Inteliģentais grafiti Dana Peržovska lekcijas pieraksts ar piezīmēm
Intelligent graffiti A recording of Dan Perjovschi’s lecture with notes Krišs Salmanis Mākslinieks / Artist
Dans Peržovskis / Dan Perjovschi 2011 Foto / Photo: Didzis Grodzs
Kad vaicāju Danam Peržovskim (Dan Perjovschi) par viņa veiksmes avotiem, rumāņu izcelsmes mākslinieks, kura radošajā biogrāfijā ērti iekārtojusies jau lielākā daļa ietekmīgāko mākslas pasākumu un vietu, atbildēja pieticīgi: “Veiksme ir relatīvs jēdziens. Es neesmu veik sminieks populārā izpratnē (ne mākslas žurnālu vāku, ne miljoniem vērtu darbu, ne supergalerijas, ne kataloga ķieģeļa biezumā). (..) Esmu vienkāršs, bez liela budžeta, varu ierasties jau pēc nedēļas, mani darbi nav jātransportē, jāapdrošina vai rūpīgi jāizplāno. Bet vissvarīgākā ir mana ironija...” Ja saruna būtu palikusi tikai elektroniskajā vidē, tas varbūt šķistu mazliet kaitinoši, kā dzirdot turīgos runājam par naudu. Bet, par laimi, Peržovskis tika uzaicināts viesoties Rīgā Laikmetīgās mākslas centra rīkotā festivāla Survival Kit trešā laidiena ietvaros. Daļa no viņa ieguldījuma bija lekcija – droši vien jau daudzos iepriekšējos priekšlasījumos noslīpēta runa, ko caurauda tik sirsnīgu un lipīgu smieklu šaltis, ka beigu beigās cilvēks gandrīz aizēnoja profesionāli. Šis priekšnesums bija gana izsmeļošs, lai piepušķošana pirms publikācijas šķistu lieka. Tādēļ, lūk, viņa stāstītais. “Mani uzaicināja sniegt lekciju. Kā parasti, es runāšu par sevi. Esmu mākslinieks, kas dzimis Rumānijā, un nāku no vides, kur bija ļoti vājas zināšanas par laikmetīgo mākslu. Šis fakts savienojumā ar komunismu diez vai uzskatāms par veiksmes recepti. Kopš tā laika esmu atradies nepārtrauktā procesā, lai pielāgotos kontekstam, bieži ar ļoti ierobežotiem līdzekļiem, minimāliem resursiem. Tādēļ man vienmēr jābūt “uz skatuves”. Ja neizstādies trīs mēnešus, tevis vairs nav. 22
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When I asked Dan Perjovschi about the key to his success, the Romanian artist, with most of the major shows and art venues already sitting comfortably in his creative biography, answered humbly. “Success is a relative term. I am not mainstream successful (no art magazine covers, no million dollar works, no superpower gallery, no brick-thick catalogue). [...] I am easy, not big budget, can come in a week, I need no work transport, no insurance and not much planning. But most of all, I’ve got the irony...” Had our conversation remained solely within the electronic realm, this could perhaps seem slightly irritating, like when you hear the well-to-do speaking of money. But luckily Perjovschi had been invited to Riga for the third instalment of the yearly Survival Kit arts festival, organized by the Latvian Centre for Contemporary Art. Part of his contribution was an artist’s lecture – well-polished by probably having been delivered a fair number of times already, but punctuated throughout by bursts of such sincere and infectious laughter, that by the end of the lecture the human person almost over shadowed the professional. This performance was rich enough to need no further embellishment before publication. Therefore here is what he said. “I was invited to give a lecture. As usual, I will talk about myself. I am an artist who was born in Romania, and I come from a context that has a very poor knowledge of contemporary art. That and the com munist situation was not exactly a recipe for success. Since then it has been a process of constant adaptation to the context, often with very few means, very little resources. That is why I have to be constantly there. If you are not showing for three months, you are gone. I was born in 1961, so I will be 50 this year. I was born the year they erected the Berlin wall. The wall is gone, I’m still standing. The political context has played a great role in my art. In 1993, shortly after the great changes, when the situation was very tough and I was very poor, one way to speak about it was to do body art. It was cheap and radical. But I did not like to do performance art that everybody else did, so I did a tattoo, which is a very boring performance. It went on for 20 or 30 minutes. It was an artisanal tattoo. At the time we didn’t have machines, it was not a popular thing. No superstar on the TV had tattoos then, now everybody has them. Back then it was the sign of an out cast – “jailer-sailor”. So I had the name of my country tattooed on my shoulder. As if I was owned by it. It was a performance to get space, to have some distance from my country. Usually I don’t like to represent anyone other than myself. This was a tactic to claim back my body, and not only. Ten years later, I erased it, again as a performance. If the making of the tattoo cost me a beer for the person working with the needle, then the taking out of it cost 2000 euros. This was in 2003, in Germany, as part of a very large show of art from the south of Europe,