Ineffable Magazine n°12

I believe that there is still a possibility and I hold
onto that hope. If globally we establish a universal
income for all, then artists can be free to create,
solve problems and provide the fruit of their
endless and far reaching abilities as creative
problem solvers and emissaries of hope wherever
the forces of nature and humanity have devoured
it. Artists see the world as not a defined space
with clearly defined objects, but as a source of
potential energy. If you put an artist in a room long
enough, he will create from everything around him
or her or they. If there are no materials, then the
source will be from the body itself, the sound of
the human voice, the words, the flesh, the blood,
the excrement, all will be a part of the outcome,
the intense desire and need for communication,
to continue the sharing of potential energy, will
overcome any and all obstacles. We have only
to look at our collective past to know that this
is true. In this time of intense isolation due to a
global pandemic, many are searching out poetry,
literature, and art of the past, created in isolation
and during similar times of extreme loss and pain
due to unfathomable sources or la force majeure
as one might call it.
One could cite the poetry of Anna Greki, a
militante who wrote her famous collection Algérie
Capitale Alger, during her time of confinement in
a prison in Algiers, or the work of Albert Camus,
La Peste, which hundreds of people are seeking
out and reading along with watching movies
such as Contagion, which help us to express
and understand this global event, for which it is
difficult for us to grasp and accept. Through
hours of isolation, many are frustrated, unable
to face themselves, or to understand the nature
and purpose of existence, meanwhile artists are
continuing to create, in a way, as an everyday
profession, their studios are their homes, the
empty streets, the worldwide web. Artists are on
the job 24/7 and they know their purpose and
intent towards a positive outcome for this planet
and all of its inhabitants. They are tasked with the
unlimited chore of entertaining and explaining
or telling the tales, which will distract and enable
us to cope and understand the nature of our
existence and force us to face a future that is full
of potential energy, but not quite definable as it
forms in the womb of our universe.
I remember now one of my most profound and
humblest experiences of art in Algeria, a visit to a
children’s hospital in Algiers with le conteur, Fares
Idir. He joined me on a brief visit to the city of
Algiers. Fares after several minutes of greetings
and observations which included the presentation
of a pomegranate plucked from a tree in the
garden of his parent’s home, asked if I didn’t mind
stopping at the children’s hospital where he would
tell some stories to distract the children and
bring some solace to the mothers who hold hope
in their hearts, but who clearly needed a refill
as hope runs out in the bleak atmosphere of a
crumbling and desolate building, which provides
little more to its patients than a bed and a blanket.
I asked Fares to make sure to get permission for
me to take photos or video during his storytelling,
and in one room, I stopped myself from taking
photos, because I thought he had not asked. It is
that moment, which I hold in my mind as a private
photograph, a memory emblazoned on my
retinas. A small boy sat on the edge of the bed,
his body like a mummified corpse covered from
the base of his waist to his neck in what appeared
to be an unending bandage of white gauze. His
face was still perfect and pure, unscathed, his dark
eyes as an innocent seal turning ever so slightly
towards the storyteller, with an awkwardness one
realized was caused by the unique way one must
contort the body to prevent pain- here because
any further contortion would mean unbounding
pain from the burns in his skin. Fares emanated
peace, calm, healing, his hands first poised at his
waist and raising as the story developed; he was a
bird stretching its wings to show that flight was an
inevitable outcome, and the words would lift and
support anyone that was willing to listen, if only
halfway. I watched the boy’s face; it was a statue,
listening with the utmost care and intensity- the
most beautiful thing I had ever seen. For a brief
interlude and perhaps moments remembered in
an uncertain future, Fares had become the genius
loci, his power was to focus our concentration
on something beyond our human existence, in a
fourth dimension, where pain, fear, and starvation
were but assets to the art of storytelling, and not
permitted to interrupt the natural beauty in our
sense of wonder. When the story ended, the boy
smiled, and hope remained in the room.
Février • Mars • Avril 2020 - ineffable
47