Will Sophie Calle Call?
or
Daniel Buren & the democracy of space
or
The Art of Masturbation
or
PENETRATION BIENNALE 2009

I AM A BIENNALIST. The sentence is rather pretty. The way the letters relate
to each other. DO YOU WANT TO BE A BIENNALIST? A certain chaos and
uncertainty, maybe it is the question mark. WHAT IS A BIENNALIST? You ask me?
Well. We arrived on a plane carrying bombs. As suicide bombers, our dream was
to explode in an ecstasy of liberation of the arts. We had a dream. The smell
of stale water arrived at our nostrils before we arrived. And what we met, was
not a city. It was a museum. An amusement park. The citizens old bricks, their
blood veins running wild with green water penetrated by boat oars and
propellers of gasoline fuelled engines of commerce.
We had a dream. To penetrate the worlds most prestigious art exhibition with
only one weapon. Our minds. We had already received warnings. Tales of
tourists transported to the hospital with great urgency after slipping on the
pavement and falling into the canal. To be treated for lethal infections by
the local doctors. Tales of an art show, so intensely commercialized, you
could actually see the shining of the dollar signs in the eyes of, not only
the dealers of art, but also in the eyes of the museum managers, the curators,
and, the very worst of all, the artists, their dreams of a better world being
transformed into a rush for the bank singing songs of joy and the pleasures of
materialism. We had been warned.


FriisFastDiaryVenice Nr. 2

Will Sophie Calle Call?
or
The Art of Masturbation
or
PENETRATION BIENNALE 2009

I AM A BIENNALST. I say these words, still with a certain stylishness, the gap
between the a and the l like an abyss. Yes, we had been warned. But warnings
were the very fabric of our revolutionary souls. 'Sophie Calle, what do you
think about the idea of presenting art in... my mind is buzzing. Here I am
with the Maria Magdalena of modern art and I am about to pose her an
incredibly infantile question, my nerves are ragged, I am a soldier of fortune
with the pants down my knees and my AK47 melting in the sun of the city of
death. Trying, like a Jesus on the Cross to reinstall my manlyhood, I ask,
because that is what a soldier does, he does what his superior commands, I ask
her what she thinks about the concept of dividing artists into nations? She
looks at me with the cool of a queen and answers: Frankly, I don't give a shit.
Suddenly I feel love floating through my veins, I feel the world as a whole
implode in my heart, finally an artist who don't give a shit. I AM A
BIENNALIST. I am on a mission. My mission is to inject, deep into the artist's
soul, the urgent need to express political points of view, but for a second I
don't give a shit. I AM A BIENNALIST. And therefore, with the very last drop
of discipline I posess, I ask the woman who has created such poetic and
telltale works of pure imagination: I am interested in penetration. Would it
be possible to penetrate your exhibition, to use your exhibition space as
mine? She replies, her eyes sharp as razorblades: I depends of the quality of
the work. Do you have a proposition to make? I reply, fast as gunfire, I AM A
BIENNALIST, I want to penetrate now and here. She raises an eyebrow. You mean
here and now. Yes mam, I reply. No, she says, this is a project for women.
'How about a female Biennalist, then. No, she says. And from the following
conversation I understand that it is to late, the work of art is already in
place. The decisions are made. The deal is done. The party is over. And even
though the Biennale doesn't start till Thursday and this is a god given
Sunday, four days before, in the name of god, I have lost another battle. But
a battle lost could be a war won, the glory yet to come.
And as I see the elegant silhouette of Madame Calle disappear into the setting
sun, I wonder, is she happy, did she get what she came for, in this life, will
she, one day, when she is lowered into her crave, have lived exactly the life
of her dreams. I hope. And pray. A mere soldier with a dirty job.

FriisFastDiaryVenice Nr. 3


Will Sophie Calle Call?
or
The Art of Masturbation
or
PENETRATION BIENNALE 2009
Or
Who's the BOSS

I AM A BIENNALIST. A sunny soldier of fortune. I am sitting on my bed. I am
Happy. I have penetrated the pavilions on HUNGARY, SERBIA, VENEZUELA, SPAIN,
THE UNITED STATES, ICELAND, SWITZERLAND, BELGIUM, EGYPT and many others.
Artists have been telling me, that they are not nationalists, some with great
force. I AM A BIENNALIST. My shower long and hot, my body heavy from the
conversations, the beauty of the female artist on my mind. In its most
maternal and introverts of ways, I have seen highly prized Murano glass vases
being thrown to the ground my a woman that do not party with the beinnale, she
parties with her familiy and that is it. I have spoken to a man, who has been
dead for eleven years, he told med I could penetrate his art space.
PENETRATION BIENNALE 2009 COPENHAGEN. His name is Felix Gonzalez-Torres, and
what he said to me was quite alarming: You can penetrate my art space. You can
walk right in and explode, leaving the leavings on the wall. You, soldier of
fortune. BIENNALIST. The man already dead, asked me, a bit tired from turning
in his grave, to do a couple of things for him. And as I am a soldier, I obey
orders, and for a minute I forgot from whom they came, I told him yes. The
mission was quite simple: Enter the British warship placed right in front on
the Biennale, enter the helicopter on its deck, lift of and launch the bombs
already sitting there waiting for blood... What is the target, I interrupted,
and he answered me, putrid hate in his eyes. Peg, Peg., Peggy... He was
running out of steam, gently I leaned over his frail carcass and with my ears
on overdrive heard the word gug, gug, gug.... and then no more. Just silence.
Minutes later, the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, was off the map. There is, in
the life of a soldier, a certain poetic peace, when the mission is finally
completed. He can change into a nice suit and be his own Boss.


FriisFastDiaryVenice Nr. 4

Will Sophie Calle Call?
or
Daniel Buren & the democracy of space
or

The Art of Masturbation
or
PENETRATION BIENNALE 2009
or
Daniel Buren & The Democracy of Space

I AM A BIENNALIST. I am sitting in a setting, green grass and marble, the
magic master of concepts Monsieur Buren at my side, his graying hair, his
posture, as a fisherman from Marseille, a man who knows the sea, a man who has
taken the path of the finest of art, a man who is now building his own
pavilion in the garden of all gardens, the infamous Giardini. Buren is a man
who knows what intervention means. The word is planted deap in his heart. The
workers around us, patiently constructing the art piece, are stripeworkers. I
am a soldier of fortune. I am talking about penetration. CAN I PENETRATE YOUR
ARTSPACE, I ask, my voice full of the confidence of a man with a mission.
Monsieur Buren nods, it is ok, shouldn't stay to long though, the piece has to
breathe. The sun cracks the sky, a door has opened, my mind wanders, I cannot
explain, but the crack in the surface is all yours. BIENNALIST. BIENNALIST.
BIENNALIST.