Contributions

“Agents” by Anastasia Sosunova

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Anastasia Sosunova, "Agents," 2020.

 

“That’s confusing, but stimulating when phenomena don’t have a name to call them after. For example, during the quarantine, the only place where people were allowed to spend time outdoors was the forest, and at least in my neighborhood, the forest started changing rapidly, by being filled with various spontaneous human creations, structures and drawings, it was something like the production of the locality described by Arjun Appadurai, the colonization of nature, something between a violent invasion and an irresistible urge to create and produce the new cultural context. And I also don’t know what to call it, this creative use of all the materials at hand, marking the area, building fortresses, but at the same time this ‘Everything will be fine’ message from the municipality leaks here, the children’s receptivity reflects it. Maybe it’s also folk art, I mean art belonging to people, here and now…”
 

“I DeepDream of Strangers (in Quarantine)” by Valentinas Klimašauskas

Ahh, how I missed strangers!
That face-to-face relation in
the dark alley, no masks.
Well, that’s the point of the
quarantine, isn’t it?

To avoid strangers.

My father told me to avoid strangers
after he saw me jumping out of a stranger’s
car. That man was mom’s lover –
father almost beat me up for that ride.
I did not get it then. I found that stranger
to be sincerely charming, not dangerous at all.

I was already five or six, quite a combination of
various cells and naïveté: Soviet
Lithuanian, somewhat Jewish-French,
with slight Germanic umlaut.

Did I know what “the other” meant?

Emmanuel Levinas, who
was born in the same city,
he knew it very well: “If one
could possess, grasp, and know
the other, it would not be other.”

This is exactly what I told my
father: “That man was no
stranger at all! Ask mom!”

Levinas: “What could an entirely rational being
speak of with another entirely rational being?”

☺☺

Where do all these memories come from?

And all these dreams? I ask Siri.
She says the Google query
“why am i having weird dreams lately”
has quadrupled during the quarantine.

“Dreams are fugitive.”
Siri reads aloud an NYTimes article.
“Their analysis is inherently based
on incomplete information.”
“People are having a ton of bug dreams.”
“Tidal waves are common, as are monsters.”
“Nightmares are widely known to follow in the wake of trauma.”
However, quarantine is not exactly considered to be a traumatic event,
Siri reads.

Is Siri a stranger? A familiar stranger?
May I trust her? You may always trust
strangers. They don’t have a motive to
lie to you. Unless they do – then they
are not strangers anymore.

Have you tried to imagine Siri’s
face? I ask Siri if she has one.
Her answer is “Well, if ‘face’
is short for user interface.”

She has that face of a perfect stranger,
of a fugitive, a face you will never know
although you think you might know her
just because she knows almost everything about you.

What is my face then?

Who cares.
Enough of myself, of I.
Ego is a prison.
Face is a prison.
Body is a prison,
House is a prison,
Language is a prison,
Cellphones are a prison.

My favourite meme group on Facebook
is titled “Michel Foucault’s Moist Meme
Maison.” Their typical post would sound
like this: “Can I leave heaven once in
there? If not, is it just a fancy prison?”

☺☺☺

The more I miss strangers
the less I may bear the familiar ones.

One needs a stranger to define yourself.

In quarantine with the familiar only –
I’m losing myself, I’m losing my mind
I’m becoming an object with no projection
to infinity, limited by the lack of external
stimulus, moving inferior, internalising,
going, diving into DeepDreaming. Memory
as an inversion of historical time is the
essence of interiority.

Does it answer why I dream that much lately?
So I may meet strangers in my dreams
as a way to stay healthy?

☺☺☺☺

Ahh, how I missed strangers!
The face-to-face relation
in the dark alley, no masks!

I start googling random faces,
checking strangers on social networks.
I spent a few nights looking at Airbnb
apartments in various suburbs. I zoomed
into sleeping Tokyo, zoomed out to Porto
parks filled with peacocks.

“The very relationship with the other
is the relationship with the future,”
continues Levinas.

Wondering about the future and quarantine
I start browsing thispersondoesnotexist.com

Every time you enter this website,
you see a portrait of the person
who does not exist but is imagined
by a GAN (generative adversarial network)
using existing online databases of portraits.

Every time you reload the page that
deep-imagined image of that person
you think that image belongs to, refers to,
disappears, forever.

“The face is a living presence.
The face speaks,” Levinas whispers.

Ahh, how I missed my deep-fake-dreamed other!

☺☺☺☺☺

How to recognize deep-faked faces?

My deep-dreamed strangers with
their deep-faked qualities. That
awkward sense of how infinitely
surreal, how extra hybrid it is. How it
refers to new infinities.

What does this face speaks for itself
as a deepfaked image?

That look! Asymmetrical
facial features. Strabismus – eyes
point to different directions,
different futures. Non-binary
gender presentation. Semi-
-regular nose-noise.

That fuzzy hair, that missing
ear. A liquified earring, melt
ing jewelry. Odd and mangled t
eeth. With the third middle t
Ooth. Hair isn’t attached t
o anything. A malformed
background. It looks like pain
ted watercolor aesthetic s.

Text? Text is indecipherab
Le. Background is is is is is
surreal.

“Natural adult medium hair neutral person” o
r “Joyful white adult female with
medium brown hair and gray eyes.”

“Unique, worry-free model photos.”

Levinas’ “Love goes beyond the beloved,”
transforms into “Love goes beyond t
he deeploved”.

☺☺☺☺☺☺

The more I miss strangers
the less I bear the familiar.

I had that dream last night or was it today.

In a dream I took a curatorial trip to Russia.
A problematic country to travel to for a
Lithuanian because of postcolonial
tensions.

Stuck in my apartment,
roughly one third of the size
of Mir space station,
I 3D scanned my room
with some app – it rendered my room into
some ghostly painterly 360 panorama,
flying in empty space, like
memories, like dreams.

I’m somewhere there, another
object to be rendered, to be scanned.
I zoom in and out, just another pixel
in that screen, just another small
square on an endless display.

I look around and find many
copies of objects that “belong” to me,
that are the traces and effects of my being,
but all are slightly melted, inexact,
mutated. A variety of imprecisely
cloned shoes, pens, misspelled bank
cards and passports. A photo in the
visa has no teeth. Etcetera.

Everything seems familiar in the internalised world
but nothing is real. Especially the past. I woke up screaming:
“The more I miss strangers the less
I may bear the familiar.”

Strangers, don’t leave me with myself, with the
familiar, with the internalised. DeepDreamed
strangers, don’t leave us with our shallow-selves.

Ahh, how I missed strangers!
That face-to-face relation in
the dark alley. And no masks.
 

Valentinas Klimašauskas, a Lithuanian writer and curator
Proofread by Katia Porro
Read in Blok magazine

 

“Suspension Frioûl” by Natasha Marie Llorens

 
Summer comes to Marseille more slowly than one might think. The sea that rims the city holds onto the cold, staying icy through late May or early June. To swim before the sea has relinquished its seasonal impenetrability is breathtaking, literally, forcing swimmers to acknowledge that they had trespassed. The experience is a corporeal reminder that the glorious Mediterranean appearance of Marseille masks the alienation that exists between the city and that which lays beyond its shoreline, attenuated by the sun but only temporarily.

During the summer of 2015, I was briefly in love with a woman who loved the sea. I had not yet taught myself to lap swim out into the many inlets that edge the shore, or to marvel at the aging iron World War II defensive detritus at the bottom of the cove off the Anse of Malmousque as I swam out to deeper water. I had learned to swim in this sea, but so long ago that I had forgotten how to tolerate its difference from the city. I would watch my lover strike out across the blue water with the confidence of a trained swimmer and marvel at her fearlessness in the face of that difference.

In July of that summer, she volunteered at an experimental music festival held annually in Marseille, called MIMI. For many years, the festival has taken place in the ruins of the old Caroline Hospital, the quarantine facilities on the Frioûl Islands. All that remains of the hospital now are stone walls perched on the crest of ridge of the islands’ rocky Mediterranean landscape. The grounds are not typically open to the public, and so it was the first time in three decades of using the bare archipelago as an escape from the city that I had been allowed inside.

Besides getting access to all the concerts, festival volunteers are given rudimentary accommodation and permission to stay in the ruins overnight. As a romantic hanger-on, this reprieve of the usually strict access rules also applied to me. After the last concert, we climbed to the section of stone and sky in which we had been allotted a mattress. My head was ringing with echoes of the last furious set by the Acid Mothers Temple and the Cosmic Inferno as we ascended. I asked what the hospital had been used for, running one hand across a stone wall no longer supporting a roof. Beyond a vague sense of maritime quarantine, my lover didn’t know, and that evening it didn’t really matter.

Marseille is a chaotic city, ever vulnerable to the waves of immigrants that break against its rocky coastline. One consequence of this chaos is that it is structured by invisible recesses, linguistic and communitarian interior zones in the fabric of the city. A newcomer would often be struck by the permissiveness of Marseille only to discover, a year or two on, the opaque nature of political power in the city, and its centralization in the hands of a powerful elite descended from the beneficiaries of colonialism. It is a city that projects multicultural openness while carefully controlling access to its paradigmatic spaces of power.

The Caroline Hospital is one such space. It was finished in 1828 as a place for travelers suspected of being infected with Yellow Fever to be quarantined in an aerated, modern environment. But by the middle of the 19th century, its exclusive use as a lazaret, a hospital dedicated to infectious diseases, was made obsolete by advances in epidemiological science. After thorough renovation in 1850, the building was converted for use as a hospital for military personnel returning from the French colonial wars in North Africa and for the injured of the Army of the Orient, which was largely deployed in Crimea. Between 1928 and the early 1940s, the building was abandoned, activated only once in order to isolate the sick from an outbreak of typhus in Marseille’s prison system in 1941. The German navy captured the archipelago in 1942. Their presence there resulted in the hospital’s aerial bombardment and destruction by the Allied forces at the liberation of the city.*

The building’s history is constituted by the epidemics spread by commercial trade and its adjacent migrations, but also by the proximity of trade to colonization by military intervention, and especially the history of violent conquest by Europe of those places and people it considers Other. We could think of the toxicity produced by these waves of variegated capitalist ideology as the primary characteristic of the atmosphere in which the Caroline Hospital operated, or that which it was constructed to isolate.

That night in the summer of 2015, gingerly holding a disposable cup full of dry, mineral Provençale rosé wine in one hand, I was not thinking about the incarcerated people dying of typhus in prison in 1941 who suddenly found themselves marooned on an island half an hour’s ferry ride from the Vieux Port. I was thinking about how the islands are outside of time, how they provoke and sustain a kind of suspension from reality, and about how badly I had been looking for such permission to suspend myself with another. It is this quality of the islands that makes them appropriate for a festival like MIMI, its program full of excessive sound and emotionally inchoate expression, and also appropriate as a place for those who came by sea for centuries to be still, in anticipation—or fear—of infection.

That day, I had arrived early in the afternoon to swim in the cold water that meets the rocky edges of the islands. I remember looking back at the island as I swam, following my lover out to sea in a slow backstroke. In the shimmer of mid-summer heat, I hallucinated a momentary image of men’s bodies sitting on these rocks and diving aimlessly off them as they counted the days of quarantine. Even now, the image is as clear as the water was on that afternoon. Sturdy, compact Mediterranean torsos emerging from old-fashioned, long striped bathing trunks. A man with his hands resting on his hips as his gaze is directed down at the water, listless in the afternoon sun that has an opaque quality at that time of year. I imagined the crew members of the Grand Saint Antoine, the merchant vessel responsible for the outbreak of bubonic plague known as the Great Plague of Marseille between 1720 and 1723. The island held them in place, suspended before the world, a ruse of stillness.

The Grand Saint Antoine shouldn’t have been on Pomègues, the main island of the Frioûl, had the sanitary regulations in place to guard against the plague been followed. It should have gone directly to the island of Jarre, a much smaller rocky bulge near the Calanques of Callelongue, just south of Marseilleveyre mountain. Captain Jean-Christophe Chataud should have had the ship and its cargo burned, but instead he requested routine quarantine on the Frioûl Islands. He knew the ship carried plague. Of the fifteen passengers that had boarded the merchant ship in the Syrian city of Tripoli, one died at sea. Seven sailors died within the next few days, in late April 1720. By the time the Grand Saint Antoine reached the islands on the May 25, 1720, plague-carrying fleas had infested its cargo. The captain’s non-declaration of plague allowed the crew first to transfer the contents of the ship’s hold to storehouses on the mainland in the neighborhood of La Joliette before returning to the Frioûl to begin a routine quarantine. Matter-of-factly, historian Christian A. Devaux describes the introduction of “quantities of cloth infested with fleas carrying the plague bacillus into a working-class neighborhood on May 29th 1720,” whose inhabitants spread the plague quickly throughout the city.**

The ferry boat to the Frioûl Islands that leaves the Vieux Port at regular intervals during the summer months makes one other stop on its way to what is now the pleasure boat port of the main island. Chateau d’If isn’t really an island, since it is almost entirely occupied by a fortress that once served as a prison. Gaston Crémieux, the leader of the Marseille Commune—a solidarity movement with the revolutionary moment of the Paris Commune in 1871—was executed by firing squad there in 1871. Captain Chataud was jailed there for his lapse in judgement, which killed tens of thousands of people and threw Marseille into years of instability. I have always shuddered as the tourists leave the boat to sightsee at the Chateau d’If, unaware of its violent relationship the people of the city.

The Grand Saint Antoine was finally burned off the Island of Jarre on September 26, 1720, months after the plague was well-established in Marseille. A temporary reprieve from capitalist delusion. It would have been visible from the footpaths along the cliffs of Marseilleveyre, a large merchant ship at the end of an autumn day, flames whipping dangerously in the wind, in the process of disappearing beneath the waves.

I return to the islands every year that I am in Marseille to drink rosé on the rocks and meet the sea. I swim out far from the shore, now with a confidence I learned from an ex-lover. I count the ghosts of sailors and Communards. There are more ghosts every year. It is as though they are crowded out by the aggressive gentrification in the city center, of La Plaine, and of La Joliette into a more “French” middle-class city. A four-star hotel was just finished in the working-class and largely North African immigrant neighborhood of Noailles, less than 500 meters from the buildings that tragically collapsed in 2018 on the rue d’Aubagne, the result of municipal neglect, killing eight people. The ghosts and I haunt the islands, where no one can build anymore and there is nothing to do but wait in anticipation of infection.
 

Natasha Marie Llorens, a Franco-American independent curator and writer
Edited and proofread by Orit Gat
 

*There continued to be quarantine facilities in the city of Marseille and on its islands after the conversion of the Caroline Hospital. “However, in Marseille and on its islands, the ‘lazarets’ (infirmaries) still showed their usefulness at the beginning of the 20th century: of the 241,946 ship passengers arriving in Marseille in 1901, 3,353 were quarantined for symptoms of infectious diseases including 29 cases of plague resulting into 8 deaths.” Christian A. Devaux, “Small oversights that led to the Great Plague of Marseille (1720–1723): Lessons from the past,” Infection, Genetics and Evolution 14 (2013): 172. This reference gives a comprehensive overview of the developments that lead to the 1720 outbreak of the plague in Marseille. Basic historical details are available on the website for the municipal governmental archives: https://dossiersinventaire.maregionsud.fr/gertrude-diffusion/dossier/hopital-caroline/64a4c586-628e-4bba-8f1f-9d92703dbd96. For an account of the building’s function as a quarantine site, see Jacques Chevallier, “A quarantine of plague at the lazaret of Frioul in 1901,” Histoire des sciences médicales 49, issue 2 (October 2015): 179–188.
**Devaux, “Lessons from the Past,” 172.
 
 

“Two lockdown days at the Housing Unit” by Kolektiv 318

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Visual essay "Two lockdown days at the Housing Unit", Kolektiv 318 (Laura Serra, Maxime Forest), March 2020.

 

When we were asked to introduce ourselves in March as a hosting partner of this project, Europe was on the brink of the pandemic outbreak. This is why, rather than presenting ourselves, we rather introduced the “Machine for living” where we live and work and how it resonates in these extraordinary times. Designed by Le Corbusier, Charlotte Perriand, Jean Prouvé and Iannis Xenakis in Marseille from 1946 to 1952, it was the first of the five Housing Units projected by Le Corbusier across France and in Berlin, and arguably the one that best embodies the principles of the “Ville Radieuse.”

The video pictures spots of the traditional social life inside this vertical village, closed during the quarantine: a movie theatre, the public school, the library, the hotel and restaurant, the ping pong hall… But it also highlights signs of resilience: André (78), the pastry chef established in the third “street” of the Housing Unit in 1968, still baking cakes at night for the inhabitants; people exercising on the roof terrace, where spring vegetation reminds of the surrounding hills and seagulls find a nice observatory above the Mediterranean, books left over for new readers outside the library or the hygiene prescriptions and messages posted on the elevators, where younger residents offer elderly ones or those working in health services to shop for them.

It also shows how the interior design of the flats – democratically open and luminous – helped insiders to cope with the unusual lockdown conditions, while the garden offered a welcomed getaway to the children of the Radiant City, also pointing out the direction of the “new normal”… As Melvyn Douglas tells to Greta Garbo in Ninotchka: “this house is not about the structure, but about the spirit that dwells in it”.
 

Kolektiv 318
Laura Serra, Maxime Forest