Let Me Through! What Do Our Artists See?
Odd Shoes Skirting the World
Those who take it all in their stride
He fiercely held onto the well-swathed bundle raised on his shoulder. “My baby!” Waist-deep in virulent waters, his eyes wide with fear, he hung onto one sliver of hope.
Angry ocean waves swallowed hope.
People trampled, trailed, lugged. Hoisted from the boats overstuffed with refugees, they escaped war-torn scenes to…where?
Those are not my shoes. This picture is a detail of the artist Ai Weiwei’s installation The Laundromat, shown in Chelsea, New York, 2016.
In the height of the notorious 2015 refugee surge into Europe, at least 3,771 refugees drowned in the Mediterranean Sea. The next year, 5,096 more. By 2018, the record was 34,361 over 2 decades via sea routes, including fatalities in the Adriatic, bodies found in refrigeration trucks, and those who hung themselves.
Still happening in 2022.
Ai Weiwei’s research team found the shoes and clothes on the grounds left behind by refugees.
The Syrian refugees made it to Idomeni (the camp on the border of Greece and Macedonia) only to be forcefully kicked out, leaving behind thousands of clothing items and blankets. Ai’s team negotiated with local officials to collect them from the abandoned site after the forced evacuation, then laundered them — all soiled from the difficult journey to Idomeni.
I was thinking would it have made a better impact to conserve the original condition of the clothes? But the laundered, clinical arrangement is something of a statement. (Seu, 2016)
Didn’t these travelers once leave home with means and hope?
Babies. Grannies. Baggage.
Some talk about wars as if they were TV shows.
Seven years after the torrent, 1.5 million are now fleeing Ukraine (at the time of writing). Projected 5 million.
Life between bags. Life between shoes.
I’m not a refugee by conventional definition. I currently live a comfortable life. Life between oceans and borders, airports and shipping containers. Versus life between gunfire and abuse, bombs and mercy. Who are we kidding?
Life between boxes.
When the violin string snapped, my child finally broke down, silent pain in the eyes. Silent words. “Why are those men taking away my things? I don’t want to pack. I don’t know how.” So the movers packed paper rubbish in the drawers. Someone asked me if I had eaten yet. It was 4 pm. I had completely forgotten, since the morning of the day before. Papers. Insurance papers. Too many papers. Into yet another culture unknown till lived.
Once I talked about an artwork on migrant workers in foreign countries. An expat woman friend broke into tears. It matters not the position or the financial reimbursement. The emotional toll on the family is all the same. Jeer not, my dear, till you’ve been in those shoes. Uprooted.
Where dads tether on collapse and moms despair.
Even refugees put their best foot forward. Families in tow.
Months later, I talked about various ethnic diasporas to a sizable public audience. Photos of the great Indian-Pakistani diaspora by Margaret Bourke White were front and center. The infamous 1947 Partition caused 16 million humans to migrate from religious conflicts. A million died.
Is it that different today? Ask those displaced for others’ ambitions.
Suddenly I realized I resonated with refugees evermore. My audience looked at the well-composed, well-dressed me with curiosity (my ancestors were not South Asians). How dare I relate a comfortable life with those refugees of yore?
Constantly dislocated. Constantly rerooting. How many times as soon as I was settled and got something workable going, it was time to move again? From country to country, I moved 8 times (not for religious reasons, to be clear). Moved. Not traveled to.
We relocate for better opportunities. We wander between governmental systems. Sometimes by choice, other times by circumstances. Labor diasporas, trade diasporas, cultural diasporas. Even if we did discuss with family, reality supersedes emotions.
Somewhere between oceans and shoes, we pay our dues.
A mismatch of systems? By choice??
For rights and wrongs, agreements and disagreements, Ai Weiwei is caught up in the great currents of global migration. Living between Berlin and Lisbon now, and formerly China, he understands diaspora. Ai says of himself,
“I’m a citizen of the world … I’m a citizen of nowhere.”
Sounds familiar?
Ideals impossible: Utopia or Dystopia
Of war and peace, ideals are impossible. Whether or not troops amass at any borders, the world has been at war with itself since the start of history. Is the US a Utopia or dystopia? Ask the minorities. Is China a Utopia or dystopia? Ask those lifted from poverty and enjoying stability. Russia? Do we ask the Ukrainians? Ask Putin? Or the people of Russia? Ask those seeking stability and a decent livelihood.
Another aggression. Another wave of refugees.
It has always been about the power of a few. And entertaining those who afford them that power. Oh, and securing resources. Ideology? Who’s ideology?
True Utopia never existed in the past or living history. Neither did dystopia.
Because the world launders.
The world likes to beat matters into shape. Except it can’t. So it tries to place matters in neat packages. Except people aren’t neat packages.
Who orchestrated “destinies”?
The truth is, Ai Wei Wei put those two shoes together. Look at the picture again below.
We don’t know if the same person wore the mismatched pair, or if two different persons traveled on a missing shoe, one foot dragging the other, bare. Would we rather have the awkward pair, mismatched but protective, or the worn-out blue slippers below them exposing us to the elements?
Or none?
Mismatched.
Mismatched at the time. But thankful.
© Pseu Pending (Seu) 2022
More from Seu:
Not a desire to “express yourself” but…
a desire to be “at one” with the language.
That’s editing advice from Alan Asnen I won’t forget.
