Sunday, 31 March 2013

"Jeg er dette, hint og det andet"

"I AM THIS, THAT AND THE OTHER"


ENGLISH TRANSLATION IN ITALICS.



"Han er væk. Jeg står her med hans digt i hånden. Mellem os er der dette bånd".

Vi er Tjekhov. Vi er Byron. Snart er vi måske også Meredith. Vi tager kunsten til os som lag i vores eget selv, selvet, det som vi ikke kan sige i flertal på dansk. Beboere, kalder Virginia Woolf dem også, som hun folder dem ud i The Waves. Kunsten gør os til mange inden i os, uden at vi derfor at mister os. Den følelse som kunne synes enkel, fylder de, som de plejer, med deres kommentarer, deres drejninger og deres skævheder.

Netop disse brudstykker vendte tilbage i dag - som kunsten jo plejer at bryde ind - da Kianoush Ramezani sendte en tegning, som skærer sig ind i kunstnerens smerte. Midtersektionen i bladet står skærende lysende i tegningen som stemmelæber. Kunstneren som den nødvendige stemme, der skærer ham op, indefra, ligesom den udsætter ham for fare udefra.

Den bebrillede, ikke fysisk stærke bliver den stærkeste af alle. Det er umuligt ikke at forbinde barberbladet med skæbner som den syriske billedhugger Ibrahim Qashoush, der blev fundet myrdet af Assads støtter efter, at han var blevet proteststemmen i sommeren 2011. Han blev fundet med sine stemmebånd skåret ud. Måneden efter fik Ali Farzat lemlæstet sine hænder i forsøget på, at han aldrig skulle kunne tegne igen.



"He is gone; I stand here, holding his poem. Between us there is this line."

We are Chekhov. We are Byron. Soon we might also be Meredith. We take art upon us as layers to our own self. Residents as Virginia Woolf too call them as she unfolds their ways in "The Waves". Art makes us manifold within, and yet it does not make us lose ourselves. But any feeling that might at first seem simple is clouded as usual with the comments of our residents, their antics and their biases. They darken and they enrich.

These very fragments sprung to mind today - as art is wont to - when Kianoush Ramezani sent a drawing that delves into the pain of the artist. The centre of the razor blade catches the light while hacking into the vocal cords. This is the artist as the necessary voice, which cuts him open from the inside as well as exposes him to danger from the outside.

The bespectacled one, not even physically strong turns out to be the strongest of us all. It is impossible not to link the razor blade to the fate of the Syrian sculptor, Ibrahim Qashoush, who was found murdered by Assad's supporters after he had become the voice of the protesters in the summer of 2011. He was found with his vocal cords cut out. The following month Ali Ferzat had his hands mutilated with the intention that he would never be able to draw again.







De tungt symbolske overgreb var så voldsommere, som de kendte kunstens styrke, Mindre kunne ikke gøre det i forsøget på at skære linen over, der i stedet viste sig forbundet så meget desto stærkere, desperationen, friheden i knivsbladet, fordi der ikke længere var en vej tilbage.

Virginia Woolf ville ikke være en episk poet, hvis hun ikke konkluderede om vores mange indre selver uden derfor at forklare nærmere: Alligevel er kærligheden enkel.

Det er en kærlighedserklæring at give til os af nødvendigheden, og endnu en stærk stemme, Patti Smith, har lagt nye beboere til Virginia Woolfs egne Waves, genskabt over denne ene sætning:


The heavily symbolic assaults were all the more violent in that they recognized the strength of art. Less would not do in the attempt to cut the line, which instead made the connection between art and the protesters all the stronger, the desperation, the freedom of the blade in that it was no longer possible to return to things as they were before.

Virginia Woolf would not be an epic poet, if she had not concluded on our many inner selves: Yet love is simple.

It is a declaration of love when the artist gives to us out of his or her necessity, and another a strong voice, Patti Smith, has added new residents to Virginia Woolf's own Waves, that she recreated over this single sentence:


"Something within her refused to grow. Something endless, eternal. Something bold. Something warrior-like. She looked up at the stars, she could feel, she felt as if she could pluck them one by one and send them spinning into the world, like small beautiful elastic mercurial weapons. Now too, the time is coming":





Og med hensyn til Ibrahim Qashoushs protestsang, så sidder den fast, når den én gang er hørt. For dem, som endnu ikke måtte have den i hjernevindingerne, kan den høres her


And as for the protest song by Ibrahim Qashoush, it is stuck within us, once it is heard. For those who have yet to have it embedded in the brain, it can be heard here.



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