frieke janssens: smoking kids

“A YouTube video of a chainsmoking Indonesian toddler inspired me to create this series, “Smoking Kids”. The video highlighted the cultural differences between the east and west, and questioned notions of smoking being a mainly adult activity. Adult smokers are the societal norm, so I wanted to isolate the viewer’s focus upon the issue of smoking itself. I felt that children smoking would have a surreal impact upon the viewer and compel them to truly see the acts of smoking rather than making assumptions about the person doing the act. Coincidentally around the time of the “Smoking Kids” gallery opening, a law was passed, and smoking has been banned from Belgian bars. There was an outcry from the public about government intervention, feelings that freedom was being oppressed, and that adults were being treated like children. With health reasons driving many cities to ban smoking, the culture around smoking has a retro feel, like the time period of “Mad Men,” when smoking on a plane or in a restaurant was not unusual. The aesthetics of smoke and the particular way smokers gesticulate with their hands and posture cannot be denied, but among the different tribes of “Smoking Kids,” – Glamour, Jazz, and The Marginal – there is a nod to less attractive aspects, on the line between the beauty and ugliness of smoking. To assure you of the safety of the children, there were no real cigarettes on set. Instead, chalk and sticks of cheese were the prop stand ins, while candles and incense provided the wisps of smoke.” [Frieke Janssens]

Images: © Frieke Janssens

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forget-me-not

Unadorned feet carry your weight on wood every day and so much more weight tonight, when you carry me and smell my musk until madness comes. Your fragility is a mirage and I know you cannot devour me without endless guilt. Let’s dance for a few more minutes, please.

Violent dancing is nothing but your antiquated way of protesting the future, darling. Yes, even architecture has moved on. Build endless shacks of horror and weapons made of blunt, uncut diamonds with your thoughts to open a door that has always been open to you. Let’s meet at the same train station tomorrow at five to say good-bye.

Text: © Lucius Bod, 2012
Image: © Mustafa Sabbagh, 2012. Courtesy of the artist.

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mustafa sabbagh: liquid memories

Liquid Memories is a photography exhibition by Mustafa Sabbagh, taking place at the Gallery of Modern and Contemporary Art of the Museum Giovanni Boldini in Ferrara, Italy from the 20th of May to 30th of September 2012.

Located along the halls, Sabbagh’s images relate not only to already existing works of the Museum but also to the environment, the atmosphere full of memory. It reflects the signs of time present and past as well as our imprinted history.

Spaces arise from reflection on the two installations. The first, a large photograph depicting a corner of the full-length portrait by Boldini, printed on glass and then broken, symbolizing the necessary break in relation to traditionally established aesthetic canons, linked to concepts of beauty and the ideal crushing of the image that becomes a metaphor of enchantment which must be sought even in imperfection. The second setup consists of two large prints of backlit windows that replace one of the rooms, showing clearly the views. In it, one investigates the relationship between internal-external dimension through the projection of these fictional work of art.

The photographs depict models hidden behind fetish masks – made by Simone Valsecchi, Ronconi and Greenaway costume – and comprise of disparate objects, such as forks, wigs, blinkers, hard hats, veils, stuffed birds. Single or paired subjects in diptychs of dark beauty through to evocative nocturnal landscapes present without apology. Underlying these images and behind their rarefied charms are the echoes of archetypal memories of coercion and torture. Technically brilliant, Sabbagh captures his subjects at depths of dark gray and cobalt, frontally or in profile, reminiscent of a renaissance painting. The look, through life, is denied behind the fiction of disguise, a symbol of deception, simulation, and yet at the same time an element of revelation of oneself and one’s instincts. The occasion of unveiling, the mask is so impenetrable a screen behind which the individual is free and express themselves.

The objects that accompany the masks are not decorative and never reveal which attributes complement the sense of the image as presented for judgment. However, they acquire a strong significance of symbols and characters that become transmuted into a modern vanitas portrait of Flemish taste, a reflection on the inexorable passage of time that evaporates like cigarette smoke. Time flows, slips away, to which the beauty inherent in the condition of youth seems to disregard it, seems to mock, provoke, exorcise. Matrons and knights of the XXI Century, dandy in elegant leather jackets; Venus sick, forced into rigid corsets and girdles uncomfortable, all remain frozen at the very instant of their ephemeral appearance, becoming images that lead us to ponder that perhaps, behind the apparent comeliness of perfection, there always lurks the frailty of flesh.

In these images, whose icy appearance is enhanced by the extreme precision and realism of the photographic medium, Sabbagh offers his vision of modern portraiture. The Italian-Jordanian Sabbagh steps from the world of fashion photography, the experience of which builds to go further and investigate what lies behind the mannered image, behind apparent perfection. Irreverent and ironic, his effigies desecrate a concept of sensuality and sexuality which may seem more and more brazen and violent but therein are offered to the gaze of the observer. It is in this aspect of desecration that patterns of Sabbagh begin a dialogue with the portraits of Boldini, leaving slowly to reveal underlying similarities with the work of the painter of more than a century ago in Paris. Often depicting extreme elegance, sometimes pushing the limits of the paroxysm; from princesses through to the origins of haute couture, an era both complex and controversial; the fin de siècle, daring to impose a real fashion model.

A close relative of that other almost fictional (to our minds) era, this present time is the time of the image, the time of appearance. The portrait, painted or photographic has become a witness. By its very nature, the portrait may be celebrating but is also mercilessly critical and analytical. The creative act that arises from the interaction between the personality of the artist together with the portrait leaves a very particular product. It is Sabbagh’s eye that observes and chooses how to portray and yet at the same time, genius-like he also delivers the fruit of the desire of the model, and that twist of artistic expression hands to posterity, the traces of our existence.

Museum Giovanni Boldini
Gallery of Modern and Contemporary Art
Palazzo Massari
Corso Porta Mare 9
44121 Ferrara, Italy
T: +39 0532 244949
E: diamanti@comune.fe.it

Images: © Mustafa Sabbagh, 2012. Courtesy of the artist.

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blue eyes

This year, I will turn forty-one years old. After six years of solitude, a man came to my door and knocked. I invited him in and everything we both brought to the table meshed in ways necessary for both of us to survive each other’s past. We moved in together after our first kiss.

Not many friends thought we were compatible, but we did our best to keep the waxing and waning of fears from erasing our months together. One night, I had an argument with him so heinous it took me outside into the streets, past people I did not know and when I stopped running, I was on my knees in tears. A sound caressed me. At first faint, but it was his voice. One million negative thoughts were summoned to rest under my hands on the pavement because I heard him calling my name. Yes, I want him. Never give up on me, please.

His eyes and mine will always meet to remind each other of every moment of ingenuity we have shared, of how we took a Polaroid of each other’s soul and nothing else could be the same. I love looking into his eyes.


Text: © Lucius Bod, 2012
Images:© Predrag Pajdic, 2012. WIth Julien Aschner, London, April 2012

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scissors and knives

Scissors and knives is what I have for you
Scissors and knives
Knowing that you deserve far less and
Yet I will give each of you more
Than you ever considered for anyone else.
Sharp flickers of blood
Snatches of skin pared
Back to reveal the channel –
This channel of
Our living –
This is the channel for loving and
In its revelations
Lie you and me

Text: © J. L. Nash, 2012
Images: © Predrag Pajdic, 2012. Featuring Federico Domenici, London 22 April, 2012

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love, boston

You may think I don’t know
The difference between
William Carlos Williams and Steven Berkoff
Between the smile of a Cheshire cat and
A Stepney foodie
But I do

What’s more
I can hear the grass whispering of love
Blade to blade as it grows beneath you
The crash of leaves as each tree’s empire
Falls from grace, annually

I once met the bottom of Florence’s shoes
When you were still pushing numbers onto metal
I also interrupted the fear on Paolo’s skin before
You kissed him and I thought
It’s best to stay quiet

I’m hoping you don’t read dog poetry
Lest you discover my fondness for fast food
Straight from the can
My appreciation is always genuine
Of that you can be assured

I know there’s so much we don’t share
But you’re not designed to get it
And I decided to never mention
The shortfalls, they’re
Always negotiable

I hear conversations through walls
And in the wind you can’t
But here’s the crux of it
Once, I fell in love with the shape
Of the hems of your trousers

Happy not to make too much of a fuss
I’ll wait here, listening to distant
Gossip belonging to our neighbours
Until you wake, sun kissed and ready
I love you.

Text: © J. L. Nash, 2012
Images: © Predrag Pajdic, 2012. With the most gorgeous Rocco and Federico Domenici, London, April 2012

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caramel cigarettes

I cannot say it’s supported by facts, but my taste buds’ perception is that Marlboro Blend 27 is a neat box of caramel-flavoured cigarettes. I smoked one this morning and stared at the ceiling after reading your lettre.

Religions are fictions, but feelings are blasting and scorching me, something hitherto unknown to me at such a loud pitch. I did not know how profoundly in love I could be with you, so much that I promise to take care of myself after today whilst you go hunting in the concrete and glass forest of Capitalism.

My tall, beautiful and talented man, today I am full of clichés and comfort foods until I feel the exaltation in accepting you want us to be together again. You are my hero and that is something I should tell you every day. I love you and I am never far from you.

Always,

Your Lucius

Text: © Lucius Bod, 2012
Images: © Predrag Pajdic, 2012. With Holcombe Waller, Amsterdam 14 April 2012

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stooped for prayer

I wanted to believe there was someway
I could transform all the parts of me
I was looking for that cathartic moment
Perhaps catholic or apostolic

But no one came
And in the absence of demiurge
Who would be my Oprah Winfrey
To allow me public confession?

Perhaps that’s why as I sit here contemplating
The church sits so far from
My psyche it’s all too private
Mine is the generation of public indulgence

But if
I hadn’t been such a strong supporter
Of private indulgence
I may never have felt the need to purge

And it’s not a pretty sight
Why its so popular I’m really not sure
Makes me almost want to retreat
to the peacefulness of pews and country garlands

Perhaps on second thought
I’ll leave this place now
And just make long and protracted entries
On my blog instead

Text: © J. L. Nash, 2012
Images: © Predrag Pajdic, 2012, with Katarina Mootich, London, March 2012

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the magic of gravity

When we left behind our dark matter, somewhere past 26 o’clock we stepped through into light, bent past the unfixed moon; gravity pulling towards us an early morning shower and the new smells of all spring. Time had been stretched by quantum goblins who watched us from behind flowers and rocks. Elongated minutes felt like hours and the grass was wet beneath our feet.

I don’t fully understand gravity. I guess its the stuff we can’t see which releases the blossoms from the trees into your face, the way I released your breasts into my hands, in the darkness.

If the product of mass is gravity, last night was indeed serious. The pressure between us was quantifiable. A bird escaped when we weren’t looking.

We found it later, well, we heard our bird call to us as the wind spoke to the trees and we were showered in blossom snow. At a moment of lightness, as omnipresent observers we dared without speaking. We caught each other’s eyes as they floated into the space lattice and saw everything we needed to see, felt everything we needed to feel; we heard our bird call above all others, took deep breaths and smelled the potions of infinite synchronicity that can only occur once every year as spring and love mix.

Time dilated with your pupils when your neck presented for caressing but I felt the contraction in the muscles in your right thigh. Light pulsed though the hearts of everything that lived and we were as alone at daybreak as we had been the night before.

I saw you climb without any hesitation. Agile like a puma, swift like a snow leopard I begin to wonder if this is real at all or whether I have imagined you from another axes all together; whether you have stepped through some portal into the realms of pretty reality just for now.

If this is the case, let me be the first to whisper, as the tiniest of petals smooth your face, as the dirt on the souls of your feet tell stories of intimate branches and as we abandon your shoes in offering to the special relativity of this illusion. Let me be the first to whisper
…come here

Text: © J. L. Nash, 2012
Images: © Predrag Pajdic, 2012, with Anna Sudbina, London 31 March 2012

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in hearts we trust

I wandered through life as a shipwreck and when we met, your love turned my blood into a slow poison. Our skins crashed and crested like waves until we fell back into the Sea of Emotions, whence we came.

Our home has turned darker with melodies of voices high and low. You told me once that I use words the way others use knives and so I do. I regret everything I told you last night as the tears drown me under my hoodie. Something as simple as ‘I love you’ glides on you like silk and the furious and relentless storm of your jealousy turns it into coal. So bittersweet are we.

If you want me, come to me and kiss me now. I am dancing under the harvest moon and the imaginary light of my hopes around my naked skin wants to touch you. Please shut me up and kiss me forever.



Text
: © Lucius Bod, 2012
Images: © Predrag Pajdic, 2012

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