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| Let the festival begin Pēteris Bankovskis, Art Critic | |
| Perhaps many people may think that their lives will not have been lived to the full unless they achieve something that is handed on to the next generation. This is especially so in the creative fields. People view their success through the prism of museum collections and library shelves, prize winner lists and plaques on buildings. It seems that many so-called contemporary artists desire the same sort of recognition, even if their works are made from bodily fluids or scrawled-over pages of notebooks. But there are other inducements, too. I’d like to say a few words now about sand and ice sculptures. Lately there has even been talk about peat sculptures in Latvia, that superpower in peat extraction, but more about this national-patriotic phenomenon another time, in the framework of the relevant discourse. The most natural expression of sand sculpture is shifting sand dunes, which have on more than one occasion swallowed up homes, cattle and vegetable gardens on the Curonian Spit and elsewhere. Then there are sandstorms and whirlwinds in the desert. The best known ice sculptures are definitely icebergs. They are famous because of the Titanic disaster, if for no other reason. Who knows why, but there are frequent attempts to imitate these grand natural sculptures. First they bring a pile of sand to the AB dambis in Riga, or blocks of ice to some city in Japan, Canada or Latvia. Then someone with a higher education degree in visual arts arrives and tries to make something out of the sand or ice. The objects thus formed fall into two categories. Firstly, there are the demonstrations of dexterity and often breathtaking skill in creating realistic figures from these evanescent materials, sometimes images from so-called “real” art, but more often of everyday things: ladies’ heads and torsos, pretty flowers, swans, various knick-knacks, “meaningful” tiny hands. I am deliberately using diminutives here, because no matter the physical size of the works, the content tends to be cute and cuddly – like an advertisement for panty liners, or Valentine’s Day. And then in the second category there are works in which the creators experiment and test the possibilities afforded by the materials. Or so it seems to the artists themselves. The romantic image of the artist is of a lonely, impoverished, misunderstood person fighting his demons and material resistance, whose destiny is suddenly changed when the scales fall from the eyes of someone in the crowd who realises his true worth, then critics, scholars and gallery owners perk up, and the nation finally realises what a master lives next door (or died then in obscurity not long ago). The pragmatic reality is like this: it’s an art school graduate or dropout with a nose for whatever is popular and likely to bring him his 15 minutes of fame, who scours the internet for residencies or grants, relentlessly self-promoting on social networks or elsewhere. If a city’s image-makers decide that sand or ice sculptures will bring in the tourist dollar or appease the starving mob for a minute, there is always a pragmatic artist to hand. If they think it’s better to set down some stone or bronze dude in the main square – sure, why not. Everyone knows Chapter 8 of the Gospel according to John, where Jesus expresses one of the fundamental rules for human cohabitation: “Let he who is without sin among you cast the first stone...” It is worth recalling this Gospel story: “Jesus went unto the mount of Olives. And early in the morning he came again into the temple, and all the people came unto him; and he sat down, and taught them. And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery; and when they had set her in the midst, They said unto him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act. Now Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou? This they said, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him. But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heard them not. So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her. And again he stooped down, and wrote on the ground. And they which heard it, being convicted by their own conscience, went out one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last: and Jesus was left alone, and the woman standing in the midst.” (John 8, 1–9). More than 2,000 years have passed since this event, but over the centuries countless people have pondered the maxim: “He who is without sin...”. After the priests and Pharisees had explained the provision of the death penalty in Jewish law for adulteresses, Jesus stooped down and wrote in the sand with his finger. Having listened to it all, he said those words: “He who is without sin…” But after that he stooped down again and continued writing in the sand. This single expressive gesture by Jesus – writing in the sand – prompted all of the woman’s accusers to leave, starting with the eldest of them. What exactly Jesus wrote in the sand remains an intriguing mystery. This is especially so because it is the only reference in the entire New Testament to Jesus writing anything at all. But on this occasion, Jesus’ chosen medium seems more important than the content of His message. A finger in the sand! A gust of wind or a careless passer-by, and the writing would disappear without a trace! Leaving absolutely nothing. You could perhaps say that Jesus wanted to remind us that everything fashioned by human hands or mind shall turn to dust. Libraries and art collections, musical scores and architectural marvels all fade away, to say nothing of theatre performances or concerts, which cease to exist in an instant after the final curtain. Yet Jesus had another intention. Sandwiched between two gestures made in an ephemeral, ultimately pointless medium, there is a sentence that encapsulates humanity’s everyday tragedy – yes, our sinfulness, which accompanies us like a heavy burden all the way to the grave. People today don’t want to think about this. It is therefore logical that writing in the sand with a finger has become the central message rather than a background element. The lights are twinkling, the music is thumping, the festival is here – let the good times roll! Skeletons dance and the sand crunches underfoot. /Translator into English: Filips Birzulis/ | |
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