Against Populism
Some observations about art, politics and the pointlessness of being defined based on nationalism
By Jan Lauwers
Jan Lauwers's training as a painter at the Academy of Art in Ghent has greatly impacted the way his Brussels-based ensemble Needcompany challenges the boundaries of realistic theatre and linear narrative. One important concept in this writer-director's theatre, which freely blends such various media as dance, visual art, video, film and performance, is his idea of "border-image," the place where elements collide and the image forms its own identity. This essay is adapted from a "state of the union" speech that Lauwers gave at an annual international theatre festival in Belgium in August 2005.
There is only one way to survive as an artist, and that is to make the best possible art. This requires a lot of practice, making lots of rubbish, destroying a lot and never flinching. Constantly questioning, spitting in the face of your own works and tearing their heart out. Experimenting every day. Questioning your aims every day. Knowing every day that you will fail.
Art is difficult—it has been said often enough, but it is the only truth.
What is the significance of theatre in the whole body of artistic thought?
In fact, the last thing one thinks of when talking about art is theatre. And yet it is my opinion that theatre is a very good art form. It is actually the result of just a few frivolous factors that theatre is treated so poorly: the vanity of actors, the false authority of directors, the tragedy of applause. There is no applause in art. Art is a serious matter.
Theatre is, furthermore, not economically advantageous as an artistic medium. Because it does not bend to the laws of the capitalist system, one cannot get rich in the theatre. The chances of getting rich in the plastic arts are very small. The chances of getting rich as a theatremaker are nonexistent. I like that.
Just about every official attempt to resist the overpowering art market, with its army of slavish followers led by a powerful museum director—who, despite his inspired passion, piously knows the market price of existing works of art by heart—are neatly twisted in the direction of profit and investment. But in theatre, this is quite out of the question. One cannot invest in theatre. On the contrary, subsidies have to be pumped into it if it is to survive.
And because it is pumped full of subsidies, a lot of people have a distinct opinion about it—people who confuse art with entertainment, for example. A lot of people who consider themselves as belonging among the "ordinary people" think they know exactly what these ordinary people need. They are called populists. And how I loathe populism! One third of Flemish adults vote for those perfect populists, the Vlaams Belang, one of the largest political parties in Belgium and on the far right. I am fed up hearing that the voter is always right—the same voter who finds that the refugee in the gutter in front of his hard-earned front door stinks too much. I detest these masses (for there are plenty who vote for intolerance) and their so-called taste. Only individuals are welcome in the theatre. I hope there are plenty of them.
The masses mean little to me; they are too easy to manipulate. In this respect the power of the Belgian press is clearly underestimated. The man the press asked to come and talk the most about art on the Flemish broadcasting company VRT in the past year was Filip Dewinter, leader of the Vlaams Belang. One sees that almost the whole of the press bows to populism.
I recently read a sour interview with Karl van den Broeck in Etcetera, a Flemish magazine that stubbornly tries to survive in the wilderness of the written press. In the article, van den Broeck, the editor of the Brussels weekly Knack [the Belgian equivalent of Newsweek and Time], said that he considered reality TV and Pieter Aspe [a Belgian/Flemish writer of detective stories] to be avant-garde, and that the most innovative work he had seen in Flanders in the past season was a production in which there was real acting and the set was really a set. I would have expected a more subtle view on the current state of theatre, dance and performance in Flanders from van den Broeck, the former head of culture at De Morgen newspaper, but unfortunately this is the tone of the many reviews and articles published for us.
Yes, I know that most critics do not have a chance anymore: They have no control over the final form of their writings. They cannot even choose the titles of their reviews. They have to write at night because the deadline is too tight. I can assure you that if artists worked like that, art would have died out long ago. But the press and criticism are too important to leave in the hands of the populism that is currently overrunning everything in Flanders. Stricter criteria are urgently needed. The better critics are increasingly refusing to work for mainstream Belgian papers, which have neither time nor space nor money to spare for any sort of depth.
As a theatremaker, I don't need framed insets, with stars to indicate their verdict. That's really of no use to anyone. No—I want to see more interesting questions asked: questions about the distinction between repertory theatre and authorial theatre, presentation and representation, form and content, quantity and quality, lifestyle and art. At present it is the artist's ego that is increasingly the chief subject. When one reads an article about the Belgian painter Luc Tuymans in the newspapers, to give an example, one learns nothing about his qualities as a painter, only how much is in his bank account. There is, in fact, enough quality writing among the critics of the written press, and it is a pity that they increasingly have to resort to the trade journals. Theatremakers in Flanders are fortunate to have such alternative initiatives as rekto:verso, de witte raaf and Etcetera: Let them be elitist.
Recently, in Quebec, a television journalist (I was never given her name) asked me why the Flemish make such radically different and highly interesting things. I said I didn't really understand the question. The companies she named—Troubleyn, Jan Fabre's multidisciplinary company that produces theatre, dance and opera in Antwerp; Ultima Vez, a movement-based company of artists and actors created by director-choreographer Wim Vandekeybus; and Rosas, the Brussels company founded by Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker—comprise dozens of different nationalities and are headed by artists whose first act was to leave their Flemishness behind them.
The Canadian journalist persisted, though, saying that in Quebec people know the Flemish above all because of Jacques Brel [the famous singer/songwriter known for being so impeccably French, though he was of Flemish descent] and that this gave a rather negative image of those in power who suppressed the French-speakers in Belgium, and that today's Flemish theatre ensembles have changed that image. (Our minister of culture will be pleased to hear this.) I interrupted her and said that Jacques Brel was an artist, and that when artists enter into politics it is usually combined with a degree of muddled sentiment.
I share this anecdote because I have noticed that more and more questions are being asked about nationality. I believe, however, that the only way to give any meaning to one's nationality is to ignore it completely. Because I am a man without a city, I am probably not the right person to say anything meaningful on this point. Though I was born in Antwerp, I left it as an adult when I found that I had become a real, arrogant, slightly xenophobic Antwerper, and I didn't like it at all. I do feel that a man needs a city; I have been looking ever since. I have lived in Ghent, Frankfurt and Seville, and now I live in Brussels. Half my time is spent traveling from one city to the next with the Needcompany, but I find none of these cities convincing—I would not die for any of them. (Isn't that the essence of nationalism—wanting to die for your mother country?) But then, if you live in a fragmented country like Flanders, where everyone just fiddles their way through, and the word "nationalism" is used mainly by people who are sometimes very, very wrong in their thinking, I am very happy that Needcompany and the other ensembles mentioned above have built up such overwhelming success. That we are suddenly said to be very Flemish—sometimes ascribed as part of a "Flemish new wave"—can only be called curious, and is based purely on coincidence and a good subsidy system.
Flanders does have a good subsidy system for theatre and dance, which makes it possible to work in a limited but comfortable way. In the Europe of the future we should put this system forward as an example for other countries.
In which country is it possible to have four Moroccan actors play leading parts in one of the biggest theatres? In which country is it possible to give foreign performing artists the same chance of obtaining subsidies? In which country can a philosophical journal of the highest standard be distributed for free? This is only possible in Flanders. And it is only possible in Flanders because we want nothing to do with any narrow-minded and unpleasant nationalism.
Does it strike you that the groups the Canadian journalist mentioned are considered "dance companies"? Almost all the major festivals where Needcompany appears, as well as the prizes we have won, have come under the category of dance, even though I am not a choreographer at all. This year, for example, Isabella's Room won the critics' prize for the best dance production in France, so we sent our prima ballerina Viviane De Muynck (an actress, one of the key members of Needcompany) to receive the prize. The internationalism of dance is obvious. For theatre, internationalism is just exotic.
Well, there you have it—the life of an international theatre company from Flanders: It is a curiosity.
And what can I say about the recent e-mail from a festival director in Jerusalem, who asserted that if we did not appear at his festival we were giving in to international terrorism? I was recently speaking to an Iranian festival director who wanted to invite us to a major festival in Tehran. But how can you go and work in a country where there's a real chance that one of your homosexual staff gets hanged? Einstein called nationalism one of the growing pains of civilization, but internationalism isn't easy, either. Too much exoticism. Too many world problems you have to solve—just like that.
Subsidies are a democratic means of safeguarding freedom of thought. Imagine that we were to question the subsidies for soldiers. Well, dear Mr. Soldier, you can defend our country, but you will have to provide your own food and rifle. No problem, says the soldier, and off he goes. In the distance he sees a farm and thinks to himself: I'll find some food there. He knocks at the door. The farmer opens it. The soldier holds a knife to the farmer's throat and says: "I want a bowl of soup and then I'll defend you." White with fear, the farmer gives him his bowl of hot soup.
Now let's replace the soldier with, for example, an actor without subsidies. He knocks at the farmer's door but he hasn't got a knife. He says, "I want a bowl of soup." "Why should I give you a bowl of soup?" the farmer asks. The actor replies: "If you don't give me one I shall recite a monologue by Jan Fabre right here in front of you." "Oh, no!" screams the farmer, "Not a monologue by Fabre, not a monologue by Fabre...."
Why should the arts always have to defend themselves? Why is so much social and political correctness required from them? I think it has something to do with the freedom they symbolize. They are defenseless because there is no power connected to this freedom—only responsibility. For artists do indeed have responsibility, as the Italian arte povera artist Michelangelo Pistoletto says. Because artists are placed at the top of the social ladder, freedom without consequences amounts to laziness. But at the same time, it is increasingly required that art become involved in politics, that it become "committed," that it stop behaving in an elitist manner.
What might that be, art that is not elitist? Folk art? Surely every form of art that manifests itself in superficial political statements can, in essence, be reduced to entertainment. Art must stand with both feet in society. Art takes place in the twilight zone where invention and reality stand in each other's way; it is up to the viewer to decide what the meaning of it all is. And that is the difference between art and entertainment. Art can only be used for strictly political ends when the interpretation of reality is a confirmation of what the spectator already knows—in which case the spectator cannot himself decide what the meaning of the whole thing is, but simply assumes that what he sees is the truth. This is why "politically committed" art is a false concept and reduces art to entertainment. To put it more simply: Burning an American flag or giving someone from an ethnic minority the leading part, not because he is good but because of his origins, has nothing to do with art but with politics and demagogy.
Politics is politics and art is art, but both should be engaged in life itself. Life and life alone is what it is all about—only there will art and politics come together. Art can never change the world and "truth" is never its aim; it should return our gaze and ask questions.
Is entertainment absolutely forbidden in art? Of course not. Entertainment always crops up. It is typical of the greatest artists that even the darkest questions they pose are full of light, clarity and humor. It is a constant characteristic of great art that, in spite of everything, it seeks out beauty and consolation—and this makes the line dividing art and entertainment quite delicate. But the distinction does not have to be made that if the aim is entertainment, it is not art.
What does it mean to be an artist in this society and in our era? An era in which it is increasingly proven that we, born and raised in the richest part of this planet, suffer the greatest fear, make the most fuss, vote for fascists—and at the same time demonstrate against war, violence and the break-up of the ozone layer, and demand that the world change, but will not make any similar effort to change ourselves. It is in this world that theatre has to ensure its survival, and it has no trouble in doing so. Just as art has always existed and has always survived. Just like Orson Welles's scorpion.
If you abolish the theatre, you abolish the most unassailable medium that has ever been invented. Theatre is the one medium that has never changed. There have just been changes of accent due to the spirit of the age. It is exactly like drawing: There is virtually no difference between a drawing by Michelangelo, Beuys or Klimt—all are about something other than originality and ego. They are simply, in spite of everything, about a sort of archiving of everything that has to do with humanity. Sometimes it is hard to separate the wheat from the chaff. It is above all the theatremakers themselves who do not take theatre seriously enough.
In the theatre there is too little really essential activity to be found. I see far more radical ideas in other media. In the past, one could put this phenomenon down to the individual nature of the medium, but now one can no longer say that. Nowadays, if one says that theatre is not interesting, it is only because not enough interesting theatre is being made. It is not a repertoire that theatre needs, but artists.
It is also clear how much influence the theatre medium has in the other artistic media: Lars von Trier's Dogville, Matthew Barney's Cremaster Cycle, Jeff Wall's photos, Paul McCarthy's sculptures. The finest examples are Tino Sehgal's dancing museum attendants. In this attempt to redefine visual art, Sehgal rediscovers theatre in its purest form. It is essential that more artists become involved with theatre, because only artists are able to redefine the medium. And it is precisely this side of art—art as a redefinition of itself—that is found too little in the theatre. That is why several so-called Flemish theatre-makers score so highly abroad: In France or Germany, where almost the only thing that counts is conventional repertory theatre, such attempts to redefine theatre get hardly any chance to develop. If as a visual artist you have to pulverize your own virtuosity in order to arrive at different questions, as a theatremaker you need that virtuosity intact. Theatre is much more complex as a medium, at least the theatre I am proposing: theatre in which all the different media called for come together to form the "image." So is the repertoire superfluous? Certainly not; I myself have directed plays by Shakespeare. But then, I'm more of a director than an artist.
In the past, before people started doubting the existence of God, everything was much clearer and easier. An artist like Leonardo da Vinci worked only for the church and no one else. While he was painting the Mona Lisa, he was also designing attack helicopters for God's private army. The framework was uncomplicated.
Did the last century ruin us? Too fast? Too superficial? Too many new things that we still don't understand? A century with too many deaths, too many lies and too much deceit, too many inventions and too much dirt? Too much Western supremacy? Too much exoticism and false tolerance?
With a God whom some declare dead and others ridicule?
Or is this actually the ideal biotope for good art?
And does this not mean that art is more than essential?
And so should art not be pursued very seriously?
I think most artists are very serious people. And that there are many ways of carrying out this serious task.
Art can be dark and obscure. Some works of art depress me. Some are bright and clear. Others make me smile. Yet others make me turn away in disgust. Some are virtuoso and pretentious. Others crawl painfully into a corner because they have failed again. There they all stand, the one more striking than the other, watching silently like stubborn witnesses to the immense mistakes mankind has made in his own name. And they have one thing in common: They were all born out of that indispensable love of this same humanity that again and again forgets and forgets and forgets.
This is precisely the function of art, and therefore of theatre: to make this eternal forgetting understandable and therefore more bearable.
Jan Lauwers is a dramatist,director and artistic director of Needcompany, whose Morning Song, King Lear and Isabella's Room have performed in the United States.