.
We've been working hard over the course of the past couple years to create a new PME-ART website, documenting over twenty years of unexpected and innovative work:
https://www.pme-art.ca
This is where you can watch the online conference Vulnerable Paradoxes, download the related free PDF publication In response to Vulnerable Paradoxes, listen to Jacob’s teenage songs from Every Song I’ve Ever Written, as well as many other experiences. We are excited, since this is the first time PME-ART has really had a full website, casting new light on our history and practice.
A heartfelt thanks to everyone who made it happen: Development and writing by Fabien Marcil, Jacob Wren, Kamissa Ma Koïta, Sylvie Lachance and Burcu Emeç / Translation and editing by Marie Claire Forté / Graphic design by Kamissa Ma Koïta / Video editing by Muhammad El Khairy and Kamissa Ma Koïta / Web integration and additional design by Andi Hernandez
(We worked so long and hard on this thing and, for much of the time we were doing so, I kept thinking to myself: everyone has a website. No one is suddently going to get excited that we have a website now. It just sort of brings us up to speed with everyone else. Why are we working so hard on this thing? And I still don't really know the answer to that question. But, nonetheless, that's what we did and here it is.)
(Looking over all the projects we've done since 1998 gives me such a strange feeling. What exactly do all these projects have in common? Would it be better if they had more in common with each other? Or less? I've been doing PME-ART for about twenty-five years. I'm now fifty, so that's half my natural life. What to make of it all. I actually wrote a book trying to understand it better. But doing the website somehow opened up what I previously understood and now I find myself wondering about it all, all over again. So many decisions about what to make were made in the heat of the moment. Or for reasons that then changed before the thing was made, or that changed as we were making it, as they should. A twisting path. An emotional rollercoaster. A story that now seems to have been told mostly in retrospect. PME-ART: a mix of non-dance, non-theatre and non-performance.)
.
April 28, 2022
April 14, 2022
Three Spring Poems Written Rather Quickly
.
1.
I’ve perhaps written enough for one person in one lifetime.
If someone were to read the entirety of my published works, depending on how fast they read, it would probably take them a few months. This seems to me a good amount of time to spend on a single author, because of course it is much more important to read many authors, as many as possible.
But of course I can’t stop. Can’t stop writing.
Will I write something in the future that is different or better than everything that came before?
And, if I do, will I or anyone else notice?
I don’t know if I ever really thought art was important. But I suspect there was once at least some small part of me that thought art was at least a little bit important.
However, in our current predicament, what seems important is: air, water, soil.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
(Not so much art.)
What seems important versus what I spend my time doing.
So many different shades of climate grief.
Will what I write in the future be any different than what I have written in the past?
Is there a future? (But this question is a dead end. We make the future one day at a time.)
What will I write today? / What will I write tomorrow?
2.
Poems.
I was young and wanted to write poems.
I thought poems would grab the reader by the throat and radiate all meaning that words and thoughts and feelings could contain.
But I did not want to write poemy poems. I wanted to get to the point. As sharply and precisely and quickly as possible.
I was young and wanted everything to happen now.
It was the eighties.
The eighties were already almost done.
I couldn’t find the poems I wanted to read so I wanted to write them myself.
And I did. So many fucking poems.
That were published. And read aloud at reading after reading.
And I learned that poems were almost nothing like what I had hoped for or thought possible.
They were something else.
And so was I.
3.
It is so easy to make meaningless art.
You don’t even have to realize you are doing so.
.
1.
I’ve perhaps written enough for one person in one lifetime.
If someone were to read the entirety of my published works, depending on how fast they read, it would probably take them a few months. This seems to me a good amount of time to spend on a single author, because of course it is much more important to read many authors, as many as possible.
But of course I can’t stop. Can’t stop writing.
Will I write something in the future that is different or better than everything that came before?
And, if I do, will I or anyone else notice?
I don’t know if I ever really thought art was important. But I suspect there was once at least some small part of me that thought art was at least a little bit important.
However, in our current predicament, what seems important is: air, water, soil.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
(Not so much art.)
What seems important versus what I spend my time doing.
So many different shades of climate grief.
Will what I write in the future be any different than what I have written in the past?
Is there a future? (But this question is a dead end. We make the future one day at a time.)
What will I write today? / What will I write tomorrow?
2.
Poems.
I was young and wanted to write poems.
I thought poems would grab the reader by the throat and radiate all meaning that words and thoughts and feelings could contain.
But I did not want to write poemy poems. I wanted to get to the point. As sharply and precisely and quickly as possible.
I was young and wanted everything to happen now.
It was the eighties.
The eighties were already almost done.
I couldn’t find the poems I wanted to read so I wanted to write them myself.
And I did. So many fucking poems.
That were published. And read aloud at reading after reading.
And I learned that poems were almost nothing like what I had hoped for or thought possible.
They were something else.
And so was I.
3.
It is so easy to make meaningless art.
You don’t even have to realize you are doing so.
.
April 5, 2022
Some passages from Sara: Prison Memoir of a Kurdish Revolutionary by Sakine Cansız
Some passages from Sara: Prison Memoir of a Kurdish Revolutionary by Sakine Cansız:
*
I knew I was right – a prison break would constitute an action taken against the enemy. If I’d been able to use the opportunity it would have been a good hit. Probably I was too optimistic, but this dream was just too beautiful.
*
It was just too strange. All those guys who supposedly loved me so passionately tended to idolize me. They hardly dared love me, they said, because of my goddess-like nature. But with their clumsy, unbounded, disrespectful, and cheap declarations of love, they essentially smashed an idol that they’d created. Their emotional world contained a drive to dominate others. Where did their woolly feelings begin, where did they end, what were they based on, and what were they good for? On the one hand, these men were secretive, egotistical, and individualistic; on the other, they were crude, exuberant, and absolute. At any moment their supposed love could flip over into a desire for revenge.
*
The woman friends I’d brough in lost confidence in me, saying my dreams were beautiful but impractical. That was bad. Yes, I lived in an exorbitant fantasy world, but the actions I fantasized about were doable. The question was, should we take risks and allow ourselves to dream, or avoid risks and reject dreams? I always preferred to take risks, and that was the choice I made my whole life.
*
At the hospital, we sat together in the waiting room for a while. The men wanted to know what had been done to us, and I told them what we’d been through. Fatma was silent. Her coldness was hard to take even in normal times, but now we were sharing our journey to death together. Everything about her was calculated and measured. What a strange person she was. I believe in recognizing life’s beautiful sides. I wanted to die laughing and dancing. I think only those who know how to value life are ready for death. Otherwise, neither life nor death has any particular meaning.
*
In prison, these events gave us strength and hope – and not just us but prisoners from other political organizations too. Some accused us, once again, of reckless adventurism – we’d heard that a lot when we first got to prison, especially from Kurdish leftists. They said it was madness to wage an armed struggle against the junta, which would then take revenge on the civilian population. But they feared the enemy more than they cared for the people. They thought of the enemy as an invincible, all-powerful force. When things got hot, instead of fighting him, they preferred to take a break. When the enemy proclaimed that he had annihilated all revolutionary thoughts, they believed him. Ultimately they just didn’t believe in revolution.
*
Her knowledge was of such immeasurable value that we tolerated her sometimes obnoxious behavior. She tended to squabble and interfere in everything. When bickering erupted, and women got angry at her, I tried to calm the waters by emphasizing Mevlüde’s positive qualities. But Mevlüde herself never shied from conflict. Replying to the general criticism of her, she said, “In the past I was worse – sometimes I couldn’t adapt at all. That’s why the friends sent me home. But I’m beginning to change myself and my behavior here.”
*
I thought of my own escape attempt back in Malatya. What a beautiful night! I’d been overjoyed, as if I’d done some important action. I’d actually succeeded in getting physically outside. I’d told myself, Now I’ve done the hardest part, I’m home free. I thought I’d really escaped. I imagined telling the friends about my successful escape. It was like a movie: August 20, 1980, the only beautiful night in Malatya! But no, I just made it to that point and didn’t know what to do next. I hadn’t done enough planning, and I didn’t know the area, so my success was short-lived. If I could have walked directly into a forest, I would’ve made it. In the mountains you can always hide, they provide protection. It was probably worse to be captured outside than to have not tried at all. If you’re too weak or clumsy, faint-hearted, or otherwise unable to even try something, that’s understandable. But to succeed at the hardest part, and still have enough strength to keep going, yet ultimately fail because you didn’t think far enough ahead or because you are overconfident and drunk with success… Did I enjoy taking risks? Being a victim? Making sacrifices? I had to think more about the concept of sacrifice. It had all started when I got angry. Conventional wisdom has it, “Those who stand up in anger, sit back down damaged.” But of course that was no justification.
*
In love there should be no lies or roughness. Yes, I was a dreamer, prone to illusions. My attitude toward love was utopian. Meanwhile I thrived on conflict. A moment without struggle was like torture for me. It was struggle that made life worth living and gave me strength.
.
*
I knew I was right – a prison break would constitute an action taken against the enemy. If I’d been able to use the opportunity it would have been a good hit. Probably I was too optimistic, but this dream was just too beautiful.
*
It was just too strange. All those guys who supposedly loved me so passionately tended to idolize me. They hardly dared love me, they said, because of my goddess-like nature. But with their clumsy, unbounded, disrespectful, and cheap declarations of love, they essentially smashed an idol that they’d created. Their emotional world contained a drive to dominate others. Where did their woolly feelings begin, where did they end, what were they based on, and what were they good for? On the one hand, these men were secretive, egotistical, and individualistic; on the other, they were crude, exuberant, and absolute. At any moment their supposed love could flip over into a desire for revenge.
*
The woman friends I’d brough in lost confidence in me, saying my dreams were beautiful but impractical. That was bad. Yes, I lived in an exorbitant fantasy world, but the actions I fantasized about were doable. The question was, should we take risks and allow ourselves to dream, or avoid risks and reject dreams? I always preferred to take risks, and that was the choice I made my whole life.
*
At the hospital, we sat together in the waiting room for a while. The men wanted to know what had been done to us, and I told them what we’d been through. Fatma was silent. Her coldness was hard to take even in normal times, but now we were sharing our journey to death together. Everything about her was calculated and measured. What a strange person she was. I believe in recognizing life’s beautiful sides. I wanted to die laughing and dancing. I think only those who know how to value life are ready for death. Otherwise, neither life nor death has any particular meaning.
*
In prison, these events gave us strength and hope – and not just us but prisoners from other political organizations too. Some accused us, once again, of reckless adventurism – we’d heard that a lot when we first got to prison, especially from Kurdish leftists. They said it was madness to wage an armed struggle against the junta, which would then take revenge on the civilian population. But they feared the enemy more than they cared for the people. They thought of the enemy as an invincible, all-powerful force. When things got hot, instead of fighting him, they preferred to take a break. When the enemy proclaimed that he had annihilated all revolutionary thoughts, they believed him. Ultimately they just didn’t believe in revolution.
*
Her knowledge was of such immeasurable value that we tolerated her sometimes obnoxious behavior. She tended to squabble and interfere in everything. When bickering erupted, and women got angry at her, I tried to calm the waters by emphasizing Mevlüde’s positive qualities. But Mevlüde herself never shied from conflict. Replying to the general criticism of her, she said, “In the past I was worse – sometimes I couldn’t adapt at all. That’s why the friends sent me home. But I’m beginning to change myself and my behavior here.”
*
I thought of my own escape attempt back in Malatya. What a beautiful night! I’d been overjoyed, as if I’d done some important action. I’d actually succeeded in getting physically outside. I’d told myself, Now I’ve done the hardest part, I’m home free. I thought I’d really escaped. I imagined telling the friends about my successful escape. It was like a movie: August 20, 1980, the only beautiful night in Malatya! But no, I just made it to that point and didn’t know what to do next. I hadn’t done enough planning, and I didn’t know the area, so my success was short-lived. If I could have walked directly into a forest, I would’ve made it. In the mountains you can always hide, they provide protection. It was probably worse to be captured outside than to have not tried at all. If you’re too weak or clumsy, faint-hearted, or otherwise unable to even try something, that’s understandable. But to succeed at the hardest part, and still have enough strength to keep going, yet ultimately fail because you didn’t think far enough ahead or because you are overconfident and drunk with success… Did I enjoy taking risks? Being a victim? Making sacrifices? I had to think more about the concept of sacrifice. It had all started when I got angry. Conventional wisdom has it, “Those who stand up in anger, sit back down damaged.” But of course that was no justification.
*
In love there should be no lies or roughness. Yes, I was a dreamer, prone to illusions. My attitude toward love was utopian. Meanwhile I thrived on conflict. A moment without struggle was like torture for me. It was struggle that made life worth living and gave me strength.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
