The #leaveamessage Day: Roads of the Unexpected

The Laws of Destiny and Chance are those that cannot be classified.

Randomness is something very much cherished in art: from the Surrealist's automatic painting, going through Pollock's famous drippings to mention what once Picasso is told to have said when asked about how his Blue Period developed: 'I ran out of other colours', he replied.
And just liked it so much as to carry on.

By the way, this is not a post about found objects, but found messages. Has it ever occurred to you to find an unexpected nice message in an unexpected place? I remember the 'secret admirer' when I was in Primary School. Love messages started to pop up in my pencil case or folded in the sandwich wrapping, and I perfectly knew it was some female classmates just taking the piss. I could match handwritings all right, even at eight. However, it was nice just to believe it, if only for a split second.
Even most interesting than this are those messages that perhaps weren't meant for us, but we find anyway. A lost letter. A post-it note stolen by the wind. A torn bit of words floating in the river.
A private message sent on Facebook to that not-so-famous-actor on his 40th birthday, just to let him know that you spared a thought for him and he's still gorgeous and you had a massive crush on him when you were eight and possibly never quite shook it. (embarassed cough)

It's like a treasure hunt, but you don't have to look for a treasure and you have no map. That something as simple as kind words is finding a way to come to you. Click.

Now you should take a further click, and read how come that this idea of the #leaveamessage day occurred to Wonderland. Just scroll down for the English version when you reach the post, and sign up if you feel like spreading some happy thoughts and cheers in the run up - or count down - to Christmas!

SAVE THE DATE: #leaveamessage day is Wednesday 14 December !

I like the idea of one of you, random readers, finding one of my messages. None of the two of us will never know, perhaps, but for a moment our distant lives would touch, and then turn back to normal.

Hopefully with a smile on our faces!

Yesterday

There are some days when everything goes wrong.

It starts with one event, and then the chain of bad luck follows, like it was called by some sort of jinx sorority. But, there also are days when exactly the opposite happens.

First, it started with a dear friend of mine giving me a great news: he has a girlfriend. Actually, he did pronounce the word "engaged", but didn't exactly tie the knot since they've been going out for just a couple of weeks...and been knowing each other since childhood. I was so happy for him. After five or so years of being single, spent trying to forget the only girl who broke his heart, who's now happily married and with child, he merrily tells me that he has fallen in love again. 

I kept on telling him, it will eventually come to you one day if you only stopped searching...love is always unexpected.

Secondly, in the afternoon I had one of those experiences that throw you back in...well...sixteen years' time in the space of a second. A famous pop star popped in my workplace.

One of those people you worshipped when you were sixteen and, despite this made you the joke of your male friends and the desperation of your parents, you still remember the times spent singing the songs over and over and hopelessly waiting outside an hotel with your mates as really good fun. 

Not "the best times of your life", no...those would have come later.

I remember the frustration, though. That of spending so much time trying to see a person in a context that wasn't a gig without actually succeeding. You know, closer look, not just the miniature, big screen or TV version. Well, yesterday, without any advance notice, he was right in front of me.

At the beginning I thought OK, I can handle this (after having pinched hard my poor colleague's leg as soon as he stepped in). Couldn't really control heartbeats, sweating hands and - hopefully unnoticed - rash reactions, though. Damn, I thought I was a mature grown-up woman, but at that very moment I was back a teenager every inch.

"I am just having a look around." He said. 

And I replied with something very intelligent like: "Er...sure."

AskhimifheneedsanyhelpatallforGodssake! 

The result: my colleague maintains that I scared him off and he is never coming back. Just because I collapsed on the floor behind the counter when he left (pathetic, I know) and she claims that he saw me (no, he didn't). Despite losing the dignity, this banal event put a smile on my face: eventually, things come to those who can wait.

Precisely, there it arrived an email at the end of the day:

"Your exhibition proposal has been accepted." 

A curator friend of mine once quoted a passage from "By Nightfall", a novel by Michael Cunningham. 

It was a conversation between someone who wanted to become a curator and someone else, who compared the choice to that of wanting to become a movie star: obviously very few succeed.

True, but some do succeed the first character replied.

Well, that "yes" was coming from a Museum I worship and, if I have to draw parallelisms between curatorial and cinematographic careers, this would definitely be compared to being the leading actress in a Fellini movie.

All I Don't Want This Christmas

1. I don't want to be stuck in London.
Although I have never spent Christmas here, and it would be nice, I don't want to start this year: since I have left my country, festivities and all they concern turned from being something that "has to be done" to something that I definitely want to do: spend time with the family. We will all be heartbroken if I missed those days because of the snow leaving airports in chaos. A Skype conference call won't do, this time.



2. I don't want to end up in front of the TV after the meals.
Whenever I go back, it seems like I never left. Therefore, I end up doing what I used to do, forgetting that I now see Rome twice a year if I am lucky; I should be out enjoying the beauty of my hometown, taking a stroll in the chilly air, remember what it is to look at hundreds of years of history. Rome during Christmas is a magic place to share with the people you love.

3. I don't want to be necessarily happy.
"Merry Christmas" is just a wish. People hope that you will be merry, but this doesn't mean that you have to. Well, putting bad feelings aside for a day or two can only do you good, but pretending is another matter. This would be my wish for Christmas: be yourself, whatever mood you woke up in.

4. I don't want to miss a thing.
Wish I wouldn't, at least. But when you've been away two years things happen, things which are not necessarily shared over the phone, things that put you, willy-nilly, out of the loop. Everyone is nice to you because you are there just for a short time and they don't want you to worry, or to burden you with anything. This is, in my opinion, even more worrying.

5. I don't want to eat too much.
I know: just a silly thought. It's just that food and alcohol fuddle you (which brings us back to point 2) and you end up always having the same discussions around the table: politics and your parents telling all the pranks you did as a child to your husband, in-laws and everyone happening to pop by for a quick greet.

6. I don't want to come back to London with yet another set of bed linens.
Of course presents are not important, but please, Auntie dear, please. To see the family all together is already a great present.

7. I don't want to forget this Christmas.
Let's admit it: we do do always the same stuff at Christmas; this makes the days muddled and interchangeable, making you forget what happened in the specific. This year could be the year before or the one after, and so on. Some changes in the routine will make an unforgettable day.

8. I don't want to make anyone unhappy.
I have put my best effort in the presents this year. I have searched, selected, and really thought about the people I am going to give them to. Little thoughts, nothing special, but everything is heart-made.

I would like to also add points 9 and 10 to have a nice, round list, but that's all for now.
For some serious good wishes, please come back later!

Pictured: my Christmas Ficus Tree and home-made garland, realised from scratch with till's receipts.

Organising a Show via SMS

One artist in Berlin. One curator in London.
No computer or internet available for a couple of days. Two weeks away from the opening.
Skype can be used intermittently. No conference calls. What to do?

28 September, 2:54pm
Si: Hey, what's the distance of the window from the pvmnt?It's easy to measure:follow the imaginary dgnal from the cntre of the glass to the point where the visitor will sta

sy: What?

2:58 pm
Si: Actlly you can take a stone tie a stringtoit and throwt to the other side of the rd,then measure the strtchd string!

sy: And killing a passer-by for sure. And how about measuring,d'you think I'm Spidergirl?

30 September, 3:43 pm
Si: I bokd the tkts!Yay!Leaving on 13th but dunno how many hrs bus will tk.Dnt remember arrival time.

sy: Oh, s**t. Opening is on 14th...brilliant.We're dead.

2 October, 11:11 am
Si: Morning!Am working!Can U confirm window's glass measurements to be 70x86 and 60x86?We're going to make it but I'll need msrmnts to the mm!

sy: Sizes are:118x88and56x86cm.

2:51 pm
Si: Impossible,there's a mistake:how can you've such different sizes??Do you have a flared window? ;-)

sy: These are the measurements of the glass only,without the frame,as you requested.And the answer is yes,the window is flared.
-_-

You haven't learned anything

> Organising decent shows with the lowest budget possible: Curator's Stuff

So far, The Bay Window Project relied on a generous lender for a projector. But when the lender takes the projector back and says "that's it", all you have to do is thank him very much and find another -cheap- solution. Having discarded the possibility of other projector lenders (because the item always has to go back at a certain point, not to mention the consumption of the expensive lamp), the most plausible solution is only one: buy it.

And, seen the budget issue, you already know where: eBay.
This virtual auction website doesn't really need any further introduction: a receptacle of hidden treasures and desirable junk, it can really save your finances in the hour of need. But you need to be prepared: like you, hundreds of other buyers are glued to the computer screen, waiting silently to place the best bid and get the item they want. Perusing eBay can be turned from a pleasant and even funny experience to pure war, furiously fought through the beat of mouse clicks.

Let's get an example. There is this am-az-ing projector, right? Brand new, new lamp, thousands of ansi lumen, everything. Nine people are bidding for it but the price is still reasonable. No problem: with a grin on your face, you place the unbeatable bid, thinking no one will have the time to beat it at the last minute. In actual auction rooms, where real and expensive artworks are for sale to the best offer, there is what is recognised as the "aggressive" bidder: he or she who keeps the paddle up all the time, to show the others that the artwork already has an owner. Same attitude applies on-line, in the virtual world of html codes and numbers.

Very well, the end of the projector auction is approaching and of course you are in front of the computer, looking smug, because your bidding trick always worked before. You also have a fresher to impress: your husband never bid on eBay before and is still confused about how it works and, moreover, about your questionable plan.
15 seconds left and the figure doesn't increase.
10 seconds left: overexcited, you start the countdown, like it was New Years Eve.
4...3...2...1...and... you don't win the projector.

O_O"

Wait a minute. How come you didn't win the projector? What happened? What the...
Let's rewind, shall we? While you were acting like an idiot, the bidders on the other side of the screen just overcame your offer, and that happened in the space of three seconds, making a counter-bid humanly impossible.
They knew how to do it. The aggressive bidder got distracted: game over. Your husband looks at your gutted face shaking his head and offers to help.

The research continues, this time on Gumtree, because you just can't take all this pressure (nor another shameful defeat) and your husband insists it is "safer": you start to be surprised about the quantity of people who wants to get rid of a projector. You make contact with a guy, an appointment is set the day after at 3.30 pm to see the item. The guy lives light years away from you, but nonetheless you make the journey. When you call him to know where exactly his flat is, reminding him that you are coming for the projector, the answer is: "Sorry, it's sold." WHAT??

Then, you remember. It's 3.27 pm and you are in London, the native land of the first-come-first-served basis with the addition of I-don't-have-to-give-you-any-explanation-nor-send-you-any-text-to-let-you-know. You have been living here for two years now.
You haven't learned anything.

And, sadly, you still don't have a projector.
Back on eBay, where you were monitoring some more of them, you find another suitable candidate... and win it this time! Although there was no count-down and your fingers were ready on the keyboard with an higher offer, you were the only bidder (hum...)
Collection: successful.
Computer connection: after a few curses and a pathetic phone call to the previous owner, successful.
Then you remember something about the ansi lumens, and discover that this projector has a brand new lamp bulb, yes, but it has less than half of the power of the previous one.

Perfect in a dark room, a bit poor with street lights on. Doh.

> Not knowing a rat's ass about technology: Curator's Stuff.

The Memory of a Goldfish

I have liken to this phrase a loooooong time ago.

High school, the 90s. I was in a funny mood and thought to remind a guy I barely knew that he had forgotten about my birthday. Instead of snorting, the guy thought of a funnier way of having me on a bit and started hugging me, moaning: "Oh my God, you're SO right, I am SO SO sorry...I have the memory of a goldfish!"

He doesn't know that this sentence is now my patented property, used and abused countless times. Especially because I do have the memory of a goldfish. Meaning: I forget stuff all the time (not the important stuff, though!). 

Here is a fresh, funny example.

Last night, I was in conversation on Skype with Silvia Iorio:

Si - So, did you like Stockholm?

sy - Very much!

Si - Did you go to Fancy Space Of Which I Don't Remember The Name Right Now?

sy - Er...no, I didn't know about it...but it must have been closed, everything was shut for the end of the summer...

Si - Ah, shame!

sy - But I did go to the Moderna Museet.

Si - Oh, did you?

sy - Yeah, the permanent collection is very interesting. For example, I saw a video by an artist I didn't know, Martha Rosler...

Si - (makes a face)

sy - What?

Si - But it's the same artist!

sy - The same artist of what?

Si - Come on, don't you remember? I have brought you an artwork from Basel* by Martha Rosler!

sy - (blushing from head to toe) Oh...ah...is it...her?

Si - YES! (laughs)

sy - Er...really? Let me just check...

Si - (continues laughing)

sy - (fidgets with a rather torn picture representing three egg-shape forms in various colours. Checks the name behind. Capitulates) Ah, OK...didn't make the connection...

Si - (affectionately) You are terrible!

sy - Sorry...I have the memory of a goldfish.


> Writing down every single name of the artists you don't know and then forgetting them anyway: Curator's Stuff.

* We are talking about ART PARCOURS, organised this year at 41 Art Basel. Martha Rosler presented Fair Trade Garage Sale at the Museum der Kulturen: inspired from the American "garage sale", where one person's junk is another person's treasure, everything presented by the artist was for sale and the prices could be negotiated.

There must be a reason

With every preparation of a show, here comes the moment every young curator dreads the most: sending the Press Release.

If you don't have the luck (or funds) of having a proper Press Office doing it for you, then be prepared for a good deal of stress which will probably end up in calling the computer every name under the sun or, more politely, putting your hands in your hair not exactly to pull them out, but to prevent them from falling off.

Too melodramatic? In the end it's not a big deal, is it? It's just about sending some emails... well, there must be a reason why people study hard to become Press Officers.

First of all, dealing with the press means tight deadlines, well in advance of the event, which can't be ignored; therefore you need to squeeze your brain out and get the press release done before that date. If you have the writer's block or suffer from chronic perfectionism, you're screwed.

Once everything is nicely ready, the image is in place in the email's body, the writings make sense - not too boring, not too long - and the timing is right, you suddenly realise that you can't send it at once to all your contacts. Most of the on-line email servers now have anti-spam filters activating themselves as soon as you try to go over, say, two-hundred emails per day - Two Hundred! Wow, you have a hell of a mailing list! - OK, people don't like spam and that's a fact, but there is a difference between selling Viagra and informing about an upcoming show... I am sure these spam filters, which must have been devised from the CIA's greatest geeks, are aware of the email's content.

How do you solve this? By splitting your contacts in not too large groups. Ype, but this takes half of your day. Moreover, you can be the most organised and precise person in the world... there will always be a skipped, forgotten or even added twice contact ending up in the wrong group. Like That Gallery Director getting, together with the show invitation, a personal message saying: "Hello dude! Hope to see ya there!" Face it: you're not Superman.

After having tried to pull your eyes, that have started twitching, together, you are ready to press the 'Send' button. Read it again.
Adjust that double space.
Add something.
Delete something.
Wait! Don't forget to add the Bcc otherwise every contact will see everyone else's email and they are going to hate you.
Ah! Add the disclaimer, too. Explain to people why they are getting this email, that you are blah blah, rules about privacy, blah blah blah and that, if they don't want to receive such information anymore, they can unsubscribe.
Put your email in the "To" field, so you can monitor everything.
Done. Take a breath... Send.

Aaaaah, first batch gone, you start to relax and even to feel smug. Piece of cake! You receive the email that you have just sent to yourself and...instead of the image, there is a nice blue square with a question mark in it. What the hell? Simple: the image has jumped. That's when you start to loose it because you just have informed a group of people of a show about a work that they can't see. And it's not just any group, like "Friends" who will definitely understand: it's "Press". This doesn't really help.

To avoid repeating the embarrassing mistake, you start all over again, create a new fresh email, re-add the image, and avoid the "Forward" button like the plague. This, for five or six times minimum, depending on how many "Groups" you have. In the mean time, is 1.59 am and you have been at it all day. Well, at least it's done. Life is beautiful!

The day after, you open your email account to finish sending the invite to the rest of your contacts - you were clever enough to keep the ones not subject to deadlines for the day after because the spam filters have indeed blocked you. - Among the many "Out of Office" auto-reply and failure notices because you typed 'hitmail' instead of 'hotmail', what do you find?
A couple of "Unsubscribe". Like this. No reason given.

Well now, after all you have been through!

Peeping Toms

G: Passers by!
sy: Coming!
G: Where is the video camera?
sy: Here, here, you're laying on it!
G: Whops...
sy: ...
G: Ah. they're walking away...no, they're looking!
sy: Yeah, they are!
G: (filming)
sy: (staring)
G: (whispering) ...one is filming with a mobile phone...
sy: (whispering) Why are you whispering?
G: Don't move the curtain, they'll see you!
sy: Oh, they're going. Did they looked like they liked it?
G: ...
sy: Quiet again.
G: More people coming!
sy: Look! One saw it!
G: Yeah, but they are keeping on walking...
sy: Film it!
G: Naah, they won't stop. Trust me, I saw it several time: when they keep on walking they don't stop.
sy: (bemused) OK...but that guy is laughing.
G: Yeah, and now he's kissing his girlfriend. Another typical reaction.
sy: ???

Now, this isn't the newest antropological or social experiment: this is an ordinary evening since we started showing the video for the second Bay Window Project. We might well apply for a job as professional stalkers and start a whole new career.

Perhaps Kate Fox would be interested in hearing from us.

Mario (a post for connoisseurs)

22 July 2010.

The Bay Window is officially turned into a light projection box. Meaning: if you happen to stroll by Cleveland street, you will bump into Luana Perilli's magnificent video.


No picture can give it justice (especially if made by me and my antediluvian camera), therefore you will need to wait that my confidence in using Final Cut increases just that tiny little bit in order to edit another video, possibly in a better way than this.

The second Bay Window Project taught me a couple of important things that other budding curators might find useful:

The first: if you are projecting a video outdoor, in London, in the month of July, check the sunset's precise time before sending the press release out. This will avoid you panicking because at 7:30 pm you can't see anything and start hoping, wishing and praying that people will arrive the usual late. Which, in fact, for once doesn't happen.

The second: no matter how big the problem is, there is always a Plan B concealed as an ingenious idea. In our case, a little monitor with the video on in the lower part of the window solved the trouble of the poor visibility and became quite performative.

Finally, the third is Mario.
Mario is the famous art critic you must know and have to have at your openings. As reserved and uncatchable as Charles Saatchi, this eminent intellectual rounds on exhibitions undisturbed and has the power to launch or demolish whoever at glance. From where his words will fall upon you, is not for you to know. If he reviews a show, no one who attended is really sure they have seen him there. Most of all, Mario is so ineffable and so incredibly famous at the same time, that there is the tendency to forget his name.

A - You know, I know that famous art critic...
B - Do you?
A - Yes, you know...he's a very famous one...you must know him! Oh God, what was his name again?
B - (encouraging) Mario?

That's it! Mario.
Mario is everywhere, and there is always a Mario for every opening. In the end, aren't we all waiting for Mario?

I would like to thank the artist, G2, my G, curator Francesca Cavallo from cosmicmegabrain, Alessia, Tati and all the others who attended the opening, making it a very nice and funny evening.

The Stories Behind the Opening

Wednesday morning, 9:30 am at the University.

In Unit 2, Will is squatted on the floor, manoeuvring cables and plugs next to a black hand painted plinth, under Sophie's gaze: the loop of the video Dancing on Kelkule' (B-END) isn't working because of a missing remote, and she's just back from Argos where she bought a new DVD player with a remote; now it's just the case to understand which cable goes in which plug. Meanwhile, Francesca is standing on the ladder, cleaning the dusty and so far neglected surface of the spotlights. We've spent the previous days scraping the floor, then polished by the cleaners, sanding the wall and re-painting it: the long, rectangular gallery looks fresh and new.

All the works are up and ready but three: Habda is gone to Charlotte's studio to collect two and is due to come in at 12-ish. We are adding a new piece, Night Gown, that the artist has just finished, because the left hand side wall next to Dylan's installation looks a bit empty. For a moment, setting up a show looks like furnishing a home. You notice an empty space above the sofa: you buy a mirror or something in a frame. For a great collector, that would be a painting.

The other missing work is THE Odyssey. Not ready yet.

The day before, I had my very first long face when I discovered that the MDF panel was painted at 4.30 pm and was going to take all night to dry up. Moreover, the switches' plates didn't have their gloss yet. That meant finishing the work on Wednesday, the opening day, by 6 pm. Hah.

9:35 am.

My long face and I are at the spray workshop in order to beg Andy, who's swamped with other work, to spray finish the plates, which will dry in two hours (two hours!) We exchange pleasantries, and then Andy makes my morning by saying that he did the job at 8:30 am and we can collect the plates in half an hour or so. I jump back downstairs to meet D.V., who is now officially helping Silvia and has been nominated our guardian angel: a skilled technician, practical and direct person, he will reveal himself to be an essential add. We go in search of a gun...for hot melt glue, not to shoot anyone of course.

11:30 am.

The panel is dried and ready on trestles in the workshop in front of the spray finishing room. Silvia and D.V. are inserting switches in the holes, which click perfectly in place. The gun is not warming up. It takes 10 minutes before realising that the plug isn't working. New plug. The gun works. At 11:46, we have our first test of gluing a plate to a table, to see if it holds. It does. More or less.

12:07 pm.

Back in Unit 2. The video loop works, but there are problems with the plinth crashing the cable and stopping the connection. A big, black, heavy TV sits atop of the plinth and has to be removed every time a new arrangement is made. Nonetheless, Will doesn't loose his high spirit. I get a text from Habda: all well, she is on her way with the works. If we need anything just let her know. Same text from Clementina, who will come in the afternoon. Fran is adjusting the projector's position for Gusztav and Katja's video Transposed Bodies, which in the meantime has been kept playing: although none of us speaks German, I think we now know the lines by heart.

12:33 pm.

I go back to the workshop room, which is 5-7 minutes walk from Unit 2, to see how the plates gluing is going. One line is done. The lines are 21. The switches 160. One line per hour makes...I suddenly realise that the work is proceeding very slowly because of the accuracy Silvia is putting in choosing the right colour combination among the six selected. I make her promise to speed up, then I regret saying that: beautiful things are always slow. From the back of my mind, I hear a voice shrieking: No.Time.For.Cheap.Poetry.Damnit!

2:30 pm.

I bring the guys something to eat and have my sandwich along the way. Two lines done. But, most of the plates have been arranged, it's just a matter of gluing them. 

3:05 pm.

Back in Unit 2. Charlotte's works are up and look amazing, I may make some more considerations in a minute. On D.V.'s suggestion, I am putting the screws in the wall for Odyssey in advance so, if they really finish last minute, at least we will save time on the hanging. Will, who in the end managed to fix the video but isn't quite done yet, and I diligently take all the measurements according to D.V.'s instructions, and mark the four holes for the screws. 

4:16 pm.

I spend at least half an hour to check that the holes are on the same line: not easy when you have a 224 cm long work and a spirit level measuring only one meter.

I need a string. And blue tack. There was plenty of it but I can't find it anymore (I will find it two months later, in the back pocket of my shopping trolley. And I have the suspect it was actually me who put it there). While the others start to clean up the space from tools and additional dust, I go to buy some more tack justincase and to see what the situation is with the work.

4:30 pm.

Still gluing. Some of the plates have started being temperamental and refuse to stick. The three bottom lines are all done. Plus the first two and some other random plates. I receive a phone call from Fran saying if I wanted to go home with her and relax a bit. I thank her and decline.

5:05 pm.

The corridor outside the workshop bears the marks of my pacing back and forth. Inside, the guys are pitching on.

5:23 pm.

I receive a phone call. What.Is.The.Piece.At? I am not surprised by the hint of impatience in his voice. My calm wears off for a second, but I reassure him that we are almost there, the screws are in the wall already, and all we have to do is to pop the work onto...I don't see any screws in the wall, is the answer.

What?

There are no screws in the wall.

Oh, brilliant. After having pulled myself together, I ask to speak to Will, who explains to me that he prefers to see the work before putting screws, just in case it needs to be moved...I give up for a couple of minutes and report to Silvia and D.V. They urge me to put the screws in the wall.

5:31 pm.

I call Will again. Same conversation. I feel like hot metal between two anvils, and about to be squeezed like a lemon. I run for it, back to Unit 2, and can feel my throat drying off. When I get in breathless, I am not even able to speak: Pu...Scr...heh...Wall...No...W! And I also remember to say Pls.

While GoodWill does that, I quickly fix the video camera that has to film everyone activating the switches in place, on an existing ledge above Russel's work. There is just a plastic string holding it in place, plus loads of blue tack. God bless the Blue Tack. Wish me luck.

5:47 pm.

The screws are in the wall. Will and I are on our way to collect the work. As soon as he and D.V. lift it, a couple of plates fall off.

5:51 pm.

People stare and cars honk while a panel with 160 coloured switches floats about, carried by two rather exhausted guys. Silvia and I waddle behind, hoping not to have to grab other fallen plates. We miss the shortcut to Unit 2 and take a parallel street. It seems to take forever.

5:54 pm.

Artwork approaching! I sprint forward, open Unit 2's door wide and declare: "They're here". There are people in the gallery. Thank God it's just the artists. The others wait in front of the work's spot to finally see it. Great expectations are in the air.

5:55 pm.

Odyssey enters Unit 2. Just one last effort and...pop! It perfectly sits on the screws. It's straight. It holds. A spontaneous though slightly exasperated applause bursts out. Fallen plates still to be fixed.

5:57 pm.

Video camera is on and records my panicked face and waving hands as the first thing. I cross the gallery carrying the ladder and bump in a couple of acquaintances who came to see the show...early. I am not dressed nicely, have no make up, and my cheeks are bright red. But I definitely feel relieved.

6:00 pm.

SORRY, WE'RE OPEN.

Broken promises

Hem Hem (embarrassed coughing)
Just to clarify: the fact that yesterday you didn't see a post with an installation shot before the opening, to show you at what time we finished, doesn't mean that the show isn't open...

SORRY, WE'RE OPEN is up and running, more details to come soon!
Bear with us.

I am exhausted, but very happy.

Clash of the Titans

This blog is bo-ring.

No updates since we found a title, shame on us. Well, to our defence I can say that we were very busy: we're organising a show here.

And no, this post is no movie review.

I remember I have said that the relationship between curator and artist is like flying a kite. Let's spend a few words about the relationship between curator and curator instead...or else, between a group of five peers with different ideas and one common goal: to put up a very good show and impress, to finally do the job we are studying for.

First of all, it should be fun without forgetting professionalism, but of course the latter tends to take over and, as it is normal, difference of opinions arises because everyone has his or her own way to push for excellence. That is when, basically, I came to think of the Titans.

Imagine a huge battlefield, with nothing but dried land, the earth trembling and cracking while the fight rages. Gigantic creatures are wrestling each other, their powerful cries high above the cloud of dust caused by their clashes. Suddenly, a small figure emerges from the mayhem (Perseus?), puts himself well out of the way, wipes the sweat and dirt from his brow and sits down to wait. 
He understood this is not serious: in the end, the Titans and Titaness were brothers and sisters fighting like children over a toy: at the end of the day, everything will end up the Italian way, or singing Kumbaya.

These last two expressions need a bit of clarification,  I guess what I intended is not clear enough when you click on the links...English is not my first language (as you might have noticed from the possible errors around), and I was looking for the right expression to say that no matter how big the discussion is, at the end the storm finishes with a laugh and a pat on the shoulder, like nothing at all had happened. And that's good, I think it shows good teamwork.
For my researches, Wordreference is my best friend, really, I'd be lost without it! When I looked up the sentence, I was very surprised to find out that someone had the nerve to translate "finire a tarallucci e vino", which in Italian literally means "to end up (an argument) drinking wine and eating biscuits", as "to end up the Italian way." I thought it was so funny (and appropriate) that I bursted out laughing. Just making fun of myself.

Habemus Nomen

Try to imagine what it takes to find a name for a show that has such a broad and open concept as ours.

Normally a show would be named after:

1. An artwork or artist. Even in group shows. Like, for example, I am not here. An Exhibition without Francis Alÿs ;

2. A concept. But naming a show "The Space" is like calling a Chihuahua "Hercules";

3. A complete non-sense. The public will love it. Like when you go and see a show about needle-works called The Unbearable Lightness of Being. No, unfortunately this show isn't on yet, I've just made it up. If I have to improve my jokes please let me know.

So, let's put up a little scenario, shall we? Let's make it like X-Factor.

Gala Night. Just three contestants left. You can cut the excitement in the air with a knife. 

Ladies and Gentleman, for the final evening of Who Wants to Be a Show Title, we have...and then a figure, not yet illuminated by spots, appears in the dark just next to the curtain. He seem not to be steady on his feet and he looks a bit like...Willem. De Kooning.

...Slippery Glimpses! The Presenter announces, and the light goes on. The public claps in a very educated way. Slippery Glimpses nods politely in their direction.

...and then, ladies and gentleman, straight from Borges' universe (a place far, far away), we have...Aleph! From behind a curtain emerges a lady with a long, sparkling black dress with white spots; she seems annoyed: "Emh, excuse me" she says. The Presenter looks startled: "It's The Aleph, actually. I am a point in the space that contains all other points. Anyone who gazes into me can see everything in the Universe from every angle simultaneously, without distortion, overlapping or confusion. And I would like to say hi to my mum. HI MUM!" 

Yes, err...thank you THE Aleph, very well, please take your position. There we go...and finally, ladies and gentleman, we have...

The curtains suddenly opens. It is a bit unfair to the other contestants, who frown. On the other side, there is...nothing. The expectant drums sound suddenly falls and the embarrassing silence is replaced by the public's gasps.

Sorry, we're...the Presenter begins in an apologetic tone. "Sorry, I am here!" A voice calls from the floor. Slippery Glimpses bends down and picks up what seems like a door sign. The Aleph looks horrified.

He reads aloud: "Sorry, We Are Open." 

"Yeah, that's me!" The signs reply. The Presenter makes up for the impasse.

Yes ladies and gentleman, that's him! And now that we have all our final contestants gathered here, I will finally announce the name of the winner...


And let the curtains close here, because I am sure you understood who the winner is.
Well done Will!

How about some advice?

I have read with great amusement this recommendations to a budding curator by the self confessed newspaper man Augustine Zenakos, who in turn was suggested to us by the curator Tom Morton. I couldn't resist but leaving some personal comments.

Read a lot of post-structuralism, preferably in the form of quotations you can find in catalogue essays. Quote them in turn, profusely, making sure their relationship to any actual artwork remains obscure.

Whenever I see the word "post-structuralism", I just turn the page over.

No studying anything before the 1960s is allowed. Learn all your history through contemporary art theory.

I tried that, but my heart belongs with the idea that history, all history, is necessary to do a good job.

Never say you are anything more than a facilitator for artists. If inadvertently you do, and you momentarily appear like having anything remotely resembling a vision or, worse, an agenda, cover it up quickly with a phrase like “curators have to stand firm against the voracity of the market”.

Yes, Master.

Be as immaterial as possible, be a ghost. Support everything anti-spectacular and insubstantial. When asked to describe it, use words like interventional, process-based, archaeological, investigative. If challenged with something like the inability of others to see the point, call them antiquated and formalist and declare the work of art to be changing.

You forgot to include "taxonomy" in your list, Master.

Praise the local, but in abstract terms. Make sure that you choose a local thing that does not require any local knowledge to be understood. If you can’t find something suitably local where you are, pick a Mexican or a Lithuanian one. When faced with a situation that is truly local, dismiss it as nationalist, and continue.

But this will cut any potential fund out, Master.

Be against state-run cultural policies, as well as private enterprise. Declare your support for small autonomous zones of collaboration. When asked about their funding, don’t dwell too much: this is not about money.

And the fact that it is never about money makes the curator zone off limits for those who can't afford it, which is a shame.

Be for independent organizations, but when faced with one, call it cliquey and turn away. There is nothing there for the taking, anyway.

Er...Yes, Master.

Always acknowledge the public. Say that all this is being done for their benefit, because contemporary art is for everyone. Then, blame lack of funding, public support, etc. If someone appears to be practical about these things, call them a behind-the-scenes-mover-and-shaker and state that you are not interested in authoritarian structure.

Wow, I never thought to actually be such a complicated thing. I just thought I was practical.

You’ll do fine.

Thank you, Master.

And now, let's close the little distraction-from-the-more-important-task-of-writing-the-damn-catalogue-text-for-our-show-post and go back to work.