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| Izolde, Captain of the Ship. Izolde Cēsniece Laima Slava Izolde Cēsiniece Born 2 February 1970 2005 Board member of the Artists' Union of Latvia 2003 Member of the Artists' Union of Latvia 2001 Master's degree at the Latvian Academy of Art 1997-1999 Participant in the LN League of Women Project Participant in E-LAB (Electronic Media Laboratory) 1999 Degree of artist at the Latvian Academy of Art, specialising in scenography 1994 Bachelor in Scenography at the Latvian Academy of Art 1985-1989 Attended the Department of Decoration of Riga Secondary School of Applied Art Since 1993 has participated in 40 contemporary art exhibitions and projects. Currently involved in the RIXC Centre for New Media Culture and in projects at the New Theatre Institute of Latvia and the Artists' Union of Latvia. | |
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At the time of our conversation, Izolde was thinking of how to obtain permission for a project of hers that was to be performed in Riga Town Square at the close of the Days of Art. Izolde Cēsniece: I read the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, which describes an interesting episode. The first theatrical performance took place in Riga, shown to the native pagans, and, of course, it was based on a Bible story. And the Bible includes descriptions of battles. Apparently, the actors had fought so earnestly that the pagans ran away, thinking they were about to be killed. Then they were kindly invited to return, with the promise that all would be fine. And so they came back and watched to the end. Eight hundred years have passed since then. In those days, it was normal to fight and go on raids all the time, but now this has been replaced by various games, such as football. And so I had the idea of arranging a game in which one team would be dressed in medieval armour and the other as people of today. But perhaps we'll play chess instead of football. Laima Slava: So in principle you enjoy games? I.C.: You could say that. As a child, I listened to Grandma's stories about the theatre - and they've stayed with me. I read a lot. Theatre and the literary world. Perhaps that's why I'm very interested in activities that mean not only that which is actually visible and tangible, but which also have other kinds of meaning and significance. L.S.: When, in the early 90s, still as a student, you submitted projects for the French-Baltic Video Art Festival, your project about submarines seemed surprising, interesting and, unfortunately, quite impossible to realise at that time. I.C.: When I was very young, I saw a film about Captain Nemo. If I consider what facts of art have made the greatest impression on me, then it would have to be this! There was a TV film "20 000 Leagues Under the Sea", and there was a French series "Captain Nemo's Secret Island". And so I wanted to become the captain of an underwater craft. I wanted to be a ship's captain! I raved about the ship "Aurora". In Soviet times it was a popular ship and we went to Leningrad a couple of times to see it. Last September I was in France, and I travelled to the Atlantic Coast, to Lorient, which is famous for its German U-boat base, one that could not be destroyed, even though the whole town was bombed out. These structures are on a par with the pyramids of Egypt. One of the U-boats was on display, and so I came face to face with my childhood dream. (The closest submarine to us is in a museum in Tallinn.) At the time when I wished to become a captain it was impossible. In the first place, because I was a girl, and secondly, because it was altogether a very complicated matter in the Soviet Union. It meant leaving the country, and so forth. Even today, I haven't heard of women captains. But to be in some subordinate post, say first mate, didn't interest me, of course! L.S.: You were really so serious about it? I.C.: I thought about it for a very long time - some six or eight years. I took an interest in ships and made a great number of drawings... I've always had a very powerful imagination! L.S.: Well, after all, an artist is the captain of their own projects! You studied at the scenography department. Is there any logical reason why in the early 90s, among the Art Academy students, the young scenographers were particularly active in submitting projects to be realised in the course of the French-Baltic Festival of Video Art? These were video installations, a form still in its infancy at that time in Latvia, and the Art Academy system itself took a negative view of such liberties. After all, scenography, too, relates to a limited setting - the so-called "box" of the stage. I.C.: We were taught not so much the technical aspect (which later sometimes turned out to be our weak side), but the imagining of ideas. And often this took place outside of the stage "box". This is true of all our teachers - Andris Freibergs, Indulis Gailāns and Gunārs Zemgals. Freibergs even had a saying "Look for a crazy idea", while Gailāns had gone beyond any kind of "box" altogether! They taught me a lot about thinking, and so did my fellow students. It was interesting for me to see how far it's possible to step outside of that "box". The fact that such a far-fetched idea was impossible to realise did not seem important at that time. The main thing was to look at it from a completely different perspective. There was Viņķelis, now deceased, and Freibergs junior, also deceased. And of course there were Gabrāns, Frīdbergs and Anna Heinrihsone. This was the next generation of modern art, after Breže, Tillbergs, etc. L.S.: Can you formulate the main idea characterising your generation? I.C.: There was a common feeling... We were the generation coming on the scene at the time of the National Revival. One that was emerging from some kind of feeling of hopelessness - and a considerable number of us are already dead. Kārlis Freibergs counted about twelve, and he himself was the thirteenth. We might differ greatly in our way of life, but we had in common a depressive feeling, a non-material tendency. Materialism, which might have kept us in real life, with our feet on the ground, was not popular in our circles. This applies to my age group in particular and to those a couple of years older than me. Those who were a couple of years younger, they were different - like another generation altogether. More tenacious, more vital. My generation had a strong self-destructive impulse, one that was fulfilled in some cases. L.S.: How do you explain it? A transition from one age to another? I.C.: Yes, yes. It was that kind of time: the first punks. "Live fast, die young". And many did precisely that. My fellow students didn't look at all like punks, but that was the spirit of the age. Artists are sensitive, and perhaps that's why they tend to exaggerate what they felt all around them. L.S.: You took up work at the theatre. How did you first experience the reality of the theatre? I.C.: Quite difficult. Because at the academy we'd been taught "flights of fancy", but when we encountered the actual technical possibilities... The 90s at the theatre were impoverished anyway. They're not rich even today, but back then... For example, I created the next-to-last production at the Operetta Theatre, together with the director Liniņš. The theatre was closed soon after that. The Youth Theatre went out of existence. The New Riga Theatre took its place, but it needed a good many years to become established. I created several productions before Alvis Hermanis came along, and in financial terms it was a disaster... But people had the wish to engage in it. If anything actually came of it, then it was for this reason alone... L.S.: Is that what made you choose the status of free artist? I.C.: To a certain degree, yes. Of course, my projects are cheaper! And then, the theatre is such a collective art, and I'm so dependent on all kinds of factors that it's not always possible to put it all together well. When I create my own projects, I myself am responsible for everything, and if something doesn't work, then I can blame only myself. That makes it simpler. I've had such technical problems that I wonder how my hair didn't turn grey... There've been cases when the lighting crew didn't turn on the lights because they were drunk, or when drunken stagehands brought a very dry, old curtain in contact with the lights and it caught fire! In the course of the dress rehearsal. And parts of the set actually burned down. Luckily, we could shift the scenery a bit, and in the end it was hardly noticeable. At such times it seems I should've thought of this, that and the other... I've been taking part in Homo novus for ten years now. Only on one occasion I didn't take part in the festival. I also take part in organising the new media festival and the closing of the Days of Art, so I haven't given up the organising aspect altogether. L.S.: What made you get involved with something like open day at the "House of Art"? I.C.: Four years ago I was invited to the working group. At that time, the open day tradition had already been revived, and that year it waspossible to turn it into a major event. There was proper support from Riga City Council. After that, I didn't want to give it up, since everyone was so happy about it: people took an interest, they came. When I began to collect photographs to put up on the corridor walls, I discovered such a thick cultural stratum! After all, I represent the third generation connected with this building. L.S.: True, you're a real captain, and you're even ready to be the last to leave a sinking ship! But the things that make you "publicly interesting" at various times are your installations and performances. What motivates you, since it always means additional work, quite apart from the aesthetic value? Your range of interests includes ecology, Latvia and the European Union, etc. I.C.: The aesthetic side is not the most important to me. I don't regard myself as a talented aesthete. Particularly when compared to others who have a perfect sense of taste. In the eternal dispute on what's more important, form or content, I need form to help along content. I simply do a lot of thinking about what I wish to say. And how to say it. As directly and honestly as possible. You can find a thought for every work. At the time of the "re:public" exhibition, I created portraits of firemen. It was one of those winters when a considerable number of people had burned to death. Children in particular. It seemed to me: what can I do? How can I influence the situation? This work was the only way I could express the things on my mind. Of course, it made no difference. Only this year, after a really terrible tragedy, are these problems beginning to be discussed. I already knew that fire-fighters, on whom our lives depend, work in terrible conditions. They're really not provided for. You might say that what I do in this way is absolutely pointless, but it seems to me that it's not totally pointless. On the other hand, there was also a different idea behind this work: in the streets, in advertising, in magazines, we're pursued by "correct faces": young, beautiful and unnatural, since they're artificial. The faces of firemen are natural. To be real, that's important to me. Many years ago, I read Aspazija's essay Dievzemīte ("Country of God"). There were sentences that troubled me. Since I couldn't understand how a woman could write something like that! The text was about the Revolution of 1905, and the mood was extreme. I used this text for the centenary exhibition at the museum and for an installation in France. One sentence goes like this: "You, Country of God, will be victorious when the last mother holds in her lap the bloodied head of her last son." We, Latvians...a century ago... what happened? I wanted to understand. Nowadays, we talk about terrorism and extremism. Back then, Latvians were the terrorists! Certain ideas come to mind, which don't give me peace, and I try to work them out and comprehend them somehow. I can't say that I resolve them. But it's the same as when you name your fear, you can fight it. I had an internet project about ageing. I was trying to reconcile myself to the idea that I, too, am getting older, that in the years to come I'll become similar to my grandmother. And so I created a project where I tried to show my own face, the faces of acquaintances and famous people as they might look when they're old. In this project, I found several photographs that are very similar, but taken at intervals of 30 or 60 years. Actually, we're the same people, but it's hard to comprehend this. Just as with the things that happened to the Latvians a century ago. It happened to others, not to us. But in fact, we are the same people! You have to touch in order to understand. If you don't try to comprehend it, then is it possible to comprehend what's going on in the world today? I think not. L.S.: And it's important for you to understand? Why? I.C.: In the first place, I'm not alone. I have children, who'll live in the world that's coming about today. After all, the forecast is not particularly optimistic... L.S.: What, in your view, remains of your works? I.C.: The question is about whether thoughts disappear. I think not. I have the feeling that if some inner problem arises, then it must be addressed. Since, sooner or later, it'll have to be faced. And this is one of the ways of facing it. Since the negative side of it overwhelms you only if there's a lack of any solution. L.S.: You had a beautiful and somewhat frightening work on ecology: a neatly draped memorial table covered in glasses containing something like balsam or oil... I.C.: My initial ideas, when Inese Baranovska invited me to participate in the "Nature. Environment. Man. 2004" exhibition, were precisely of this kind: trainloads of crude oil pass my house all the time, and I'm calmly living here. Crude oil, ammonia... Actually, it's not all so peaceful. It's something you have to live with. And such associations develop into a definite image. L.S.: Even before Kristaps Gulbis' "European folk dress", you had Euro, the money person... I.C.: That's a very old idea. For the Rauma Biennial in 1998, you had to submit ideas, and I had two. They chose the most ascetic one: naked backs, under the title "Dossier". (I took pictures of myself and my fellows from the Women's League from behind, so that we'd look similar. The idea relates to a levelling action that makes many things seem outwardly similar, but when you take a deeper look, there are more differences than things in common.) The other project was about money - more ironic. I'd noticed that on the new European banknotes there are no people, no faces, while the old ones have cultural figures, scientists and outstanding persons. And it seemed to me that this new, faceless euro is coming, wiping out the cultural stratum of the old Europe. I wanted to represent this in a theatrical way. And if an idea sticks in your mind, then, sooner or later, a context for it emerges and it can be realised. I'd already created a performance about money at Pedvāle - about investing money, namely, burying it in the landscape of Pedvāle. Young artists (Kirils Panteļejevs, Kristīne Abika, Laura Feldberga and Dina Kopštāle) were made-up and dressed to look like characters from banknotes. They went to see the landscape of Pedvāle like rich investors. They were met by Milda (Evija Ķirsone) as a poor girl in folk dress and taken to see beautiful landscapes that required investment. (Just like artists need investment, for art to be created.) Banknotes were buried in a field in Pedvāle - like Pinochio burying his pieces of gold in the Land of Fools, in order to grow a money tree. L.S.: Which of your projects do you yourself regard as successful? I.C.: I strive to be as honest as possible in my works and to say the things I want to say. Sometimes, others find it relevant, sometimes less so, but it's important for myself. It's more important to me, perhaps, than to the viewer. I was pleased with the Aspazija project in France - the embroidered letters. It was displayed in a monastery garden, an inhumanly beautiful, amazing garden. There I laid a memorial table, commemorating the centenary of our revolution. It was symbolic, also in relation to France as the mother of revolutions. But the French, they read texts. They have a different attitude to text than we do. We've seen so many alien ideologies, and Latvians are unwilling to read texts. The possibility of reading texts does not address them. I don't know whether anyone actually read this text at the museum centenary exhibition. The French do read, it addresses them. For them, the written word has greater significance. I was also pleased that the work fitted into the landscape. L.S.: The art is drawing ever closer to discourse on social issues. Is this a transitory phenomenon? Why is it that artists in particular are talking about such matters? I.C.: Politicians are further from real life. Living at their level, they don't sense what's happening. Artists live here and now. The problems of politicians are not always our problems. | |
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