Jorge Clar

door Fleur Pierets | jul 3, 2017 | Performance

Jorge Clar

Text Jorge Clar

We caught up with poet and performance artist Jorge Clar in his home in New York, and talked about words, sounds, and image. An ideal for living.

Initially, you came to New York because you wanted to be close to the disco scene.
That was the main reason. While growing up in Puerto Rico, I spent my time daydreaming and playing records. I became enthralled with the layers of sound in disco—the music became medicine. Everything about the genre, from the quality of the recordings to the way the arrangements are structured—featuring classical strings and horns, electronic textures, and rhythm—is alchemical. Disco pulled me through my adolescence. A few days after moving to New York in the fall of 1987, I went to the closing of the Paradise Garage discotheque. Larry Levan’s musical selections, and Richard Long’s sound system, were so mind blowing. The clubbers danced with such freedom and expressiveness—I knew right there and then I was home. I had gone to the Garage with Jesse Díaz, my first roommate in New York, with whom I had spent many summers in Puerto Rico, hanging out in discos and constantly listening to music. Through him, I developed a love for dancing and pulling looks together. In the early 90s, I would meet DJ Freddy Turner, with whom I would write record reviews on house music 12-inch singles for underground music magazines, in the process meeting many of my heroes in music, like David Morales, Kerri Chandler and “Little” Louie Vega.

When did you start writing poetry?
I always loved books, and ever since I started reading authors like Borges, Ginsberg, and especially the short story A Clean, Well-Lighted Place by Hemingway, I knew I had to write poems. I remember reading Howl and thinking it was like my stream of consciousness. So I sat down on an old cast iron typewriter my father had given me and started to write, imagining myself a tape recorder of phrases and sounds I heard. My first poetry collection was called In a Singapore Hotel Room. I imagined myself as Somerset Maugham in the Raffles Hotel, which I had visited during a summer vacation, even I was able to get the best hotel credit card. This was one of the first instances in which I was inhabiting a different character in a work of art, something that continues to this day in my performances. Through poetry—and through making cassette mix tapes, which to me were like building blocks of sound and words—it became easier to make friends and demonstrate who I was. I was a very shy only child, and mostly related to adults, until I decided I wanted to be friends with more of my classmates. Initially, I imitated the style and idioms of all that surrounded me, trying to fit in. But I soon realized the more I delved into my eccentricities, the more I had to share. After graduating from Syracuse University, where I studied Newspaper Writing, I eventually started combining between performance and poetry readings. People enjoyed the extra aspect of showmanship. A few years later, in New York, I worked at Penguin Books and started to come together with a group of friends. My friend Douglas Rothschild invited me to read at mythical places like the St. Mark’s Poetry Project. We would organize salons or read at people’s houses. My friend, the playwright Adam Rapp, would perform as a “human prop” with me. Those were formative years. Living with painter roommates Alberto Álvarez, and later Michael Brown—who still shares an apartment with me—has honed my eye for visuals and the notion of what makes a painting work. Hanging out with my college friend Paul Weinstein, with whom I would spend every Friday night and Saturday morning in his Park Slope apartment, focused my appreciation of great graphic design, modernist radios and electronic equipment, new wave music, and all sorts of collectibles.

What else did you learn during those days?
When my father passed away, I spent 7 years in Puerto Rico taking care of my mom. It was wonderful to relate to her as an adult and also explore other sides of my personality. I became the perfect homemaker and sometimes, when I would see objects from my life in New York, I would wonder where that person had gone. Eventually, I was offered a job at a marketing firm back in the city and mom was well enough to stay with a caregiver. I returned to living in New York full time. At a party, I met my friend Dominic Vine, and he introduced me to the Radical Faeries, a grassroots countercultural movement seeking to redefine queer consciousness through self-exploration. They were founded as a reaction to gay culture towards the end of the 70s. Back then, there was an emphasis on a ‘clone’ aesthetic, which presumed a masculine stance and set of rules. The faeries, on the other hand, established sanctuaries in rural areas where men could explore aspects of their femininity. Becoming involved with them was a milestone in my life. I explored questions about relationships, sexuality and freedom. I discovered there is no “one size fits all” to relationships, for instance. They can be endlessly customized beyond paradigms like ‘husband’ or ‘boyfriend.’ Also, it was around this time that iPhones came into the scene, facilitating the capability of taking photos on the go. Dominic photographed me constantly, and we became collaborators in photo, writing and mix CD projects.

You’ve come a long way. How do you look back?
When I was little, I imagined myself on a dance floor like the one in Saturday Night Fever (I actually did visit the dance floor featured in the movie one Halloween, when my friend Katsumi Miki and I went to the now extant Spectrum disco in Bay Ridge, where the movie was filmed…I danced to Madonna’s “Vogue” on its wonderful lights and cried), moving to the rhythm of disco music and being exactly in the moment. I imagined myself in a sort of monumental stasis, frozen in ecstatic bliss. It heartens me that everything I envision actually manifests. It all becomes true. In my dreams, I wanted to interact with other artists, have lots of records and enjoy life everyday—and here I am.

‘I get the feeling that people are way more focused now on creating, expressing their freedom and celebrating who they are. It’s almost like a statement.’

So you’ve found your peers?
Yes, I think we’re on the brink of a movement. I’m humble and grateful to be a part of it all and facilitate connections between people, supporting each other and working together. For example, I never considered myself someone who draws, and now I do so in a spirit of play and discovery. At my friend Joel Handorff’s place, Kelly Bugden, Scooter LaForge, Van Wifvat and I often get together to draw, and more friends like Rafael Sánchez, Gail Thacker and Gerardo Vizmanos also join in. We like to call these sessions “The Magic Mirror,” where we are all reflections of each other. Johnny Rozsa will often serve as a model. Connections happen serendipitously. I met Bubi Canal when he came to see a performance I did with José Joaquín Figueroa. That meeting led to much collaboration, and I’ve played characters in both Bubi’s and Jose’s video art. Bubi and I meet almost daily to discuss social media and work on projects at Little Skips, a café in Bushwick which we call “the office.” I commissioned a t-shirt with a painting of Allen Ginsberg from Scooter years ago, and that dialogue led to countless painted garments, which I often wear during my performances—both live and in photos—and often within the context of his shows. I wrote poems about the atmosphere of his painting process and they were included in the catalog for one of his shows. Dietmar Busse invited me to his apartment to take my portrait, and from there he has taken many photos which are so dear to me. In Van’s house in Ocean Grove, New Jersey, a Victorian cottage full of good spirit (I think I lived there in a previous life), many of us get together and make drawings and take photos. The greatest beauty of all this is that through creativity, we all have become dear friends who participate in a constant conversation that generates new realities.

What do you think of the political climate of the United States at the moment?
There’s a lot of political anxiety nowadays. The day after the last election almost felt the same as the day after 9/11. There was this stillness, based on anger and pessimism. A lot of people felt very scared and wanted to leave the country, thinking, for instance, that gays would be more marginalized as a minority group. However, I get the feeling that people are way more focused now on creating, expressing their freedom and celebrating who they are. It’s almost like a statement. Everything has a political implication. It makes art stronger and it is going beyond the framework of what has been before. It’s getting richer and more focused. And it comes straight from the heart. Like an act of magic. Now more than ever this whole idea of following your intuition takes everything to a different level. Do you know the saying that the darkest part of the tunnel is just before the end? Well, I think that’s where we are right now.

And your personal work?
I have my blog, which is basically a photo-performance as well as a writing project. It’s both an archive of all the personas in my imagination as well as a documentation of the artistic community. I write stories about what I’m wearing on certain days. I explain where and with whom I was when I found a particular shirt, for example. What we were talking about at that moment. What caught my eye and convinced me to buy. Or about the friend who gave me a pair of pants —what he is doing with his life, where he comes from and why he felt he needed to offer me that present. The stories go into the details of what happens every day, in Proustian fashion. My biggest influences in writing are Andy Warhol, 80s nightlife chronicler Stephen Saban, Charles Baudelaire and Bill Cunningham, the late New York Times fashion journalist. On the blog photos, I’m often wearing clothes made by friends, which adds an extra layer to the narrative. I become a mannequin—or a canvas, if you will—for their artwork. The images connect people and events in daily life. I’m weaving together a world that seems recognizable, and yet has a dreamlike quality. Jorge Clar Diary is a never-ending novella.

You make time capsules.
Yes, time documents, literally and figuratively. Like a diary. I’ve always loved diaries because of the way they talk about the small things. I love the idea of giving these tiny details their moment in the spotlight. By doing so, even the most banal thing can become very meaningful. It’s a pure reflection of my thinking process.

Tell me about your work on physical transformation.
When I first came out as a gay man, I was travelling through Israel. I felt very comfortable there, mainly because I was in a different environment. Being in Jerusalem, I could feel the place was very charged. Generally, people go to this city with much anticipation, due to whatever significance they give to to the place, which makes for a particular energy. The only other place that has the same energy is New York City, as people tend to come here with a specific purpose in mind. In Israel, I felt like I could see things within a sense of protection. Up until that point, I had repressed my attraction to men, and it was in Tel Aviv that I had an epiphany and was through with denial. I “came out” to myself. A veil lifted, and after that I transformed very quickly. It wasn’t as much about sexual liberation, but more about freedom of expression. And one of my main tools of expression is through clothing. I’ve always been enamored by an abstract sense of glamour and the epiphanies I often have late at night, when I listen to music. By accessing that magic and expressing it through clothes, I create subtle characters that deliver a message.
People react to this expression. I say this very humbly and with much gratitude: sometimes I am told I give hope. That my work inspires or cheers up the day. I think that’s so amazing. I love walking down the street and having someone smile at me. When one wears even the most surrealistic outfit with conviction, there is almost a air of reverence.

You sound very spiritual. Are you?
I feel the universe has always taken care of me. I’ve been through hardships, but in the end they made me strong enough to now enjoy every moment. You’re taught to be happy when you have achieved something, but I think it’s of upmost importance to be happy—in other words, to have a generalized sense of wellbeing—and enjoy the process as you go along. If you follow your intuition and are a kind person, things become way easier to navigate. Art becomes very helpful, bringing forth a meditative state. When your work is based on play, more possibilities come to light: you can do and be more. I strive to think constructively, and manage my emotions consistently. When I do what feels good, I know I’m on the right path. I can then manifest with utmost efficiency.

www.jorgeclar.com

This article is featured in Et Alors? Magazine 20.

Read the complete issue here.

Jorge Clar

We caught up with poet and performance artist Jorge Clar in his home in New York, and talked about words, sounds, and image. An ideal for living. Initially, you came to New York because you wanted to be close to the disco scene. That was…..

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Bernard Perlin

door Fleur Pierets | jul 3, 2017 | Art, Books, History

Bernard Perlin

Text JF. Pierets Artwork Bernard Perlin

Bernard Perlin (1918-2014) was an extraordinary figure in twentieth century American art and gay cultural history. An acclaimed artist and sexual renegade who reveled in pushing social, political, and artistic boundaries, his work regularly appeared in popular magazines in the 1940s, ‘50s, and ‘60s; was collected by Rockefellers, Whitneys, Astors, and Andy Warhol; and was acquired by major museums, including the Smithsonian, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Tate. In One-Man Show, Michael Schreiber chronicles the storied life, illustrious friends and lovers, and astounding adventures of Bernard Perlin through no-holds-barred interviews with the artist, candid excerpts from Perlin’s unpublished memoirs, never-before-seen photos, and an extensive selection of Bernard Perlin’s incredible public and private art. One-Man Show: The Life and Art of Bernard Perlin has been named a 2017 Stonewall Honor Book by the American Library Association, and is a Lambda Literary Award Finalist.

What triggered you to write this book?
I discovered Bernard and his amazing artwork through my great interest in the illustrious gay social and artistic circle that surrounded the legendary photographer George Platt Lynes in the 1930s through 1950s. Bernard was an intimate member of this great New York gay “cabal,” as he called it, whose members and visitors included such artists and literary such figures as Somerset Maugham, and Christopher Isherwood. Bernard Perlin was the last living member of this remarkable company, then in his early nineties, and so I wrote him. He responded with a friendly phone call that led to another and another and ultimately to an invitation to his home in Connecticut. And so began our close friendship and the unexpected journey towards this book.

Was it important to write this book, aside from your personal connection with Perlin?
First and foremost, I felt a great sense of commitment to getting Bernard Perlin’s extraordinary artwork seen again. But as I began to learn more about his equally extraordinary life, I knew the incredibly compelling story of this unsung gay artist-hero had to be told somehow, and as much as possible in his own colorful, unfiltered way.

As an art connoisseur, what attracts you to his work?
Bernard was a beguiling storyteller – not only in conversation, but also in his art. Every Perlin painting tells a unique story. I’m particularly drawn to his work that can be classified as “magic realism,” in which he interjected unexpected or magical elements into his examination of “real” situations or objects or figures. I always find his perspective an interesting one to consider. In terms of subject matter, I really love Bernard’s “Night Pictures,” a series of paintings depicting the swinging “cocktail culture” of 1950s New York City jazz clubs, street dances, and underground gay bars. The latter were very daring works for him to publicly show when he did, but for Bernard they were just further efforts to depict the full “normal” range of people seeking connection with one another.

He was openly gay in the 1930’s. How did that work out?
While he was very conscious of his sexuality and embraced it from a very young age, it wasn’t really until he went to art school in 1935 in New York that he found a thriving underground gay culture that welcomed him and he easily fit into. He was 16 years old at the time. From that point on, Bernard chose to also live his life “above ground” as a fearlessly openly gay man – doing so during a fearfully closed period in our recent history. It’s remarkable now to consider some of the real risks he faced, sometimes head on. He walked past a sign reading “no Jews allowed” into a department store in Nazi-occupied Danzig in 1938, bought a pair of Hitler Youth shorts, and then boldly walked around in them, as not only a young gay man, but a Jew. Equally remarkable was his attitude about being arrested in a Parisian bathhouse in 1951. In spite of being thrown into a large cage in the middle of a medieval courtroom, and tried in a language he didn’t understand while onlookers jeered, then being jailed without knowing how long he’d be held, Bernard just took it in his stride and thought it all a “great adventure.” He was similarly arrested in Florida and Virginia for “behavior against public decency,” posted bail, then skipped town and carried on undeterred with his cruising and bathhouse escapades. But certainly the most poignant story he shared with me was about his not wanting to fight in World War II, so he had to go to a psychiatrist, be declared a “mental degenerate” as a homosexual, and then present himself as such in front of the draft board. When we talked about this, Bernard confessed that he had long carried a sense of shame over what he perceived to be his cowardice about not going to war, when in fact it was an incredibly brave act to have publicly declared himself a homosexual in 1941. And of course, he then went on to fight the war anyway, but with his paintbrush, producing many now iconic images of World War II as a propaganda artist for the U.S. government and as a war-artist correspondent for Life magazine.

Did you ask him about the most significant changes between being gay in the 1930’s and now?
I did. It was very enlightening for me to learn that he had been able to so freely express his sexuality when he did – although it should also be considered where he did – in 1930s New York, which was somewhat less permissive than it had been during the 1920s, but yet allowed gay bars and gathering places to exist, as long as the police were paid off. Of course outside of New York, such open expression carried tremendous risk. As he explained it: “one was open but with a great sense of consciousness about it.” In the last couple of years of his life, he was delighted by the changes that were then accelerating for gay acceptance. The act of marrying his partner of 60 years was a tremendously important one for him. And they did it solely as a political statement, to add their number to the statistics. Although he had never been conflicted about being gay, Bernard certainly celebrated the fact that society was becoming less conflicted. Or so he hoped.

‘Of course historically up to this point there has been limited gay imagery in mainstream art because it has not been a socially accepted expression. But I’m ever hopeful that that is changing.’

You write about Perlin as a gay artist and you launched the book at a gay publishing company. Why is it important to accentuate this?
The actual artwork should be left to the interpretation of the viewer, of course. We all see the world uniquely through the lens of our own experience and identity. For that reason, Bernard didn’t like having his work linked to a particular style, nor did he subscribe to any particular school of art. He wanted viewers to interpret his work in their own way, free of any pre-established definitions, but yet at the end, he did want them to know it was the work of a gay artist. That the great variety of human experience that he had depicted in his work – that a great variety of people had emotionally and intellectually responded to over seven decades – had all been recorded by a fellow human being who just happened to be gay. By a “variant” himself. It was an identity that he felt very proud of and committed to championing – to “normalizing” in a way, although there truly is no such thing as “normal.” He just hoped his viewers would allow and consider it, in the hopes it might expand their perception not only of his art, but also of our shared humanity.

Does this have something to do with awareness? Showing that artists, movie stars, etc. can also be gay?
Sure, as you bring the gay experience into the fold of the bigger human experience, it does “normalize” it. Just as I feel it’s important to consider whatever particular identity an artist embraces – whether that relates to their gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, etc. – in the hope it will challenge and expand a viewer’s perspective on their art, but will also influence how that viewer then sees the real world and lives happening around them. Ultimately, we are all human at the end of the day. Isn’t it wonderful that we can see things so differently? In fact, it’s important that we do. Considering that informs all of us about the wonderful variety of the human experience. And toward that end, Bernard found it very important to raise his hand and be amongst the counted as gay artists.

Why do you think there is so little gay imagery in art history?
That’s an interesting topic that Bernard and I actually spoke a lot about. A picture of two men or two women kissing isn’t actually a classical theme in art – “yet,” as Bernard would point out. Of course historically up to this point there has been limited gay imagery in mainstream art because it has not been a socially accepted expression. But I’m ever hopeful that that is changing. Bernard was in the vanguard of artists who were boldly depicting gay themes in their work several generations ago, and happily that mantle has been taken up in recent decades by more and more younger artists. It’s just a matter now of getting more of their work on the walls of mainstream museums to make that “yet” a reality.

Is that also something you aim for with your book?
Absolutely. It’s empowering to have known this man who was at the vanguard of promoting that acceptance just by living his life openly and fully and refusing to compromise. I was so blessed to have learned from a fellow human being who had the ability and the courage to embrace and to dominate his life – a man who was fully occupied with living, loving, and leaving nothing unexplored that interested him. He found both in his life and his art what is at the heart of the fulfilled human experience: and that is, to live one’s life fully in one’s own way – authentically, and without apology. And so that is what is at the heart of this book, and why I felt Bernard’s story was an important one to share – not to provide an exact blueprint of how one should live one’s life, but to open a door to possibilities, and permission.

www.bernardperlin.com
www.discover.brunogmuender.com/one-man-show-bernard-perlin

© Bernard Perlin / 1957 - B-29 Mechanics

© Bernard Perlin / 1955 - The Children Waiting

© Bernard Perlin / 1944 - Patrol Disembarks

This article is featured in Et Alors? Magazine 20.

Read the complete issue here.

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Lebogang Mokgoko

door Fleur Pierets | sep 18, 2016 | Fashion

Sarah Bettens

door Fleur Pierets | sep 8, 2016 | Music

Sarah Bettens

Text JF. Pierets Photos Frank Clauwers

I’ve always been very much intrigued by Sarah Bettens. When I saw K’s Choice perform in 1994 they had not yet recorded their monster hit “Not an Addict”, which opened doors not only in Europe but also lead to touring across the US with, amongst others, Alanis Morissette and the Indigo Girls. Yet in 1994 I saw a girl run to her microphone, hold onto it for the entire song and who looked at her feet for the duration of the applause. A lot has changed since then and that girl cannot be compared to the über-fit and charismatic front woman she is today. We catch up in the backstage area of a Dutch music festival to talk about change, identity and challenges.

You once said you were lucky K’s Choice became popular. What’s luck got to do with it?
I think there was a lot of coincidence involved. My brother and I have been making music for as long as I can remember but we never thought about it as a future job. The idea itself was even too unrealistic to dream about, so let’s just say we never considered it a possibility.Then someone asked me to sing something in a studio and before we knew it we had a hit-single on the radio and things started evolving. There wasn’t any plan behind it. If I contemplate our position right now, I can see the amount of work and effort that we have put into it, yet I must say that we did indeed get very lucky. We met the right people at the right time. Of course you have to be present in order for those people to find you, but we were very lucky to kick off mid-’90’s, when record companies still had a lot of money and room for development. We’re talking about a completely different era here. They allowed us time to grow, which is almost impossible nowadays. We’re also lucky that we’re still – after 25 years – able to make music for a living. We still have fun and we’re still doing things that challenge us, both as musicians and performers. There’s nothing worse for creativity than routine so once in a while we have to shake things up a bit.

How do you shake things up?
Well, for example we changed our working method when making The Phantom Cowboy – our last record. Normally Gert and I write separately and then bring things together to see what happens. This time we started with a concept and actually knew how we wanted the record to sound. Things like this, and also things like introducing The Backpack Sessions – an intimate tour with only our pianist – are our means to keeping it fresh.

Do you need challenges?
I think so, I’m not a stressed out person but I like change, both in my job and in my personal life.
At the moment we’re on the verge of moving to California and there’s a lot to do, but that’s fun. We’re going to start over. It’s like making a new record and working with a new producer, even though the previous one was great, you never know what it’s going to bring. My sense of adventure is far greater than being comforted by foreseeing the future.

A couple of years ago you started working as a fire fighter? Why?
I needed it because music started to become somewhat of a routine. I needed to do something that was completely different, a job where I had to show up and go back home after 24 hours. As a musician you can start working at 2 in the afternoon or you can work the whole night through. You work on your music, your plans, your career, your writing, you name it. It never stops. You can work all day and there will still be that feeling that you can do more. It’s never finished. So I looked for something that was defined, which I found in being a fire fighter. You cannot imagine how much I learned there and it still brought me the eagerness to learn even more. Because of that, being a musician made me happier again.

Do you have any creative rituals when you start composing?
We did in the beginning, but I’ve kind of abandoned the idea of needing hours of time, the right mood and even the perfect star constellation – in order to write the perfect song. Now we just sit down with a guitar and start. The Phantom Cowboy was written in two weeks time. Gert and I sat down in a room from 9 to 5 and just worked. We stopped waiting for the right light interval or the most opportune emotional state of mind.

Is art inevitably self-portraiture?
I think so. You keep talking about things that are close to you. Its shape changes but the subject doesn’t. As you get older your world changes, you get married, have children, yet there are themes that keep returning. Now we’re moving I found some old interview from when I was 20 years old. How stupid and serious I was! Nowadays I take my music, my job, very seriously but not myself. Now we’re able to write a song that’s ‘just fun’, it doesn’t always have to be about the most deep down, thorough, detailed emotion. At this point we’re able to lighten up.

You are outspoken about being gay. Do you feel you have a moral responsibility?
I do like taking my moral responsibility. I like it that young girls or boys can look at me and know that I’m married to a woman and yet look very normal. When I was young I only had Navratilova, and even she was not very outspoken. The issue just wasn’t discussed. It took me so long to discover who I was and I think that if I was born now, I might’ve found that out by the time I was 16. There are so many possibilities now, people can talk about being gay, being transgender. Things that weren’t discussable twenty years ago. Of course there’s still a lot of work to be done, but as a public person I hope to make the world just that little bit more normal for gay people. Writing and making music is a very nice way to communicate with people and to discover that you have much more in common than you would think. When you’re a teenager that can be quite therapeutic.

Jeff Koons once said: ‘Being an artist is not a job, it’s an identity’.
I think I rather identify myself as the wife of my wife, the mother of my children and the daughter of my parents, my friends, than as an artist. Don’t get me wrong, music is a great platform and making music is something that can’t be compared to many things. When you leave the studio at night and you’ve created something you didn’t know existed that very morning, it’s incomparable. That little bit of fear, that you’re never going to be able to do it anymore, or the feeling that you’ve given everything but aren’t sure if there’s anything left. I have to admit that’s a unique and an on top of the world feeling. But to say it’s an identity, that’s too much. I identify much more as a human being than as a musician.

‘It took me so long to discover who I was and I think that if I was born now, I might’ve found that out by the time I was 16. There are so many possibilities now, people can talk about being gay, being transgender. Things that weren’t discussable twenty years ago.’

You and your wife adopted 2 children a few years ago. As a mother, what would you like to teach them?
I want them to be able to be themselves. The world won’t always appreciate or understand that, but at least they have to try. I also want them to work hard. I enjoy my life very much because I work hard for the things that I find important; to be happy, to do things with my family. If you feel very good about something, then it’s often something that took a while for you to get there. For me, getting divorced wasn’t an easy road to take, nor was adoption or moving to the States. But they did make me happy in the long run. I feel very strongly that I’m the happy person I am today, because of all the decisions I have made in my life. I’m very grateful about the circumstances and being lucky at the same time, but I also made it happen through the choices that I made along the way. Next to getting sick or loosing somebody, your fate lies very much in your own hands. So how committed are you to work for it?

So in retrospect, you wouldn’t change anything?
I’ve gone through some painful stages yet I’m very happy with who I am right now. Everything that’s happened has made me into the person I am today. Fortunately I’m quite forgetful so that might help (laughs). I can’t imagine anything more drastic than what happened to me when I met my wife. Before that I wasn’t really happy but I thought that was just the way people were. When I found out who I was I literally stepped from a world of darkness into the light. All was black and white and I changed from being – I’m not saying depressed because that’s too strong of an emotion – but from heavy hearted and melancholic to one of the most joyous people I know. Almost in the blink of an eye.

A question I also ask myself: How could you not have known?
I have absolutely no idea. Maybe it has to do with the era in which I was born. I think that if I would be 16 years old at this very moment, I would probably jump right in. In retrospect I conformed a great deal. Especially because I wanted to dress like a boy but I didn’t want to embarrass the people around me. If it would only have been about me, than there would’ve been no boundaries. I always had to fight for my place in high school, something you don’t quite understand when you’re so young. That’s what I like so much about the whole gender conversation. Who cares about all that? You could say that it’s safe to fit in, but is it really? How many people are there that get a wake-up call when they’re 30. I’m longing for a world where everybody can be more relaxed into doing what they want to do. Everything feels so restricted.

What do you think is your purpose in life?
It depends on when you ask the question. Sometimes you feel so small wondering what’s your part in this larger entity. When you dare to think about the concept of time, the universe, or the fact that we are standing on something circular, then it’s almost impossible to ponder the meaning of your own life. Everything is so grand and you are so small in comparison.Yet when I do have to answer on the meaning of ‘my’ life, I think it’s trying to change and affect the world around me by being happy and treating people with respect. I’m a bit too cynical to be able to positively say it’s going to change the world, but it would be a good start. When I hear those terrible stories about sick children or refugee children, things that neither you or anybody else can fix, I often reflect that being grateful about the things you have and are able to do, is the very least you can do. Trying to give as little thought as possible to the small things that bother you. So every morning when I wake up I keep my eyes closed and think about the things I’m grateful for. That’s the absolute minimum you can do when you see all the damage that’s been done in the world. If everybody would make the effort to change his own little corner in a positive way, it would already mean a lot.

www.kschoice.be

This article is featured in Et Alors? Magazine 19.

Read the complete issue here.

Sarah Bettens

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Et Alors? magazine. A global celebration of diversity.

Mount Olympus

door Fleur Pierets | mei 21, 2016 | Performance

Mount Olympus

It took more than one year for Jeroen Olyslaegers to write the text for Jan Fabre’s 24-hour theatrical performance Mount Olympus, to glorify the cult of tragedy. A labyrinth of time where the actors sleep and awaken on stage, dance and move in the violent, ecstatic proximity of characters from Greek tragedy. One night in Seville Julian and I watched history in the making and we were in awe during every minute of it. A mind-blowing and life changing experience that made us realize that you hardly ever get to experience and recognize a masterpiece in contemporary time. In conversation with Jeroen Olyslaegers. About stripping down emotion, writing at the very top of your abilities and the meaning of life.

How does one start such a huge project?
The first thing I did was reread all 32 Greek tragedies. I got inspired and then buried them. One year later, in June 2014, we started rehearsals. Since it was impossible to write the text beforehand and give the actors a syllabus of 200 pages – everybody would get a panic attack – I wrote during rehearsals. I reinvented and introduced my own themes by using the original material in a new way. There is not one sample of the original texts in any of the monologues, yet some of it is pretty close to the principal characters.

You not only worked, but also slept within the proximity of the rehearsal room.
That was my one condition when I accepted Jan’s offer. I wanted to be close to the rehearsal room because the performance is about dreams, about problems with sleeping, so it was clear that my own situation was going to be very influential. Rehearsing and writing Mount Olympus was like a marine boot camp where your head get’s to an amazingly trained level. When I had been writing for half a year, I felt like a Lamborghini. To give you an example: in October I needed two or three hours to write a monologue, in March I needed fifteen minutes to write the same piece in both in English and in Dutch. You are inside this Greek monster and you know which way to go. Like a racing car driver who knows every turn of the circuit. As a writer it was a unique position to be in and a once in a lifetime experience. Who would do a 24 hour performance after this? It’s almost impossible.

It’s quite the tour de force to comprehend 24 hours of text and images. How do you tackle such an overpowering quantity of material?
One of the things we discussed a lot was if we needed to contextualize the characters. Do we need to explain to the audience who Medea, or Dionysos is? We decided to try but it soon turned out to be completely stupid. We had to get rid of the hang-up that the audience needed a context, needed to know about Greek culture and ancient tragedies in order to be able to enjoy the performance. For us, it was tabula rasa. But the moment we knew the people did’t need this cultural baggage, it was a breakthrough. Another turning point was the moment Jan challenged/ composed the first and the final part, which was the first thing that came together. You have to realize that for every scene that you see, we had four other scenes so we’re literally talking about thousands of scenes, all with their own small or larger variations. Assembling such a volume of material is madness, yet when we all saw a sketch of the first and the final part, we suddenly had a clear sense of direction. We suddenly knew we could do this.

It’s not the first time you have worked with Jan Fabre.
Five years ago we made Prometheus together. Working with Jan it so intense that it’s incomparable to any other director. Jan puts you on the edge of a cliff and gives you a push. You fall, that’s it. For one year we worked on a level where none of us was convinced that we were going to make it. I remember the first time we tried out the complete 24 hours; we started out at 5 PM, the sun was still shining, and at 8 in the morning we said to each other, “what are we doing? This is crazy!”.

You write novels, which is a very solitary profession. How does it feel to co-create?
I love both. A combination of solitude and collaboration. The interaction with a group also feels fantastic. You get totally different ideas and I feel I’m becoming a better artist when I work with other people. Of course there are some conditions like having the same focus and the same intensity. Let’s say Mount Olympus made it impossible to work on a theatre project with no intensity.

Did you have faith in the outcome?
We were worried about the performers who had to give every inch for the entire 24 hours. They have to be in control of their bodies. We were worried that they would hurt themselves due to sheer tiredness because people react totally differently when they lack sleep. And to handle that tiredness is different for everybody. Some need 45 minutes, others need 3 hours, and some of them don’t want to sleep at all. At every point of the process we didn’t know what was going to happen next. I had no idea that Jan was going to rehearse the entire piece in every detail, which was totally crazy. For me it’s still a miracle that everything you see has been rehearsed over and over again. If somebody jumps from a table, it’s rehearsed to happen exactly at that moment. There is absolutely no improvisation. Can you imagine the amount of time you need to write and direct 24 hours of performance to the smallest detail? It’s almost impossible. How do you cope on a mental level? The performers rehearsed so much and for such a long time, that they found themselves in a dream state where they could do almost anything.

I guess Mount Olympus was quite up your alley because of your fascination for the concept ‘time’.
Afterwards it’s weird to reflect on what we did with time. For me time is linked with catharsis; we have this old 19th century idea of theatre. We expect to look at a play, in a dark room filled with other people and expect a catharsis. For me it’s a strange idea to expect an insight from a 2 or 3-hour play. What actually happened in ancient Greece were these big Dionysian festivals, competitions between different playwrights. People came to the theatre at dawn and watched for about 12 hours. They had dinner, had a drink, it was a coming and going and the catharsis was the entire experience. That’s what we do with Mount Olympus. We actually stretch time, where the catharsis is totally different and much more violent for the audience to capture. After a couple of hours we strip away the intellectual human layer and what remains is pure emotion. It’s not uncommon that people start to cry because there’s no protection left. We’ve demolished it. That’s the Dionysian power of it. I actually have Dionysus say this in the beginning of the piece; “we’re all going to get you really, really crazy. We’re going to get you mad”. Which is what happens at the end.

‘For me art has to be activism, otherwise it doesn’t work. For other artists it can be a quest of beauty, but for me it’s a tool to activate people.’

And every time the performance gets a standing ovation for more than half an hour.
We never had a Mount Olympus performance where the audience was not connected. Putting more than a year’s work into a project, makes the love you get in return very intense, very moving. The level is magic. We wanted that, but we had no idea it was going to be this euphoric.

Mount Olympus is a statement against the pressure to produce quick and cheap entertainment. Has this experience changed your own way of creating?
It taught me to go to the essence, to not be afraid of using emotions – even when they’re strong and hard – and to get rid of the last reminisce of irony that I had. I still like a good joke and I like sarcasm but for me, writing is for real. As a writer I want to kick you in the heart and in the head. Mount Olympus has taught me to become much more intense. Intensity is everything. You have to go for it and not wait anymore. What I feel now in a very urgent way, is something that’s happening to the world at this point.

The performance is a political metaphor for society now and back then.
Mount Olympus starts with two guards, blowing a message in the ass of another and talking about an ecological nightmare and the apocalypse, which sets the political tone of the entire piece. It’s about war and the way we tend to fuck up our karma by breathing hate the entire time. Every Greek play is only about one thing; there’s a bill to be paid and somebody has to pay it. I connected this to the tragic times we now live in. Think about King Oedipus; because he killed his father and married his mother, a plague broke out in Thebes. But he doesn’t know that. He asks people to check why there is a plague. They all return saying that he is the reason but he doesn’t believe them, he just keeps sending people to go and check. This is what’s happening today also. Ecologically we’re on the brink of a big disaster and we’re going to have to change our lives to pay the bill. That’s what Mount Olympus is about: there is something that has to be reckoned with.

Are you saying that nothing has changed?
I think blindness has increased. We no longer have the confrontational insight of Greek tragedy. People think that theatre is entertainment, I think theatre is drugs. It’s an attack to your system, an attempt to transform you.

If it’s not entertainment than it’s activism.
Definitely. For me art has to be activism, otherwise it doesn’t work. For other artists it can be a quest of beauty, but for me it’s a tool to activate people. And that’s what we did with Mount Olympus. If you look at Jan’s theatre plays you see that they are always based on provocation. To wake you up. And sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t, yet you feel that there is this activating principle. I think that’s why we’re friends, we understand each other on that level.

I once heard you say that Greek mythology is your spiritual landscape. Can you elaborate?
My spiritual landscape corresponds to the Greek, but also the Celtic times before Christianity. It’s a very creative time. You have monotheism – which I find very boring because it’s like a block of concrete, and you have polytheism, which is very liberating and why I call myself a Satyr. There’s this great sense of play. Context is everything in Greek mythology. It’s like quantum mechanics but based on mythological thinking. What I think and what I do is invest time into taking these gods seriously. Trying to give them a place in my work – like Mount Olympus, but also in my daily and practical life. I think the Greek gods are not dead, they are among us. It’s a totally different way of looking at spirituality and religion. Especially now, when every religion is becoming dogmatic again, we need some liberation by introducing play.

What do you do to tap into your creativity?
I do something physical. I walk, or go for a swim. It used to be just reading but now it’s much more listening to nature and going out. Everything that I see is a gift that I can use, so there is no coincidence in my life. The great thing about writing is that it enhances your feeling of observation. When you write a novel, you have this mental space where the novel lies. I’ve just finished a novel about Antwerp during WW II, and I have this specific image of the city in my head. I know how the streets used to look 70 years ago so I can walk through Antwerp by just closing my eyes. I also go to that place to meditate. I can sit in a bar, have a coffee and be in 1942. I go to that mental space to solve plot problems but also to chill. And it becomes more relaxed when you’re on a bike or on a walk.

What do you hope to be your lasting significance as an artist and a human being?
Those two things are very combined now. I used to be just a writer, but now activism has mixed everything together. It’s a difficult question. I think I want to leave this lasting impression of love for humankind. Everything that I currently do is situated on what the Indians call the heart chakra, both in and outside my writing. I want to link people to each other because basically I think we need to invent a spirituality that connects people to each other. Whether you’re Muslim, or Jewish, or an atheist. Like Moses, we can use two stone tablets with one sentence carved onto each one of them. The first is “we’re all one”, which was proven by genetic science 50 years ago, and the other one is “we all share the same planet”. The way we live needs to reinvest respect for the planet, consider her as a mother instead of something that we exploit. I’m always trying to combine these things in my work because there’s a sense of urgency to act. That kind of energy is the lasting impression I would like to leave behind.

I read this beautiful quote by Viktor Frankl, stating that “Ultimately man should not ask what the meaning of his life is, but rather must recognize that it is he who is asked”. Any thoughts?
It also means “know thy self” and it is one of the most difficult questions there is. But also the most beautiful. “To become what you want to become in life is the most difficult thing ever” is one of the sentences that I use in my new novel. It’s the most difficult and at the same time the most provocative thing to do. Because the majority seem to want you to remain not who you are, but who they all are. Being like everybody else. Yet everybody has the capacity to fly and the capacity to become who you think you want to become. It can take your entire life to get there, but that’s the spiritual beauty of the whole thing. If everybody does this, focuses on that, or if we have this critical minority who’s focused on that, the world would be a better and more interesting place. And I must say that it becomes easier with time. The older you get the more you realize that what happens in your life are actually forces, pushing you to your destiny. I have this big storytelling tradition in my family but I started out as a post-modernist writer and an intellectual deconstructivist. Now I’m liberating myself with every book and every theatre play to get closer and closer to what I’m trying to become and what I am destined to be; a pure storyteller.

www.mountolympus.be