#he wanted to support Shadow on his acceptance to display his art for a exhibit at his school

[localgardenweed]

Art Student Shadow is back and he’s late to the venue

[urielthegolem]

Merry woke up feeling rather groggy. It was hot in the apartment though it was relatively cool in front of the fan. Peony had woken him up several times in the night. He was never quite sure why. Perhaps she didn’t understand that he also needed to sleep and that he couldn’t play with her whenever she wanted. For now, though, Peony was resting on her scratching post-turned-bed. Merry looked at his phone and saw the time read 12:30. Not the best, not the worst, he thought. He had been trying to set his sleep schedule earlier for months. And the sad truth was going to bed at 2 am and waking up at 12:30 was earlier than usual. Pippin wasn’t helping in that department. He usually went to bed around 3, 4, or even 5 and would get up whenever. The late night labs certainly contributed to this but Pippin had always been a night owl so it had never bothered him. All in all, probably the one with the healthiest sleep schedule was Peony.

The Men of Minas Tirith (and of most of Middle Earth from what Merry gathered in his limited experience) would wake up at ungodly hours. Merry knew several men and women who boasted of waking up at 5 am. Still he had met a few others who woke up at the unbelievable hour of 3 am. What’s the point of waking up in the middle of the night, Merry thought, you might as well say they’re staying up later than the rest of us. But Merry felt a twinge of guilt for not being like the others. That was a wound that his mother often put salt in. The idea that everybody had their life together more than Merry. Everyone worked harder. Everyone was smarter and more efficient. Only Merry stood out as so particularly inferior. The hobbit shook his head: enough of these thoughts!

He got off the bed and rather regretted it. He felt awful. But he made his way into the living room. Pippin wasn’t on the couch so he didn’t have to be as careful about being quiet. Although it seemed that Pippin could sleep through an earthquake. Merry put some toast in the toaster and looked out the window. The sun was shining its light across the landscape beautifully. It came in at an angle and the reflections and shadows played in the yellow-green leaves. Beyond the tree, his tree, he could see the Fields of Pelennor. There were alternating patches of gold and deep green. Beyond that were the mountains of Mordor. Merry liked to imagine he was looking directly at the trail he and Pippin had climbed the previous week. The mountains now held a more special place in his heart than they already had.

Pop! Merry had a mini heart attack and turned back to his toast. He had originally thought of putting either honey or jam on it, but he realized he was hungrier than that. He set to making some scrambled eggs. “Well that’s unusual,” said a voice suddenly from behind him. Merry let out a yelp. “G-d, Pippin, please don’t sneak up on me like that.” Merry implored. “Oh, sorry,” Pippin said, “I didn’t think about your PTSD. I’ll try to do better next time.” “Thanks,” Merry breathed. “Anyway, what’s so unusual?” he demanded, straightening up. “Oh just that you’re actually cooking something,” Pippin answered. “Pippin, please, I don’t need this right now” “What’s wrong?” “I just...don’t appreciate being reminded I never cook. Like, I know ok” Pippin hadn’t realized he would strike such a raw nerve with his words. He felt bad about startling his friend as well. Merry turned back to his eggs and took them off the stove. “I’m sorry, Merry,” he said earnestly, “I shouldn’t have made fun of you for cooking. I won’t do it again. Can you forgive me?” Merry turned to his friend. “Thanks for apologizing, Pippin. I forgive you. But I just...I need some space right now,” he said, feeling a bit guilty. “Of course!” Pippin replied. Merry figured Pippin wanted to eat soon so he grabbed his toast and eggs and stepped outside onto the balcony.

Merry was mad at himself for being upset. But he was also trying to work on speaking up about things that bothered him and determined that this was just an uncomfortable step of the growing process. And why is everything startling you today, he asked himself exasperatedly. Having PTSD was a pain because he knew he shouldn’t be startled by a thing but he was. His body was on high alert, expecting danger at every turn. Even when as far as he knew he was alone in the house with his close friend and cat. Did I even have any right to criticize Pippin, he thought. After all, he was right, and I’m sure he just thought he was being playful. But he caught himself again: I’m allowed to have feelings even if those feelings inconvenience others. Or, at least, he was pretty sure. Maybe he had heard it somewhere.

Merry put the eggs on his toast and took a bite. He had come across this way of eating toast when he was on a trip to the southernmost point of Harad. This was long before Peony or Pippin were in his life. It was even before Jamie. He was fascinated with the culture of South Harad. He missed the great, spicy food and the kind people. He missed the bright colors everywhere--mostly in the clothes of the women there. At the time, Merry also dressed in those clothes. However, since he was the only hobbit around and one of the few most Haradrim had ever seen he didn’t exactly blend in as hoped. He came across eggs and toast on the grounds of a palace (more of a large house really) in a small but influential city just inland behind the mountains. The city had once been the home of one of the greatest fighters and leaders in all of South Harad’s history.

It had been awhile since Merry had thought much about his trip to Harad. He had spent about three months there years ago. He hoped to go back there again. As his real self. And maybe with a friend. Merry finished his breakfast and looked out again. He saw the banner of Gondor fluttering in the breeze on a lower wall. It had a white tree with stars and a crown surrounding it against a dark blue background. In the distance, thankfully not directly below him, he could hear shouts and the quiet whirr of cars as they drove past. Sounds that the city was very much alive and awake this afternoon. And he could hear that blasted ice cream truck again. How many times?? How many times must it circle the block, Merry lamented desperately. He had really had enough of this and determined to go back inside at least to put his plate away.

Merry turned around to see Peony standing at attention in front of the balcony door. He stealthily slid by her, not allowing her to escape, and put his plate away. Pippin was playing a video game in his room. He was sitting on the floor in front of his bed facing the door. He found video games were a good way to not think of much of anything and with his anxiety, that was a true blessing. “Dammit!” Merry heard him shout from the next room. Merry didn’t know the first thing about video games. His parents had never bought any for him and when he did occasionally play one, he felt dizzy and didn’t much see the point of them. But as a result he did feel like he was lacking a useful, fun coping strategy that all his friends and acquaintances his age used. And so he felt left out if it ever came up--though it was not something he’d ever bother anyone else with.

It was getting on towards 1:30 and Merry realized he needed to be at Boromir’s office by 2. The boy dashed into his room, got dressed, brushed his teeth, and made sure Peony had enough food and water for the day. Then he knocked on his friend’s door. “Yeah? Come in” Pippin called.

“I’m just heading out now to do some research for Boromir. I’ll see you tonight”

“Ok, have a good time!”

“Thanks, love you”

“Love you too”

Merry smiled, closed the door behind him, and made his way out the front door.

The University campus was at the highest point of the city. One could walk it, but it was far easier and faster to take the gondola. Merry went down the side street, turned onto the main thoroughfare and came to the gondola’s green line station. There was a decent sized line ahead of him, but the cable cars came so quickly and continuously he knew he wouldn’t be waiting long. This gondola line went from his neighborhood to the University. Because of the convenience, many graduate students and even a number of the younger professors lived in the area.

Boromir was in his office. He was very absorbed in reading and responding to his letters. He also needed to finish preparing for the classes he was teaching the next week. He had quite forgotten that Merry was coming to the office to help him this afternoon. And that evening he needed to go to the opening of his brother, Faramir’s, art exhibit and support him. He knew their father certainly wouldn’t show up, but it seemed really important to Faramir to have his family’s support. Boromir understood the feeling. Since their mother left they had continually sought to gain acceptance from their father who was typically too busy with matters of the State as he was the Steward of Gondor. Growing up as the Steward’s son had its own host of challenges. Boromir always felt like he was being watched and that his worth was being redetermined anew every day. As such, he had turned into a perfectionist and a workaholic. He took on too many projects and faculty responsibilities. He was the youngest ever chair of the Humanities Department--something his father Denethor was exceedingly proud of and boasted of whenever he got the chance. But if Boromir was really being honest, the pressure of being Chair on top of teaching three classes and the expectation to continue writing his own book was too much to handle.

Faramir on the other hand could never seem to live up to his father’s expectations. He had tried to study law for many years, but he found the work soul-crushing, and he had never enjoyed reading or writing to start with. No, Faramir’s love was with brush and canvas. And with many other supplies. He specialized in collages and his art had been displayed at institutions and art museums all across Gondor. But Denethor had very little patience or care for the arts (something evident in the city’s lack of arts funding) and so he had never approved of Faramir’s occupation.

A knock came at the door. Who on Middle Earth could that be? Better not be some wizard giving me a hard time. “It’s open,” Boromir called, sounding nonplussed. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” At the door stood Merry dressed in a white shirt with a yellow vest, brown pants, and a green cape. Boromir was relieved to see his pupil. “Ah Merry! Do come in, I’m so glad you’re here. Are you feeling any better?”

“Yes, they gave me some medicine to help with the pain in the meantime while they try to figure out what’s wrong.”

Boromir gave him a concerned look. “Well I hope they figure it out soon”

“I’m supposed to meet with a doctor in two days so hopefully that will help”

“Good, good,” Boromir hesitated. “Are you sure you’re feeling up for work today?” “Yes, I’ll be alright I think,” said Merry, trying to sound reassuring. “Would you mind rewriting the responses to these letters? I’m afraid my poor handwriting won’t be good enough. I’ll look over them when you’re done but I’m sure they’ll be fine.” “Sure,” Merry responded. He always enjoyed getting to write with a quill pen. The hobbit took off his cloak and hung it by the door.

Merry found Boromir’s office to be peaceful and loved spending time there. There was a fireplace behind one of the desks, some large, definitely-not-hobbit-sized chairs, and another, larger desk that for whatever reason Boromir used less. There was a wide, slightly bumped out window across from the door. Merry left a cushion in Boromir’s office for sitting on the desk chair so he could reach everything--everything but the ground anyway. Really! There ought to be some hobbit-sized chairs at this school, Merry thought. He had grown used to Boromir’s sketchy handwriting and was more than comfortable transcribing it out in his more legible hand. Secretly, Merry was grateful that he wasn’t being asked to do something more cerebral as the pain had been a bit touch and go all day.

Boromir paced around the room a bit as he often did, muttering inaudibly to himself. Occasionally he would go back over to the larger desk and write something down with a pencil. After about an hour, Merry finished the letters. He took a brief break and then returned to see what else Boromir needed. The Man asked him to do some research on Westron scholars across Middle Earth. Merry had brought his own laptop and began to make a spreadsheet of all he could find. There were many more than he had imagined. Most in Gondor, Mordor, and Rohan but a few in places as far as Harlindon, the Misty Mountains, and Harad. Merry meticulously made sure to include scholars from more far afield regions as he wanted to make sure they were represented. As one of the few hobbits in the University, he understood feeling alone or like people like him were not appreciated. He hoped to find an (out) trans scholar but alas he was now alone in that too. After an hour or so Boromir left to go to a meeting. When he returned Merry was still hard at work on the spreadsheet. Finally around 6 o’ clock, it was time for Merry to be done for the day. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Merry asked. Boromir continued to be lost in thought. “Professor Boromir?” Merry tried again. “What? Oh look at that, it's already 6!” he exclaimed suddenly, “you know my brother’s art exhibit opening is now, would you like to come?” Merry was a fan of visual art. But he also remembered he needed to eat.

“I’d love to, but I haven’t eaten dinner yet”

“I believe there’s food there if you like but I understand completely if you need to go”

“Oh, actually that sounds alright then”

“Great!”

“I didn’t know your brother was an artist!” I didn’t know you had a brother at all, he thought. Merry donned his cloak and the two made their way down the outdoor corridor. The floor was of red brick and to their right was a green moss lawn. Smooth, white columns with swirled capitals flanked their right side, opposite the building’s outer wall.

[lallemcnt]

go ahead and watch my heart burn (part five/final)

can be read on ao3

"It's impossible." said pride. "It's risky." said experience. "It's pointless." said reason. "Give it a try." whispered the heart.

What am I doing?

Lucas brushes down the front of his blue long-sleeved shirt with agitated hands. He doesn’t know what to wear, is he overdressed or underdressed? When he asked what he should wear all Eliott said was semi-casual, but Lucas didn’t have a clue what that meant. Could he still wear his trainers and jeans if he wore this shirt? It was ridiculous, really, how worked up he was getting but he doesn't want to embarrass Eliott. He wants to be the perfect supportive boyfriend this evening. Boyfriend. Just that simple word makes the butterflies in his stomach fluctuate.

Smoothing back his hair he wishes he owned gel or something to style it. He checks himself out once more in the mirror: blue shirt with the first two buttons undone — not as daring as Eliott, black slim-fitting jeans and black adidas he’s owned for years, but has become adept at keeping in good condition. This will have to do, he thinks. He snaps a photo and sends it to Yann for approval before slipping on his blue bomber, wrapping his scarf around his neck and entering the chilly October evening of Paris.

The lamps are lit, leaves dust the streets in piles of oranges and browns, signs that Autumn is in full bloom. Bicycles zoom past him, adults sit outside cafes, bundled up in thick jumpers and boots, and he’s breathing in that cool air and basking in the dusk of eight p.m. There is something about Autumn that sings of fresh starts, layering up against the brisk wind and bitter air, the tang of hot chocolate and burnt tongues, cold fingers, the excitement of the spooky season, gearing up for pumpkin carving and house parties full of wasted teens.

Burying his hands in his pockets his breaths puff out visibly before him, sinking into the air like steam off a hot drink, and he is thankful that he wore a scarf at least. Thankful that in and amongst his anxiety and paranoia about the evening, he had enough brain cells left to protect himself against the cold.

Today at 20:15

yann: hot stuff lulu

Lucas rolls his eyes before pocketing his phone and looking up at the building before him. It’s nothing overtly artistic, it blends in with the shops on either side of it. Weirdly, it reminds Lucas of Grimmauld Place in Harry Potter, throwing him back to times spent at Yann’s watching all seven films straight without breaks. That thought, at least, calms him somewhat. He stands in the shadows not daring to step into the light just yet. He takes several deep breaths in, reassuring himself that he will be fine, he’s here for Eliott and his love for him can eclipse his anxiety for the night. He can do this.

He ponders texting Eliott to tell him he’s arrived but stops because Eliott is probably talking to other people, engaging in conversations with kindred spirits who know art. Lucas doesn’t know shit about art. He can look at a photo, a painting or sculpture and appreciate its beauty or vulgarity and deduce his own interpretations, but that’s it. He decides that he will not speak to anyone about the exhibition because he will undoubtedly make a complete idiot of himself. So when he steps inside from the night into a brightly lit room, the contrast to the night outside dazzling him for a second, he unwraps his scarf and takes his jacket off, moving towards the table of mini bites. Eating he can do, and well, but interacting with people, let alone those from completely different stratospheres, is not his forte. He wishes he had invited Arthur along with him, someone he could be comfortably uncomfortable with until Eliott is less busy.

He accepts an offer of champagne from an inscrutable looking man in all black, tucking his coat and scarf in his elbow. He glances around noticing painted portraits and landscapes set against bleach-white walls, a wall has been erected in the middle of the space, and children race round it, trailing their coats behind them to shrieks of laughter which melt into the background of the music filtering in through small speakers. Lucas doesn’t recognise it, the music that is, but it fits the scene: artists and art and educated people knowing what they’re talking about. He can decipher a light piano melody and the strings of a guitar, it must be something indie he concludes.

Already he feels negative thoughts clouding his mind: Why are you even here? You don’t know shit. Everyone knows you’re a fraud. Everyone is looking at you and laughing. Normally these thought spirals last for a while, he will reassure himself, tell himself that he’s being irrational, that no one is looking at him, that they are more interested in the art. He will be fine for five minutes then the thoughts will attack again like a vicious viper, poisoning his thoughts and no antidote is strong enough to stave off the anxiety for long. But, this evening is not about him, and he is really trying to be more positive. He keeps Eliott in his mind and his breathless excitement over the phone when he called to confirm with Lucas, to ensure Lucas would definitely be there. Lucas bottles that voice and plays it on repeat, tucking it against his heart in the little nook Eliott has carved for himself there.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucas notices someone looking over at him and he debates engaging in inane conversation or turning away and pretending to be interested in the food. He goes with option two, picking up a vegan sausage roll and biting into it, but he’s miscalculated and his glass testers out of his hand and he’s imagining the fantastic shatter and the heads turning and the silence and his stomach is dropping, but the glass never meets the floor.

“Fuck-”

“Here you go.”

Lucas looks into deep brown eyes, framed by tortoise-shell glasses and light-brown hair. “Thank you.”

“I saw you struggling a bit there...you know there’s a cloakroom, right?”

“Um. Apparently not.”

Laughter and then, “Follow me. I’ll show you where it is.”

Lucas puts down his glasses, shoves the rest of the sausage roll and follows the retreating back of the girl who saved his ass tonight.

They end up in a room just off the main one, and Lucas notices it is a lot cooler out here, what is it about museums and no air conditioning? He swears he could sweat a foundation within the hour. The girl gestures to a row of coats and jackets hanging suspended from seemingly nothing until Lucas hangs his own one up with his scarf and feels a metal bar holding them in place.

“Thanks again. Seriously. Eternally grateful.”

She’s smiling, the girl, hands clasped behind her back. “So, who are you?”

Lucas’ eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Is there some guest list or something because no one was out the front-”

The girl is laughing now, hair falling forward into her face. “No, I didn’t mean that. Are you a fellow artist or?”

“Oh,” Lucas feels his cheeks grow warm. “Definitely not. You?”

“No, just here for the free booze and food, and my sister’s work is being shown so there’s also that.”

Lucas can’t help but smile. “Yeah, there’s that.”

“Wanna get some more bubbly?”

He learns her name is Ashley, that she studies at the École Normale de Musique de Paris, that she is boisterous and is incredible at impressions. They begin by eating some of the nibbles followed by a glass of cheap bubbly that is decidedly not champagne. They drift around the room, beginning at the far wall on the right observing black-white portraits both painted and photographed; they read the labels affixed to the wall on the right-side of each art piece, noting the artists, the name of the piece and the description of what is being shown. They stand up straight, perfect postures, and move onto the next piece which rings familiar to Lucas, reminding him of impressionist paintings which he quite likes. See, while Lucas is not an expert, he knows Monet, because Manon has a rendition of his water lilies on her bedroom wall — this recognition lifts his confidence a bit. They stop at a sculpture, a body encased in a cage, almost serpent-like, limbs extended and curved in an oval shape — made from clay. Lucas drops his head on Ashley’s shoulder and they stare at this body for a while until she is called away by her sister, they hug and say goodbye. This is where Lucas is when he sees him.

The atmosphere instantly changes for Lucas; he feels less alone, less like an idiot, he feels the room brighten infinitesimally and wonders if that’s some affect of the exhibition, but soon knows, viscerally, that that’s just the affect Eliott has on him. He is a work of art all in himself; Lucas could stare at him all day.

Eliott is in a green turtle neck and black slacks, rolled and cuffed just above the ankles. Hair artfully messy, un-styled.

Lucas turns away as if that will stop Eliott from noticing him, as if Eliott wouldn’t recognise him in a crowd of short white boys with long brown hair.

“Hey!”

“Hi.” Lucas says shyly.

In an alternative reality he would run up and jump into Eliott’s arms, squeezing him to his chest, sigh into his warmth and kiss him right on the lips. Alas, this is not another universe, this is theirs all messy and twisted and perverse, but within this volume of space, on this planet being destroyed by human insolence, there is a pocket they have created for themselves, and when Lucas looks back at Eliott, he knows that they are both imagining themselves else where, without public scrutiny. There is also the case of the glass in his hand and, at this moment, Lucas doesn’t trust himself not to drop it.

Eliott meets him halfway and kisses Lucas on the lips, it’s short and sweet and Lucas would die for more, but he’s aware of where they are and isn’t the biggest fan of public displays of affection anyway. Eliott cups Lucas’ face and pulls him forward, encircling him in warmth and a musky scent. Lucas breathes him in before letting go reluctantly.

“How long have you been here?”

“Forty minutes or so, I think.”

Eliott looks at Lucas in disbelief. “You should have come and found me, you goose.” He brushes their noses together.

I don’t know anything about art; I don’t know why you would want me here. But he’s learning that some of his thoughts are ridiculous and it’s just his anxiety screwing him over so he tries to not think of that, and instead, absorb the absolute joy on Eliott’s face instead. He wants you here.

“You looked busy,” Lucas shrugs. “I didn’t want to interrupt the magic.”

Eliott is shaking his head, pulling Lucas in for another quick kiss. “You interrupt nothing, my love.”

Terms of endearment: Lucas has never been the biggest fan of them, finding them cringey but this- my love it awakens his soul, his spirit, it lights the desire in him to boiling point. Eliott in that turtle neck, calling him my love, is not helping Lucas’ need to rip his clothes off. But he holds himself together: cheeks turning rosy and biting his lip as Eliott turns him around and guides him to his own piece, Lucas can feel the nervous energy bouncing off of him.

Lucas is excited, mainly for Eliott, and how much he wants Lucas to see his work after weeks of it being kept secret. He wants to be properly introduced to this other side of Eliott whom he has only seen in brief glimpses of drawings as they materialise on Eliott’s wall or are folded carefully into the pocket of his own jacket. Though they have been dating, officially, for the past month, together for three, he doesn’t know the ambitious side of his boyfriend that well. He could tell you Eliott’s favourite author: Virginia Woolf, his favourite food: bacon and cheese omelette, how he likes his coffee: black, no milk or sugar, and that he is seemingly late to most things except when it comes to their one-on-one time. He could tell you that Eliott prefers paperbacks to hardbacks and folds back the cover whenever he’s reading and that it hurts Lucas’ soul just a bit whenever he sees that. However, Lucas could not tell you, just yet, what Eliott’s passion project has been for the past five months, one month before they met.

Built into one of the many white walls is a screen on which either side are a pair of black headphones. Lucas throws a quick glance at Eliott who is biting his thumb nervously before slipping the headphones on and standing directly in the middle, a few paces back from the screen.

It’s on loop; Lucas sees the credits first before it begins again. A new beginning, a fresh start. It’s a film. Lucas recognises the old railway track that circles the city walls of Paris where they once stood at the time of Napoleon III’s reign. He looks over at Eliott in surprise to see him smiling at Lucas. A few weeks back Eliott talked about going to La Petite Ceinture with Lucas and here it is, right there before him. There is a bridge engulfed in shadows and there is music, relatively loud: a soft beat, violins, maybe? The music is what catches Lucas’ attention the most, he has always had an ear for it, especially the classical, owed to his mother’s appreciation for it, leading to it become the sound Lucas would wake up to every morning before school. The beginnings of a new symphony trickling beneath his door at seven a.m.

If he knows anything about Eliott he can prophesise that there will be something romantic about this film. A shadow materialises from the right holding shining a torch beneath the bridge which appears at first, impenetrable, however, a shape emerges from the shadows; the dense black around it lightens slightly illuminating the shape into a figure. Lucas’ heart starts picking up its beat, hardly noticeable at all, as a story of fear and courage, of light and dark, is borne; he’s sure there is an even deeper meaning there, one he is missing, but as the two characters meet across the bridge of their differences, sharing in their similarities, Lucas can’t help but wonder if the juxtaposition of light and dark reflects the two people who are sharing their darkest fears and greatest dreams with each other, ones they were scared to admit to themselves. The music picks up in a crescendo as their lips touch and they cross the barrier into the other’s world and Lucas’ heart is in his throat at the utter tenderness which is very Eliott. He reaches out his hand behind him and feels long fingers slip into the gaps between his own, he squeezes their hands together and continues staring at the screen while the credits roll, revelling in the experience of this creation he has had the privilege to be privy to.

POLARIS written and directed by eliott demaury

Letting go of Eliott’s hand while he hangs up his headphones, Lucas is in awe of his boyfriend. Eliott often spoke about the pieces he worked on, but Lucas didn’t no it culminated into this. He turns to face him and is met with a nervous smile. Lucas steps right in front of him, reaches up to cup his face and shakes his head on a laugh.

“Who the hell are you?”

Eliott’s face pinches together and his eyebrows draw down in question.

“Amazing.” Lucas throws his arms around Eliott’s neck and affixes himself to his chest, tucking his head into the space where Eliott’s neck meets his shoulder.

“Did you like it?” Eliott whispers as he circles his arms around Lucas’ waist.

Jerking back, Lucas clutches Eliott’s biceps. “I have no words that would do it justice. How do I have the most beautiful boyfriend in the world?”

Eliott ducks his head in response, shy and self-conscious at Lucas’ praise, he glances at Lucas through his eyelashes and asks, “So, you liked it?”

Kissing his nose, Lucas pecks Eliott on the lips and whispers against them, “My heart is weeping tears. I loved it. Of course, I did.”

The smile he receives is beatific. Only then does he realise the extent of Eliott’s nerves and how Lucas is the one who got him all tied up, he hugs Eliott once more, tightly, in reassurance. “I loved it.”

When they finally part, Eliott checks his phone and asks Lucas, “When are we meeting the guys?”

“Around 9:30, I think. We don’t have to go, though.”

“No, I want to.”

“But what about this?” Lucas gestures to the screen — where Eliott’s film has begun to roll again —and the space around him. “This is your night.”

Eliott shoves his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve been here since seven, it’s too much, even for me — all the attention.”

It is scary how much Lucas gets that, gets Eliott, how he must be drained from speaking to numerous people all evening about his work and theirs. Though, he does look happy, just tired and in need of some down time, which, Lucas thinks, is the exact opposite of the energy his friends exude.

Lucas nods his head, gesturing with his thumb to the cloakroom. “Yeah, we can go. I just need to get my jacket.”

-

“YES!” Yann is raising his controller in the air, grinning with satisfaction.

“Yann! What the fuck, man! Arthur, stop! Lucas, come on, back me here!” Basile is yelling, his eyes fixated on the TV screen, divided in two, his half decorated in big red letters: YOU LOSE.

Lucas is laughing along with Yann, Arthur and Eliott, because it was sabotage but also hilarious. He clutches at his sides as Baz gets increasingly more annoyed. He is criminally competitive, and with Arthur dancing in front of Baz’s side of the screen and messing up his hair in an attempt to distract him and make him lose to Yann, Basile’s temper is rising, his face reddening — a feat they execute every time they play video games.

Arthur is cackling and robbing Baz of his remote.

“You promised you wouldn’t do this again!”

“You gotta stop trusting us, man.” Yann responds, already choosing his team for his next match against Arthur.

Baz sighs and gets up to find another beer.

“I’m assuming you do this every time, huh?” Eliott is biting his lips, trying to keep his laughter in because he feels bad.

The other three all look at each other with shit-eating grins on their faces, but when they turn to meet Eliott’s gaze, their smiles turn sheepish. Then they are back to playing Fifa and British rap music blunts from Yann’s speaker, Arthur raps along to it and when Baz returns, already cooled down — his annoyance forgotten, he joins in and hops down next to Lucas on a beanbag. When Baz passes both Eliott and Lucas a beer each, Lucas rests his head on Baz’s shoulder in apology, looking up at him, and they exchange smiles. He knows they’re okay, that Baz is not mad.

After a few games, Eliott retreats into the kitchen and after fifteen minutes of no return, Lucas trails after, curious.

Lucas peaks into the kitchen then leans against the doorway, observing Eliott cutting a grapefruit into small chunks before dropping them into a jug full of ice. He stands before a window, the street lamps from outside shining through the glass and lightening Eliott’s hair to a golden-brown.

“What are you doing?”

Eliott looks up briefly and returns to his task of cutting fruit. “Making sangria.”

“Mmm,” Lucas licks his lips. “Can I help?”

“Um, yeah. Pour in the wine?”

“That I can do.”

Lucas hears rather than sees Eliott saunter in his direction. Placing an elbow on the kitchen counter he leans against it with his body and...proceeds to knock over the open bottle of champagne. It appears to happen in slow motion: Eliott reaching out to steady the bottle, his reflexes failing him, Lucas reaches out at the same time and they both become funnels for the wine as it slips throw their hands and slides down their arms like they’re in a fucking Carrie film, soaking Lucas’ shirt. He gasps at the shock of cold, staring down at his shirt for a second.

When he eventually looks up at Eliott, his back is turned and his shoulders are shaking as he clears up the spillage with a sponge, as much as he, ineffectively, as it continues to drip on the ground from his own wine-drenched arms.

Lucas throws his head back and groans, causing Eliott to sputter out a laugh which turns into loud gasps of air and occasional breaks of laughter. Lucas looks down at his blue shirt again, which sticks to his chest, and begins laughing too. Shoulders shaking in communion with Eliott’s, he bumps his him against Eliott’s hip, almost slipping in the wine on the floor and is caught by the biceps in a firm grip. Their laughter silenced until they lock eyes and Eliott’s rolled his lips inwards, his eyes entirely unapologetic and mischievous as he slides his hands down Lucas’ sides, joining them at the small of his back, but Lucas is still caught up in the vision of Eliott trying to clean the surface while he was soaked in wine, making his attempts futile, and he knows that look in Eliott’s eyes, that he was about to kiss him, but he can’t help it. Lucas’ head falls forward against Eliott’s chest and his ribs ache as he begins laughing again. Helpless against it.

After a few tries, Lucas manages to gasp out — between laughs — that they need to clean themselves up. He directs Eliott to Yann’s bathroom and washes down his arms for him in what must be freezing cold water because Eliott is yelling in protest while Lucas refuses to adjust the temperature because this is his payback to Eliott for ruining his shirt. He can be petty like it. He’s laughing all the way through it and Eliott’s eyes narrow down at him in suspicion.

Once Eliott is all cleaned up, he returns to try and salvage what’s left of his sangria ingredients, meanwhile, Lucas slips into one of Yann’s t-shirts, bundling his own shirt up into a ball and dumping it by his shoes at the door. When he returns to the scene of the crime, Eliott looks over at him and smirks, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, he gives Lucas a once over.

Of course Lucas knows why he’s getting that look; Yann’s t-shirt reaches to below his bum, but he chooses to ignore Eliott’s look and raises his chin slightly.

“Yes?” He asks, as he reaches for the bottle with the remaining red wine in it and downs the liquid in seconds.

“Nothing.” Eliott responds, but he is inching closer to Lucas, slowly and steadily.

They are both a bit tipsy curtesy of the three beers and then the bottle of cider they shared (disgusting in Lucas’ opinion). At least, Lucas is. He only felt it hit him when he stood in the doorway in Yann’s shirt and Eliott’s gaze fell upon him, slightly teasing and incredibly enticing. He can’t quite look him in the eye, feeling a bit nervous, so he plants his eyes on Eliott’s chest. This does not help remotely because now Lucas’ is thinking about Eliott’s tattoo there and his smooth chest and he is really starting to believe that Eliott is some otherworldly creature who has been sent to Earth to rob Lucas of his sensibilities.

He stands there, and brushes Lucas’ lips slowly with his thumb, saying: “They’re all rosy now.”

Raising his own fingers to his lips, Lucas brushes them too, only to have this hand snatched away by Eliott who brings them to his own lips and kisses each finger individually, like they each deserve his undivided attention.

“You can’t do that here.” Lucas almost gasps out.

“Hm?” Eliott asks, holding Lucas’ hand now, grey-green eyes searching Lucas’, as if Lucas’ voice hadn’t completely given him away.

“I definitely have a semi.”

Eliott bites his lip in amusement, raising Lucas’ fingers to his mouth once more, but Lucas rips his hand out of Eliott’s grasp and takes a couple steps back which Eliott seems thoroughly enthralled by as he counters Lucas’ steps until Lucas is flush against the kitchen counter and Eliott is lifting him onto the marble surface, planting his hands on either side of Lucas as he leans forward and captures his lips in a blazing kiss that defuses any nervousness in Lucas’ brain about his friends walking in, because he really couldn’t give less of a fuck right now.

In between the first kiss and the next, Lucas whispers fuck and before he can emit an embarrassingly loud groan, Eliott is sweeping him into another fiery kiss that lights him up from the inside out, incandescent. Lucas swears that in the vacuum of space there is no star that shines quite like Eliott, that can evoke such happiness or hope in another person.

Lucas is being tugged forward until he is chest to chest to Eliott while his own hands are making a mess of his boyfriend’s hair, and trailing down his neck and cupping his jaw to deepen the kiss.

“Lucas! Lulu!”

“Get your ass in here! It’s time to PLAY!”

“Luuuuuucas!”

“I’m coming to find you!” Baz.

That comment makes them jerk apart. Resting their foreheads on each other’s shoulders, waiting for their breaths to slow down, return to some semblance of normal before they rejoin le gang. God knows Lucas will not hear the end of this but he is flush with desire and with love. Sliding down to the floor, he intertwines his fingers with Eliott’s, resting his head on Eliott’s shoulder for a second before they go back to the living room and have to face the music.

-

He is feeling nervous because this is a big deal but he doesn’t want it to be a big thing; it is a step forward in what he hopes is the right direction. A step forward into trying to take care of himself and being a better person for himself and everyone he loves. He wants to explore the world more, be less afraid of the everyday things that do not warrant his constant fear and anguish, he doesn’t want to be second guessing himself or the kindness people show him. He doesn’t want to be thinking that people are pretending to like him, that pity motives them to hang out with him. He wishes to be free of these burdens, and he knows, he knows that it won’t all be magically fixed with a sprinkle of fairy dust, he knows he has this for life, but when he thinks back on the days where he would cancel plans to stay at home or lie in bed and read comics, the days where he was exhausted beyond comprehension and become lax with personal hygiene, when he thinks back on those dark days, he knows he would do anything to reduce their frequency.

So, when he brings it up to Eliott, he’s trying to be casual about it, just drop it into the conversation like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t look at Eliott, pretends to be scanning for a book Eliott has been begging him to read almost since the time they met to add to the illusion of nonchalance he has going.

“I’m gonna be going to therapy, but since I’m doing it for free, I’m on the waitlist so I probably won’t have my first appointment till the end of March.” Lucas is chill. He is cool. To emphasise this, he flops down on Eliott’s sofa, one of his favourite places — all soft, like a cocoon that molds to his body, familiar with his shape after hours and hours spent lounging in its warmth.

“Lucas?”

Lucas remains where he’s lying down, book held above his head, pretending to read and his arms are already beginning to ache, but he’s going for casual remember.

“Yeah?”

“Lucas.”

The boy in question can’t decipher the tone of his boyfriend’s voice. He can feel the butterflies beginning their familiar swirl deep in his belly, so he thinks of that quote Eliott recently stuck up above his bed: “I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.”

“Uh huh?”

The book is snatched from his hands, revealing a wide-eyed Eliott. He dumps the book beside Lucas’ head and stares down at him in askance.

“Therapy? When did this happen?” Why didn’t you tell me, he doesn’t say. Eliott is in shock, Lucas concludes. Well, maybe not shock but he looks almost disbelieving and confused, maybe, as to why Lucas didn’t tell him his plan. But the thing with Lucas is, he likes to get things done without telling people because he doesn’t want to disappoint them in case he reneges. The look on Eliott’s face tells him it was worth it.

“Yesterday.”

“And you waited until now,” Eliott checks his phone before staring Lucas down once more. “Three in the afternoon to tell me this?” He is smiling, proud. Lucas feels it in his bones.

He is proud of himself too. Eliott’s expression softens, as though he can read Lucas’ mind. He leans down and kisses Lucas’ forehead, then, as though that is not enough contact, not enough to show his pride, he circles himself around Lucas, lying down on his chest, elbow resting on the sofa by Lucas’ head. They are eye to eye now, cerulean eyes meeting misty grey ones: a mosaic of the ocean seas, calm and settled. The weight of Eliott’s body against him as he looks at Lucas with admiration, grounds Lucas in the moment, he feels it like a new beginning, a fresh start: beginning his journey of learning that his feelings and needs are important as much as everyone else’s in the world.

Lucas shrugs in response. “I didn’t want to disappoint you, because if I had told you and I didn’t go through with it I wouldn’t have been able to handle breaking a promise. Especially to you.”

“Lucas-”

“I know you’re going to say that I could never disappoint you, but that’s not true, and I would have been disappointed in myself, and it would’ve all been made even worse, because I’d have your disappointment on top of my own guilt. But I did it, I’ve done it. And…yeah.”

Eliott’s face went through a myriad of emotions while Lucas was walking, but, now, he brushes Lucas hair in tender strokes, kisses his forehead once more, trailing his nose down to Lucas’ and hovering there. On the precipice of something.

“Can I take you there?”

“To therapy?” Lucas inquires.

“Yeah.”

March is four months away. That will be eight months with Eliott. Lucas mulls over his question, even closes his eyes and hums for a second.

“I guess so.” He concedes, lifting his head up a fraction of an inch, just so he can brush his lips against Eliott’s. Their noses slide passed each other, like two puzzle pieces finally fitted together, like when the sun and moon finally cross paths, and the probability of an eclipse increases exponentially, blotting out the star-speckled night and snow-white January mornings, the blazing heat of a summer’s afternoon and the tear-stained watercolour sky of early spring as it creeps towards dusk.

“I don’t remember where but I think I read somewhere that taking things a day at a time can really help, for people like me, who deal with anxious and constant worries about the future; trying to think in the now, focusing on what you have to do on that day and that day only, which isn’t always possible, but it really stuck with me. I’m trying to be more positive, and take things as they come, to stop trying to control everything by taking the day as it is and focusing on it instead of what’s to come later. Like focusing on what I’m doing now, in that hour, you know?”

Eliott nods in understanding, eyes bare on Lucas’, giving him his full undivided attention, wanting him to know that he is listening, that what he is saying is being heard.

“Taking things minute by minute?”

Lucas nods his head, licking his lips as a small tear slips from his eye. “Exactly.”

“Well that sounds like a plan. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, with Lucas Lallemant. Sounds like my kind of thing.”

Eliott’s lips tick up at the side in a small smile as he brushes away Lucas’ tear, kissing the patch of wet skin. He sits up, pulling Lucas up with him, cupping his face as he feels arms circle his own waist. Tight. Eliott’s eyes-crinkle as he rests his forehead against Lucas’ in something akin to prayer.

Minute by minute.

[opinionatedspectator-blog]

Art, Feminism, & The Distribution of The Sensible

 It has taken me quite a while to actually write anything on this blog, not really due to a lack of ideas or a lack of inspiring and transpiring events, but I guess mostly I wanted to take the time and be able to define the dimensions of what I aim for this blog to be. Define its boundaries and scope of focus. Perhaps its also because I did not want anything I post here to be of an academic nature, but where I can successfully export my perspectives without really sounding like I’m submitting a paper to a professor.   However, in terms of defining the focus of this blog, which might simply be transmitting my perspective to you, the reader, this blog cannot be but an extension of myself. So here, I’m going to write from the first person perspective. I hope that to you this seems valid enough as reliable information, but the self as a vehicle of experience, for me at least, is anything but negligible.

Also, shoutout to Naeem Inayatullah of Ithica University for importing the narrative approach to political science.

  As a precursor however, I would like you to take the time and look at a paper entitled “Neoliberalism As Creative Destruction” by David Harvey. This should really help you understand where I am coming from as an individual. But do keep in mind that despite me in the future or the past sounding like a left-wing marxist geographer, I am not.  I am in fact neither a supporter of the capitalist way of life, nor the socio-economic, post-capitalistic arrangement that Marx has presented in his Manifesto. I am simply myself, perhaps in terms of background a Humanist... but aren’t we all? 

 A point to stress here is the current cultural phenomena of extremes. For some reason, the polarization of thought and ideology seems to be the status-quo of our times and generation. I am someone who would like to belong to the middle path. 

 Now to get to the point behind this post and why I have asked you to read Harvey’s paper. Neoliberal capitalism is best described as the shift from an industrial based economy, to one that is mostly characterized by the service sector industries. Therefor this calls for a shift in the nature and qualifications of the workforces required to run such economies, and ultimately to populate their cities. To make a long story short, major cities across the globe compete amongst each other to attract as many members of the “creative class”  as possible to empower their industries. The creative class is the term used to describe the modern service sector workforce, mainly graphic designer, app developers, architects, writers, photographers, lawyers, gig industry execs, and overall modern service providers. This activity automatically changes the layout of a city. Gentrified neighborhoods, galleries, art spaces, installations, film exhibitions, speciality coffee shops, and artsy food concepts come in to fill the urban geography. This has previously been described by Sharon Zukin as “pacification by cappuccino”.

 The point I try to make here however is not to describe this shift, nor the socio-economic gaps that are produced through the need of low-wage service sector cohorts and middle to upper class entrepreneurs. Basically baristas and CEO’s. I’m writing this to describe a slight crisis that arises with art and culture being owned or introduced into the realm of state-led enterprises.  Some have described this to be the death of art with regards to the traditional function and definition of the role art has played in the social and cultural sphere. 

Art, whether visual or theoretical, be it a book, a sculpture, a painting, a photograph, or a film, has always participated in shaping what is described generally as “The Distribution of The Sensible”. Lets just call it the realm of the ‘taken for granted’, or socially and culturally accepted notions and activities as, well as modes of thought of a certain society. Art has always navigated on the boundaries of this realm, challenging its norms and its taboos, presenting the internal unheard struggles of the unheard, and representing an outlet for the expression of their experiences. This was not simply limited to the excluded or the impoverished,  but the right of each and every single individual. Art was a valid way to say what could not be said, to contest and to reconsider, to hold up a mirror and allow everyone to take a closer look at their blemishes and open pores. Yet with a state owning art, validating it, empowering, and ultimately, utilizing it as a capitalization opportunity, art is automatically stripped of all of its characteristics as well as its power. Art looses its voice and influence by simply gaining the recognition and normality from that which considered it novelty and abnormal.  

 Today we have art biennials curated by cities through their local authorities. They specify spaces for galleries, times and dates for events, as well as showcase certain artists to be celebrated and presented as the trend setters and pioneers. This applicable to all fields of artistic format; fashion, film, tangible and intangible. The problematic that arises from this dialectic is the control of the expression of art itself, and what is brought to light and left in the shadows is then decided by the hegemony. This could very easily be influenced by agendas, approval and disapproval bestowed by unknown committees. Yet art is not allowed to speak out upon it, resistance becomes illegitimate because art is recognized and now operates within the distribution of the sensible as to previously operating outside of it. You have been recognized, therefore you are not allowed to complain. We have heard your voice and provided you a platform. Thats basically what this procurement entails. 

 Another issue that comes to hand under this light is the over saturation of artistic expression on display everywhere, in every nook and cranny, in every alley and street.. all commissioned.. all artificial.. that really neutralizes the viewer to the impact and meaning of art. I find myself being less interested and less amazed... let alone less curious when I look at art these days. Have I always been this way? no.. not really.. I have noticed myself change however..it was exciting in 2011 up to 2014 when things were really gearing up towards the cultural turn.. but its 2019 now and not much has changed... and in 2019 I find myself incapable and indifferent.

 If you wish to understand this better, the work of professor Jenny Edkins on protests and governmental expansion could be of aid. I have personally had the pleasure and honor to be taught by her under a few modules. What Edkins basically states is the following; if a certain faction of the population who feels oppressed or excluded decided to demonstrate or protest their struggles to the state, the state itself, by recognizing their protests and answering their requests automatically expands its control over the different cohorts of a said population. This faction now can no longer use its voice to demand a certain right, but another representative may do so, yet only once. I have theorized something close to this which I call The Morbid Loop of Misconduct that I might discuss in the following posts.  

 This ownership and capitalization of such fields to be utilized as bait for branding cities and determining their respective levels of ‘coolness’ has reached its limits with testing my tolerance when feminist initiatives got introduced into the mix. We have recently celebrated the International Women’s Day... congratulations by the way... yet many businesses have gone to utilize this day as an opportunity to brand themselves as understanding and co-operative, as good listeners.. as celebrators of feminism.. in order to increase sales and foster public attention. I can pull out so many examples from my instagram feed but there is one photo that I deem appropriate in explaining what I try to describe, a post entitled: Man Visibly Upset After International Women’s Day Post Doesn’t Get The Likes He Banked On. (https://www.instagram.com/p/BuwFxPEFmBQ/)  It was intended for a meme.. yet to me it described anything but a laughing matter.... perhaps memes might be art’s last frontier.. who knows.. we’ll let neoliberalism decide.    The ownership of feminism by the socio-economic hegemony, and currently in the pipeline LGBT discourse, is going to bring about a new frontier of markets. The market of civil right attraction. 

On a second thought though, this is nothing new. The ownership of the state of feminist discourse has been used throughout history for not so human-centered nor humane reasons. If for instance we take Marx’s following statement, “the executive of the modern state is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the bourgeoisie” .. the truth of which I will deal with in a later post, we come to understand that feminism has been used to further service the machine of capitalism and lubricate its gears and cogs for more efficient outcomes since its ownership by state policy. Take for instance the insane push for women in the workforce. Now I am in no way against women having jobs or earning their own living, running businesses, or running countries even, however what we need to address is the socio-economic frameworks within which these ideas were introduced and the outcome that results from this push. The popularization of careerist orientations has many negative impacts on the social fabric itself. This is not simply in the sense of conservatism and maintaining tradition, but disabling cultures when resisting epistemological occupation. Sadly, women have been utilized by this new mode of radical feminism and made to think that they are the patrons of such movements when they are indeed the victims. 

Another example is Edward Bernays’ 1929 “Torches of Freedom” movement. The man was a PR freak and put the natural instinct of social impact and cultural roles that all humans have to service a monstrosity of an industry. You know the story, it was culturally frowned upon, and considered a taboo, for women to smoke in public spaces. It was this whole discourse on a cigarette being another phallic  symbol and a symbol of men’s power... but basically as far as tobacco companies were concerned, half of the population were a potential market they weren’t tapping into. Along comes Freud’s grandson, and rebrands cigarettes as the torches of freedom, asking women who were posing as suffragettes to march in a protest with lit cigarettes as a move to display the power of the feminine.  

Everything that the state has done after obtaining ownership of feminism towards this “cause” has been of the same nature. But what needs to be kept in mind here is that the state in this sense is the collective of corporate. After all what is the purpose of a city? What is the current modern purpose of having an economy? It is to circulate capital through it as efficiently as possible with the largest market share that a state can muster. Read Saskia Sassen’s The Global City for a better perspective. 

 Anyways... im tired of writing this.. I hope you get the point. 

Neoliberal capitalism never fails to surprise me with its creative capacity for destruction. 

 This post might seem to be of no use.. but it was just me letting off some steam. This is what this is all about... letting off some steam.

[correspondencearchive]

4. Yujin Lee & Prima Jalichandra-Sakuntabhai (part 1)

Yujin Lee and Prima Jalichandra-Sakuntabhai discuss Paul Chan’s article, “What Art Is and Where It Belongs,” artistic production and its relationship to capital, making art for (or not for) a Western art audience, their interest in collaborative/process oriented projects, and whether or not one can be free as an artist from the intersecting systems of global capitalism and white supremacy that make up the art world. Read part 2 of their conversation here.

Yujin Lee (YL): Hi, Prima! First of all, thank you so much for accepting my invitation! I see that you received my email with the link to Paul Chan’s article, “What Art Is and Where It Belongs.” I suppose I will start with this obvious question. What is art to you and where do you think it belongs?

Prima Jalichandra-Sakuntabhai (PJ): Hi Yujin, thank you for sharing the Paul Chan text. It was indeed an interesting read! To your question as to “what is art to me and where I think it belongs”, my job as an art handler has deeply affected how I view art. I can no longer see art as a product of a singular mind but rather, an object that exists in relation to multiple networks. Paul Chan is generous in giving art the definition of a “more than” an object by the way that it expresses what an object desires to be. I would argue that art is only “more than” an object because it’s value is not intrinsic to its material properties and use-value but the cultural value assigned to it by a number of actors. When I was in undergrad I came across this book called, Worlds of Art (Les Mondes de l’Art) by Howard S. Becker. Anyway, he was one of the first authors to place art and artistic production in a chain of labour production from administrative works of post-production and marketing to intellectual works from universities and curatorial work. That vision of art is more true to me in my daily life than the art that is heralded for its poignant inquiry into humankind’s psyche and advancement of what we call “civilization”. So the simple answer to your question may be that art belongs to capital and serves those who can afford its production and consumption. But at the same time, while I serve as a clog in this system, I also want to make an art that can exist outside of the system and truly be moments of disconcert with the real. My current show is up at a gallery that used to be a storefront in a shopping plaza in Chinatown, Los Angeles. The interface with a non-art audience is inevitable. The projections attracted attention and the occasional passer-bys waiting to pick up their food would stop and talk to me. But the conversations remained fairly surface. None of them have yet made an appointment to intentionally see the work. Not to mention the heightened tensions caused by art’s complicity in gentrification. So, even in a public-facing space, art can only rely on its existing structures and those who already have access to them.

Since you work a lot with the public and collaborations, I wonder how the experience has been for you and whether you believe art can belong outside of the art world itself?

Prima Jalichandra-Sakuntabhai, Chloropsis Aurifrons Pridii, 2021, performance and multi-media installation, 2 video projectors, 2 overhead projectors, transparencies, colour filter, printed black and white images on photocopy paper, books

YL: I completely agree with everything you said about the complex networks that build up a work of art (and the artist’s career). Come to think of it, when has art ever been outside of that system? One example comes to mind that relates to how Paul Chan began and ended his article. Chan begins with a very “kitsch” painting that he purchased for thirty dollars in the streets of New York and an unexpected challenge in finding the right place to hang it in his home. And he ends the article with, “For art to become art now, it must feel perfectly at home, nowhere.” This beginning and ending reminds me of the Korean shaman paintings (portraits of the indigenous gods). Even though the tradition goes far back in history, not many of these paintings remain. They were either burned or buried because people believed that the painting is a physical dwelling (or a seat) for a particular god served by a particular shaman. In most cases, the artist is also unknown and unimportant. Moreover, up until the late 80s, art collectors refused to collect shaman paintings as they are not merely powerful paintings (as an art object) but empowered paintings (as sites of divine presence). Despite it all, if it somehow falls into a collector or enters the museum, it is believed to become what Marx called the commodity fetish, losing its power, thus losing its value. In this case, the art object, artist, and collector all have no place! This may be why shaman paintings have not been considered “art” for so long by its creators, users, and admirers. So for me, it’s not a matter of whether art can or cannot belong outside the “art world,” but that “it must feel perfectly at home, nowhere,” or that it must feel perfectly at home, everywhere. I test this theory by experimenting with process-oriented, collaborative, performance and relational art.

I watched the video documentation of the performative lecture installation that you’ve mentioned, Chloropsis Aurifrons Pridii, at The Fulcrum Press. The collage of your voice with the light and shadow of texts and images created by multiple projectors choreographed by the subtle gestures of your hands… It was a sensorial and immersive experience, even through my computer monitor. The occasional sound of the machines turning on and off took me in and out of this poetic narrative. I was also compelled by the intricately untangled individual journeys of your family members crossing three generations, and your re-interpretation of the overarching macro history that wolves together three continents. The most memorable moment was when you said, “... Both view history as driven by cycles of reincarnations. Within one body, one consciousness, are contained centuries of all earthly desires, unquenched. History thus progresses as a movement of return. For the last five years, I face the Pacific and the fear of a return.”

Having said that, I wonder why contemporary art often appears to be disparate from the rest of the world. Sometimes even alienating and elitist. Judith Butler actually defends this position quite eloquently:

“Who devises the protocols of ‘clarity’ and whose interests do they serve? What is foreclosed by the insistence on parochial standards of transparency as requisite for all communication? What does ‘transparency’ keep obscure?”

This statement may sound like art gibberish to the non-art audience and support your disappointment of the disinterest displayed by the non-art audience in Chinatown. But I wonder, what does it mean to desire the interests of the “non-art audience”?

PJ: First of all, yes to process art works! I think our two approaches to art practice staunchingly demarcate us from “the commodity fetish” that most high art/internationally-recognized art ends up becoming by the very fact that we care less about the end product and more about the creative process themselves. The process can take shape as a form of knowledge or a set of techniques that in my case, takes on a certain shade based on my personal narrative. But taken up by someone else, the combination of voice, body movements and layering of images that you noted, would express something else entirely. That is what I am interested in in achieving: rather than creating an original product, I want to redefine techniques and processes of thought. I think the relationality and collaboration in your work that I’ve seen at VER and what you continue to do at your residency in Jeju strive for a similar balance between the creation of processes and the specificity of the people you engage with.

This reflects the other side of our art practice: although it is defiant of consumerist art, it is still bound to the Western art canon. Even a working against or criticism of Western art canon asks the audience to be aware of the canon to understand our respective positions. I respond strongly to you raising the example of the Korean shaman paintings (of which I know nothing of!) as being uncollectable and therefore, not considered art. In this case, its power operates in a culture that is closer to the non-art audience. It doesn’t need to invent value for itself but its symbolic code is embedded in the culture that receives it.

That is why I am saddened by not being able to touch the “non-art audience”. I believe that I envy the power of the shaman paintings, a power that can touch anyone without necessary prior knowledge. That is what I lament in operating in the current art world that I am in. At the same time, I do deeply agree with you that the demand for clarity and the parochial is a form of holding back of thought and the need to plunge in the mystery that is sometimes too specific for the artist themselves to put words to. That is perhaps why I still value art over other forms of knowledge: art can give shape to what is previously unknown. I also don’t mean to juxtapose the shaman paintings versus the inaccessibility of high art, as if one holds more intellectual value than the other. What I simply want to highlight is the different levels of reception that each form allows for.

YL: It’s true that the non-art audience (who may not necessarily understand the painting’s aesthetic value nor its symbolic meaning) are likely to succumb to the power of shaman paintings because of its deep-rooted history that vibrates within the culture. Do you know about the Swedish artist and mystic, Hilma af Klint? I think she didn’t give two cents about the art or non-art audience. Af Klint considered her experimental paintings (the first Western abstract art known to date) too avant-garde for her contemporaries and rarely exhibited them in public in her lifetime. Meanwhile, her so-called Theosophical art, which was heavily influenced by Buddhism and Hinduism, interestingly brings us back to the Korean shaman paintings. Before creating a shaman painting, one is to take a good bath, wear clean new clothes and oftentimes chant a prayer. Af Klint did something similar. Before starting a new series of paintings, she dedicated many months of “purification” by adjusting her lifestyle, like practicing vegetarianism. It may sound like a frivolous formality, but it demonstrates a belief on how the creator’s (artist’s) personal life cannot be severed from their creation (art), even if the admirers (public) may never know or care about the creator to begin with.

I’d like to go to your comment on how art “can give shape to what is previously unknown.” Chan also states that “in art, the only ideas worth realizing are the truly untenable ones.” I seriously weighed this concept (of art giving shape to obscurity) during my exhibition in Bangkok at the end of 2019, especially through the work you mentioned earlier, Drawing Conversation 2.0, a series of collaborative live automatic drawing performances created with local Thai artists. The obscurity for me at the time was the uncomfortable reality of having a solo show at a place where I did not understand its native language, culture, nor history.

A smaller room attached to the main gallery was dedicated for this work. The walls were painted black, and the floor laid with a dark grey carpet. A square table (around 30 cm in height) was placed in the center of the room where a blank sheet of paper covered its entire surface. A large scale drawing titled, In the beginning was___, was hung along with 5 other blank sheets of papers ready to be conversed upon. Drawing materials such as graphite, charcoal, eraser, and pen (no colors) were provided. For each session, a local artist was invited to create a drawing with me in silence for 108 minutes. A timer was set on my phone. The audience could freely enter and exit the space, sit, stand, or walk around us. The first ten minutes or so felt highly performative. But as more of our marks, gestures, breaths, and bodily heat crisscrossed, I experienced a kind of a (collective) trance. And when the timer went off and broke the silence of the room, the familiar ringtone of an iPhone sounded like the Korean shaman bell, bringing everybody in the room back to the present time and space. I think maybe this was my closest attempt in creating an “empowered painting.”

Yujin Lee, Drawing Conversation 2.0, Nov. 29, 2019, collaborative live drawing performance with artist Dujdao Vadhanapakorn, 108 minutes, Gallery VER

YL: Back to Chan… He asserts that “art and life would rather belong to the world than be free in it.” That is a bleak outlook for art, don’t you think? So, my question is, can we imagine art to be free in the current world (of capitalism)? I wonder what your thoughts are on this last point, and could you expand your thoughts on “art giving shape to the unknown” in relation to how you use language/text in your work?

PJ: Two big questions! [laughter]. I think it is a good question because we’re working towards agreeing that art is more often than not, not free in capitalism but can there be instances where they are…

YL: I thought that the last part of his text was interesting because when he’s saying “art and life would rather belong to the world,” it has a negative connotation... contrasting to what follows, “rather than be free in it.” Also you would think that he meant to say, “be free from it,” suggesting an escape from the world of inequity. But he’s sort of saying even within the system, art can be free inside of it, right? I thought that was an interesting, nuanced statement, and I want to pose this question to you, since you are still in the system, the LA art scene.

PJ: Are you saying that you’re not part of a scene because you are in Jeju?

YL: [laughing hard] That’s how I felt when I moved to Jeju, but with COVID I don’t think that’s true anymore because the internet in some ways amplifies the presence of the international art scene.

PJ: I think art has always been in network and in communication across borders and that capital gives more value to the kind of art that travels or is part of the international scene. LA or New York may have a very specific local scene but these major cities give the impression that if you’re part of their local scene, you’re somewhat seen internationally. So I think that art still depends on this kind of network. But the thing that is different with COVID is that people are more proactive in participating across countries and timezones.

YL: Yeah, that’s actually what I mean. I thought I left, by relocating to an island, a countryside, but COVID definitely brought me back to the network.

Yujin Lee, Painting Conversation, 2021, collaborative drawing performance with artist Jo Ahra, paintings completed over 4 sessions (March 19th, 21st, 23rd, 28th), Next Door to the Museum Jeju Artist Residency completed painting used as a costume for an improvisational dance video (work in process)

PJ: I want to also argue that maybe even if our locations are specific, that doesn’t mean that we’re not part of a larger network that has formed us.

Whether you like it or not, your context will always be informed by the experience you had in New York.

YL: You’re right. I thought, ‘physically leaving New York= leaving the art world.’ But the reality is, like you said, my experience as an artist is based on my time in New York. So, I’m probably going to carry that with me. So back to my questions on Chan’s statement… We’re all part of this world that is not very equitable... How can we be part of it, yet “be free in it?”

PJ: I want to believe that there is some sort of freedom.  When you give away a certain part of the bargain and that bargain being monetary or investment by some sort of institution to give value to your art, to me, by abandoning that, I feel much more free. And I’m able to have full ownership of decisions around my work, which would not be the case if I was trying to respond to a certain expectation.

Prima Jalichandra-Sakuntabhai, Seven Springs, 2019, Collaboration with Chris McKelway, 2 violins, 2 overhead projectors, images printed on transparencies, colour filters

Yujin Lee is a Jeju-based visual artist working with drawings, performances, videos, and audience-participatory projects. Interested in the Buddhist concept of yuanqi (interdependency), Lee have pursued collaborative projects with artists Emi Hariyama (108 Bows, 2013), Nicole Won Hee Maloof (Same/Difference, 2015), Aracha Cholitgul (im_there_r_u_here, 2020~ongoing), and Jo Ahra (Untitled, 2021~ongoing). Since 2019, she has been running an alternative artist residency at her farmhouse, Next Door to the Museum Jeju. Lee received her MFA in printmaking from Columbia University and a BFA in painting from Cornell University.

leeyujin.com @jejuanarchist

Prima Jalichandra-Sakuntabhai is a transdisciplinary artist, working across performance, video and installation, based in Los Angeles. Born in Thailand in 1989, they were raised in Europe before moving to the US in 2011. They received their Visual Arts Degree from the Ecole des Beaux Arts de Nantes Metropole and a License in Film Studies at the Sorbonne Nouvelle-Paris 3. They earned BFA at the School of the Arts Institute of Chicago and MFA at the California College of the Arts, in San Francisco. Featured in the 2015 Arizona Biennial at the Tucson Museum of Art, Arizona. Recipient of the SOMA Summer Award, Mexico City and the emi kuriyama spirit award.

Recent projects include: Fieldnotes for Useful Light, The Prelinger Library (San Francisco), Irrational Exhibits 11: Place-Making and Social Memory, Track 16 (LA) and The Anthropologist As Hero, in collaboration with Linda Franke, Justine Melford-Colegate and Jessica Hyatt, PAM Residencies (LA), Chloropsis Aurifrons Pridii, Fulcrum Press (LA). They curated the MAHA Pavillion for the Bangkok Biennial 2020.

www.primasakuntabhai.com @prima_jalichndrsakntbhai