concerns about being branded Islamophobic, and the reticence of the American media and government to fully endorse it, has meant that the campaign did not realize its full potential. Nevertheless, the triumphs of Iranian women against the impositions of political Islam can potentially pave the way for change, not just in Iran, or in Muslim-majority countries, but anywhere in the world where women grapple with patriarchy specific to their cultural and religious context. Mahsa Amini's name has come to shed light on the ongoing erosion of civil liberties that disproportionately impact women across the globe. The refusal to simply forget her name, or to stop rallying under it, is a sign of a deeper desire on the part of the Iranian people, and of people from all over the world, to transcend their local grievances and to articulate an intersectional perspective towards religious and political powers on a global scale. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Stll from *Dream of Silk* (2003) by **Nahid Rezai**. *Mohammad Salemy is an independent Berlin-based artist, critic and curator from Canada. He holds a BFA from Emily Carr University and an MA in Critical Curatorial Studies from the University of British Columbia. Together with Patrick Schabus, he forms the artist collective Alphabet Collection. Salemy is the Organizer at The New Centre for Research & Practice.* ### The forest is burning URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-forest-is-burning/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:35.000Z The fire broke out just over a year ago, on July 12, 2022, in the pine forest that borders the sea for about twenty kilometers between two small seaside resorts, Biscarrosse to the south and Le Pyla to the north. This is the beginning of the Landes forest in southwest France, which covers a total of one million hectares of pine trees. The forest was planted at the turn of the 19th century on what was then a vast expanse of sand dunes and marshland, sparsely populated and crossed only by shepherds and their flocks. With the arrival of the fashion of bathing in the sea, the forest transformed the desolate landscape into a small paradise, attracting idle and wealthy crowds who went on to build splendid villas among the gentle pine trees overlooking the blue sea. The forest is, therefore, about two hundred years old. It is made up almost entirely of maritime pines. In fact, it's not certain that it will survive global warming and the droughts that are likely to follow in this region. In the summer of 2022, three fires within four weeks devastated 30,000 hectares of pine forest (a rectangle measuring 10 by 30 kilometers) and forced the evacuation of some 60,000 people. On the 12th of July, at the beginning of the holiday season, I was in Le Pyla. A great column of smoke rose above the great dune (the highest dune in Europe, according to the postcards sold in the local grocer's shop) that ends the sandy beach 4 or 5 kilometers away. Upon arriving at the beach, everyone took a photo of the huge, dark gray cylinder that rose into the sky, almost as wide as the dune itself. The campsites in the forest were evacuated that evening if I remember correctly – a few thousand people. The wind began to blow from the north to the northwest, so the fire spread towards Biscarrosse. After a few days, the town of Cazaux was also evacuated. A few thousand more people. The newspapers showed the same photos that were also circulating on social networks. I remember in particular the Biscarrosse Ferris wheel against the backdrop of a sky filled with thick, uneven gray and orange smoke. It was like being in a disaster film, which is to say that it was a bit unreal. In Biscarrosse, life went on as if nothing had happened, but in dense, fog-like smoke. On the other side of Le Pyla, the smoke rising over the dune took different forms each day. Sometimes it was a soft, whitish cloud lying on the dune; sometimes a dark, menacing gray bar; sometimes elusive columns twisting across the sky. The early summer gardens were overflowing with flowers, their scent wafting down to the beach. The smoke over the dune seemed nothing more than an addition to the landscape. We had none of the unpleasantness. I told myself that the situation was a perfect illustration of global warming: disasters and a general deterioration in living conditions, from which a few wealthy enclaves would remain unscathed. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/photo_2023-09-15-10.25.26.jpeg) fig.1 On the last evening, from the jetty that juts out over the water, we could see a red glow over the dune and sometimes flames shooting up. People were leaning against the railing trying to take pictures of the flames. I elbowed my way to a spot. It was one of the last spectacles beyond the ability of mobile phones, which could not focus on these moving lights 4 or 5 kilometers away, and which the human eye probably magnified in the same optical illusion that makes the moon appear huge above the rooftops. After a particularly impressive burst, a father next to me turned to his little family and said: "This is crazy." In French, it was "C'est ouf." He was very serious. The wind had shifted to the south. The fire was moving towards us. In one night, the fire devoured 5,000 hectares of pine trees. We woke up to smoke so thick we couldn't see the end of the road. The smell of burning stuck in our throats. Eyes hurt. The fire was at the gates of the resort, a few kilometers from the house. I had no idea. With the weather forecast predicting 43°C that day, I hunkered down in the house, keeping all the doors, windows and shutters closed. I searched the internet for information. The local newspaper's website linked to a NASA site that used satellite images to monitor the planet's fires. I clicked, and zoomed in on France, the southwest, where the Pyla fire was clearly visible, I zoomed in again, the burning areas were marked in red, it was very clear, I recognized the road I often cycle on, the fire was still on the other side of the road. That reassured me. I left the window open in the corner of my screen. The window in my room was closed, as were the shutters, and I had to switch on the electric light. It was terribly hot. I tried to work to pass the time. After a while, I refreshed (but, given the circumstances, such a word is really a misnomer) the NASA page, and the fire hadn't moved. As I looked at the map, I read in the small print that it was updated every 24 hours. So it was showing the position of the fires the previous evening. My anxiety shot up. I went outside to pick up my son, who was at the beach with a group of friends. The air outside was unbreathable. The street, which at this time of year should be clogged with parked cars, was almost empty. Everyone had left. There were explosions in the distance. My son was walking back. He had tied his T-shirt over his face like a gangster in a 1950s Western. He told me that the explosions were coming from the burning campsites. I don't know how he knew. We don't have a car. I wasn't sure if the trains were still running. The station is 6 kilometers away. Finally, I found a neighbor who hadn't left yet. She didn't want to leave because of the car her husband bought when he retired. A '70s Corvette. She said to me: "It's his baby, he'd kill me if I left it there.” She was waiting for her husband to come back to get the Corvette. She promised me she'd call me when she left. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/photo_2023-09-15-10.20.53.jpeg) fig.2 So, we waited. Half an hour later, my phone rang. The neighbor told me that the fire brigade had given the order to evacuate. She'd just received a text message. Five minutes later, my son and I were in her car. Not the Corvette. She's not allowed to drive the Corvette. We took a small road along the sea, past the harbor, avoiding the main road. So, there was no traffic jam. I saw the traffic on my phone that evening. I must have left the GPS tracking on and the platforms put me in touch with users who had taken the same roads. Many of them had filmed their exodus. It was always the same road, with the same roundabout serving Le Pyla, and an uninterrupted line of cars moving at a steady pace, bumper to bumper, no one in the opposite direction. Nearly 10,000 people had evacuated the area that day. The gendarmes refused access to new arrivals. One young man, however, was allowed through, as he explained in the video he posted. He had come to pick up his grandmother, who hadn't been able to leave. As he spoke, the phone on the dashboard filmed the streets, deserted, not a pedestrian, not a car, houses closed, uneven layers of smoke in the air. The young man – or teenager, he sounded very young – spoke quickly – to reassure himself, I think. He repeated several times, "Fuck, it's crazy.” ("Putain, c'est ouf," in French). He was a gamer. He had a certain number of followers, and his video followed the principle of gaming videos: in the picture, the landscape of the game, and in the voice-over, he described what was going on. That's when I started collecting videos posted on platforms. I'm not a sociologist and I didn't want to do a systematic study. I just wanted to observe the fire and see it through the eyes or screens of others. Most of the videos posted on Instagram and TikTok simply showed the flames devouring the pine trees, down to the edge of the beach. They were filmed from a boat or from the other side of the bay. On YouTube, professional or quasi-professional filmmakers offered more polished images, plumes of smoke in the sky, Canadairs touching the surface of the sea to refuel, or areas of already burnt forest as seen from the top of the dune. The smoke in the air created extraordinary sunsets, and people were taking selfies, drinking cocktails or dancing in front of a darkening sky full of incredible colors. After a few days, Instagram suggested Elisa's account to me. She was a seasonal worker who worked in a bar during the summer and lived in one of the campsites that had burned down. She'd been evacuated the first day, sprained her ankle, and was telling her story day by day in a series of reels. Her followers grew exponentially, from a few hundred to tens of thousands. Her videos showed the full range of emotions she'd experienced: indifference at the first fumes, fear at the moment of evacuation, then relief, then the difficulties of living with her cast in the gym provided by the municipality. Later, she spoke of the end of her stay with a kind of nostalgia for that period and thanked all of us, her followers, for our support. A few days after the evacuation of Le Pyla, the town council organized a "solidarity" gathering of boats at the foot of the great dune. It was not specified with whom, or for what, we would show our solidarity. There were no human casualties, only material damage, and tens of thousands of hectares of forest (flora and fauna) were devastated. The boats, all motor yachts, and speedboats, formed a large circle in the water in front of the dune. They were filmed from the air, by drones. I can't remember if the fire had been brought under control by that day, but the smoke must have blown the other way. The sky was blue, very clear. The boats drew white wakes that criss-crossed the blue water, forming a kind of swirling ring. Lively music drowned out the sound of the engines. Online, commenters pointed out the absurdity of these boats burning fuel in front of the remains of a mega-fire, the ultimate cause of which is global warming, while others defended the municipality in its effort to produce images that could boost tourism, the region's main resource. What's wrong with all this? At this point, I can only condense. Let us say that we seem to use screens to avoid seeing what we are really looking at. This is certainly why I started to collect videos of the mega-fires that devastated this region that I love. *This contribution is part of the series On Being Wrong, created in collaboration with the Zeppelin University, Friedrichshafen.* --- ### IMAGE CAPTIONS AI case studies of social media posts while Le Pyla wildfire of 2022. fig.1 Pierre Cassou-Nogues, 2022, ˝ and courtesy Pierre Cassou-Nogues. fig.2 AI case studies of social media posts while Le Pyla wildfire 2022. *Pierre Cassou-Noguès is a full-time professor at the University Paris 8\. He has published essays and fiction. His work is based on a conceptual use of fiction. More info: www.pierrecassounogues.org.* ### Amplifying camera austria URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/amplifying-camera-austria/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:34.000Z *What technological and social conditions define photography today? Anna Voswinckel meets AWC for a conversation on* The Fields of Focus *the exhibition series at Camera Austria, which runs through 2025, and begins with the two-part project Exposure.* **Ciao, Anna, nice to e-meet you. I am glad to have this conversation with you. I know that this year you were designated the new curator of Camera Austria. How does it feel and what are your trajectories?** I joined Camera Austria in January, but I come from a curatorial practice that is not only focused on photography but also on media-specific exhibitions. As a curator, I am interested in a frame that could focus on the components that make photography relevant and thriving in contemporary art. I have been teaching photography as an artistic practice in Leipzig for many years and I always find it interesting to see how photography is molded by different media and approaches, for example, artists who come from painting, such as **Sophie Thun**, who is very close to Camera Austria. She started studying painting and then entered the field of photography through the analog technique, an old technique that is still an object of elaboration by contemporary artists. This is surprising to me, thinking of contemporary art as a post-photography or post-digital space. What I find interesting in my curatorial practice, and what I hope to develop, is \[a sense of\] how these approaches to photography combine media reflexive and personal, intimate approaches. So, for the first show, now, at Camera Austria opening in September, *Exposure*, I wanted to involve artists who combine these traits. And, in the second iteration, *Double Exposure*, delve into the overlay of works and worlds even more. **We know that the photographic medium is never neutral but rather is guided by the visual and ideological culture of the time, and thus the politics of the images can become visible. I think about how our attention has been shaped and controlled by different media, and how these media have shaped information. I noticed this kind of twofold intention in your way of titling the upcoming series of exhibitions at Camera Austria, *Fields of Exposure*. Exposure operates both as a photographic parameter and a political gesture of making visible, vulnerable, but also controllable. I am curious to know how the artists selected for the exhibition inquired about the relationship between the photographic subject and socio-political threads.** The artists chosen have a very subtle approach to photography and to exposing people. I would say that what they attempt to do is to create a relationship with their subjects. Visibility, in this case, is a kind of dedication toward the subjects. For example, **Niklas Taleb**. In his series, *Dream again of better Generationenvertrag* (2020), he photographs his immediate environment, and every image has a certain frame that he would self-make. It's very delicate, and I found it interesting how in the question of dedication or discarding, tenderness is somehow visible in the framing of the photographs. **Stefanie Seufert** addresses Marguerite Duras’s essay, “The Photographs,” published in the collection *Practicalities*, in her four-part series *sich selber zu sehen* (2021), and the memorializing function of photographs \[as\] a form of dominance that can override memory. I think that's also an interesting point of exposure: where one sees things through photographs and then they are forgotten, because memories are overwritten. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/ca_presse_ausstellung_stefanieseufert_untitled_2015-scaled.jpg) fig. 1 You are also mentioning the violent aspect of photography, that of holding, grasping, and taking possession, and this makes me think of the work by **Sophie Meuresch** *Mohn* (2017), which deals with the question of not getting hold of something through photography. She takes photographs of a poppy field with different exposures and is unable to catch the fluid nature of her object – and that’s the underlying message of this work. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/ca_presse_ausstellung_exposure_meuresch_mohn_1-scaled.jpg) fig. 2 **I feel like how you're phrasing the form of intimacy developed between the photographer and the subject highlights a necessity for a revision of the hierarchy of image-making, as dialogue and not as a rapacious gesture of appropriation. But then how does the third party, the public, enter this relationship and say something about the surroundings?** I think the exhibition proposed some positions that really focus on creating a bond with the audience through broader social images, such as family photography. And I think the question is more about how to create an image to which everyone can relate. For example, in *Universal Thoughts (or whatnot)* (2023), **Georg Petermichl** uses overexposure to take photographs of his immediate family members. But they are also exposed in a way such that they cannot be seen clearly. Still, the archetype of the Father and the Mother is perceptible. I found this moment interesting, how, again the photographic technique comments on these social questions, and, also, how to position oneself in these social constructs. We know that when things are exposed too long to the sun they can burn. So photography peels off ideological layers. Another form of intimacy is questioned in the series of **Flo Maak**, who, through his photographs, compares objects with parts of the body in order to connect the human being to a broader ecosystem. For example, in *Ground Truthing* (2020–present) he focuses on the function of volcanoes as participants in the global energy cycle by comparing them with the human anus. And, it’s also interesting how the audience reacts when the question of desire and non-heteronormativity comes in. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/ca_presse_ausstellung_exposure_petermichl_vater.jpg) fig. 3 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/ca_presse_ausstellung_exposure_maak_ohnetitel_2023-scaled.jpg) fig. 4 **The choice of creating continuity through the two-chapter exhibition also aims to delve deeper into the overlapping layers between documentation, subjectivity, and discursive fields. How will *Double Exposure* expand the research encompassed by *Exposure*?** In the exhibition *Double Exposure*, the title serves as a metaphor for processes of memory politics that are explored and transformed through randomly found images, or specific archive viewings. The artists on the show all deal with histories connected to either images or image production. They are not necessarily photographs, but they operate \[in a register\] between, archives or narratives connected to image production. **Sara-Lena Maierhofer**’s series *Kabinette* (2018–19) is a comment on archives, collections, and European museums of African arts. Her work is about how to deal with these archives from a colonial past from the perspective of a white European artist. She's inscribing her own practice in a question around decoloniality. Then there is **Sim Chi Yin**’s artistic intervention into a colonial picture archive. As the basis for her work, the artist used found magic lanterns and glass slides from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, designed in the UK to advertise the British Malaya colony. By inserting her grandfather and her child into the glass slides in the form of barely perceptible details, Sim subjectifies the objectifying gaze inherent in colonial projection and expands the photographically mediated, cross-generational process of memory work. The third artist, **Rebekka Bauer**’s, mixed-media installation *Die Aufstellung (The Constellation)*, (2020–present) brings together hundreds of homemade metal objects from her grandfather’s estate and a collection of private photographs from the National Socialist years with family photos spanning several decades. *Die Aufstellung* is an experimental arrangement that changes depending on the exhibition context. The work inquires into the artist’s relationship to her grandfather’s legacy, which is historically and psychologically complex. Using methods of composition and montage, the installation searches for clues as to how unprocessed history and violence carry through family biographies and leave their mark on bodies and relationships. In a joint artistic research project, **Oliver Husain** and **Kerstin Schroedinger** combine material experiments, historical research, and performance into a multi-channel installation entitled *DNCB* (2021). The chemical dinitrochlorobenzene, used for color development in photo labs, was discovered by doctors and patients in San Francisco in the 1980s during the AIDS crisis as an alternative treatment for Kaposi’s sarcoma; in risky experiments, it was directly applied to the skin. In their video installation, the artists draw parallels between the surfaces of skin and film, between color developing, exposure, poisoning, and healing, and between self-medication and independent film-developing labs. Their work speaks of the body as an archive, too. I think that the formats of the artworks on show, many of which are installations, will invite the public to move \[about within them\] and connect narrative threads. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Sara-Lena_Maierhofer_Tablar.jpg) fig. 5 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/SImChiYin_PhotoCreditDanielTerna.jpeg) fig. 6 **What you're portraying is a different posture toward archives. Some need to be freed and some need to be preserved, as they are always dealing with fear of loss, memory, or power. On a last note, Camera Austria is a publication, too. How does it relate to the exhibition and operate in your curatorial project?** Historically, the different projects of Camera Austria have always been intertwined. Again and again, artists featured in the magazine were also presented in an exhibition context or vice versa. These overlappings in the program sometimes tended to be closer, sometimes less. The editor-in-chief of the magazine, Christina Töpfer, and I intend to continue this tradition and the spring issue 2024 will take up the topic of exposure. We hope to continue this exchange in the long run. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/RebekkaBauer_Aufstellung_02.jpg) fig. 7 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/husainschroedinger_dncb-1.jpeg) fig. 8 \\\\ **Anna Voswinckel** is curator at Camera Austria in Graz since this year. With a background in visual arts as well as cultural studies and gender theory, she has realized numerous exhibitions in recent years, often in collective contexts. Furthermore, she has taught at various art colleges. For her past curatorial projects, see [www.annavoswinckel.com](http://www.annavoswinckel.com/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: **Lisa Holzer**, *Family (Clouds)*, 2023\. Courtesy: die Künstlerin & Layr, Wien. Copyright: Bildrecht, Wien, 2023. fig. 1: **Stefanie Seufert**, *Untitled*, 2015\. Courtesy: die Künstlerin und Laura Mars Gallery, Berlin. Copyright: VG Bildkunst, Bonn, 2023. fig. 2: **Sophie Meuresch**, aus der Serie: *Mohn (eins – fünf)*, 2021\. Courtesy: die Künstlerin fig. 3: **Georg Petermichl**, *Universal Thoughts (Vater)*, 2006/2023\. Courtesy: der Künstler & Wonnerth Dejaco, Wien. Copyright: Bildrecht, Wien, 2023. fig. 4: **Flo Maak**, *Untitled*, 2023\. Courtesy: der Künstler & Bernhard Knaus Fine Art, Frankfurt am Main. Copyright: VG Bildkunst, Bonn, 2023. fig. 5: **Sara-Lena Maierhofer**, *Tablar (Rautenstrauch-Joest-Museum)*, 2018\. Courtesy: die Künstlerin / the artist & FeldbuschWiesnerRudolph, Berlin. fig. 6: **Sim Chi Yin**, from: *The Suitcase Is A Little Bit Rotten*, 2023\. Courtesy: die Künstlerin / the artist & Zilberman, Berlin. Photo: Daniel Terna. fig. 7: **Rebekka Bauer**, installation view (Detail) from: Die Aufstellung, 2020–present/2023. fig. 8: **Oliver Husain** and **Kerstin Schroedinger**, Still from: *DNCB*, 2021\. Courtesy: the artists. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Territories URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/arts-of-the-working-class-28/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:12:34.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-27-territories](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-27-territories?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- DECONQUISTEMOS EL MUNDO MI AMOR The new models of extractive and colonialism emerging prompt us to explore the origins of the term “green transition”. Contemporary reason has displaced what was once understood as “ecology” with a generic understanding of nature. However, paths to survival lead us back to the term’s etymological rootoikos: home, and this is what directs our gazes towards the countless communities that persist in regenerative and sustainable relationships with their surroundings. Regina Galindo’s suggestion of “de-conquering the world” is not about a desperate race for new fantasies of salvation, but about being constantly suspicious of modern-colonial thought. Drawing from Daniel Lie's bio-installations, this edition of AWS aims to account for everything that resists contemporary history’s obsessions with false binaries such as nature and culture, countryside and city, and protection and use. That’s why this issue is dedicated to territories — disputed, contested, material or imaginary — from the perspective of those who cultivate them, as well as those who can’t find their way back home. We’ve turned our attention towards communities and individuals who have developed a belonging deeply rooted in material and in the oral transmission of knowledge. Miriam Nobre and Natália Lobo explain how ancestral practices of connecting with the land, water, and food within theRede Agroecológica de Mulheres Agricultorasare now targeted by data-hoarding corporations. This kind of corporate machinery is insatiable, and it has found an investmentable niche in renewable energies. Such investment actually comes at the cost of dispossession and forced displacement of inhabitants of the territories where profit-seeking industries seek to implant their mega-projects, as seen in the case narrated by Josefa Sánchez inIsthmus of Tehuantepec.Here, decarbonization becomes just another commodity in the free market. Energy deprivation as a political externality sheltered by rights of private ownership, is interrogated by Houda Akrikez in her report on the Madrilean neighborhoodLa Cañada Real, whichhas been held captivate by electricity scarcity for almost three years. In his series, Determinaciones Socio-Territoriales(2013), the artist Santiago Roose illustrates how, in contexts of risk and precarity, communities still generate forms of resistance that reconfigure space while extending parameters of what is allowed to be pursued aesthetically and architecturally. As Mohammad Salemy points out in his chronological report on the Women, Life, and Freedom Revolution in Iran, the structures of power cannot keep pace with the audacity of our desires. Our quest to survive comes as a surprise to some, so when we invoke the future, whether through queer utopias — as Ros del Olmo does — or by reclaiming the urban commons for the working class, as Ashley Dawson’s contribution details, we do so from the political position of both resistance andre-existence. Territories, in contrast to land, always have an anthropogenic history. To make way for constructions, and for the yet to be born, means to dismantle existing things. How do we know what to preserve? Around which ruins will we nurture the growth of our future gardens? This installment of AWS is our way of suggesting that the political wisdom needed for the climate emergency stems from the body, a body removed from its idealization, as Ana Mendieta documents it in her seriesSiluetas(1979/2020).In this spirit, weinvite you to join us on this journey through resistance to re-existence, in which a radically accepting stance towards impermanence can be seen as a critical function of the dynamic life on, and of, the Earth. *With Contributions by Octavia Abril, Houda Akrikez, Students of Weaving from Below, Pierre Cassou-Noguès, Miguel Gutiérrez Chero, Josefa Sánchez Contreras, Ashley Dawson, Ros Del Olmo, Fernando García Dory, Elisa Fuenzalida, Paola Imperatore and Francesca Gabbriellini, Regina José Galindo, Agnieszka Gratza, Rico Zyrrano and Jacky Leder, Daniel Lie, Miriam Nobre and Natália Lobo, Conny Maier, Dalia Maini, Ana Mendieta, Lilian Pungas, Santiago Roose, Mohammad Salemy, Plotting from the Cracks UDK Block Seminar, HfG Karlsruhe students, Kuba Szreder, Luc Thais, Louise Wagner.* ***Impressum / Imprint*** ***F*ounders / Publishers / Directors** Verantwortlicher i.S.d Åò 18 Abs. 2 MStV María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki **Managing Artistic Director** Amelie Jakubek **Editor in Chief** Dalia Maini **Managing Editor** Elisa Fuenzalida **Editor** Ido Nahari **Administrative Assistance** Selma Louise Christoph and Liz Josephine Köhnke **Office and Distribution Assistance** Miguel Angel Espinoza **Translation and Proofreading** William Kherbek, Anne Waak and Huda Zikry **Graphic Design** Manuel Bürger **Online Design** Giorgia Belotti **Druck** BV Berliner Zeitungsdruck GmbH Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse Refl ektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschränkt) Lynarstrasse 38, 13353 Berlin hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org --- ## In this issue - [The forest is burning](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-forest-is-burning/) - [Your name will become a code:](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/your-name-will-become-a-code/) - [Where art is fertile](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/where-art-is-fertile/) - [Liberated spaces:](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/liberated-spaces-1/) - [Santiago roose](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/santiago-roose/) - [La lucha es porque no nos apaguen](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/la-lucha-es-porque-no-nos-apaguen/) - [Regina jose galindo](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/regina-jose-galindo/) - [Catering to the senses](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/catering-to-the-senses/) - [Cuando el viento conoció el miedo](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/cuando-el-viento-conocio-el-miedo/) - [Daniel lie](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/daniel-lie/) ### Der Kapitalismus macht uns alle traurig, ungeduldig und sehnsüchtig URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/der-kapitalismus-macht-uns-alle-traurig-ungeduldig-und-sehnsuechtig-2/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:32.000Z *Die Werke von Conny Maier, die zwischen Berlin und Baleal (Portugal) arbeitet, reflektieren Polaritäten wie Macht und Unterwerfung, Gleichgewicht und Instabilität, das Menschliche und das Nicht-Menschliche. Durch die Darstellung karikaturesker Figuren in extremen Gefühls- und Kampfzustanden werfen Maiers Werke einen schonungslosen Blick auf die Kapitalismus in seiner globalen, allumfassenden Größe, und fragen nicht nur, welche Systeme unserer Gesellschaft überholt zu sein scheinen, sondern auch, wie unsere Zukunft aussehen konnte. Die Langen Foundation präsentiert ihre erste umfassende institutionelle Ausstellung. Kuratiert von Udo Kittelmann, zeigt sie sowohl eigens für diese Ausstellung geschaffene als auch frühere Werke, die stark an der Geschichte der Malerei sowie holistische Fragestellungen der Künstlerin verbunden sind, auf dem Gelände der ehemaligen NATO-Raketenstation bei Neuss.* **Fangen wir mit dem Ort an.** Es ist ein ganz besonderer Ausstellungsraum, der von seiner ländlichen Umgebung und einem interessierten Publikum lebt. Doch im Mittelpunkt der kuratorischen Linie steht eine kritische Auseinandersetzung mit dem, was Malerei sein kann. Schon geil. **Der Titel der Ausstellung – Beautiful Disasters – ist sehr metaphorisch. Zu welcher Ebene gehört das, was du gerade beschrieben hast: dem Schönen oder dem Desaströsen?** Ich war mit keiner dieser Ebenen einverstanden, aber Udo Kittelmann hat vehement auf der Etymologie des gemalten Bildes beharrt und ich gab irgendwann nach. Diese Begriffe stören mich, aber angesichts der Ambivalenzen heutiger malerischer Arbeit lohnt es sich, sie hervorzuheben. **Ich sehe auch die inhaltlichen Widersprüche überall in deinen Gemälden. Sie sind Teil jeder Szene.** Ich stimme dir zu. Widersprüche sind meistens die Grundlage meiner Bilder. Die Arbeit braucht diesen Prozess, sonst ist es vielleicht am Ende zu eindimensional. **Kannst du das näher erklären?** Ich fange immer durch ein Farbspektrum an zu malen, dann kommt der Rest. Und je länger man\* sich das anguckt, desto gruseliger oder hässlicher soll es werden. Jedes nachkommende Detail öffnet dann noch eine Tür – das finde ich wichtig, damit es eben nicht nur irgendwie ein schönes Arrangement an Farben ist. Hier sollen Fragen beantwortet werden, die nur durch Malerei entstehen. Nun gut, im Idealfall. **Was du hier sagst, lässt mich sofort an eines deiner Bilder denken, das diese Ausstellung ausmacht, nämlich "Die Freude am Teilen oder Freundschaft". Man\* sieht eine sitzende Figur, die den Kopf auf einen Tisch legt. Der Rücken beugt sich komisch, die Augen verstecken sich hinter zwei Farbflecken, der Mund steht karikaturesk offen, wie bei fast allem deinen Figurendarstellungen. Die Kippe, die gleich aus dem Mund fällt, lässt die Erschöpfung durchblicken. Worauf möchtest du hinaus?** Auf der Figur in diesem Bild liegt eine schwere Last. **Das Bild zeigt somit nicht nur ein Unbehagen, sondern auch das universelle Bedürfnis von Verbundenheit. Die Arbeit scheint aber auch etwas Serielles zu haben. Man erwartet, dass noch etwas anderes kommt. Und dabei denke ich sofort an – ich mag das folgende Beispiel nicht, aber gut – Picassos blaue Periode. Die Gemälde dieser Phase scheinen alle durch eine ganz eigene Atmosphäre verbunden zu sein.** Er musste in dieser Phase ja auch seine Trauer verarbeiten. **Es waren Zeiten der Unsicherheit. Eine klare Instabilität, die er von innen nach außen projiziert hat, obwohl er sich auf die Kunstgeschichte stützen konnte. Danach wurde er völlig asozial in der Abstraktion; gewaltsam und absichtlich inkohärent.** Also ich möchte mich nicht mit Picasso vergleichen, aber wenn er danach diese Phase abgeschlossen hat, dann würde ich sagen, dass es auf jeden Fall eine ehrliche Suchphase war. In diesem Bild erkenne ich meine Sehnsucht wieder, in die richtige Richtung zu gehen. Deswegen ärgere ich mich, dass ich es nicht behalten habe. So ist es, wenn man\* in prekären Umständen arbeiten muss. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Conny-Maier_Abzahlen_Courtesy-the-artist-and-Societe-Berlin.jpeg) fig.1 **Wem gehört dieses Gemälde jetzt?** Ich habe es an einen Freund verkauft und der hat es dann, glaube ich, an einen ehemaligen Freund weitergegeben, der es später verschachert hat. So viel zum Teilen und zur Freundschaft. **Die Augen, wie bei vielen deiner Bilder, geben einen Einblick in einen tief dunklen Abgrund.** Sie sind kein Spiegel der Seele, sondern eher ihr Staubsauger. **Das klingt nach etwas, das im Ausstellungstext ein “grundsätzliches Misstrauen der Vernunft im 21\. Jahrhundert” genannt wird. Misstrauen in Bezug auf was?** Die Geschichte. **Welche Rolle spielt die für dich?** Ich würde sagen, die Vernunft hat eigentlich nur die Literatur ins Spiel gebracht. Alles andere ist eine totale Übersteigerung und Überschätzung der Europäer\*innen gegenüber dem Rest der Welt. Die Pandemie hat das große Ganze, die Wahrheit, ja die Wissenschaft, die Expert\*innen und so weiter komplett dekonstruiert. Alles was zu groß geworden ist, muss jetzt sehr viel kleiner gesprochen werden. **Deine Figuren wurden immer größer.** Die platzen fast aus den Bildern raus. **Das gefällt mir so sehr an ihnen.** Sie hatten vorher große Köpfe und mittelgroße Körper, jetzt hat sich das total verdreht. Jetzt haben sie riesige Körper und ganz kleine Köpfe. **Wie kommen diese Maße zusammen?** Auf die Leinwand sollen sie im Prinzip dieses gewaltige Totale übersteigen. Wenn ich sie mir in der Realität vorstellen würde, wären das lauter eigenartige Personen, die durch meine Landschaften stapfen und sie zerstören. Das klingt ungeschickt, aber so sollen sie sein. **Zielst du mit der Frage der Totalität eigentlich auf den Sinn der Malerei heute?** Das wäre schön, aber ich würde mich nicht trauen. **Warum nicht?** Was ist denn eigentlich der Sinn der Malerei: die Analyse des Status quo und vielleicht der Blick in die Zukunft? Das ist schon viel gewollt. **Wenn nicht an ihren Sinn, denkst du an ihre Zukunft?** Ich versuche, auch nicht an die Zukunft zu denken. Wie wird sich die Gesellschaft entwickeln? Was wird übrig bleiben? Was wird sich ändern? Das Totale und die große Richtigkeit stehen uns im Weg, glaube ich, um auf verschiedene Lösungen zu kommen. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Conny-Maier_Zorn-1_Courtesy-the-artist-and-Societe-Berlin.jpeg) fig.2 **Diese Fragen sehe ich in deinen bukolischen Situationen widergespiegelt, die gleichzeitig ja eher apokalyptisch aussehen. Die großen Landschaften haben gleichzeitig etwas von erdigen Schlachten und strahlenden Freudenschreien.** Das führt zurück zu dem Umfeld, das mich geprägt hat. Meine Großeltern führten ein ländliches osteuropäisches Leben. Ihre Feldarbeit, ihr Staub, ihr Schweiß vereint ihren Körper mit allen anderen Bäuer\*innen, mit denen sie gearbeitet haben. Für mich ist es ein schöner Ansatz, dass sie diese Gleichheit eigentlich über alles stülpen lässt. Ich glaube, das ist die Wurzel meiner Figuren. Aber das kann sich auch wieder ändern. **Wie?** Mit einer Verarbeitung der ostdeutschen Geschichte. Allein die Lebensweise, die Lebensumstände, die Umstände in der Diktatur hatten teils schöne, teils absurde Folgen für den Alltag. Aber meine Vorstellung dieser Zeit ist natürlich nur das Gegengewicht zu der Welt, in der ich aufgewachsen bin. Es ist Persönliches und nichts Theoretisches. Aber es war vielleicht wichtig für die Welt, dass es zwei gegensätzliche Systeme gab, und dass sie heute nicht mehr sind. Seit die UdSSR implodierte, könnte man ja sagen, dass der Westen nicht mehr beweisen kann, dass er das bessere System ist. Damit verschwand aber auch die Möglichkeit eines Sozialsystems, das die Gesundheit und Bildung der Menschen sichert. Heute muss nicht mehr bewiesen werden, dass dieses Sozialsystem von einer schlechteren Variante ersetzt wurde. Und die Art und Weise, wie Menschen miteinander umgehen, wie sie mit der Natur umgehen, ist ein Produkt dieses Ungleichgewichts. Die Welt braucht einen starken Widerspruch zum kapitalistischen System, damit sie ins Gleichgewicht zurückkehrt. **Der Kapitalismus macht ja uns alle traurig, ungeduldig und sehnsüchtig nach dieser Lösung.** Im Prinzip machen aber Menschen, die an die Macht kommen, immer dieselben Fehler. **Sobald es autoritär wird und die Macht nicht geteilt werden kann, ist es fragil. Was mich zu The Source führt, die du zuletzt bei Unlimited-Ausstellung der Art Basel gezeigt hast.** Da spielt die Person mit den vier Brüsten im Hintergrund eine entscheidende Rolle. Sie gießt das ganze Bild mit Wasser oder mit einer Flüssigkeit, die lebensspendend sein kann. Im Vordergrund sehen wir die Protagonist\*innen des Bildes, aber die Figuren agieren nicht miteinander. Jede\*r hat ihre\*seine Sache am Laufen. Die Szene ist also vielleicht noch eine Reminiszenz an die Pandemie, es herrschen Panik und Euphorie. Die einzige, die darüber schwebt, ist diese Person mit den vier Brüsten. **Wie ein Alien. Das sind ja Wesen, die jenseits des Binären existieren. Es handelt sich um Figuren, die eine konstruierte Vorstellung verkörpern. Ich weiß nicht, ob du Octavia Butlers Imago gelesen hast, aber wie dort die Versklavung Schwarzer Menschen verarbeitet wird, ist für mich die beste Form von Science Fiction. Butler und ihre Aliens zeigen auch, dass die Angst vor “Fremden” die eigentliche Katastrophe ist. Ist das auch eine Frage, die du dir mit deinen Figuren stellst?** Ich frage mich eher, was die Idee des Menschseins ist. Eigentlich ist es das Archaische, was uns auszeichnet. Egal, wie weit Wissenschaftler\*innen sind, die Gesellschaft braucht immer noch viel zu lange, um überhaupt schlau zu agieren. Es sind ja alles immer nur kurzfristige Lösungen, die als Heilsbringer gelten. Künstliche oder genmanipulierte Pflanzen zum Beispiel bringen vielleicht mehr Ertrag, aber weil der natürliche Kreislauf gestört ist, sterben die Insekten. Oft wird das Gute gewollt, aber das Schlechte erreicht – weil die großen Lösungen nicht gut genug durchdacht werden können. Wir sind einfach nicht schlau genug. **Die Technologien sind da, die Rechte sind auch da. Warum kann das eine nicht einfach mit dem anderen zusammenkommen? Und dabei denke ich an Leute, die einen Schrecken empfinden beim Gedanken daran, wozu der menschliche Körper fähig ist: dass ein als männlich geltend geborener trans Körper jetzt auch Kinder gebären kann. Das erzeugt Polarisierung, Widerstand und Abscheu. Deine Figur mit den vier Brüsten scheint zunächst nur ein oberflächlicher Kommentar zu sein. Aber sie sieht doch fantastisch aus und genießt eine gewisse Freiheit, die es letztendlich in dieser Welt so nicht gibt.** Noch nicht. [“Beautiful Disasters” läuft bis zum 07\. April, 2024 in der Langen Foundation.](https://langenfoundation.de/vorschau/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) // --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Conny Maier, *Monte verità*, 2022\. Courtesy of the artist and Société, Berlin. fig. 1 Conny Maier, *Abzählen*, 2023\. Courtesy of the artist and Société, Berlin. fig. 2 Conny Maier, Zorn 1, 2023\. Courtesy of the artist and Société, Berlin. *Octavia Abril ist eine chilenische Schriftsteller\*in, die sensibel auf den Lauf der Jahreszeiten reagiert. Ihre Werke gedeihen, beeinträchtigt durch ihre immer wieder neuen Allergien, die sie aufgrund des Klimawandels und industriell verarbeiteter Lebensmittel erleidet, in den Grenzbereichen zwischen Institutionen und Weinbergen. Mit dieser körperlichen Verfassung beschloss sie, Welten und Worte in gefährlichen Küssen zu schaffen. Sie boykottiert Werbung Plakate, ist aber immer für gute Gespräche zu haben.* ### Faziendo casa nuna piedra vertical URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/faziendo-casa-nuna-piedra-vertical/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:29.000Z La historia oficial estampa una cronología que favorece la difusión del latín como elemento colonizador de unos pueblos orales asentados en países próximos al Mar Mediterráneo cuya religión era naturalista. A partir de la conquista del imperio romano, el latín se convirtió en la única herramienta de comunicación institucionalizada con el ente religioso autorizado. En latín se celebraban misas, se elevaban plegarias, se invocaba a la divinidad. Yera la única canal válida para algamar un pasaxe mortal afayadizu. En España, un choque entre lenguas indígenas con el latín vulgar dió lugar a una segregación fonética y semántica, resultando en la variedad lingüística que se encuentra hoy día en el territorio. Entre estas llinguas indíxenas, l’asturianu nació como cuella cultural celta de los pueblos que habitan tierras marcadas por altas zonas de montaña y verdes valles en la geografía del noroeste peninsular. Las ondulaciones y concavidades del paisaje se tradujeron en sonidos vocales cerrados y fonemas cada vez más en desuso como la “ts” vaqueira. Considerar lenguaje no oficial una lengua que no está institucionalizada, que no se enseña en la educación, que no se utiliza en los medios de comunicación y que, al mismo tiempo, está eclipsada por el castellano, conlleva a que les propies hablantes no reconozcan sus variantes en cada situación. Una llingua esfilachada, con un llinaxe escurecíu, nun ye la mesma cuando se tresforma en seña, en alfabetu, en vocabulariu. El significáu ye l’instrumentu, la memoria que pincha la piel, la sangre como registru, como documentu. Lo difícil nun va ser alcontrar les palabres, si non dar cola so duración. Que cada lletra cuente y cuente la to historia. Un fonema ye la marca. La marca de pertenencia. En el suelo de la Asturias antigua se han identificado una serie de inscripciones que contienen un lenguaje protoromano, en algunos casos astur, en la mayor parte de las piezas se trata de un astur atravesado por trazos rectilíneos provenientes del borrador de lo que sería el cultismo latino. Las inscripciones son marcas primordiales de un linaje esculpido en piedra en forma de lápidas y estelas que proponen una relación directa entre la materialidad de la roca, el lenguaje y el cuerpo escritor. Los textos epigráficos, además de poder ser contemplados en su dimensión de fuente histórica, encierran el vestigio de las relaciones estrechas entre personas, su escritura y el medio que la recogía. Talladas en piedra arenisca, las inscripciones son en su mayor parte de carácter funerario conteniendo el nombre de la persona difunta, su edad, y rasgos característicos familiares. En algunas ocasiones, también muestran imágenes de los astros celestiales, lo que denota la relación de estos pueblos con la astrología y las creencias del pasaje del cuerpo y el espíritu hacia unos entes cosmológicos. Las inscripciones epigráficas dan vida a su contenido, mostrando no sólo cómo las frases expresan la vida humanista y social de sus escritores, sino también impulsando una vitalidad propia de las formas ahumanas. Prácticamente todas las culturas que conocemos han atribuido a guijarros y piedras, rocas y cantos rodados, poderes mágicos de intensa energía, suerte, fertilidad y curación. Las tribus astures valoraban todos los aspectos observables de la vida que encontraban. Les sos espresiones culturales basanse n’el alcuentru físicu, emocional ya intelectual cola materia a la so alredor. Una llingua indíxena, usa les mesmes palabres para dirixise al mundu vivu que les qu'usamos para la nuesa familia. Porque tamién ye la nuesa familia. Les roques, el cielu, el sol son animaos. Seres que tán imbuyíos d'espíritu. Nesta cosmoloxía, l'universu ye un conxuntu de suxetos, non un conxuntu d'oxetos. Así es que al igual que en las tumbas y los castros, las inscripciones se construían en piedra para que permanecieran en el tiempo. Esto da cuenta de una comprensión morfológica de la vida. Las inscripciones son los únicos testigos de las lenguas paleohispánicas y de los pueblos que las hablan. Registros formales de una lengua, sus ropajes más cuidados. Les relixones imperialistas y colonizadoras non yá rompieron la tierra, sinón lo que ye más importante, la nuesa relación cola tierra. Para crear un venceyu indíxena con un llugar, precisamos escuchar les sos hestories. Pero, ¿quién les cuntará? ¿Podemos escuchar coles piedres escrites? \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Epitafio de Acuana (Torrevega, Llanes), aparece en "Representaciones solares en la epigrafía romana de Asturias", Narciso Santos Yaguas (Universidad de Oviedo, 2016). *Cristina Ramos is a writer and independent curator.* ### The lottery of dreams and death URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-lottery-of-dreams-and-death-1/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:28.000Z **n. 48** **‘O muorto che parla** *Sciorta e morte, addereta ‘a porta.* \[1\] In Naples, the passion for gambling is said to be “as old as the world.” At the banquets of Saturnalia feasts, ancient Romans were already playing “lotto,” a game where numbered cards are distributed at random, corresponding then to monetary or material prizes. With the decline of the ancient world, gambling lost its popularity, only to return in the fifteenth century, when European states rediscovered its financial benefits. It was during this time that the lottery was reintroduced to Naples by the Republic of Genoa, becoming enormously popular—especially among the poor. The mirage of making a small fortune spread through the city like an epidemic and lotto became perceived as a “tax of hope,” (of winning), that people were happy to pay. In the fifteenth century, the figure of the *assistito* (assisted) also began to appear: those who established an oneiric communication with the souls of the dead, particularly those situated in purgatory, from whom they received winning lotto numbers. The assistito presented themselves as spokespersons for the extra-human entities who appeared to them in dreams announcing a social and cosmic palingenesis and promising liberation from oppression. Because of their apocalyptic and renewing character, they were considered religious figures, but their preaching was also economic, social, and political. Their divinatory system resisted the strain of empirical contradictions and its purposes extended beyond the lotto’s material results. Their messages were codified in the *Smorfia Napoletana*, which is a form of “gambling science” based on stories told by the encountered souls in dreams. The stories of the dead corresponded in their various elements to numbers: have you dreamed of the dead? then number 47—and were they talking? — then 48 — or crying? — 65 — and did this scare you? — 90\. In Naples, the afterlife is thus a continuum of existence in dreams, and the encounter between the living and the dead gives form to a specific knowledge that rejects the dialectic between the hegemonic and the hegemonized. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Grazia-e-numeri-1962-by-Luigi-Di-Gianni_2.jpg) **n. 16** **Critta: n’ammore vero** *Requia materna,* *erona romine,* *sparpetua* *lucia ‘nterna* *schiatte in pace.* *Amen.* \[2\] Over the course of centuries, the Neapolitans gave a real and mythically validated location to the seat of the dead within their own cosmos: somewhere between Lake Avernus and the active eruptions of Vesuvius. Historically, it was assumed that the dead enter the underworld and communicate with the outside world through all those points on the Earth’s surface that emit sulfurous vapors, bubble up with lava, or open into gloomy sinkholes. Volcanic eruptions, moreover, with their torrential outpouring of fire from the earth’s bowels onto its cities, conjure up a catastrophe with the imaginary force of a hell realized on earth; one that has the power of consuming everyday life. The direct and physical relationship with the risk of dying, and with death itself, has become an experience that allowed the inhabitants of Naples to transcend the time of life and to penetrate that of the afterlife. The extensive system of *critte* (crypts), that still runs through the city, is one of the most tangible examples of this relationship to death. The underground became a truly temporal crossroads: both a place of burial and a meeting point for the dead. These spaces beneath the churches of Naples are, in fact, home to those who no longer belong to life, whose remains we can see and touch, but who are not considered completely dead, as they are positioned in a zone of passage, a liminal space, in the third place of purgatory. It is a transitional zone from which one can fly to the heavens, but where nothing is discarded because everything returns, or can return, into a swirling whirlpool of time. The below thus becomes the place of waiting and hope, one that feels very similar to life in the city. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Grazia-e-numeri-1962-by-Luigi-Di-Gianni_3.jpg) **n. 85** **Ll’aneme d’o priatòrio** *Reque, refrische, repuose, sullievo e pace* *A chest’ aneme appestate mie rilette;* *Venite a casa mia ca v’aspetto;* *E paura nun me ne metto.* \[3\] The system of catacombs, scattered throughout Naples, is filled with the remains of anonymous people who lived and died in the city over the ages. But while unknown and unnamed, their skulls and bones have been approached by the Neapolitans with as much piety as those of minor saints—a long tradition of osteological veneration specific to the city, which continues today as the worship of the *anime del purgatorio* (purgatorial souls). A syncretic merger of Neapolitan beliefs, many of which are pre-Christian, and official Catholic doctrines surrounding purgatory, the worship of these souls is tethered to their anonymity: that is, to the absence of burial rites following their deaths. For the faithful, this failure to apply any ceremony to the physical body has left these souls adrift. This is why the living adopt a *capuzzella* (skull), considered the seat of the soul,and care for it: cleaning, decorating, and placing the skulls in *scaravattoli* (niches or boxes). In this way, the displaced souls attain a special status that enables them to intercede and grant graces on a par with saints. Alongside this economy of care, dreams also have a central role in this belief system as they allow for the encounter with the souls and their identification, through which the devotees can constitute a non-biological family within a broader social system situated between the living and the dead. In listening to the stories of the dead in dreams, and in caring for what remains of their souls, the Neapolitans thus take care of both their community and themselves. For them, dreams, crypts, and death are means through which to access the unknown and unworldly and to request direct intercession in the material reality of life, both by praying and gambling. Most importantly, however, dreams are a means through which to break down and invade a dominant system that has adversely affected their lives in the city, particularly in modern times. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] In English: n. 48 The talking dead Fortune and death, behind the door \[2\] In English: n. 16 Crypt: a real love Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen. \[3\] In English: n. 85 The purgatorial souls Calm, refreshment, rest, relief and peace To these plagued beloved souls; Come to my house that I wait for you; Cause I have no fear. IMAGE CREDITS Images from *Grazia e numeri* (1962) by Luigi Di Gianni. Courtesy of Lucio Di Gianni. *Elisa Giuliano is a curator, researcher and theater maker. In 2022, she co-curated with Anselm Franke, Denise Ryner and Claire Tancons, and Zairong Xiang the exhibition Ceremony (Burial of an Undead World) at Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Berlin. At Het Nieuwe Instituut, TBA21 and Matera 2019 she developed projects on religious history, folklore, and myth-making in modern Italy.* ### Queeertriiibessthesmashversion URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/queeertriiibessthesmashversion/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:25.000Z Bourgeois culture, idealized under capitalism and reproduced by cis-heteronormativity, brought us into modes of sociality centered on competition and private property. This has shown to be critically unadapted to the challenges we face as a society. In this context, it matters which tribes one looks for oneself, with queerness as a line of flight from that social order. To run away from your birth tribe: the seminal trope of queer culture, exemplified by Bronski Beat’s anthem “Smalltown Boy,” or Sateen’s “Now She’s a Witch,” a song I much relate to as it perfectly captures the spirit of my springtime transfem magic errands. Here is the chorus: *Now she’s a mystic, now she’s a witch* *She's throwing good vibes all around town baby* *Casting spells of sisterhood and love* Certainly, what I didn’t anticipate while engaging in my gender deconstruction journey, is how magical it would be. To join the queer tribe is to open a portal that obliterates the shackles of normative subjectivity. It is a collective process of becoming, echoed by the communal ethos generally expressed in queer circles. It is also a form of healing. For the postmodern, fragmented self of the atomized society, queer tribalism has a taste of relational ontology that spills beyond the metaphysical individualism of the western subject. It’s hot. It’s cosmic. It’s irresistible! I’m proud to be part of a tribal process of emancipation from the miserably self-interested, ultimately isolated, and powerless neoliberal subjectivity that is imposed on us. Indeed, what are the spells of sisterhood and love thrown by Sateen’s heroine if not the potential of the queer movement as a feminist inter-class struggle against the stratified society, to dismantle the oppositions between workers built by the bourgeoisie in order to maintain its domination, leading the people to desire their own repression? To illustrate this point, one event that I particularly cherish is the *Pride des Banlieues* (Pride of the Suburbs) in Saint-Denis, a commune in the northern suburbs of Paris whose population, largely of immigrant origin, is heavily affected by precarity and marginalization. I remember being struck by the political relevance of this queer presence in the street, in contrast to my experience of other pride events that felt more like mere celebrations or worse, ambulating rainbow zoos. Here, the activist solidarity was tangible, and the point made clear: the “arabs versus fags” trickery is over now; it’s the poor against the rich, the working-class against the capital—full stop. In my case, on top of all the superfab prosocial benefits of deconstructing my masculinity, becoming fem has provided me with new cross-class experiences of precious value for a middle-class feminist and social theorist. When two women are sticking close to each other at a bus stop in the middle of the night, it matters little how different their backgrounds are or what genitals lie behind their skirts. Indeed, losing the privilege of cis-masculinity comes with a downgrade in comfort and safety. One could say that this demotion is the necessary price to pay for a revolutionary becoming. The social control of gender is intense, to say the least. For those of us deviating from the norm, solidarity is a need, not an option. Nonetheless, queer tribalism can also come with segregating tendencies. The songs I cited earlier point at this: ## if queerness as a call to break from the norm is lived and narrativized as an escape towards the center, from the normative provincial life to the metropolitan avant-garde sociality, it is at risk of becoming a form of symbolic capital conflated with bourgeois status. From my uncompromising street hip-hop cultural background, to become versed in queer and feminist theory ironically came as a key phase of my *embourgeoisement*. Moreover, it is this proximity with power that neutralizes queer subjects as they entangle themselves in (individualist, competitive) bourgeois spheres of sociality and structures of power such as, notably, academia and art. I have seen this happen so many times: queer beings, incredibly badass butches and witches and faggots who could be smashing down patriarchy from breakfast to supper, instead write boring PHDs or perform for a polite seated audience in a bourgeois theater, reinforcing queerness as an elitist aesthetic, a social code for the sophisticated progressive urbanite, while on top of it all fabulating their middle-class comfort as “precarity.” A friend from a modest class background once shared with me how they were intimidated to enter the bar where we were supposed to meet because, I quote, “the crowd looked so queer.” To me, a fabulous socialist transfem queen accustomed to being the most stylish person in the room, the place seemed to be packed with mostly straight liberal creative-type white hip bourgeois fuckers. I remember being baffled: how wrong was this? This tribal reading of the social, mobilized where a sole class analysis would be too limiting, should therefore point at rather than obfuscate the power dynamics at stake. Queerness as a movement serves when embedded in a cross-class, multiracial, street and punk sociality. ## The commodification of marginal aesthetics by the bourgeoisie should not prevent us from making the right political alliances to break, rather than reproduce, social hierarchies. This piece is a call to remember the focus of LGBTQIA+ praxis, our tribal rainbow superpower: queer sexuality and gender trouble are dynamite, torches of revolutionary becomings. Queer hipsterism is not. Ultimately, it is a matter of territoriality and gentrification. We need to be careful: the queer tribal call should lead to the protest, the squat, the political organization—eventually to the club’s darkroom for its pleasure politics and subjectivation power—but not, or at least not primarily, to the museum or the university. Otherwise, “queering the institution” might come at the cost of taming down the scream from the gutter, where the truly delicious queer magic comes from. \\\\ *Astrée Duval is dancefloor mystique, cosmic healer and socialist agitator. She is currently based in Berlin.* ### Resilient communities URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/resilient-communities-1/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:13.000Z In colonial Brazil, quilombos — autonomous communities created by fugitive enslaved Afrodiasporic people — constituted one of the first documented experiences of anti-slavery and anti-colonial resistance. It is credited that first quilombola communities were formed in the 16th century. These were socially structured according to African cultural values with a democratic type of political organization sustained by an economic model based on communitarian mutual help, in contrast to the Western colonial plantation system and capitalist accumulation. The aggregating characteristic of these communities made them a point of convergence where different peoples, such as Amerindians, and even white people who were not committed to the colonial society, could interact and eventually join. This form generated cultural and ethono-racial entanglements and hybridizations that gave birth to a multiethnic and pluricultural way of being beyond the direct mediation of European colonizers. Although quilombos were first formed as a result of the suffering provoked by the experience of losing identity and humanity, defined by the experience of being trafficked to another continent to be enslaved, quilombola people were also driven by the need to establish alliances to guarantee the freedom and survival of peoples oppressed by colonialism. More than a dissident community, the quilombo is a way of surviving, a struggle, and a means of belonging collectively to a territory that has historically informed the struggle for the rights of Black and non-white peoples in Brazil to this day. Based on this background, the Brazilian artist, author, and politician Abdias Nascimento proposed at the *2nd Congress of Black Culture of the Americas* (Panama, 1980) the legacy of quilombo as a model of resistance for Black peoples in the Americas. Moreover, Nascimento proposed an understanding of Quilombismo in his book, *Quilombismo: Documentos de uma militância Pan-Africanista* (1980), as an anti-capitalist and anti-racist political principle for the Brazilian state with the aim of establishing a nation based on racial, cultural and class egalitarianism. Before articulating his concept of Quilombismo, Nascimento had already created, with his wife Maria Nascimento, the *Teatro Experimental do Negro* (TEN) (Black Experimental Theater) in 1944\. Besides aiming at the inclusion of Black people in the Brazilian theater scene, TEN's main goal was to question the legitimacy of the Brazilian theater aesthetics that, according to Nascimento, were mainly informed by a white and Eurocentric aesthetics. Moreover, TEN promoted literacy courses for Black people and conferences on Black culture and the social condition of the Black population in Brazil. In 1948, the journal *Quilombo: Vida, Problemas e Aspirações do Negro (Quilombo: Life, Problems and Aspirations of Blacks)* was created in order to promote Afro-Brazilian culture and thinking. In the 1950s, Nascimento created the *Museu de Arte Negra* (MAN) (Museum of Black Art) in order to promote and value Afro-Brazilian art, and Black people, as exponents of a struggle against racism. Although MAN organized exhibitions in various institutions, the museum never had its own fixed location. During the Brazilian civil-military dictatorship (1964-1985), Abdias Nascimento lived for thirteen years in self-imposed exile in the United States and Nigeria between 1968 and 1981\. In the United States, Nascimento was a visiting professor at Yale and Wesleyan Universities, and was named professor in the department of Puerto Rican Studies at the State University of New York. By that time, he had come into direct contact with the activists from the broader US Civil Rights Movements, the Black Panthers, the Black Art Movement, and several institutions created by African-American artists, authors and activists. In the 1970s Nascimento traveled regularly in the United States and Africa. He lived in Nigeria from 1976 to 1977, becoming strongly influenced by Pan-Africanism. During his exile, he also developed his painting, which combines geometric abstraction with Candomblé-derived religious symbology. On returning to Brazil, he formally joined the *Partido Democrático Trabalista* (Democratic Labor Party) in order to serve as a congress member representing the ideals of the *Movimento Negro Unificado* (Unified Black Movement), which advocated for the rights of the Black population. In 1981, Nascimento created with his second wife, Elisa Larkin Nascimento, the institute IPEAFRO (Institute of Afro-Brazilian Research and Studies) in order to promote Black thinking and culture in academia. In *Quilombismo: Documentos de uma militância Pan-Africanista*, Nascimento identified quilombo as a principle of social organization and resistance which imbues a sense of aggregation and community based in recognizing the humanity of the Other. For him, the function of ensuring the survival of oppressed peoples is the ethical foundation for what he named Quilombismo. Thus, by applying Quilombismo as a political principle, Nascimento claims space for an autonomous theory and practice based on the experience of the oppressed which is not directed by external concepts aiming to adapt the oppressed to the dominant social scheme. In this sense, Quilombismo is seen as a principle meaning “fraternal and free encounter, solidarity, coexistence and existential communion.” \[1\] Quilombismo, then, offers the possibility of transforming society in a way that “represents a stage in human and sociopolitical progress in terms of economic egalitarianism.” \[2\] In colonial Brazil, the anti-systemic quality of quilombo guaranteed the survival of quilombola people and the maintenance of their cultures and knowledges. However, even after Brazilian Independence in 1822, the Abolition of Slavery in 1888, and the Proclamation of the Republic in 1988, non-white populations continued to be oppressed by the state, and African and Amerindian cultures remained marginalized. These segments of society needed to create methods through which they could keep their cultures and traditions alive. In this context, the quilombos remained as a subterfuge where cultural traditions could be maintained; simultaneously, the quilombo way of life was spreading to urban centers and acquiring other settlement formats. Based on this, Abdias do Nascimento classified two types of quilombo. The first is the “illegal quilombo,” which were the settlements in the forests established during the era of slavery in Brazil. The second is the “legal quilombo”, which consists of sites of culture such as samba schools and *terreiros* \[3\] founded after the abolition of slavery. Settlements similar to quilombos were created in all regions of the American continent where the slave system operated. \[4\] But Brazilian quilombos originate, specifically, from the Imbangala people of Angola. In her essay *O Conceito de Quilombo e a Resistência Cultural Negra* (1986), the Brazilian historian Beatriz Nascimento explains that the nomadic character of the Imbangalas’ way of life, which, added to the specificity of their social formation, allowed their community to integrate foreigners as long as they were initiated through a ritual. The Imbangalas created then an institution called “Kilombo”, which served to unite peoples of diverse origins into a community designated for military resistance against slave trafficking. \[5\] In this respect, the individuals who were integrated into the Imbangala’s group would be instituted as Kilombo. As Beatriz Nascimento argues in the 1989 essayistic film *Ôrí*, \[6\] due to constant persecutions and battles, quilombola people had to adapt to a fugitive way of life. Although the foundation of the quilombo is the land, and quilombolas identified themselves deeply with the land, they had to learn that they themselves were the land; they were the quilombo. This characteristic of quilombo defines this type of community as a becoming, a continuous and unfinished history, an open memory of ancestral struggles, a process of identification forged in the relations and action between individuals who join together to fight for emancipation, and for the possibility of inhabiting the world. So, the quilombist becoming is, in this sense, the ethos that guides the effort of quilombola individuals to inhabit the world and belong to it. Unlike the colonial-capitalist-neoliberal rationality that identifies land as private property that can, or must, be exploited, in a quilombo the individual recognizes the community and the land as part of a collective identity. A quilombola does not see itself as the owner of the land, but as someone who belongs to the land. This outlines the non-predatory way in which quilombolas relate to the territories they occupy. As the quilombist model of communal organization is an open and dynamic system structured to handle individual and collective needs, the kind of political governance it applies is defined by mutually supportive relations, establishing a mode of power that differs from the predominant Western one. Also in *Ôrí*, Beatriz Nascimento states that: *“Research about the quilombo is partly based on questioning power. However much a social system dominates, it is possible that a different system is created within it, and that is what the quilombo is. But the quilombo’s mode of being does not enact state power in the sense that we understand it as political power, power of domination, because the quilombo disallows this perspective. Each individual is the power, each individual is the quilombo.”* This kind of power she is referring to is non-oppressive. She is arguing about a form of potentializing the subject that differs from neoliberal forms of empowerment, because it aims to promote the welfare of a community and not the individualization of power. The quilombola individual is, from this perspective, a collective individual, and its potentiation strengthens its social group. When Quilombismo is applied in a specific sociopolitical context, it functions as a potency that codifies a way of coexisting and cohabiting spaces. Hence, while Abdias do Nascimento identifies Quilombismo as a principle that can be applied as an instrument of sociopolitical decolonization, Beatriz Nascimento identifies quilombo as an identity in process, and a form of (co)existing in the world. This understanding of Quilombismo as an identity provides tools to challenge the coloniality of being. \[7\] The quilombization of social spaces will only be effectively accomplished if it leads to the quilombization of individuals. From this perspective, Quilombismo is instrumental in creating the conditions for individuals to coexist in the world without having their ethno-racial and cultural differences suppressed by a single way of living. With this is mind, I proposed in my essay *Common Grounds: Quilombizing the Subject, the Museum, and the World to Inhabit It*, \[8\] published in Issue 12 of the *Stedelijk Journal*, the application of Quilombismo into the artistic practice and art institutions as a means of collectivizing art and turning institutions into communal spaces where new social relations and cultural hybridizations can germinate in opposition to racism and neoliberal capitalism. More precisely, my proposal asserted that in adopting the autonomous model of self-governance, communal participation and aggregative identity of quilombos, the possibility of transforming art institutions into counter-institutional spaces where diverse social groups, cultures and knowledges intermingle to create a radically democratic and collective way of being is enhanced. Thus, the quilombization of artistic practices and art institutions would inform the implementation of a new ethics and a new institutional mechanism of operation, engaging the institution with the community that surrounds it, and contradicting competitive and hierarchical structures. In short, my proposal for quilombizing art institutions and artistic practices is aimed at the creation of a place where collective anti-colonialist, anti-racist, and anti-capitalist aesthetic-political practices can find the necessary strength to create cultural entanglements, subjectivities, and to establish social relations that provide belonging, recognition, and recognize the humanity of all kinds of people and a non-destructive way of living together. **Quilombizing Institutions Or Institutionalizing Quilombo?** With the intensification of the debate on identity-based issues and decolonial thinking within the social realm, the current incorporation of non-Western aesthetic and epistemic perspectives into the mainstream art scene has become a strategy (if not a rule) which engaged agents employ to “decolonize” and “democratize” art. In this context, Quilombismo has been “rediscovered” as an alternative to coloniality and racism within the art system. Despite this performative embrace, the current flirtation that art maintains with Quilombismo highlights problematic nuances existing in the relationship between institutions and dissident practices, especially when it comes to the assimilation, institutionalization, and instrumentalization of them. One example of this is the project *Programa Abdias Nascimento* e *O Museu de Arte Negra* (Program Abdias Nascimento and The Museum of Black Art) undertaken by the private art institution Instituto Inhotim (Minas Gerais, Brazil) and IPEAFRO. It was initiated in 2021 in order to host the *Museu de Arte Negra* in Inhotim, and to associate the work of Nascimento with the collection of the institution. This project is devided in three temporary exhibitions at Inhotim, *Primeiro Ato: Abdias Nascimento, Tunga* e *O Museum do Negro* (Act One: Abdias Nascimento, Tunga and The Museum of Black Art), *Segundo Ato: Dramas para negros e prólogo para brancos* (Second Act: Dramas for Blacks and Prologue for Whites), *Terceiro Ato: Sortilégio* (Third Act: Sortilege). Additionally, there are the exhibitions Quilombo: Vida, Problemas e Aspirações do Negro (Quilombo: Life, Problems, and Aspirations of the Black) and *O Mundo é o Teatro do Homem* (The World is the Theater of Mankind), organized by the direction and curatorial team of Inhotim in partnership with IPEAFRO, to celebrate the work of Abdias Nascimento. In August 2017, Bernardo Paz, the founder of Inhotim and a former mining magnate, was sentenced by Brazilian courts to nine years and three months in prison for money laundering. Subsequently, Paz was sentenced to five years for tax evasion. At the time, there were also accusations of slave and child labor, illegal deforestation, and land grabbing. \[9\] In 2018, Paz made a deal with the courts and paid his multimillion-dollar tax debt using 20 works from his art collection, a strange transaction in which the works were donated to the state, but remained installed at Inhotim. In 2020, Paz was acquitted of the crime of money laundering. Private institutions and property are exactly what Brazilian quilombos have been opposing for five centuries. Why then would a private institution like Inhotim be a suitable place to celebrate the work of Abdias Nascimento and Quilombismo? Another recent attempt to introduce Quilombismo into the institutional space is the exhibition and program *O Quilombismo: Of Resisting and Insisting. Of Flight as Fight. Of Other Democratic Egalitarian Political Philosophies* opened in June 2023 at the Haus der Kulturen der Welt (HKW) in Berlin. The HKW program has been emphatically presented as a broad effort to employ quilombist principles by promoting quilombo-inspired exhibitions, publications, performances, film screenings, storytelling sessions, lectures, cooking jams, concerts, and an educational program called *School of Quilombismo*. Since its opening, this program has been widely celebrated as a novelty that would refresh the Berlin art scene. However, despite the avowal that HKW is drawing on quilombist principles to change its operating model, turning it into a communal space, this project does not apply Quilombismo in the radically necessary way to transform HKW into a quilombo-style community space. On the contrary, it institutionalizes a practice which is historically anti-systemic and counter-institutional, once all of the activities promoted by HKW's quilombist program until now have followed all of the standard institutional norms adopted by every regular Western art institution. Besides being an autonomous mode of social organization, quilombola communities are historically a form of political and cultural resistance developed by oppressed populations. Adapting quilombo to the institutional model of the arts, especially in major capitalist countries like Germany, is a strategic error that can neutralize quilombola resistance. Projects such as the HKW’s play the relevant role of popularizing quilombo's history and practice, presenting it to audiences who have never had contact with quilombo. However, they also ensnare (not to say imprison) revolutionary ideas, knowledges, and practices in a strictly Western and capitalist institutional model. It is important to accept that there is a crucial difference between turning an institution into a quilombo and institutionalizing the quilombo. When I proposed the quilombization of art and art institutions in my article in the *Stedelijk Journal*, I presented a radical proposal in which administrative and curatorial decisions of an eventual quilombo art institution can be made through public assemblies, and in which art collections are de-privatized and turned into common goods, as well as accompanying financial reforms based on obtaining new means of collecting funds that are not not dependent on private capitalist foundations, banks, and patrons committed to neoliberalism. The existing hierarchies between professions and payment should be abolished in order to avoid competition, as well as the proliferation of classism, racism, sexism, and the precarization of working conditions. As a quilombo, this art institution should be an emancipatory space of encounter, conviviality, mutual help, and care, but also a place of resistance and rupture with the capitalist system. None of this is evident at Inhotim and HKW. A trap into which dissident agents acting in the field of art often fall, especially nowadays when openly anti-systemic aesthetic-political practices are increasingly rare, consists of the institutional and market assimilation of their practices and thinking. This has mainly occurred with decolonial and identity-based proposals within the art system. It probably occurs because one of the main strategies adopted by decolonial thinkers and doers, as well as by social minorities concerned with identity politics, is to occupy spaces of power and representation so that they can spread their ideas and sociopolitical demands, and, thus, finally be heard. In this respect, every art space, from museums to commercial galleries, are understood as spaces that can potentially be occupied and reformulated based on the interventions of artists, curators, and thinkers who share the same yearning for social reparation, as well as for diversification, democratization, and decolonization of art and knowledge. This is a reformist strategy that aims not at the total dismantling of the art system, but at the application of specific measures based on inclusion policies to improve it. The problem with this strategy is that while it promotes individual success for a few artists and curators, this kind of inclusion tends to turn dissent agents into collaborators, as well as to commodify social demands and marginalized identities. Moreover, it does not have a concrete impact on the lives of oppressed populations, since it keeps the capitalist system intact. In this context, we must pay special attention to the phenomenon of identity politics and its close relationship with neoliberal capitalism. Since the 2000s, identity politics \[10\] has gained special attention within progressive political sectors of the United States, spreading rapidly to Europe and several countries of the Global South. Identity politics has stood out precisely because, after the bankruptcy of traditional Socialist and Communist lefts, and the triumph of neoliberalism in practically the entire world between the late 1980s and the early 1990s, progressive sectors of societies felt lacking a political agency that could offer alternatives to the social ills they experienced. In a context where there were almost no anti-systemic options within the left, identity politics then emerged as a means to fight racist, heteronormative, and misogynistic social oppressions by demanding social equality, as well as cultural and political representation for social minorities within the capitalist system. \[11\] However, although identity politics has advocated social reforms, it isn’t able to contain the expansion of neoliberalism from economics and politics from key sectors of societies such as education, labor, health system, media, and culture. Hence, it didn't take long for identity politics to be instrumentalized by neoliberalism. In this vein of argument, the American Marxist-oriented feminist philosopher Nancy Fraser coined the term *progressive neoliberalism* to designate the assimilation of identity-based political agendas by political and economic power centers in the United States, more specifically the Democratic Party and Wall Street. Fraser contends that: *"In its US form, progressive neoliberalism is an alliance of mainstream new social movement currents (feminism, anti-racism, multiculturalism, and LGBTQ rights) on the one hand, and "symbolic" business and service sectors (Wall Street, Silicon Valley, and Hollywood) on the other. In this alliance, progressive forces effectively join the forces of cognitive capitalism, especially financialization. Albeit unintentionally, the former lend their charisma to the latter. Ideals like diversity and empowerment, which in principle might serve different ends, now gloss over policies that have devastated manufacturing and what were once middle-class lives."* The incorporation of identity-based social agendas and decolonial perspectives into the global art system/art market corresponds to the phenomenon of the instrumentalization of progressive socio-political agendas and anti-systemic aesthetic-political practices, making them a means to enhance the system. Quilombos, as well as Abdias Nascimento's Quilombismo, are fundamentally opposed to this type of assimilation. **Quilombismo Has Never Been a Systemic Practice.** In the 20th century the Black rights movement in Brazil was successful in guaranteeing the official recognition of the right to collective lands for quilombos, codified in the Constitution of 1988\. But legality, besides submitting quilombos to the apparatus of the capitalist state, did not mean that quilombola communities actually obtained the right to land. Until today, the very few quilombola communities which are officially recognized by the Brazilian state have received title deeds to the lands where they live. Local landowners and transnational companies regularly violently force quilombola populations to leave their lands. This shows how problematic the relationship between dissident practices and the institutional order established by capitalist power can be. Why then would quilombist practices need any kind of legitimization such as that promoted by mainstream Western institutions? What would the transformation of Quilombismo into a trend within the art scene, or a new marketable art “ism” add to the struggle of quilomobola people? In the Brazilian context, Quilombismo, as it was proposed by Abdias Nascimento, remains as a social option that can inform anti-racist and anti-capitalist struggles from an anti-systemic perspective. Why, therefore, should it be turned into an institutional program? Celebrating the work of Abdias Nascimento is laudable in itself, and to expose the history and the legacy of the quilombo in cultural spaces is a valid exercise in historiography, but it is urgent that we take precautions so that the continuing legacy of the quilombo is not assimilated in such a way that its subversive and transformative potential is reduced. Otherwise we will lose a powerful form of resistance that, together with other Non-Western and some Western (why not?) anti-racist and anti-capitalist practices, can guide us in the creation of an *in-common* based on solidarity, mutuality and a means for the recognition of the vulnerability, needs, and rights of all peoples. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Abdias do Nascimento, Quilombismo: Documentos de uma militância Pan-Africanista (Brasília: Fundação Palmares, 2002), 274. \[2\] Ibid. \[3\] Temples where Afro-Brazilian religions such as Candomblé and Umbanda are cultivated. \[4\] The communities created by runaway enslaved people in the Americas have their origins in African communalism. The name given to the settlements varies according to the country, with “maroon community” and “maroonage” being the most used terms in the United States and Caribbean countries, while “cimarron” is often used in the Spanish Antilles. The word “maroon” comes from the French adjective marron, which means “fugitive” and “savage.” In Latin America, some of these communities can also be called palenques. The term “mocambo” is occasionally applied in Brazil, meaning “improvised hut.” \[5\] The etymological origins of the word “quilombo” stem from Kilombo, which means “village” or “fortress” in Bantu. \[6\] Raquel Gerber, 1989, Brazil, 100'. \[7\] For a broader understanding of the concept of coloniality of being, I recommend the article “Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/Power/Truth/Freedom: Towards the Human, After Man, Its Overrepresentation—An Argument” by Jamaican author Sylvia Wynter. \[8\] [https://stedelijkstudies.com/journal/common-grounds-quilombizing-subject/](https://stedelijkstudies.com/journal/common-grounds-quilombizing-subject/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[9\] [https://www.intercept.com.br/2018/06/08/crimes-bernardo-paz-do-inhotim/](https://www.intercept.com.br/2018/06/08/crimes-bernardo-paz-do-inhotim/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) \[10\] It is credited that the term "identity politics" has indeed a longer history, since it was coined by the Marxist-oriented black feminist collective Combahee River in the 1970's, as American author Asad Haider clarifies in his book Mistaken Identity: Race and Class in The Age of Trump (2018). In my argument I am referring specifically to the growth of identity politics since the 2000's. \[11\] There were other movements such as the Alter-globalization and Occupy. However, I am focusing my argument on the phenomenon of identity politics, which, unlike these movements that quickly faded away, managed to remain an ideological force present in the socio-political debate. \[12\] Nancy Fraser. "The End of Progressive Neoliberalism". USA, Dissent Magazine, 2017\. The article is available online under the link: https://www.dissentmagazine.org/online\_articles/progressive-neoliberalism-reactionary-populism-nancy-fraser IMAGE CREDITS Mapa da Capitania de Pernambuco, com rapresentaciao Quilombo dos Palmares (1647). *Filipe Lippe is a poet, artist and researcher born in 1986 in Duque de Caxias, Brazil. He is a PhD candidate in art theory at HFBK Hamburg, researching on historical trauma, racism, and (de)coloniality in the context of neoliberalism.* ### Rana hamadeh's standard_deviation URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/rana-hamadehs-standard-deviation/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:10.000Z Rana Hamadeh is a visual, performance, and sound artist based in Rotterdam. Her latest exhibition, Standard\_*Deviation*, curated by Pauline Doutreluingne, took place at Kunstverein Arnsberg from May 5 to June 18, 2023\. Standard\_*Deviation* explored tragedy as a “technology of endurance” by revisiting Sophocle’s *Oedipus Rex*, employing the language of theater, gaming, and algorithms. For Arts of the Working Class, independent curator, lecturer, and writer Vanina Saracino discusses the exhibition project with the artist. **Rana, I wanted to start with a comment on your general approach to artmaking: your exhibitions seem to actively refrain from representation, instead developing a site for the production of specific knowledge, or even modes of making sense of the artistic experience. What is your methodology?** Generally, I produce sequential works under larger theoretical “umbrellas” that ground terminology, references, bibliographies, and citational politics, as well as the aesthetic logics of the works. My formal research always departs from some “baroque” (extravagant, elaborate) claims or questions that require the construction of methodological frameworks, to become operative beyond, or independently from, established approaches commonly employed within academic disciplines. The art *work*—itself the *labor* that constitutes my practice—*is* the development of a methodology for thinking through those initial claims and questions. And the exhibition is the space in which these bespoke thinking tools and methods are activated and tested out. **Standard\_*Deviation* is the most recent research “umbrella” you developed. Can you talk about the presentation of this body of work at Kunstverein Arnsberg, and the process that led to it?** Standard\_*Deviation* is a long-term research project developed in various stages at Edith-Russ-Haus (Oldenburg, 2022), Secession (Vienna, 2021), and the festival steirischer herbst (Graz, 2020). It focuses on the production, consumption, and distribution of (machinic) desire within the contemporary global public discourse, with one of its core questions being: “Can the machine strike?” The exhibition at Kunstverein Arnsberg centers around my 3D animated film installation Standard\_*Deviation* I (2021–ongoing), a 22-minute looped projection accompanied by an immersive and cacophonous sound and media installation, which I created in collaboration with my sister and conversation partner, Sara Hamadeh. In the other four rooms of the exhibition, I present new studies that explore various cartographic offshoots derived from the animated film, which delve into its narrative, poetic, and scenographic layers, and offer an alternative way of engaging with its content. These elements also transform the densely coded images, spaces, and motifs from the film's montage into independent actors capable of existing autonomously. The film conducts a reading of the Sophoclean tragedy *Oedipus Rex*, focusing on the relation between father and son—the origin and its proxy—rather than on the triad of mother-father-son. In the film, the son’s desire is always directed towards the father; the proxy’s desire to become the origin at all time. I am interested particularly in this fractal form of reproduction (of desire) and its political implications. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/4_Still_aus_The_Destiny_Project_work-in-progress_c_Rana_Hamadeh_2020.jpeg) fig. 1 **Indeed, in *Oedipus Rex*, the human condition is meticulously dissected and spectacularized. The narrative unravels as Oedipus unintentionally fulfills the oracle's prophecy – killing his father and marrying his mother – despite his parents' desperate efforts to avert it by abandoning him after birth. There is an inescapable circularity in this tragedy. What led you to single out this story to address the intricate concept of desire, and how did you approach it?** I chose Oedipus Rex as I always begin with the obvious, shifting its framework until it becomes surprising, disturbing, or uncanny. When questions about the nature, architecture, and destination of desire are raised, it is not easy to ignore the rich and foundational literature about Oedipus and Oedipal desire from Sigmund Freud onward. The works in Standard\_*Deviation* take their cues from the Sophoclean tragedy’s dramaturgical construct; its theoretical, philosophical, and psychoanalytic bearings, among other things. Their course of thinking is both cartographic and associative. The story of Oedipus is approached as a narrative device to think through the relations of desire, destiny, and technology, but also as a carrier to other stories. But that is not all. At the core of Standard\_*Deviation* lies the question: how can we “desire differently?” – In other words, to break out of the circular destinies that structure our entangled lives. The demands this question imposes upon us are enormous. Firstly, it assumes that there is a fundamental flaw in the way we desire (the world). Secondly, it demands from us something that we cannot simply achieve through discursive means. Desire is not a conscious construct, but rather, a complex network of conscious and unconscious trade. Such trades are constituted through forms of bondage that we cannot easily decipher. This is where the importance of tragedy comes into play. To consider the question of desire, one needs to look beyond the cerebral reading of the Oedipal myth. The work that I am making not only conducts a reading of Oedipus Rex, but further examines the Sophoclean tragedy itself – that is, Sophocles’s figuration of tragedy as an extended machine and technology of endurance, where the object of endurance is the circularity of destiny that I just mentioned. Therefore, the story to which the questions of desire and destiny are central is inseparable from the form through which it is presented by Sophocles. Tragedy, in a Sophoclean sense, is a portion of life – infinitesimal as it is – rather than merely a theatrical form; a portion of life that centralizes, rather than resolves, the violence of reproduction of desire. The body of work that I’m making is an attempt to think of a contemporary theorization of tragedy that emerges from these ideas. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Still_aus_The_Destiny_Project_work-in-progress_c_Rana_Hamadeh_2020.jpeg) fig. 2 **What was the initial visual reference or inspiration?** It was the image of an early 17th century engraving by Willem van Swanenburgh representing the anatomical theater at Leiden University. It became the space that I built in 3D in which a story, any story, was about to unfold. There was no better architecture in which to play *Oedipus Rex* than an anatomy theater. From the onset, I undertook a process akin to that of automatic writing, but with images. I wanted to follow my unconscious tendencies, observing the generative thinking patterns that manifest as imagination; the sounds and visuals that both drive and are driven by my fears and desires; that libidinal charge that produces all the networked associations, without a plan. Of course, no image is innocent. **In the film Standard\_*Deviation* I (HD, 22’, 6-channel sound), you develop specific visual strategies to address the recurrence of the tragedy present in *Oedipus Rex*. The film is structured through absurd events that take place within a hyper-realist atmosphere…** Yes, the film is a constellation of phantasmagorical *tableaux vivants* accompanied by a 6-channel cacophonic composition. The hyper-realistic aesthetic is a way of deferring the visuals to what already exists in the digital realm, aligning with desired aesthetics in gaming. Turning the film into a computer game is a project I envision in the future. One of the characters you see in the film is a skeletal structure being born from an exoskeletal shrimp-like creature, trying to dig an exit through a floor drain; the spine then grows a leg and tries to escape the architecture using the logics of a platform game. There is also a stone leg bound to a wobbly spine, which is bound to a drain at the center of an empty anatomy theater architecture: there is no *body* in between – no medium of translation between the libidinal force thrusting the leg forward as it runs for escape, or the spinal structure that ties it down to the room’s center. The leg, in its attempt to flee these chains, ends up orbiting its own stem, the spine. These nightmarish absurd events and images map out the crescendos and decrescendos of the original looping Sophoclean tragedy. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/2_Rana-Hamadeh-Stereoviewer-Standard-Deviation-box-2021Individual-Stereoscope-with-own-stand.-Installation-at-Kunstverein-Arnsberg-2023_Photo_Michel-Ptasinski.jpeg) fig. 3 **How is the circularity of destiny and the struggle to escape it recontextualized within your artistic practice?** The actual tragedy I am moved by is the circularity of destiny structuring “Oedipal life.” This desire to escape one’s own destiny is paralleled in my work by a desire for *castration*: a cataclysmic derailment from the inevitability of destiny. Any struggle against some type of power should be coupled with a tendency to leave that power the moment it is reached. We constantly struggle with the tragedy of the reproduction of colonial, racist, misogynistic, and capitalist infrastructures through the very performance of anti-colonial, anti-racist, queer, and anti-capitalist tropes. I wonder how we can desire differently, when, as we try to perform our refusals, we end up reproducing the same tropes we’ve refused. This speaks to a broader discourse about our desire to break away from existing models of oppression by inadvertently reproducing them. Again, this is the circularity of destiny, which brings one to perform the same curse over and over, regardless of our desire to exit the story. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/3_Still_aus_The_Destiny_Project_work-in-progress_c_Rana_Hamadeh_2020.jpeg) fig. 4 **This observation immediately brings to mind the desire to break free from the confines of capitalism, while recognizing the seemingly insurmountable challenge of escaping this all-encompassing construct – what Mark Fisher called “capitalist realism.” You mentioned in our conversation that Standard\_*Deviation* I will eventually evolve into a computer game, so I wonder if you believe that gaming, with its freedom from physical constraints and the expansive potential for roleplay-based methodologies, might be of help in envisaging other narratives and different futures…** Remember all the expectations surrounding the game *Second Life* and the huge disappointment that followed as its players failed to offer anything new or imaginative in the digital realm? What was disappointing was not the game in and of itself, but the fact that nothing different from what already existed was developed – there was no imagination of other paradigms of living, no articulation of other desires. People just assumed different avatars and became what they desired to be within the existing paradigm of the “first life.” This connects to the idea that we act as if we would be destined to capitalism, unable to desire outside of its logics. The game I envision is not about finding alternatives; rather, I envision it as a space where this move from life to metaphor – *life constantly becoming its own metaphor* – is hyperbolized and played around with. I imagine the game as an exaggerated space for tragedy, operating through this idea of the circularity of destiny. I am still exploring how to imagine the infrastructure of the game. This labor goes beyond the practical aspects; it encompasses the aesthetic dimension, the existing narratives, structures, and systems that limit our imagination, as tools to expand it by means of mimicry, repetition, self-similarity and derivation. I do not believe it is possible to name the monstrosity that we live in. But I believe that situating monstrosity within the arena of play is a stimulating practice – or even a way to explore different paths while acknowledging the limitations of the tools at hand. \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover, fig. 1, fig. 2, fig. 4: Produktionsstill aus *The Destiny Project*, work in progress. Credits Rana Hamadeh, 2020. fig. 3: Rana Hamadeh, Stereoviewer Standard Deviation box, 2021, Individual Stereoscope with own stand. Installation at Kunstverein Arnsberg 2023\. Photo Michel Ptasinski. *Vanina Saracino is an independent curator, writer, and lecturer at Art and Media, Universität der Künste (UdK), Berlin. Her work focuses on theories and art strategies that explicitly question anthropocentric and binary worldviews from an intersectional perspective, with an emphasis on lens-based and time-based art practices. Saracino is currently co-curating the Screen City Biennial, Other Minds (Berlin 2022 / Oslo 2023). She has collaborated with Kumu Art Museum and EKKM (Tallinn, Estonia), Teatrino di Palazzo Grassi (Venice), TBA21 – Academy, Cinemateca Brasileira (São Paulo), Cinemateca do MAM (Rio de Janeiro), Palais de Tokyo (Paris), Salzburger Kunstverein (Salzburg), The EYE Film Institute (Amsterdam), among others. www.vaninasaracino.com* ### We are not the last URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/we-are-not-the-last/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:09.000Z Featuring works from a whopping 140 international artists, including those from Germany, Spain, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Ukraine, Italy, Albania, Israel-Palestine, France, and Japan, *Artists in a Time of War* (March 15 - November 19, 2023), now on view at the Castello di Rivoli outside of Turin, Italy, forces viewers to get comfortable in chaos. Through its featured works – primarily paintings and videos, with some installations, prints, and drawings – curators Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev and Marianna Vecellio highlight the role of artists to find meaning in the calamitous paradoxes war presents: militant organization and cataclysmic destruction; survival and sublimation – or, as Christov-Bakargiev eloquently puts it in the exhibition press release, the “expanded interval between life and death.” Despite the show’s physically chronological arrangement, the philosophy behind *Artists in a Time of War* is decidedly atemporal; perhaps nihilistically so. For example, the exhibition opens with a selection of deeply upsetting drawings and paintings of the Dachau concentration camp by Anton Zoran Mušič, including a series of paintings depicting ghostly, contorted and skeletal human bodies with cavernous open mouths. In curatorial texts, Mušič is described as being heavily influenced by Francisco Goya, who is put into conversation with the more recent artist via his iconic *Disasters of War* prints – first drawn 150 years ago during the Peninsular War, well before Mušič painted his specters. Goya’s ominous, now-iconic images of war and death spill over one another in a vitrine at the gallery’s center. Underlining the tragic circularity of global violence, Mušič’s series of paintings is called *Nous ne sommes pas les derniers* (*We are not the last*) (1970-1976; 1987-1988). ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/ANTON-ZORAN-MUSIC-Nous-ne-sommes-pas-les-derniers-1987.jpg) fig. 1 Arguably, “We are not the last” is the theme of this exhibition, whose featured artists explore international conflicts spanning across decades and geographies – even, in some cases, ideologies, as indicated by the inclusion of artists like Salvador Dalí (spurned by his contemporaries for his vocal admiration of Adolf Hilter) \[1\] and Alberto Burri ([who fought on behalf of the Fascist army in World War II](https://www.guggenheim.org/audio/track/introduction-to-alberto-burri-the-trauma-of-painting?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org)). From Lee Miller’s nauseating photographs of victims of the very same concentration camp in which Mušič was incarcerated (1945) to Michael Rakowitz’s *The Ballad of Special Ops Cody* (2017), a stop-motion film about a soldier’s guilt following the Iraq wars, and Nikita Kadan’s *The Shelter II* (2023), a commissioned installation reflecting Russia’s war in Ukraine, Mušič’s ominous title is proven right. By concluding the show in the present day, with two works by Rahraw Omarzad, one gets the sense of a depressing historical *ouroboros*, the snake stubbornly swallowing its own venomous tail. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Nikita-Kadan.jpeg) fig. 2 It’s bleak, to be sure. Crucially, however, this show doesn’t stop at this message: rather, it carefully includes several standout works that pull this idea into new realms, culminating in a meditation on modern warfare that bleeds from purely existential despair into something more effervescent; even cosmic. The standout work in this respect is Rahraw Omarzad’s series *Every Tiger needs a Horse* (2022-2023), an installation of black and white paintings commissioned for this exhibition. Omarzad – who is originally from Kabul, Afghanistan – fled the country in 2021 after the [US military withdrawal that allowed the Taliban to reclaim control](https://www.nytimes.com/2021/12/10/magazine/fall-of-kabul-afghanistan.html?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org). According to the museum, the Castello di Rivoli collaborated with the Italian military to orchestrate Omarzad’s escape and subsequent asylum. In a first for the Italian military, they worked with the artist to create this series of works: a conceptual, process-based installation in which two four-walled canvas structures were built around dynamite paint bombs, and then detonated. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/RAHRAW-OMARZAD-Every-Tiger-Needs-a-Horse-2022-2023.jpg) fig. 3 The result is a series of eight large paintings: half of black paint splotches on white canvas; half with white on black. In the white canvas works, the exploded black paint is a literal artifact of destruction, with smears of black paint powerfully evoking the moment of explosion, violently, randomly dusted outward, its smoky shrapnel scattering like debris. In works where white paint has been bombed onto black canvas, the effect is galactic: a fragment of frozen light, like an explosion of stars. This series spreads across a full gallery. With plenty of room to breathe, these works powerfully stand between time and space. The true story of their creation binds them to a real person and history – an ongoing violence that is nodded to in the literal, “bombed”-looking works – but their abstraction and celestial poetry allows the viewer to “look up,” beyond geographic, political, or historic specificity into a more general, and thus emotional, meaning. In this way, the series reverberates with another series in the show, Dinh Q. Lê’s beautiful *Light and Belief*. *Voices and sketches of life from the Vietnam War* (2012), a film and accompanying archive of watercolor drawings by Vietnamese artists-turned-soldiers during the American war in Vietnam. These documentary watercolors were created at the same time as the US filmed and broadcast its war in Vietnam, a testament to the material inequality between the countries in combat. Unlike the American footage of the war in Vietnam, which frequently depicted active soldiers – marching through the jungle with rifles aimed – the *Light and Belief* watercolors are often serene, meditative portraits of soldiers in still silence, wiling away the long hours between battles. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Light_Belief_Drawing.jpg) fig. 4 War is meticulously planned and devastatingly random; it is unfair; it is cruel; it renders us helpless; it, despite our best efforts, continues to be a fact of life, and probably always will be. It is what determines the lives of artists like Rahraw Omarzad and Dinh Q. Lê, and of myself, the American art critic whose compatriots marched into their countries, intent to destroy them. *Artists in a Time of War* is commendable for its embrace of these unavoidable truths; for the deceptively complex way in which its featured artists reflect on the meaninglessness of war. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/FRANCISCO-JOSE-DE-GOYA-Y-LUCIENTES-Desastres-de-la-Guerra-1810-1815.jpeg) fig. 5 In late June, Adam Frank [wrote an article for *The Atlantic*](https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2023/06/universe-gravitational-waves-nanograv-discovery/674570/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) called “Scientists Found Ripples in Space and Time. And You Have to Buy Groceries.” Frank, a professor of astrophysics, describes a recent groundbreaking scientific finding for the lay reader. In an extension of Einstein’s theory of relativity, scientists have proved that “the whole universe is humming,” with faraway black holes and our own bodies pulsing in unison with the past. He writes: Every proton and neutron in every atom from the tip of your toes to the top of your head is shifting, shuttling, and vibrating in a collective purr within which the entire history of the universe is implicated. … All of a sudden, we *know* that we are humming in tune with the entire universe, that each of us contains the signature of everything that has ever been. It’s all within us, around us, pushing us to and fro as we hurtle through the cosmos. I’m reminded of Frank’s words when I look back at Omarzad’s white-on-black paintings. There may not be meaning to this violence, but there can be connection – personal, cross-temporal, universal. In a show that may well be read as a testament to hopelessness, there is also a glimmer of possibility for something more: a kind of understanding; a nod to our shared humanity; a tumbling kind of helpless sympathy, like an avalanche of stars. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Christopher Heath Brown and Jean-Pierre Isbouts, *The Dalí Legacy:* *How an Eccentric Genius Changed the Art World and Created a Lasting Legacy* (Apollo, 2021). IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Michael Rakowitz, *The Ballad of Special Ops Cody* (2017). fig. 1: Anton Zoran Mušič, *Nous ne sommes pas les derniers* (*We are not the last*) (1970-1976; 1987-1988). fig. 2: Nikita Kadan, *The Shelter II* (2023). fig. 3: Rahraw Omarzad, series *Every Tiger needs a Horse* (2022-2023). fig. 4: Dinh Q. Lê, *Light and Belief*. *Voices and sketches of life from the Vietnam War* (2012). fig. 5: Francisco Goya. *Eliza Levinson is an artist and writer based in Berlin. Her work has been featured in publications including Artforum, The Nation, The New Inquiry, Hyperallergic, and ArtReview.* ### Karrabing collective URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/karrabing-collective/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:06.000Z Fences, groups of multiple legs roaming blades of grass, and little high pitched voices of the ancestors are recurring motifs in Karrabing Collective’s films and symbolic for their practice. Karrabing is a group of around 50 people, all of Australian indigenous heritage, except for one: Elisabeth Povinelli, a white American who has appeared as a director in all the film’s credits since 2014, when their first film was produced. I look at their body of work, as they suggest themselves, as a schoolhouse—a pedagogical tool for their own community. In their film *Riots*, from 2019, the initial credits tell that the “collective emerged from the violence of contemporary settler colonialism”. *Riots* creates a glossary of a mutual vocabulary around the members’ recent traumatic past. Povinelli is the one asking about the words. Her position is to write, to direct, to interview, to bring together. Povinelli does something that the Spanish philosopher Marina Garces would describe as “getting affected”—she goes to a place where there’s no comforting distance, where one feels the people’s pain that one is in a relationship with and vice versa. She has been with some members of the collective since 1984, not withdrawing her attention for almost 30 years. Settler colonial structural violence can not be mended—but that can’t determine every relationship between white people, indigenous people, and the more-than-human. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/HDK_Karrabing_Film_Collective_Behind_the_Scenes_The_Family_the_Zombie_c-Karrabing_Film_Collective.jpg) fig. 1 The West’s obsession with archiving should not also determine the fate of our relationships. “Things are neither born nor die, though they can turn away from each other” says Povinelli in “a dirty manifesto to Karrabing analysis.” The first lines of this manifesto state that “things exist through an effort of mutual attention. This effort is not in the mind, but in the activity of endurance.” Taken together, the analysis basically translates to: if you cannot care for it, it is not yours, or, to quote the film *Wutharr, Saltwater Dreams* (2016): “you have to put your sweat in it, so the place recognizes you.” Karrabing’s filmmaking has already become a part of the settlers’ archive—but it is not a violent integration, because Karrabing did not give up their radical interdependence which is so hard to defend in the patriarchy-capitalism-colonialism nexus. Through mutual endurance, they have upkept relationships with Elisabeth Povinelli, one another, and their surroundings. Settler colonialism has taken away their land, erected fences, cut the grass, and interrupted their paths, attempting to mute the ancestors’ voices. Durational relationships of care, and specifically of facilitation, allow for them to reappear—as well as, for the emergence of white allies. The warmly inviting reader for the exhibition of the collective on view until September 10, 2023 at Haus der Kunst, München, grapples with the contradicting expectations of artistic practice. While there are other collective film-making practices in self-organization, such as the Rojava film commune, contemporary art worlds are yet just finding a vocabulary for what anthropologist Faye Ginsburg calls “aesthetics of accountability”. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/3_Screenshot-Wutharr-II.jpg) fig. 2 ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/4_Screenshot-Wutharr.jpg) fig. 3 \\\\ --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Karrabing Collective, *The Mermaids, or Aiden in Wonderland* (Still), 2018\. Credits and courtesy the artists. fig. 1: Karrabing Collective, *The Family & the Zombie* (Behind the Scenes), 2021\. Courtesy Lenbachhaus, Munich and credits Karrabing Film Collective. fig. 2, 3: Karrabing Collective, *Wutharr, Saltwater Dreams, (still),* 2016\. Credits and courtesy the artists. ### Trans-dividing and existing through: URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/trans-dividing-and-existing-through/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:40:05.000Z *Properly speaking we are not, and never have been, individuals:* *we are, literally, transindividual processes,* *accidental sites of a process of becoming that takes place at different levels.* *We are relations, not substances.* *Processes, not things.* \[2\] Anarchafeminist Manifesto 1.0 Boundness, stasis, binarism, finitude. Dominant western societal models employ these onto-epistemic assumptions to produce and explain social reality. And whether they acknowledge it or not, these models hold an ontological commitment to their conception of how the world is shaped and how humans exist and relate. In this context, political philosophers commonly draw the standard distinction of atomism, where society is nothing other than an aggregate of individuals and corporate units, versus holism, where society is seen as a collective entity endowed with fixed, distinct properties and singular pre-existent structures to which people are subsumed and subjected. \[3\] Social scientists, on the other hand, outline this division along the same lines as an agency versus structure antithesis. At each field of inquiry, social bonds are translated to mere economic relations leaving out of the equation whatever cannot be classified as production in economic terms. In all cases, social existence, whether naturalized or structurally mediated, stays cemented into a solid ground of bounded places and encased selves, defined by insular bonds of common class and economic interests, and a shared national, ethnic, and racial identity. What’s troubling in this respect is the theoretical certainty traversing dominant patterns of knowledge according to which our modern western societies are autopoietic, closed, and self-referential systems or naturalistic worlds that consist of independent entities and substances. The latter points to another blind spot in widespread discourses about social reality: the structure versus agency dualist split, in all the different names and versions that this appears, does not exhaust the spectrum of ontological political thinking. Rather both these viewpoints share an essentialist and substantialist thought pattern that gives primacy to things, material and immaterial forms, and to finality, completion, and the idea of the end: the end of things, the end of the world, the end of it all. Against this backdrop, liberal ethics, whether actualized in neoliberal or social welfarist politics, define the individual as an ideally stable and finite form \[4\] that is always already prior to their own individuation. Bringing this to the level of society, people are anchored to collective and individual identities that are considered definite and completed. In questioning social reality, matter, even if being in a kinetic and vibrant process, is only partially changing for it to maintain its substance. The process is determined. The idea of fixed, inert, eternal essences posits as the undeniable answer; and yet, some questions are not raised. *How* do we relate to each other, to what we environ, and to what environs us? Do we relate as *entities* or as *processes*? Is *individuality* the way to articulate modes of social existence or do we need to look for other linguistic and conceptual frames of reference? Addressing this theoretical and political impasse, voices coming from social philosophy, criticize the concept of individuality and move towards the ideas of ‘trans(in)dividuality’ and ‘trans(in)dividuation.’ In this vein, philosopher Chiara Bottici, by combining insights from anarchafeminism with symbiotic biology and queer ecology, reconfigures individuality as ‘transindividuality,’ namely, as a process of affecting and being affected in turn, which takes place within a complex web of relations. \[5\] Casting attention on the notion of individuation, political philosopher Bruno Gullì, phrases this further as ‘trans-dividuation,’ that is to say, as a plural process that does not happen all at once and is never-ending. \[6\] Taking a critical stance towards essentialism, researchers in evolutionary biology and philosophy, John Dupré and Daniel Nicholson, as well as scholars, Maria Mancilla Garcia, Tilman Hertz, and Maja Schlüter, from environmental humanities, emphasize further that social systems exist through change rather than permanence, and encourage a move from essences towards processes as the constituents of reality. \[7\] In this framework, to realize social existence as an ontogenetic process is to no longer perceive the concept of being at the level of individuality comprised of a rigid, self-enclosed entity of an already finished becoming, but to conceive of being at the level of relationality through open-ended, generative processes of individuation that is continuous and in constant movement. In light of this, we as humans do not simply *interact* as already constituted, predefined, and fully-formed entities. Rather through the process of relating, we *transform* and are being *transformed* while we divide and are being divided as trans-dividuations and not as individuals. In this world of high complexity, the chasm between social discourses with essentializing and homogenizing tendencies that reduce such complexity on the one hand, and the lived experience of people, which goes past closed, static systems on the other hand, looms large. For this, a transformation in the way we conceive and articulate our relational reality becomes increasingly necessary. Approaching social existence no longer at the level of individuality, but critically at the level of individuation as trans-dividuation, can pave the way to move towards configuring our societies as transpoietic, porous, and open systems that consist of a web of infinite, transversal relations for which there is no closure. For our globalized societies that constantly talk about change, to remain fixated on an ontology of things and forms, means to remain the same and effectively resist change. Moving from the idea of form to that of process could open up a space within which we can morph a politics of relational living that embraces societal bonds in their dynamic complexity and potential. In so doing, we can dissolve deep-seated, rigid ideas of segregation, ranking, control, and hierarchization that have infiltrated our social existence and experiences in conformity to social imaginaries of fictitiously confined territories and boundaries. Adopting a process perspective could shed light into a mode of thinking where the world is not a thing, the individual is not already individuated and people are not entities. Rather, they are relations that create relations in an ongoing, inconclusive process. If nothing endures but change, grasping our social realities as processes, could tune us into the forces of change as not *in*\-being but as happening. *How* we relate, we *are*—and if we were to start thinking and acting like that, it could potentially blaze new trails towards a different social living: a living that is not defined by the expectation of an end, by what is always already dead, and is actually never open to changing. But instead, a living that through the act of relating, where it ends is always already beginning. \\\\ --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] The title is inspired by the article Gilbert, Scott F., Jan Sapp, and Alfred I. Tauber. “A Symbiotic View of Life: We Have Never Been Individuals.” The Quarterly Review of Biology 87, no. 4 (2012): 325-41 as cited in Bottici, Chiara. *Anarchafeminism*. (Bloomsbury, 2021) 145, 228, 293-294. \[2\] The Ongoing Collective, ‘Anarchafeminist Manifesto 1.0: Not one less!’ (Public Seminar, 2020) 17 May 2020 last accessed 09 June 2023. \[3\] Frega, Roberto. “The Social Ontology of Democracy.” Journal of Social Ontology 4, no. 2 (2018): 157-185, 159-161 ff. \[4\] Balibar, Étienne. *Spinoza, the Transindividual*. Translated by Mark G. E. Kelly. (Edinburgh University Press, 2020), 80-81, note 13. \[5\] Bottici, *Anarchafeminism*, 127-128, 131. \[6\] Gullì, Bruno. Singularities at the Threshold. The Ontology of Unrest. (Rowman & Littlefield Publishing, 2021), 23 ff. \[7\] Nicholson, Daniel J., and John Dupré. *Everything Flows: Towards a Processual Philosophy of Biology*. Oxford University Press, 2018; Garcia, Maria Mancilla, Tilman Hertz, and Maja Schlüter. "Towards a Process Epistemology for the Analysis of Social-Ecological Systems." *Environmental Values* 29, no. 2 (2020) 222, 231. IMAGE CREDITS Karrabing Collective, *Day in the Life* (Still), 2020\. Courtesy Lenbachhaus, Munich and © Karrabing Collective. *Korina (Kyriaki) Pavlidou is a Berlin-based researcher in social philosophy and legal theory. In her ongoing work, Korina is engaged with process epistemologies and philosophies of movement and becoming through a transdisciplinary and experimental lens that takes to heart critical feminisms alongside experiential and non-representational approaches to research.* ### Understanding Return URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/understanding-return-3/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:39:57.000Z *uMoya: The Sacred Return of Lost Things* is the title given to the Liverpool Biennal’s 12th edition by curator Khanyisile Mbongwa. *uMoya* is isiZulu for spirit, breath, air, climate and wind. For Mbongwa, who is from Cape Town, South Africa, using her mother tongue was significant to presenting alternatives to colonial narratives, and asserting the aliveness of historically oppressed cultures, despite the trauma of colonialism. This trauma is carved in Liverpool’s begrimed history, which, during the 18th century, saw the transformation of the former fishing village into the largest slave trading port in Britain. The city’s first recorded slave ship, Liverpool Merchant, set sail in 1699\. Between 1790 and 1807, Liverpool accounted for over 80% of slave trade in the country before it was abolished. Ships departing the city transported hundreds of thousands of captives. The remnants of the wealth that came with the trade are still visible in the city’s imposing Neoclassical architecture, where little green space is seen between prideful edifices. The evidence of the city’s two decades as the most wealthy in the world obscures its muddy origins, the structural emblems of an exploitative past still standing strong. For Mbongwa, the chilling wind in Liverpool – a wind she laments helped propel slave ships out to sea – called her to let the spirits of enslaved people return home from its carceral harbours through sentiments such as ‘care and repair’. Her own art practice and background in sociology informs an international approach to the programme, which features 35 artists spanning generations and geographies, specifically ones touched by British colonialism – of which there are many – including Bangladesh, Singapore, and Zanzibar. This diversity of perspectives is present at uMoya across 20 locations including five outdoor installations, and three main cultural institutions: Tate Liverpool, Tobacco Warehouse, and Bluecoat. The curatorial choices that constitute the scaffolding of the Biennial propose an ‘intimate excavation of Liverpool’s history and temperament’ to inhabit and confront the enduring heritage of colonialism, an earnest desire fulfilled by many of the presented artworks. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Binta-Diaw-Chorus-of-Soil-2023-v2.-Liverpool-Biennial-2023-at-Tobacco-Warehouse.-Courtesy-of-Liverpool-Biennial.-Photography-by-Mark-McNulty.jpg) fig.1 Built between 1898 and 1901, Tobacco Warehouse is the largest brick warehouse in the world and the product of colonialism. Today, it hosts Senegalese-Italian artist Binta Diaw’s floor sculpture *Chorus of Soil* (2023). Diaw’s immense work is made of moist earth, outlining a replica of the *Brooks* ship that first departed Liverpool in 1781 and took 11 voyages of the triangular transatlantic slave trade route, carrying over 5,000 enslaved people. The *Brooks* is recorded to have violated the Slave Trade Act of 1788, by carrying close to 300 more slaves than the allowed 454 per journey in already extremely cramped conditions. The wide circulation of the document visualising the Brooks floor plan, picturing bodies packed side-by-side, reinforced the struggle for the abolition of slave trade. The mounds of earth within Diaw’s ship’s outline poignantly resemble the rows of slaves on the ship. However sombre the shapes are, fragile plants grow from them towards the light of the windows of the building, exemplifying the potential for new life and suggesting that intergenerational healing can occur within colonised communities. A 20 min walk from the Tobacco Warehouse on Princes Dock on Liverpool Waters sits *魯凱藝術家安聖惠在利物浦雙年展推出作品 – Ngialibalibade – to the Lost Myth* (2023), an outdoor sculpture by the Taiwanese artist 安聖惠 Eleng Luluan, made using recycled fishing nets woven around a large steel frame shaped into a pottery vessel. The artwork is beautiful. Despite its industrial framework and scale, it has a softness; a sense of tactility. It is alien in this context, framed by the harsh surfaces of a gentrified neighbourhood that hosts the offices of insurance brokers and waterfront apartments. *魯凱藝術家安聖惠在利物浦雙年展推出作品 – Ngialibalibade to the Lost Myth* stems from Luluan’s memory of growing up on the mountains in Kucapungane, Taiwan, by evoking the legend of Lu Kai. The legend narrates the story of the founders of the Rukai population, whose ancestors were born from pottery jars guarded by a skein of snakes. The artist, inspired by this legend and its symbols of regeneration and new life, has turned the jar into a giant, sacred vessel. The work could be seen as a form of return; rebirth. The structure, which could fit a human inside it, speaks to humans’ dependence upon this element for life and the concerns of the anthropocentric era. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Eleng-Luluan-Ngialibalibade-to-the-Lost-Myth-2023-v2.-Installation-view-at-Princes-Dock-Liverpool-Biennial-2023.-Photography-by-Rob-Battersby.-Courtesy-Liverpool-Biennial.-1.jpg) fig.2 The work is part of a series called *我在未來想念祢 – Ali Sa be Sa be* (Earth and Rock Flow) where the artist invites us to consider our relationship to and reliance on water, as the region of Kucapungane is known for typhoons which are becoming more frequent as the climate destabilises. *Ali Sa be Sa be* draws connections between international waters, especially the pollutant flotsam and jetsam from fishing vessels, with the landslides and displacement of the village due to climate change. During the press preview, the artwork was activated by a small ceremony, prepared by the artists who wore traditional Rukai garments, with dozens of tiny bells jingling in the sea breeze. At the base of the sculpture were several takeaway espresso cups, some of which appeared to be filled with grain or seeds, alongside flowers and cigarettes, which one performer lit in a ritualistic offering to leave burning upon fresh leaves. The cigarettes used in the ceremony evoked how the tobacco trade relied on slavery. *Ngialibalibade – to the Lost Myth* is also situated at a location where bodies were placed into vessels to support and perform extractivist labour for merchants to profit off tobacco, sugar, coal, cotton and slaves during Liverpool's heyday. Despite this ritual being framed by massive structures, including an unfathomably large cruise liner emanating light jazz, the event summoned a freeing of spirits, the smoke escaping from the sculpture into the atmosphere. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Ranti-Bam-Ifas-2023-v2.-Installation-view-at-St-Nicholas-Church-Gardens-Liverpool-Biennial-2023.-Photography-by-Rob-Battersby.-Courtesy-Liverpool-Biennial..jpg) fig.3 Near the Princes Dock, within the gardens of St Nicolas Church, is another reference to historical extractivism. Ranti Bam’s artworks stand in wobbly brilliance here, at the burial site of Liverpool’s first recorded black resident, Abell (d.1717). As a gesture, according to the artist, of ‘rest, soothing and love’, the installation is composed of vessels that stand defiantly exposed to the elements. This series of artworks by the Anglo-Nigerian artist is titled *Ifas* (2021-2023) – which in Yoruba, means ‘to pull close’. These sculptural pottery forms are hugged into shape by the artist. In the artwork, the vessels are empty, but they carry the impressions of the artist’s own intimate and time-sensitive creation process. Like Diaw’s work, Bam presents a container as the potential site of healing with natural materials in an earthly environment where growth is more literally visible above Abell’s body. In contrast to the installation of the aforementioned site-specific artworks in outdoor venues, the artists Edgar Calel, Fátima Rodrigo Gonzales, Gala Porras-Kim, Guadalupe Maravilla, Isa Do Rosário and Lubaina Himid are presented at the Tate Liverpool, the main location of the Biennial. Half of them exhibit large installations that transform thegallery’s white rooms into immersive installations without challenging or breaking the institutional frameworks. Among these, *Untitled* (2019-2023) by the Rwandan artist Francis Offman, caught me in my tracks, spellbound. The installation is composed of books framed and held up by callipers. Callipers are instruments used by Belgian colonisers during their settlement in Rwanda between 1918 and 1962 to measure the facial features of Rwandan people and classify them into racial groups. The books are presented like orderly school tables, which face a painted work which could be perceived as a blackboard. At the centre of the installation is Offman’s mother’s Bible, which she took as she fled the Rwandan Civil War. While the work is described by the artist as a ‘meditation on the Rwandan genocide’, the biographical narrative in the work speaks as one of many ‘collective histories’, a reminder that the stories of individuals can get lost in the generalisation of colonial brutality. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/08/Francis-Offman-Untitled-2019-23-v2.-Liverpool-Biennial-2023-at-Tate-Liverpool.-Courtesy-of-Liverpool-Biennial-Herald-St-London-and-P420-Bologna.-Photography-by-Mark-McNulty-3.jpg) fig.4 uMoya presents a vast representation of cultural perspectives which invite therapeutic processes, contemplation and healing for those affected by the brutality of colonialism, by virtue of their aliveness and creative responses to traumatic past histories, as well as embracing a relationship with the more-than-human world. However, while the works in the Biennial seemed to brush up against the walls of the infrastructure of colonial violence, they do not breach those walls, but sit neatly within them. The reality of institutions like the Liverpool Biennial is more compromised by racial capitalism, as we read in the opening letter in *uMoya*’s guide, written by the Biennial Director Dr Sam Lackey, which appealed for economic support. With a lack of institutional funds, commercial and private sponsors have helped to commission works in this year’s Biennial. Perhaps most obviously is the support by Liverpool ONE, the city’s central shopping mall, of Rudy Loewe’s colourful outdoor sculptural commission *February 1970, Trinidad #1* (2023) near the retail stores, which tells a story of, in the Biennial’s words, “a moment of Black Power revolution”, which will undoubtedly be lost on many passers-by. In this context, one wonders how *Lost Things* will find a more just and equal position in society after their return if society still structurally replicates inequalities. *Return* complicates the title of the Biennial: *Things* removed from their cultural context can be reduced to spectacle within Western institutional frameworks. However, the Biennial asks for a reflection on the institutional co-responsibility of oppression and encourages art workers to provoke further, challenge and penetrate the edges to find breaches in established structures. Through excavating the violence of colonialism, the Biennial presents insights into cultural practices, by those that live in deep inter-connection with their environments, with grief and hope. Unpacking *uMoya*, Mbongwa calls to presence the importance of listening to and trying to understand the more-than-human world and holding space for practices of attention, resilience and vitality, despite austere surroundings. In order to sustain and build upon these interactions, it is necessary for art practices to keep finding alternatives outside of anthropocentric frameworks, to communicate with the spirit, breath, air, climate and wind. // uMoya: The Sacred Return of Lost Things *will run until 17 September 2023 in Liverpool, UK*. --- ### IMAGE CREDITS Article's cover: Liverpool Biennial 2023, uMoya: The Sacred Return of Lost Things. Installation view at Bluecoat. Photography by Mark McNulty fig.1 Binta Diaw, *Chorus of Soil*, 2023\. Liverpool Biennial 2023 at Tobacco Warehouse. Courtesy of Liverpool Biennial. Photography by Mark McNulty fig. 2 Eleng Luluan, *Ngialibalibade to the Lost Myth*, 2023\. Installation view at Princes Dock, Liverpool Biennial 2023\. Photography by Rob Battersby. Courtesy Liverpool Biennial fig. 3 Ranti Bam, *Ifas*, 2023\. Installation view at St Nicholas Church Gardens, Liverpool Biennial 2023\. Photography by Rob Battersby. Courtesy Liverpool Biennial. fig. 4 Francis Offman, *‘Untitled*’, 2019-23\. Liverpool Biennial 2023 at Tate Liverpool.Courtesy of Liverpool Biennial, Herald St, London; and P420, Bologna. Photography by Mark McNulty *Ché Zara Blomfield is a curator and writer, and Progressive International’s Arts and Culture Coordinator.* ### Kinships URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/edition/arts-of-the-working-class-27/ Last updated: 2026-09-24T08:13:07.000Z - Shop: [https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-27-kinships](https://arts-of-the-working-class.myshopify.com/products/issue-27-kinships?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org) - Price: EUR 5.00 --- We can count on one hand the chains that have bound us, one to the other, for centuries: the family, the nation, and the market. The holy trinity of modernity leaves outside of its triptych what is deemed subaltern, primitive, ready to be exploited, left alone, and starved for the well-being of those who rule this triangle of sadness. However, as US-American feminist and artist Martha Rosler depicts in her series *House Beautiful: Bringing the War Home*, this is merely the fragile security of a shelter based on violence. This segregational currency, employed to relate the macro and micro scales to both each other and the planet, may be the reason why the feeling of living in a society with bonds nested in brutality is actually based in fact. It is for this reason that this issue is devoted to kinships – on models of world-making, legacies of ancestral relationships with the environment, rituals with long histories that are suppressed by so-called “progress.” These forms of kinship are now threatened by those who try to cluster people into neo-tribes, neo-nationalisms, and neo-dogmatisms. They are replicating the same kind of colonial fear; caught in the impoverishment loop populist governments are currently expanding. The banality of populist, authoritarian agendas based on violence is the repetition of history. Yet even dominant history, with its fracturing tendencies, has been disrupted by movements and communities who don’t stick to nationalities, but stitch their narratives to traditions and resistance. This is what you can see in this issue as proposed, for example, by the Polish- Romani artist Małgorzata Mirga-Tas, or the revolutionary tale of tribal solidarity by Ahmed Isamaldin. As Felipe Lippe points out in his essay on the anti-institutionalization of communities as decolonial practice, the project of humanity is more complex than its structuration and enduring reduction. But an unconscious and primordial way of becoming together sometimes spurs gestures of complicity – not to neighbors, but strangers; those with whom we share the same struggle, as the voice of Astrée Duval recounts in her contribution the joy of parading together with “arabs” and “fags.” To be affected by each other is still a power, as is practiced in a community and pursued in the works of the Karrabing Collective. In this spirit, our street newspaper searches for the softness that disrupts borders, and makes a space for imagining territories of kinships. It is a way of being in the making, as suggested by the ***trans-dividual turn*** praised by Korina Pavlidou, that is sometimes erratic, but still more extensive than what we can embrace in our nearness. We’ve invited our contributors to float towards a bigger project of complexity. To summon forms of affiliations that are more than biological or nation-inscribed, move into joyful fugitiveness, and model a relational world-making. Kinship may be, as Cristina Ramos recounts with the help of the Asturian dialect, a deeper sisterhood between writing traditions and landscapes. Or maybe, it is learning how to gravitate toward each other without collision, as Halle Frost predicts. We at *AWC* would like to ask: where do we stand in the world, and what are our kinships? We reject, assimilate, and encourage the mess that can be a community; a gradient, an ineffective redistribution, a caudal of frictions, and the friendly hug to the elders are small steps towards cutting the only bond that needs to be broken: that of racial capitalism. This issue aims to open relational paths for a political critique of living beyond individualism. Braiding together the *fil rouge* to escape the minotaur maze, as the artists presented in the exhibition project *O Quilombismo* at the Berlin cultural institution Haus der Kulturen der Welt. To all those who would rather gather outside of nations, we wish you the words inscribed by Grace Ndiritu in her *Grief: A Love Letter* (2021): *we hope you have found peace.* With Contributions by *Louna Sbou, Pablo Rojas, Emergency Medical Technician, Noa Jaari, Michael & fem\_arc, Małgorzata Mirga-Tas, Grace Ndiritu, Martha Rosler, Karrabing Collective, Lāina, Chhandak Pradhan & Madhumita Nandi, Lubi Barre, Cristina Ramos, vhs Berlin Mitte, Dalia Maini, Filipe Lippe, María Inés Plaza Lazo, Ahmed Isamaldin, Jeremy Dennis, Leonard Harmon, Sutton King, Larissa Nez, Ido Nahari, Astrée Duval, Korina Pavlidou, Elisa Giuliano, Edona Ibrahimi and Timothée Charon for Community Toolkit Workshop, Sabina Oroshi, Halle Frost, Kuba Szreder, Franz Schultheis,Bino Byansi Byakuleka for We are born Free.* **Imprint** Founders / Publishers / Directors Verantwortlicher i.S.d Åò 18 Abs. 2 MStV **María Inés Plaza Lazo, Pauł Sochacki** Managing Artistic Director: **Amelie Jakubek** Editor in Chief: **Dalia Maini** Editors: **Elisa Fuenzalida, Ido Nahari** Administrative Assistance: **Selma Louise Christoph** Office Assistance: **Miguel Angel Espinoza** Translation and Proofreading: **Kari Rosenfled, Anne Waak** Graphic Design: **Till Sperle** Online Design: **Giorgia Belotti** Druck: **BV Berliner Zeitungsdruck GmbH** Alle Vertriebs- und Kund\*innenanfragen an die Verlagsadresse: **Reflektor Monde gUG (haftungsbeschr.nkt)** **Lynarstrasse 38, 13353 Berlin** M: [hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org](mailto:hey@artsoftheworkingclass.org) Leicht Lesen - Definitionen von: **Capito Logo** Gefördert von: **Berliner Senat Logo** --- ## In this issue - [Sudan:](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/sudan/) - [Małgorzata mirga-tas](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/malgorzata-mirga-tas/) - [Resilient communities](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/resilient-communities-1/) - [Queeertriiibessthesmashversion](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/queeertriiibessthesmashversion/) - [Martha rosler](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/martha-rosler/) - [Transvestigatori ribrandizzati fascisti](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/transvestigatori-ribrandizzati-fascisti/) - [The lottery of dreams and death](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/the-lottery-of-dreams-and-death-1/) - [Faziendo casa nuna piedra vertical](https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/faziendo-casa-nuna-piedra-vertical/) ### Voluptuous silence and sociality in poetry URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/voluptuous-silence-and-sociality-in-poetry/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:39:56.000Z **I am curious to know about your poetic upbringing: can you describe the movement that led you to the composition of poetry? Did it help you navigate different social and political spaces in the strongly apartheid-fractured South Africa?** My practice as a creative writer began quite late in my life. I took my first poetry class when I was already a Ph.D. student in literature at the age of 30\. It was an interesting experience of entering a space in which I thought I knew something, but where I was actually a beginner at the same time. Letting go of notions of knowledge and control has been a powerful and beautiful experience of creativity for me. I grew up under apartheid, so the intimate connection between politics and culture was always visible to me. Since the beginning, my work has grappled with politics, the history of colonialism and slavery, and apartheid in South Africa. I was aware of how poetry cannot discriminate between the public and the private, as it can evoke the presence of racial oppression in both intimate and large social spaces. So, I was never confused about the political meaning of intimate spaces. But when I took this class at the end of the ‘90s, I gave myself the liberty of not knowing how to express political engagement through poetry. And that was interesting, because it led to my writing poetry in a way that I did not consciously control. My poetry was actually much more expansive in its thematic range, and my approach to it was to not consciously direct it. In retrospect, I felt, thought, and wrote about the private and public, and I also identified hesitancies, fragilities, and failures, and all the things that seem to be a little bit forbidden if one thinks about culture in an insistent way. Poetry ended up being a liberatory space for me, where I could practice feminism without labeling it as such. **I am a young poet myself and I'm interested in poetry’s quality of creating identities that are sensitive and affected by circumstance, and which can contrast or bend the rigidity of the structures of power. In one of your past interviews, you recounted your experience of being an international student in the US, and how, from this experience, you rethought your relationship with your country. I'm wondering if being an English speaker inhabiting the space of migration has functioned as a way for you to organize the complexity of identities in South Africa.** South Africa is a very multilingual country. And English is enriched by its nearness to other languages, even though it desires to be the most powerful and purest, and most sophisticated language, one that signals education and advancement. When I was growing up during the deep apartheid, I absorbed a contempt for any language other than English. Afrikaans, for example, was for me the language that signaled the oppression of Black people during slavery. Therefore I rejected it, as it carried too much pain, and I entered English in a very insistent way. I am sad for what I lost by that refusal, because I rejected all the other history of this language as a creation of enslaved people in South Africa, from whom I'm descended. So this is one way in which English is the language of loss for me. And then, the other way is actually the way that I sound. My voice, possibly to you, sounds very clear; my accent sounds very clear. But my accent doesn't sound very South African. And this is not because I've been living in the US for 20 years, but because even when I was a child I was already reinventing my voice to sound a little bit less Black, a little bit more educated, more sophisticated. When I was a child, I very quickly absorbed the content of the dominant culture towards people like me, and why the way I looked and sounded was “wrong.” So, English is a carrier of lots of meaning in Global Southern poetry practice. Through poetry, I tried to reconnect with some of those losses, so I wrote words back into my poetry that were not part of English or the other languages that I had studied. When I was young in school in the ‘70s and ‘80s, I couldn’t learn African languages. Nobody studied African languages in school, so I studied Arabic after school in Madressa because I am Muslim, and I studied German in high school because there was a political activist who taught at my high school and he introduced the teaching of German. I started French because my brother was interested in French. So, I try to bring these languages back into my poetry, because I am aware of the fact that English takes up almost all of my mental space, and therefore, that there are parts of my life missing because the language itself pushes it away. And then, as a South African living in the United States for the past 20 years, I only recently started to think about the topic. My time is divided between the US and South Africa, but interestingly enough, my academic work and poetry do not reflect the US very much. I realized that, in a way, I've used poetry and my academic work to relocate myself mentally back inside South Africa, and I have not really paid attention to the US, or what the US could mean for a middle-class African immigrant. **I often think about language as a technology of longing and belonging, especially for people who left their countries for different reasons. But also language has a prescriptive quality that sometimes ties it to an oppressive reality. And instead, with poetry, a sort of intimate revolution can be achieved, as it disseminates a sense of the world that opens breaches into the ideological curtain. However, the act of culture-making, and, in your case, poetry could be elitist and exclusive. I would be curious to know if and how the class discourse is touched upon in your writings.** On a personal level, my mother came from a working-class family. She is 83 now, and she was studying in the 1950s and early ‘60s to become a doctor. What she achieved was really miraculous at that time, for a working-class girl. Even today, I think, *what a miracle that she managed to do that!* Her achievement gave me the stance that everything was possible. The fact that she had gone to university transformed the whole family's possibilities. She loved poetry, she recited poetry, and she — despite the class of her family — was also a person of culture. But she had the ability to create a tie with both ordinary and elite cultures. She never wrote poetry, but when I began to write, I wrote about ordinary, everyday, domestic, “unimportant” topics that were overlooked and gendered, and deemed lower-class activities. Mundane chores sounded like poetry to me. However, for me, the element that has been really remarkable in South Africa is how poetry has been an instrument of emancipation for Black women in the past 25 to 30 years. In the post-apartheid period, feminist poets and Black women abolished the division between high and low culture. There was something that people understood was transformative about poetry, and that it works in ways that don't require you to have access to power, budgets, or infrastructure. Poetry can help to create this infrastructure that can be socially transformative. And so what happened is that many women started to form their own writing circles, creating poetry groups the way that other people create music groups, booking theaters for poetry readings, self-publishing books, selling them, creating radio shows and television shows that eventually attracted a greater audience for feminist poetry. This legacy of poetry was taking on some of the pieces of apartheid, but also a much longer history of slavery and colonialism that had left a trail of severe sexual violence in the country, which is still extremely relevant today. But to the post-apartheid political culture, sexual violence was not a national issue: it was a woman's problem. But these women interlaced different struggles. In 2015, during the student protests against the high cost of the South African education system, which excluded poor Black and working-class people from studying, women members of feminist political movements insisted on combining the education struggle and the struggle against sexual violence. For them, it didn’t make sense to fight against fees while keeping quiet about sexual abuse. So they insisted that the feminist project of fighting gender discrimination and sexual violence was as important as the anti-discrimination political project. When they were holding up their placards, the feminist students were holding up feminist theorists, academics from all around the African continent, and poets. So for me, this is a demonstration of the power of poetry to link together different social classes and also different struggles from the late 1990s until now. **This is a powerful story of how poetic thinking can be a way to imagine and reclaim emancipation by naming power, abuses, or brutality across different geographies. However, I'm curious to understand the balance between poetic language and silence because, when I read the thread of your Forecast mentorship, *Voluptuous Silence and Sociality in Poetry*, I had to think about how silence then comes into play in organizing reality. It becomes an active, and not a passive, gesture, but also a possibility of allowing oneself to be touched or affected by the circumstances.** Silence is such a delicious topic for discussion. It's infinitely rich and yet so multi-dimensional. As you point out, silence is a generative space; it can be a language as well. And it can be a space of intimacy, reciprocity, and a language that is hospitable to you. Things that we don't want to hear, things that are impossible for us to articulate. So silence is, in itself, an original invitation to reflect. In South Africa, there have been so many silences, such as the unexpected erasure of Black women from the political struggle in the post-apartheid period, and that to recognize those silences was very necessary to recognizing this oppression and not fall back into it. Former President Thabo Mbeki was really furious about feminists drawing attention to sexual violence in South Africa in the 1990s and early 2000s. He claimed that calling out the abuses was a project of racism against Black men. Black women were put in a position of defending themselves against these accusations, but still finding a way to call out the abuses. But feminists didn’t allow the erasure of sexual violence, which was, after all, part of the apartheid and colonial legacy. **I understand better now what you mean about reciprocity as a broader sensibility to be affected by the environment, and then finding the strength to counterpower dominant narratives. How have you experienced this collective voice in the framework of Forecast’s mentorship program?** All the mentors and mentees, through their practice, pay attention to the interstitial spaces between the actual project and the actual performance, and they pay attention to the relationship between practices. I am surprised and delighted about the terms by which mentors and mentees have been brought together. Everyone is bringing multiple dimensions into their practices and also speaking about their relationship with one another. By exchanging with the other mentors, I learned a little bit more about their vision of mentorship, which nourished my own way of thinking. I think this is a great platform, because it creates contamination and intimacy by cultivating transdisciplinary relations among practitioners and people. \\\\ *Forecast Forum will take place from July 14th to 16th at Radialsystem, Berlin.* --- ### Notes Gabeba Baderoon is a South African poet, editor, academic, memoirist, and performer. She took her first class in writing poetry at the age of 30 and still describes herself as a student of the writing arts today, a quarter of a century later. IMAGE CREDITS Gabeba Baderoon. Photo by Victor Dlamini. *Dalia Maini is a writer, spoken words performer, cultural agitator, and AWC editor in chief.* ### Radical presence in the face of border externalization URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/radical-presence-in-the-face-of-border-externalization/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:39:53.000Z In 2018, my colleague Arne Semsrott and I took Frontex, the European Union’s border police, to court. Our lawsuit was the first of its kind: we wanted to force the border agency to disclose information about their operations in the Central Mediterranean where, up until then, over 13,700 people had drowned while trying to reach Europe by boat. We lost the case. Frontex, however, wanted more than a victory: the agency wasn’t happy our lawsuit had been a first, so it was keen to make it the last of its kind, too. In order to achieve this, they needed to make an example out of us. On a Friday morning in January 2020, Arne and I received a letter from Frontex demanding €23,700.81 in legal fees. We refused to pay and, for as long as we could—almost two years—we stood our ground, campaigning for Frontex to drop its claim. But Frontex was relentless in its pursuit. The agency even dragged us to court, where the judges set a final amount for us to pay: €10,520.76. By October 2021, payment became inevitable. But a bank transfer didn’t feel like a worthy ending for this battle: it would have been too silent, too discrete… too comfortable. Instead, we decided that we would make Frontex take the money from our own hands, while they looked us in the eyes. In the morning of October 4, 2021, Arne and I stood before the Frontex offices in Brussels. We were accompanied by a group of fellow activists, friends, and journalists. With us, we carried a black briefcase containing the exact sum of €10,520.76 in cash. At 11:00 am sharp, we crossed the street and headed towards the Frontex building. There, we rang the doorbell—but no one answered. We rang again; we knocked on the door; we rang once more. No one ever came to the door. For over 20 minutes, we stood at the border agency’s doorstep, demanding to be let in while holding a briefcase with the payment they had harassed us about for 22 months. We were there, but Frontex was not. We eventually learned that, in anticipation of our visit, Frontex had instructed its staff not to come to the office that morning. The building had been evacuated. Unable to bear being confronted with the consequences of its actions, Frontex, the almighty billion-euro border force, had gone into hiding. There’s a saying in Spanish that I often think of in the context of Frontex. It goes, *Ojos que no ven, corazón que no siente*. Distance and negation—*Ojos que no ven*—lay the ground for heartless beings—*corazón que no siente*. Violence, cruelty, and abuse thrive in the perpetrator’s ability to look away. To curtail this ability in Frontex is, therefore, a step taken towards the agency’s demise. \\\\ *Luisa Izuzquiza works at FragDenStaat, an organization that is part of the Abolish Frontex network. She is a freedom of information activist based in Brussels, Belgium. Luisa does research, campaigns, and litigates for access to information with a special focus on the European Union’s border control policies, and Frontex in particular.* ### "No somos terroristas, somos luchadores sociales." URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/no-somos-terroristas-somos-luchadores-sociales/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:39:51.000Z Han transcurrido casi tres meses desde mi abusiva e ilegal detención, junto a otros seis luchadores sociales de Ayacucho. Protestar, tener pensamiento crítico y ser dirigente social no son delitos, sin embargo esos son los motivos por los que nos encarcelaron. La “justicia” peruana ha llegado al extremo de argumentar que la demanda de una nueva Constitución es una consigna terrorista, a pesar de que en la actualidad más del 70 % de la población apoya esta causa. La fiscalía ha presentado como “pruebas” audios de actos públicos en los que en ningún sentido se hace referencia a actos ilícitos. Las asambleas, movilizaciones y discursos de todos los dirigentes sociales son derechos reconocidos por la constitución actual. Queda claro que en el Perú se pretende acabar con la libre expresión y pensamiento y que, al dictar prisión preventiva en nuestra contra violando la máxima de presunción de inocencia, han decidido dar una patada al estado de derecho que tanto dicen defender. En el proceso de mi detención no hubo presencia de la fiscalía ni documento que la ordenara. Me agredieron física, psicológica y sexualmente. A todos los detenidos, nos llevaron a la base militar de Los Cabitos, centro clandestino de reclusión, tortura, violaciones, ejecuciones y desapariciones forzadas entre 1980 y el 2000\. Desde allí, custodiados por militares y policías, nos trasladaron en avión de guerra hasta Lima. En el colmo de la situación, nos expusieron ante la prensa como “nuevos terroristas”. Todos estos abusos están siendo aplicados en un contexto en el que no hay guerra. Ninguno de los detenidos somos terroristas, somos luchadores sociales, eso ha de quedar claro. El pueblo ha tomado las calles con justas demandas ante las que el Estado y gobierno actual han respondido con balas, cárcel y represión. Esta es la “democracia” peruana: 60 asesinados, más de mil heridos y decenas de personas presas mientras la derecha y ultraderecha se han unido para poner sus intereses económicos y políticos por encima de la vida. Una feroz crisis ambiental se ha sumado a esta crisis. Un ciclón viene destruyendo y arrasando con todo lo que encuentra a su paso, desvelando el grado de privatización y negación de los derechos del pueblo peruano, entre ellos al acceso a la vivienda digna y segura. Quiero agradecer de todo corazón las diversas muestras de solidaridad de mi amado pueblo de Huanca Sancos, de mi aguerrida región ayacuchana, de mi pujante pueblo peruano y de la fraternal comunidad internacional. La solidaridad de todos ha sido y es soporte de la resistencia y lucha en estos tiempos adversos. También quiero extender mi solidaridad a las familias damnificadas por el ciclón, los huaicos y las inundaciones que asolan el país ante la indolencia de los gobernantes. Sé que pronto saldré de esta prisión y con la fuerza que nos une lograremos metas a favor de nuestro pueblo. \\\\ *Estéfani Alanya es psicóloga y vicepresidenta del Frente de Defensa del Pueblo de Ayacucho. El 12 de enero de este año fue detenida bajo acusación de formar parte de una organización terrorista. En una de las audiencias de apelación, la fiscal Mirela Coronel ha señalado que: “Nueva Constitución, (...) es la bandera de lucha de los frentes de defensa o los organismos generados por Sendero Luminoso…”.* ### Foreigners everywhere URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/foreigners-everywhere/ Last updated: 2026-09-03T22:39:46.000Z *Struggle and art cannot help but intersect. They point to what the art collective Claire Fontaine refers to as a profound exploration of a “foreign language within language.” Through a captivating exchange of ideas, artists and activists, Claire Fontaine, in conversation with Alex Ungprateeb Flynn and Leonardo Araujo, navigate the tightrope between creative outcomes and the transformative power of resistance. In an exchange that blurs the typical boundaries of art production discourse, the collective embarks on a quest for a new lexicon that transcends the worn-out words of the past—the pursuit of a foreign tongue within the confines of one’s own reality, and how such linguistic tools could articulate political tensions and revolutions. AWC republishes this interview, originally conducted in 2016, following the announcement that the recently appointed artistic director of the 2024 Venice Art Biennale, Adriano Pedrosa, has chosen Stranieri Ovunque (Foreigners Everywhere) to be its title—a statement t inspired by Claire Fontaine’s series of neon sculpture works from 2004.* *Pedrosa, a renowned Brazilian curator and the director of MASP, the São Paulo Museum of Art, will focus on artists who are themselves foreigners, immigrants, expatriates, diasporic, émigrés, exiled, and refugees—especially those who have moved between the Global South and the Global North. The twist of next year’s curatorial frame is that, within a right leaning country, now is the most relevant historical turning point to focus on Italian artists who lived or are living, like foreigners, abroad. Yet to be a stranger is not only bound, etymologically, to national belonging. The Biennale itself is an international platform for participation coming from different parts of the world. More importantly, the exhibition will be a celebration of the foreign as the distant, the outsider, the queer, as well as the indigenous.* **In *Letter to A* you state: “to write this text, which speaks of the relations between art and struggle, I would have needed a foreign language within language, an acrobat’s language that would materialize the possibility of walking the tightrope of fighting. But instead, all I have are tatters of worn-out words to patch up the problems.” How has this *langue étrangère* developed? That is, in your textual-artistic practice, have you found this critical vocabulary? What would be the characteristics of such a lexicon if it indeed existed?** The research of the foreign language within the language is a horizon, something that moves as we do, it isn’t a goal to reach, but a process that we inhabit and that inhabits us. This idea comes from Deleuze and Guattari’s analysis of Kafka’s writings and the concept of “minor literature.” \[1\] Seeking a foreign language within a language isn’t a matter of acquiring a wider vocabulary (especially a critical one), it is a journey into unlearning, an abandonment of certitudes and notions that structure us, in order to find what Deleuze and Guattari also called an “inner Third World.” It isn’t in fact an enrichment of any sort, neither is the acquisition of a mastery, but the discovery of a new form of powerful poverty that allows all the foreignness and deprivation of the present to resonate and express their disruptive meaning, so that the world can finally improve. **It goes on: “great barricades placed between art and life, between the act of knowing and that of living; cathedrals erected to the glory of mental masturbation, those universities still cut off from the market, and which would offer exile, at least for a few years, to young people seeking to research, preserving them from commodity hell, no longer welcome any conflict within their productive walls, and take the truncheon to the youth who poses too many questions.”** **How do you feel about the academy, having participated within it? What are its limitations? How do you compare the production of, for example, anthropological knowledge with artistic knowledge? What are the differences in their practice and their epistemological location, if there is a difference at all?** We have never actively participated in the academy, we suspect that universities are different in different countries, although their logic and organization have been widely homogenized over the past years within Europe. From what we know and have witnessed there are no universities in which the relationship between the knowledge transmitted, students’ present and future, and the political context is analyzed or even discussed. Under these conditions, places that should provide an education for young adults appear perfectly dishonest, even more so when they are ruled by elitist principles, or they are private. It is obvious that transmitting love for freedom and cultivating the passion for political commitment isn’t the priority of the academy at the moment and it hasn’t even been on the agenda for a very long time, there is no sense of responsibility towards society, no priority given to the mission of protecting it from the ravages of private interests or despotic political power and even raising these questions explicitly inside universities can be very risky for students. “Artistic knowledge” is a term that doesn’t make any sense to us: there isn’t such a thing that can be unified and described like that. Let’s say that the position of the artist can at times coincide with the one of the anthropologist, but there is a central difference between them, which is that anthropologists need a distance from their object that could even be detrimental for artists if they tried to apply it to what they do. The other main difference resides in the relationship to truth: anthropologists owe loyalty to the truth they can produce, grasp, recognize, otherwise there is no point in researching, artists don’t have any tie and any debt to truthfulness, they have absolute freedom. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Claire-Fontaine-Foreigners-Everywhere5.jpg) > Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Neu, Berlin **At one point, you write that metaphors cannot rebuild history as they demonstrate the inadequacy of language to do so. From this point, and in a logical sense, the narrative thrust of the letter therefore itself moves from an intellectual prison to a prison of revolutionary practice, whether that be one of militancy, rampant violence, love or the unknown. Wittgenstein’s *Philosophical Investigations*, asserts that each person’s world is comprised by the limit of their own experiences, because these experiences are explicitly linked to language. Language in this sense is not knowledge of the world, but precisely the world that knows itself, it is the world in and of itself. By contrast, the *Letter to A* states: “Realism has always been a matter of translation, of a coded construction; but today, to believe in reality, we perhaps need images and words liberated from the present, because the present is formed entirely of commodities, and of the affects that derive from them.”** **Following on from this, it’s clear that what one wishes to express is not necessarily easy to make plain, and that’s without even thinking that language itself might not have the capacity to express a given concept. If today’s revolutionary call continues to be universalized, generalized, and Eurocentric, is it not the case that adjectives, materiality, and nouns will continue to be placed in a hierarchy that is structured by a predetermined ethical and epistemological order? How can we be conscious of this order and not take action through language? My thoughts turn here to a revolutionary insurrection, whether it be aesthetic and political, anonymous or legitimate, as something to be glimpsed in our daily lives, a reality that is still in code.** This question is long and complex, we don’t agree with all the conceptual turns that it entails. We maintain that today people’s experience of the world isn’t so much shaped by language—Wittgenstein lived in a very different time—but by their income and their capacities to navigate different social worlds and ephemeral contexts, which are of course all gangrened by race and class problems, all burdened and infected by patriarchy and reification. To reconnect with the question of the foreign language within language and also with the type of knowledge available in schools and universities, we are living though a time of extreme misery—which means that between language and life forms there are very loose ties, in this world ethics and aesthetics run playfully around each other in the generalized indifference to any sort of coherence. Even the idea of a call for revolution seems laughable given the little meaning that life objectively has today and the surreal idea, that we all share in order to survive, of what individuals and subjects are. Human beings have rarely disrespected each other more deeply through daily commercial transactions, online profiles that we visit and connect with, relationships of absolute economic and social brutality. We are at the lowest possible point ever reached in Europe if we consider the amount of displaced and dispossessed people that we ignore on our territories—we ignore them as human beings and as a political force, as carriers of important tragic experiences and meaning, as people seeking freedom, we secretly see them as mouths to feed, beggars at our doorstep, people deprived of dignity and importance because they are deprived of wealth and social status. The hatred that feeds and is fed by politically pathetic terrorist acts, the insulting and destructive level of surveillance that we are submitted to and the type of repression that “democratic” countries use against any type of protest, made us internalize the criminality of believing in social change and forget the necessity of protecting private and public freedom. What kind of vocabulary could save us from this situation? Language in this state of things has fallen beyond the “hierarchy that is structured by a predetermined ethical and epistemological order,” it is useless if it doesn’t find a successful “agencement” with power that extracts it from the impotency of the politically correct. We need practices that don’t even see themselves as radical (this fantasy even is somehow polluted), we must block the disaster urgently and keep thinking whilst we are doing it, we can think with our hands, with our bodies, with colors, the movement of ‘77 thaught us a precious lesson, at times language must be de-functionalized and then poetry can become more efficient than any political convention. *Letter to A* is a reflection about consuming the mourning for a certain idea of radicalism, the way we saw ourselves living through it, being subjectified and saved by it. We need to do better than that, we need to rethink freedom and life, like feminism does, outside the logics of binary antagonisms. \*\*\* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Claire-Fontaine-Foreigners-Everywhere6.jpg) > Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Neu, Berlin **It became clear during our conversations that you may not necessarily agree with the vision of politics being put forward by The Invisible Committee. Despite an initial position that emphasizes the potential of insurrectionary communes as opposed to centralized revolutions, their second text, “To Our Friends” puts a marked focus on how “revolution always seems to choke off at the riot stage.” Firstly, do you believe in this differentiation between insurrection and revolution, and secondly, how would you comment on, or respond to this difference? Does The Invisible Committee represent a backward step (their emphasis on organization, the need to develop a “strategic intelligence of the present”), a falling back to orthodox positions?** We must admit that we haven’t studied their two books in depth. Generally speaking—despite the diversity of the two publications—we see a desire to seduce, to entice, to involve in some sort of murky complicity and invisibility the reader. That isn’t a new literary device but if it was to be taken as political strategy of a group, it would be simply suicidal and somehow the absurdity of the Tarnac case proves that power is keen to believe stories, it can go to crazy lengths to criminalize in a completely nonsensical way people that just correspond to the romantic description of this threatening life forms, accuse them of having written the book and of having supposedly enacted things that the book described (as if the people who lived in Tarnac had invented insurrection and sabotage, they “owned” them, and *The Coming Insurrection* contained some magic recipes for revolution that couldn’t be found by thousands in any public library). Coming back to these writings, some things are beautiful but we see them more as literary works than as political manifestos. *To Our Friends* comes after the Tarnac case and many waves of unrest and repression across the planet, it is somehow wiser and less ingenuous than *The Coming Insurrection* but it still feels as if it wishes to magically generate uprising and spark social change with a tool that is totally obsolete and inadequate to the ambition. ## ***“Unlearning gestures, words and relationships. Freeing bodies and minds, transforming subjectivity” – Sally Bonn*** **This question refers to what has become known as the ‘subjective turn’ in social movements and mobilization worldwide and how this impacts on the way we envision new worlds. Maple Razsa, an anthropologist, portrays how alter-globalization actors seek alternative worlds by shunning utopian ends and centralized authority in favor of forms of direct democracy that enact a prefigurative politics. \[2\] In his analysis, subjectivity emerges as a key site of conflict and creativity as activists independently “seize the means of producing themselves as subjects” (Razsa 2015, 12).** **How might your practice interpolate such an understanding? And how would you respond to alternate configurations of the emancipatory potential of art, if indeed you believe that art has any such potential?** Art’s potential is something that can’t be measured, what the encounter with an artwork can do to a subject, how the freedom trapped in a sculpture, a painting, a statement can influence a singularity and masses cannot be said. That also explains our position: we don’t have any superstitious belief in the immediate political efficacy of our work, this is somehow not our main worry, artworks hopefully survive artists and the time for our work to truly touch people might not even have come yet. Like any artist we work because we need to, it’s our way to stay alive. In our research we depart from the same diagnosis as Razsa—which is not such a new analysis—subjectivity is the weapon and the battlefield these days. It’s obvious that the practice of freedom has prevailed everywhere within social movements on the logic of liberation, that is a wonderful thing politically and personally for each one of us, certain forms of authority and social gregarious dynamics don’t seem attractive any more to people and that is an incredibly important political progress that we should all value and protect at our own level. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Claire-Fontaine-Foreigners-Everywhere3.jpg) > Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Neu, Berlin **In opposition to Maple Razsa’s emphasis on the creative potential in social mobilization that underpins the previous question, Armen Avanessian has put forward a theorization of ‘post-contemporary art,’ in which he argues that contemporary art has become a highly systematized industry, and that its emancipatory potential can now be most productively imagined in its interstitial position between the fields of marketing and branding. Given such degrees of insertion, how do you critically respond about the appropriation of, for example, the writings of Tiqqun, in recent works of art by artists such as Bjarne Melgaard in the Berlin Biennale of 2016? \[3\]** Everything is an industry these days: sex, motherhood, death, every single moment of our lives or every single action or practice enters somehow a commercial dynamic, even images can now be posted, exchanged . . . every whatever moment can be sold, kept, immortalized, accumulated, or basically stolen from the transient disquiet of our lives. The loop of the so-called society of spectacle has been closed by new technologies: advertising (and pornography) don’t need life as a model because life is imitating and merging with them on facebook, instagram, tinder, grinder and in the streets of our cities. How the hell something as traditionally precious and valued as art could escape this over intelligent and pervasive system of subsumption? We think there is a frightening form of indifference to meaning within parts of the artworld, an undermining of concepts, treated like signs in an attempt to generate abstraction, or to recompose—sometimes randomly—the surface of reality. I think Melgaard, who has also used The Invisible Committee’s writings, was making fun of an attempt to fight meaninglessness through these books by reducing them to hollow signs in a fashion shoot. I don’t know if his will is explicitly nihilistic, I think probably Melgaard has never read these books and he is just trying to scandalize the five people of the artworld who have or maybe he doesn’t even know what he wants to do. Anyhow people have already forgotten about it. **Before commencing his explanation of the state of exception, Giorgio Agamben, to structure his point of departure—in the division between public rights and public facts and between the rule of law and life—puts forward an assertion: “if the law employs the exception—that is the suspension of law itself—as its original means of referring to and encompassing life, then a theory of the state of exception is the preliminary condition for any definition of the relation that binds, and at the same time, abandons the living being to law.” What the author is proposing here is an intellectual trajectory, one in which there is an implicit separation between “dispositif” and subjectivization. However, it seems to me in your text, “Footnotes on the State of Exception,” you identify these two processes as inseparable, and this conjunction is practiced right throughout the text, as a basic presumption.** **If what makes us unique is the way in which we are subjectivized by others, (and therefore there is a pre-definition of who we are, before our own process of subjective construction), then the only thing we have, is a mere contemplation of that which is lacking in us, and not a grasp on the sensory present. Thus, if there is only one possible way of life, common to all, and without escape, “this is the reason why we cannot fight this war in the territory of images or iconoclasm . . . ,” then what could be the potential of a reconfiguration of an “exception” for a life of images, with its imaginative and experiential possibilities, as opposed to a governed life, reliant on jurisprudence and institutional logic?** First of all, Agamben’s conceptualization of the relationship between life and law is parallel and deeply related to his description of the relationship between bios and zoe, in fact speech, the social, supposedly meaningful and political life we share conceals within itself the mute and animal biological life, our intellectual activity includes it and excludes it at the same time, that’s what law does with life, it includes it in order to exclude it and exterminate it when necessary, that’s why the state of exception isn’t the opposite of democracy but it’s somehow always included in it as a hidden possibility. There isn’t “only one possible way of life, common to all, and without escape” as you state: juridical structures and law have very strong historical ties with patriarchy, which is far from being the only way we can live together and be subjectified: right now for example it’s undergoing a major crisis all over the planet. There have been important feminist movements centered on the idea of extraction of life from legal and juridical processes, that departed from how these devices mutilate and deform lives—especially women’s lives. We can’t eliminate power, but power has a history and it can function and affect us in many different ways, there is always a possibility to oppose power, to deviate its trajectory, to be crossed by it differently and gain strength from it. The women’s bookstore in Milan published a book that we often quote, in Italian its title sounds like ”don’t believe you have any rights”; the social contract, the way we live together is—and must stay—negotiable all the time, it’s up to us to protect social dynamics from violence and exclusion (that are complementary to each other). \[4\] The different balance we are interested in is obviously the one that doesn’t have contempt for biological life but gives it the dignity and the importance that it deserves, which shows us instantly childhood, old age, women’s life and the planet’s destiny under another light. In other words there is no anthropocene, there is what patriarchy has done to the world through capitalism and mass massacres and the discourses and practices that help keep it the way it is or oppose it. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Claire-Fontaine-Foreigners-Everywhere2.jpg) > Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Neu, Berlin **In the text “Footnotes on the State of Exception” the unmentionable meaning of love is given as follows: “l’amour n’a pas de cause spécifique ni de raison communicable. Ce que l’on aime chez l’autre est l’agencement social possible ou réel dont il est porteur, son potentiel de liaison et de liberté qui fait que nos sentiments puissent surgir et perdurer.” In “Nous sommes tous des singularités quelconques,” you continue, “C’est la possibilité de découvrir que nous sommes tous des singularités quelconques, également aimables et effroyables, prisonniers des mailles du pouvoir, en attente d’une insurrection qui nous permette de nous changer nous-mêmes .”** **As such, these two explanations attempt a potential definition of love, or rather, this form of feeling without form, which somehow can be reflected by Maurice Blanchot. In “La Communauté inavouable” the author discusses the terms communism and community: “concepts déshonorés ou trahis, cela n’existe pas, mais des concepts qui ne sont pas ‘convenables’ sans leur propre-impropre abandon (qui n’est pas une simple négation), . . . qu’en est-il de cette possibilité qui est toujours engagée d’une manière ou d’une autre dans son impossibilité?”** The question requires, because of its terms of “possibility,” that is, what Blanchot justifies through immanence, the creation of a subversive practice in the order of life. Thus, it is possible to agree that before any encounter there is always a disposition to love (in your understanding) community for its basic conflictual nature, or better, that to love is also to render oneself to the division of the self as communion? Would such a positioning not place us once again amidst the tired asepticism of our daily lives as structured by a classical politics, and the martyrdom which this might entail? Or is there in this uniqueness of a love of communism a subtraction that is no longer from life, but from that which has already departed, our lived life in the present? Blanchot is a very inspiring author, his writings can be meditated upon for years, but in terms of providing a line for action and precise ethical instructions (that you seem to be seeking in these questions) he isn’t the clearest philosopher ever. We don’t think that “before any encounter there is always a disposition to love.” There are affinities, antipathy, antagonisms, complexities that cannot be denied between people—and never have been within the history of revolutionary movements, even inside the hippy movement—these are very important and they are also part of love in its different forms. In *We are all whatever singularities*, we try to unmask the affective nature of our social and political existence, to give it a voice, a hopeful one. But love is work, it isn’t a fusion, something that transforms the “division of the self \[into a\] communion,” patriarchy tells tales and then women get beaten up, raped and killed every minute by their beloved ones. Love isn’t an instinct, it can be a penchant but it doesn’t continue with its own initial steam if it isn’t cherished, cultivated, accompanied, understood, corrected and fed continuously. It isn’t an unchangeable force we can count on, it’s something as necessary to life as oxygen is but no one teaches people how to preserve it and the first place where it gets sick and dies is inside militant communities, where all the incapacities emerge, and the stakes are too high. People feel better off with an unambitious and mediocre affective life and they are, as it so much work just to keep a family together and alive. But who instead lives “amidst tired asepticism?” Nobody’s life is aseptic, life just can’t be; the love for communism, whenever we can keep it alive for a few weeks, months or—if we are lucky—years, intensifies life and makes it exactly as we feel it should be: this cannot be denied by anyone who has experienced it, it doesn’t subtract life from anywhere, it creates a real, full, luminous present. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d9/15/d915dd2a-765c-4262-8306-869873baa8ef/content/images/2026/09/Claire-Fontaine-Foreigners-Everywhere7.jpg) > Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Neu, Berlin **A question about temporality. Claire Fontaine’s writings and practice have expanded and developed over a substantial period of time. What has changed from 1999-2001 (the epoch of Tiqqun) to the theoretical orientation of the collected writing of your book, *Grève Humaine*?** First of all the people composing Claire Fontaine are not all the same that were part of Tiqqun. *Tiqqun*, the magazine, was the concretion of a collective process. Writing somehow wasn’t the focus, we were part of a social movement around 1997 in Paris that questioned the notions of work, employment, the use of time and the distribution of wealth, amongst other things. It was an interesting movement because it assembled lots of subjects with no professional or social qualification, it was a movement of whatever singularities that questioned the organization of society, the class structure, the way people were professionalized and formed inside universities—we used to meet in an amphitheater in Jussieu every day, but it wasn’t a student’s movement at all. There we realized that the practice of our being together and discussing all the time wasn’t creating a common language and that this continuous and daily assembly wasn’t going anywhere in terms of building a political lexicon we could all agree upon. So the first motivation to write *Tiqqun* was to group a series of concepts such as Bloom, Jeune-Fille, the Imaginary Party to quote some of them—the term of human strike appeared in *Tiqqun 2*—to define things and phenomena that didn’t have a name but were present. Then the political, social and human situation we lived through changed enormously: *Tiqqun 2* reflects this change and a certain amount of despair that came when the times we are still living through announced themselves on September 11, 2001. \\\\ *This interview was conducted in 2016 and forms the final section of the book “Claire Fontaine: Em vista de uma prática ready-made,” edited by Alex Ungprateeb Flynn and Leonardo Araujo, and published by the São Paulo-based GLAC Edições. The book brings together key writings by Claire Fontaine, translated for the first time into Portuguese. The interview has been re-edited on the occasion of its publication on artsoftheworkingclass.org.* --- ### FOOTNOTES \[1\] Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. 1977\. Kafka: Por uma literatura menor. Rio de Janeiro: Imago. \[2\] Prefigurative politics derives from anarchist thought and seeks to structure the present, especially with regards to gender politics, social relations, and decision-making models, in the way that any given future is imagined. \[3\] Tiqqun was a French collective of authors and activists formed in 1999\. The group published two journal volumes in 1999 and 2001 through collective and anonymous authorship. One of the members of Claire Fontaine was a member of Tiqqun. Shortly after the publication of the second volume, the collective separated. Books deriving from journal materials include: Preliminary Materials for a Theory of the Young-Girl (2001), Bloom Theory (2004), This Is Not a Program (2006) and Introduction to Civil War (2009). \[4\] The Milan Women’s Bookstore or “La Libreria delle donne di Milano” founded in 1975, describes itself as a political entity composed of a movement, organization, and meetings [www.libreriadelledonne.it](http://www.libreriadelledonne.it/?ref=artsoftheworkingclass.org); Non Credere di Avere dei Diritti, published in 1987 by La Libreria delle donne di Milano. In 1990 it was published in English with the title: Sexual Difference, A Theory of Social-Symbolic Practice (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990), translation by Patricia Cicogna and Teresa de Lauretis. IMAGE CREDITS Cover: Claire Fontaine, Foreigners Everywhere (Chinese), 2008 fig. 1: Claire Fontaine, Foreigners Everywhere (Galician), 2009 fig. 2: Claire Fontaine, Foreigners Everywhere (Turkish), 2004 fig. 3: Claire Fontaine, Foreigners Everywhere (Arabic), 2005 fig. 4: Claire Fontaine, Foreigners Everywhere (Italian), 2004 fig. 5: Claire Fontaine, Foreigners Everywhere, 2014 *Alex Ungprateeb Flynn is an anthropologist, curator and Assistant Professor at the University of California, Los Angeles. Working collaboratively with contemporary art practitioners and social movements, his research explores the prefigurative potential of art in community contexts, prompting the theorization of fields such as the production of knowledge, and the social and aesthetic dimensions of form.* *Leonardo Araujo Beserra is editor-in-chief of GLAC edições, a São Paulo-based publisher dedicated to radical autonomist political literature. For ten years he has worked as an independent curator and art critic in projects linked to conceptual writing and political criticism in contexts of social vulnerability.* ### Law-law-land URL: https://www.artsoftheworkingclass.org/text/law-law-land-1/ Last updated: 2026-08-31T09:39:48.000Z There’s a *lot* of tension between social ideals and legislative realities. What we want is often hit by a legislative wall and its frameworks that dictate what is even possible. To find out more about how idealism could be codified in law and internalized to what is just, Ido Nahari sat down with Ivana Isailović and Ingo Venzke from the University of Amsterdam, who are the head researchers for the TEGL and SGEL programs on law and globalization. **Can the law, especially with its co-dependency with the market, help processes of nonviolent resistance? Can it even be a companion for social movements, whether they’re in Lüzerath, Lesvos, or the Niger Delta?** **Ivana:** The law is a site of political struggle. We constantly see different interpretations of the law clashing with one another, so the question then becomes: what are the interpretations that will become dominant? The law is never fully static. This means that law could both further emancipatory goals and entrench and legitimize violence. A lot of conservative social movements are *very* organized in the ways in which they mobilize human rights law in order to change its meaning from within. In the case of abortion, for instance, we see that the United Nations human rights bodies have established a robust understanding of human rights over the past three decades. It includes the right to access abortions legally and safely, as well as mandating that the procedure is made affordable. At the same time, we see very organized, transnational “anti-gender ideology” movements, which oppose any legislative measures that would grant more rights to women and LGBTQI+ people, and would reinforce gender equality. But this story remains incomplete if we don’t also account for how certain international courts, such as the European Court of Human Rights, treat such arguments, and sometimes tend to accept them. **Ingo:** Yes, the law is mobilized across the political spectrum. One thing to tease out further is that, as a site of struggle, the law is not neutral. We can see that clearly in international law, where some economic positions are simply significantly better protected—think of the protection of the right to property—than potentially countervailing positions, such as the protection of workers or of the environment. The victims of oil exploration in the Niger Delta know this very well after 20 years of unsuccessful litigation. The question, then, is how entrenched these asymmetries are, what keeps them in place, and how they might best be challenged. Such challenges may proceed with the law, but also *against* it. For example, the international legal protection of foreign investments or of intellectual property has just gone too far and should be dialed back. **If the law is so dynamic and ever-changing, what are the processes by which social movements can apply political pressure to help change legal frameworks?** **Ingo:** I think institutions of the law, such as domestic courts, are somewhat sensitive to public opinion. Again, this can be both good and bad. To give a case in point, let’s look at the German Federal Constitutional Court (*Bundesverfassungsgericht*). It recently recognized future generations’ right to life as an argument to push the current German government to legislate slightly stronger climate action. This legislation would have been nearly impossible to achieve without years of climate protests on the streets. We can see an increasing demand for international law from below, as Balakrishnan Rajagopal put it. International agreements, climate change negotiations, and institutions like the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) that were meandering in the covert space of global governance only about a decade ago now repeatedly make front-page news. **Ivana:** When we talk about pressure coming from social movements, the question is: who are we talking about? Who has the material and other resources to pressure legislative institutions? Whose voices are heard? We should pay attention to how social movements are framing what the problem is, what they think the legal solution should be, and who wins and loses within this process. We always need to interrogate who speaks and from which perspective. It all depends on the fluency that certain movements have in the language of policy-making. Again, those who have the resources and means to speak the language will be better heard. **Ingo:** And it’s a language that caters to specific interests. **When corporations talk about the need for growth, it almost sounds like a repackaging of expansionism. With that in mind, can the law be a tool for decolonization?** **Ingo:** In international law, there has been a growing role for what is called TWAIL: Third World Approaches to International Law. It emerged alongside the decolonization movements of the 1960s and ‘70s. TWAIL scholars have worked to appropriate the law in a tactical and emancipatory fashion. Interestingly, when we look at the newly independent states, at the former colonies, most of them decided to struggle *for* international law, not against it. And yes, sometimes it has resulted in hard failures. So, for instance, there was a strong push from newly independent states that gaining real economic and political independence means cutting ties with neo-colonial exploitation. On the one hand, TWAIL has been keenly aware that international law is used to dominate and partake in colonial exploitation. But on the other hand, there has still been the belief that international law could also be transformed and reformed for the better. And because of that, there is now a growing attention to international law’s origins within the context of colonization. For example, there is strong research showing how international law originated in the context of the Spanish colonization and exploitation of South America. But there's still a long way to go in how we think of its ways of domination, as well as its possibilities of progressive transformation. So, yes, TAWIL has done so much in broadening the discourse of international law. As a discipline, international law has also fallen short of reaching a full realization that, outside of the TWAIL framework, much is implicitly a “first-world” approach to international law. To this day, there is no working terminology of “a ‘first-world’ approach to international law.” That approach is just assumed to be the one, universal approach —”international law,” period. **Is there a place for cultural plurality within international law?** **Ivana:** There could be. Transnational law, whether it is international private law, comparative law, or EU law, has a series of mechanisms that were designed to recognize plurality. But in practice, it is really hard to see a recognition of differences without any prior conditions. One of the reasons is because the Global North, or laws from the Global North, have always been the yardstick of comparisons. One of the main struggles is to meaningfully address and resist the coloniality which is deeply embedded in legal concepts and legal ways of thinking. I have colleagues who are trying to think about what decolonial comparative law could look like that addresses power relations, and emphasizes a plurality of legal traditions and options. In terms of international private law (i.e., the law that regulates contracts, property, or family relations at the transnational level), some similar mechanisms are at play. Yes: in theory, room is being made for plurality. But at the same time, foreign law tends to be seen through the lenses of domestic law. There are a lot of projections about domestic law and foreign “others.” And in many ways, this leads to the solidification of stereotypes and harmful representations. Take the example of the legal recognition by courts within the Global North of Islamic law divorces. I worked on the French example, and what is clear is that Islamic law tends to be misunderstood, essentialized, and distorted. This ends up reproducing inaccurate and harmful representations not only of Islamic law, but also of Muslim women who are represented as victims of their own “unequal” culture, while the Global North is represented as the champion of gender equality. This, of course, papers over the many ways in which gender-based inequalities and violence are enabled by law in the Global North. **So, in theory, there are many ways in which the law can and should make space for plurality. But I haven’t seen any true attempts to deal with plurality in the form of unconditional recognition. I see the imposition of categories that lead to the perpetuation of many forms of inequalities.** **Ingo:** Readily agreed. We see very similar things in international law, where there's been a suppression of diversity. There's one egregious example that comes to my mind; a historical one. But much of what it exemplifies continues to persist in our contemporary discourse. It is connected to the emergence of what we call “contract-based investment arbitration” and a series of so-called “oil arbitrations” in the 1950s. Those oil arbitrations created something like a transnational body of law. It holds that the local law of the oil states—most of them being Islamic—could not be trusted. It was deemed to be too “primitive.” What was needed, according to the American and European lawyers of the time, was a “transnational law of civilized nations.” In that case, inter- or transnational law had the deliberate function of setting aside local laws that were deemed “primitive.” The law stabilized resource extraction and secured the financial gains of the big oil companies operating from the Global North. This example is incredibly telling. The law could be a means of control and a means of codifying either armed struggle or extraction. We’ve talked about the possibilities of international law as both preserving and ravaging human rights in relation to market forces. But let’s flip that around: are there any possibilities for the market to defend human rights against an illiberal legislative system? **Ivana:** One thing that I often find extremely interesting is how corporations who violate human rights will simultaneously present themselves as protecting them. Today, for instance, we see companies with diversity charters and all sorts of inclusion and equity initiatives. Many people who might have been very skeptical about corporations in the past are now seeing them as champions of this privatized idea of human rights. Corporations suddenly became champions of gender and racial justice. They essentially appropriated progressive vocabulary and practices. This benefits corporations’ economic interests and the interests of those who tend to be already privileged. To simplify, diversity is promoted to boost employment, competitiveness, and economic growth, and it is only really meant to serve highly skilled and high paid workers. When it comes to gender equality, this is something that feminist scholars have called “managerial feminism,” “market feminism” or “neoliberal feminism”: these interventions tend to benefit a small number of women who align with certain gender expectations and representations. While corporations are challenging the “glass ceiling” for some, the same economic logic leaves existing economic and gender inequalities untouched, and underpins structural reforms that make women, and especially those from migrant backgrounds, as well as racialized and ethnic minorities more precarious. **Ingo:** I agree with Ivana. In order to answer the question of how human rights might be used and appropriated to counter market forces, we first need to have an even stronger reckoning with the idea that human rights have been used for decades as an extension of the market. Companies will have to play a significant role in the socio-ecological transformation, but in order to really align business practices with progressive politics, it is, first of all, necessary to call out the differences. It is important for us to hammer the points—first, that unsustainable economic practices persist not so much because of a lack of better knowledge or goodwill, though that also matters. But rather, they persist mostly because of institutional, structural constraints and the conditions of competition. Second, it’s critical to tease out the ways in which the law partakes in the making of markets, and the unsustainable practices they sustain. And third, we aim to seek out how, at both the deep, structural level and the nitty-gritty details, the law may be appropriated and transformed. The contributions from our fellow researchers to the present issue show how that is being done. \\\\ **Ivana Isailović* is Assistant Professor of EU law, Member of the Amsterdam Centre for European Law and Governance (ACELG), and academic coordinator of the research project on Sustainable Global Economic Law (SGEL).* **Ingo Venzke* is Professor of International Law and Social Justice, Director of the Amsterdam Center for International Law (ACIL), and Fellow at The New Institute, Hamburg.* --- ### IMAGE CREDITS cyop&kaf, 2020. *Ido Nahari is a sociologist, researcher and writer who works in the fields of cultural revivalism, social welfare and the commodification of emotions. Born in Jerusalem and currently living in Berlin, Nahari holds a Master of Science in Culture and Society from the London School of Economics and Political Science, where he investigated the marketability of authenticity.* _Truncated after 5 MiB. Use `/sitemap.xml` for the complete archive of public content._