Schlagwort-Archive: Österreich

Programm 2018


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auf ORF Burgenland Heute
(Donnerstag, d. 30. August 2018) :  19 Uhr

Freitag, 31. August, 19 Uhr ///
am 31.08.2018, 19 Uhr
Eröffnung der Ausstellung der Ergebnisse des 18. Kunstsymposiums des »eu-art-network«
unter dem heurigen Thema »just a little bit …..respect!« … wovor haben wir noch Respekt?

Elke Mischling, Präsidentin des eu-art-network
– Initiative für zeitgenössische Kunst
Begrüßung und Danksagung:
Teilnehmer*innen, Sponsoren und Unterstützer

Begrüßung der Gemeinde Oslip
durch den Bürgermeister Stefan Bubich (ÖVP)

Wolfgang A. Horwath, Kurator des Symposiums des eu-art-network
» Einführung zum Thema und zum Symposium

Lesung mit Texten aus der Feder der
heurigen Symposiums-Teilnehmern
Theodora Bauer und Peter Menasse.

Grußwort vom Landtagsabgeordneten
Robert Hergovich (SPÖ)

Vorstellung der Teilnehmer*innen 2018 durch
Elke Mischling, Präsidentin des eu-art-network

Offizielle Eröffnung durch
den Kulturlandesrat Mag. Hans Peter Doskozil

Rückblick »

» Donnerstag, 23. August
Eröffnung 18. Kunstsymposiums des eu-art-network

Sonntag, 26. August, 14 bis 18 Uhr /// OFFENE FENSTER
Begegnung und Dialog mit den KünstlerInnen
Film-Essay von Peter Wagner

© Peter Wagner

Mit freundlicher Unterstützung von:







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Jakob Perschy [AT] (EN)

To the Symposium 2017
resulting works by Jakob Perschy [AT] »
(DE) hier »

Therapist: Your fears are completely unfounded, my dear Mrs Fear,
you really don‘t need to fear for yourself at all! Your future looks more promising than ever. Quite the contrary, really! After all,
people come up with new ways to support your existence, to ensure your survival, all the time. One word – chemtrails.
Fear: Yes, but no one actually wants to have me.
Therapist: Don‘t say that, that‘s not true. I for one am someone who believes in tackling every problem at its roots. And this is why I consider you, my dear Mrs Fear, a vital part of evolution. Even the freeze response you trigger must have meant an advantage for survival at some point, otherwise it wouldn‘t exist.
Fear: Wouldn‘t, couldn‘t, shouldn‘t…
Therapist: My point is, it exists for a reason. Just imagine: short-sighted Tyrannosaurus attacks our mammal-like ancestor. The latter freezes in fear, which leads the Tyrannosaurus to mistake it for a piece of wood and leave empty-handed. Millions of years later, the Tyrannosaurus even goes extinct because meteorites keep falling on its head, while our mammallike ancestors survive because they‘re so afraid they hide in holes in the ground. So as you can see, my dear, you are really important. Existential. Just out of curiosity, is there anything you yourself are absolutely afraid of?
Fear: I‘m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!
Therapist: Well, there you go!

Biographical to Jakob Perschy [AT]»

Jakob Michael Perschy was born in 1960 and raised in Neusiedl am See. He has read books, lent them to others, sold, critiqued,  reviewed, edited and published them and has, finally, also written some himself. He is the manager of the state library Burgenländische Landesbibliothek in Eisenstadt.

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Jakob Perschy [AT]

Zum Symposium 2017
entstandene Werke von Jakob Perschy [AT] » (EN) here

in Therapie

Therapeut: Also, vollkommen ungerechtfertigt, gnädige Frau Angst,
vollkommen ungerechtfertigt, Ihre Ängste, Sie brauchen sie selbst um Ihretwillen überhaupt nicht zu haben! Ihre Existenz ist gesicherter denn je! Im Gegenteil, im Gegenteil! Man erfindet ja immer wieder Sachen, die Ihre Existenz stärken, Ihr Dasein stützen! Ich sage nur: Chemtrails!
Angst: Ja, aber haben will mich niemand.
Therapeut: Glauben Sie das nicht, glauben Sie das nicht. Ich bin ja
einer, der jedes Problem von seinen Wurzeln her anfasst. Und somit
sehe ich Sie, liebe Frau Angst, als unabdingbares Teil der Evolution.
Selbst die ja nach Ihnen benannte Starre muss einmal einen
Überlebensvorteil impliziert haben, sonst gäbe es sie ja gar nicht.
Angst: Gäbe, gäbe, gäbe!
Therapeut: Von mir aus: würde es sie ja nicht geben. Aber stellen Sie
sich vor: Kurzsichtiger Tyrannosaurus greift unseren säugetier-ähnlichen Vorfahren an. Letzterer verfällt daraufhin in Angststarre, woraufhin ihn der kurzsichtige Tyrannosaurus für ein Stück Holz hält und unverrichteter Dinge seiner Wege geht. Jahrmillionen später stirbt der Tyrannosaurus sogar aus, weil ihm dauernd Meteoriten auf den Kopf fallen, während unsere säugetierähnlichen Vorfahren überleben, weil sie sich vor lauter Angst in Erdlöchern verstecken. Sie, liebe Frau, sind also wirklich wichtig. Existentiell. Gibt es eigentlich etwas, wovor Sie selbst sich absolut fürchten?
Angst: Ich bin ein Star, holt mich hier raus!
Therapeut: Na, oiso!

in der Bibliothek

Bibliothekar: Ah jo, gnä Frau, Sei san dei, dei wos iwa die Aungst a
Diplomoaweit schreim tuad. Do sans bei mia gaunz richtich, wäü i
söwa a Horrorfän sei tua und do häd i Eahna schou olahaund hergricht: Do, dea gaunze Stoß is Stephen King, dea is supa, howi das meiste söwa gleisn, Christine, Brennen muss Salem, Friedhof der Kuscheltiere, sehr sehr leiwaund. Do kumas mid aner Ganslhaud goa ned aus. Daun häd i do no an Handge, Die Angst des Tormanns bein Elfmeter, hod ma söwa eigandlich goa nid goasoguad gfoin, owa es warad wengan Titel und außadeim mochat si a Handge in da Diblomoaweid auf jedn Foi guad. Sou, wos häd ma do nou, assou, dies san Angostura-Rezepte, do howi mi vadau, dies kemma glei wieda weg tuan. Owa Brimärliteratur tatn ma eh no gnua hom tuan, tuan maramoi zweng dera Segundärliteratur schaun: Do hät maramoi in Schopenhauer, sowiaso, daun in Kierkegaard, aa net schlecht, daun wos vaun Schill Delöös, passat aa, Schaupol Sartre, aa gaunz guad, eventunö nou in Mischell Fukoo…
Diplomandin: Entschuldjen Sie, da hamse mich am Telefon offensichtlich missverstanden. Mir geht es gar nicht so um die Abstraktion der Angst in der Literatur und Philosophie, mir geht es eher um das, was uns im Alltag ganz konkret Angst macht!
Bibliothekar: Ah sou! Do gengans owa gscheida glei umi zun Kollegn,
dea hod neimlich di aktuellen Wahlkampfbroschüren.

Biographisches zu Jakob Perschy [AT] »

Jakob Michael Perschy, geboren 1960 und aufgewachsen in Neusiedl am See, hat Bücher gelesen, verliehen, verkauft, rezensiert, lektoriert, redigiert, herausgegeben und schließlich auch selbst welche geschrieben. Er leitet die Burgenländische Landesbibliothek in Eisenstadt.

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Frank Piontek [DE] (EN)

To the Symposium 2017
resulting works by Frank Piontek [DE] »
(DE) hier »

Robert Musil was living in Swiss exile when, after years of working on the novel of all novels, The Man Without Qualities, he was still searching for its ending, because an ending was not something he was ever able to find, only sketch out (in thoughts and notes, detours and wrong turns, alternatives and variations, drafts and dreams). Far away from home, and already broke anyway, the threat of total financial ruin loomed over him every day. It was a strange ending to the life of one the greatest and most significant writers of the 20th century, whose work has brought great enjoyment not only to me – for the discrepancy between his novel and his earthly existence was as unparalleled as his work itself. Strange indeed: looking at it from today‘s perspective, the many sorrows and worries of Musil‘s life seemed to disappear when it came to his work (even the second, unfinished volume). Musil the author never feared being left behind, Musil the human feared life immensely; his work remained great and strangely cheerful, while at the same time he despaired, until one Wednesday in Geneva he perished of a stroke. That is horrible, in a way. But is that the only way to look at it?
What is really important?

The present – the future. That hopes can be disappointed is common knowledge. That fear is (not) a good adviser is something only the victims and beneficiaries of Germany‘s current social welfare system know. Even full paying members of the Artists‘ Social Security Fund would not be inclined to leave something like The Man Without Qualities as a giant fragment.

Yesterday, I stood before HIM. He fixated me, regarding me with a calm but intense look, as if he was testing me. I could not bear facing him for long, although I found visiting his former home delightful. Strictly speaking, however, it was not even his – it only looked like it, and was located one floor below Musil‘s original apartment (No. 8), which is now apparently occupied by a slightly mentally disturbed person: a handwritten note taped to the door informs us that he lives in a refrigerator, and has had his stove taken away from him. By the apartment‘s windows I can see dried up flowers, a wild tangle of plants, and above them an arrangement of thin paper strips that is likely supposed to constitute a privacy shield. Very odd.

In Musil‘s new apartment, which I can easily picture as his old one, somebody from the GAV, the Graz Authors‘ Association, is keeping watch. She ushers us inside with kind smile and accompanies us past the small rooms next to the kitchen through Musil‘s former rooms: in particular the bedroom, which we have to cross first in order to gain access to the sanctum, Musil‘s study, where a long desk once carried his manuscripts and books. Behind the desk: the same uniquely shaped bookshelf from the past. It is a work space and a feel-good space at the same time – despite the lighting, which lacks a little in brightness, and the awful noise that keeps filtering in through the windows from the construction and tarring work on the street outside. Even that fits, however: Musil once described, with beautiful irony, the »quiet street« and its traffic noise in the midst of which he had to live and work (allegedly his study was soundproofed; hardly conceivable, given these old windows). I see a splash of dark blue, and further ahead, an intensely dark green: colours as vibrant and bold as Musil‘s prose. Looking over at the neighbouring Palais Salm – a charming little building, much smaller than the Palais Rasumowsky, which lies on the opposite side of the street, which it also leant its name to – this is where he wrote about Ulrich sitting in his palais, looking out from behind the grates that still decorate the windows today. I do not see the small hill Musil described, but I in my mind I can picture Ulrich and Agathe as they observe the pedestrians close-by. Meanwhile, the noise outside persists, and drizzling rain is mingling with the grey sky; inside, memories of the past manage to make time stand still for a little while, thanks, in part, to HIM, who is steadfastly watching me, scrutinising me, not so much questioning as silent – but at the same time, his silence comprises infinite questions. What am I supposed to say? I remain mute, and I leave, unafraid.

We chat a little with the nice woman from the GAV; she says she cannot imagine where Martha Musil even did her painting. There is hardly any room for an easel in the study. Another gap in our education: Martha Musil, the painter. Her beautiful portrait is indeed facing us; across from it, Robert Musil is standing inside his study, with his back straight. I circle the desk, leafing through the various publications of the Graz Authors‘ Association. This way I come across even more dead people who seem strangely alive. A hardcover collection of Musil‘s aphorisms with a beautiful horizontal design finds its way to us from Klagenfurt – another gift, which we proceed to peruse not far from the apartment at Café Zartl, where we watch Vienna‘s last operetta composer while he works, can practically feel the polite Czech waiter wanting to apologise, and sit on the very same red and gold striped cushions Musil probably never sat on. It is no coincidence that none of his scenes are set in a place as deliciously distracting as a coffeehouse.

Biographical to Frank Piontek [DE] »

Born in Berlin in 1964. Has lived in Bayreuth since 1988. Author of numerous essays and articles on musical theatre, art and literature, as well as comprehensive blogs about Musil‘s »The Man Without Qualities« and Jean Paul‘s »The Invisible Lodge« (for the Bavarian State Library). Has given lectures and readings in Bayreuth, Leipzig, Salzburg, Paris, Berlin, Kassel, Bamberg, Verona and Venice. His stage play »Casanova kam zu spät« (»Casanova was late«) premiered in 1997 (at Margravial Opera House in Bayreuth), his play »Siebenkäs« in 2013 (at Studiobühne Bayreuth). Dramaturg for the scenic-musical premiere of Wagner‘s »Men Are More Cunning Than Women« (at Hauptstadtoper Berlin in 2013). Internships in stage direction and dramaturgy at Semper Opera House, Vienna State Opera and E.T.A Hoffmann Theatre in Bamberg. Involved in the concept development for »Jean-Paul-Weg« in Oberfranken, as well as the Jean Paul Museum in Bayreuth.

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Johanna Sebauer [AT] (EN)

To the Symposium 2017
resulting works by Johanna Sebauer [AT] »
(DE) hier »

The Tortoise

It was a bargain buy. »It’s in great physical shape,« the vendor said, proudly stroking his excessively puffy moustache. »Fit as a fiddle. I’ll give you a good deal, just because it‘s you. You seem like a nice guy.« Back then I didn‘t know any better and believed him.

So I paid him and was very pleased with my purchase. What a good price for a Greek tortoise, and, at least that‘s what I thought back then, quite a beautiful one at that. »It‘s 15 years old now,« the vendor had said to me. »With good care, it can live to a hundred.«
With my tortoise in a shoebox I headed home. That summer was a terribly hot and humid one, and I vividly remember thinking to myself, the tortoise must be delighted about the heat. »Just like home,« I had whispered to it on our bus ride back to my apartment, me on a plastic seat that was slowly becoming sticky under my sweating thighs, the tortoise in its shoebox on my lap. It hardly moved. Now and then I opened the lid, which was scattered with little holes I had pricked into it with a ballpoint pen, but the tortoise had hidden in its shell and was lying in a corner, perfectly still.
After a few days of getting used to each other in the peaceful calm and sweltering heat of my small city apartment, I named the tortoise Egon. I thought it was a fitting name.

Egon appeared to be very comfortable. He ate plenty. His favourites were lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, and strawberries, which he sometimes devoured so greedily, red strawberry juice would trickle from his narrow, hard nostrils. He did his business at regular intervals, and it looked just like it was supposed to look. To make sure, I had done a Google research myself and clicked my way through countless images of tortoise poop until I was satisfied that everything was as it should be when it came to my tortoise and his poop.

At first, Egon lived in a guinea pig cage I still had standing around in my cellar compartment from when it had belonged to my guinea pig Konstantin, who had passed away many years ago. But soon, I started to feel a little sorry for Egon, because there really wasn‘t a lot of space for him in a guinea pig‘s cage. So I decided to just let Egon roam free in my apartment. The cage‘s orange plastic floor part, from which I had cut out a piece so Egon could enter more easily, served as a place for him to retreat to, complete with sleeping nest and toilet. Egon was now moving completely freely about my apartment. The two of us, owner and pet, made quite the harmonious, happy team, I thought. Nothing about it felt unusual. I could never have guessed how wrong I was.

Because soon, the night that changed everything came. I was just about to fall asleep, entering this hypnotically pleasant stage when you haven‘t yet arrived at asleep but are far from awake all the same. A phase of sleep that paralyses your limbs and sends your thoughts reeling and traveling along convoluted paths. That was the beautiful state I was in, when suddenly I heard a noise. Knocking or scratching at my door, it was hard to tell in my trance. It stopped after a while, but soon after, it started up again. Then my door opened, and from my bed I could see Egon crawl along the narrow strip of light that the street lamp cast on my bedroom floor. With determined, rhythmically rowing movements, he pushed himself forward, closer and closer towards my bed. I was much too tired to move him from my room back to his sleeping nest, and anyway, he wasn‘t bothering me. It was just strange, as he hadn‘t ever spent time in my bedroom before or shown any interest in wanting to explore it. He probably wanted to be close to me, was the last thought I had before dozing off again.

When I woke up, I noticed something pressing against my legs. It was Egon, cheerfully crawling across my blanket. He was throwing his scaly little legs forward energetically, his claws repeatedly catching in the folds. »For God‘s sake, Egon,« I muttered into the black room. Head still thick with sleep, I didn‘t think to wonder how he had even made it onto my bed. I heard a soft coughing sound coming from Egon‘s direction and then, »Hello, Gustav.«
I sat up with a start. Automatically, I answered back with a »Hello«.
»Can‘t you sleep, either?« Egon asked.
Egon‘s voice was deep and loud, too loud for his small tortoise body. He sounded like an old wizard. I stared at my tortoise, who suddenly seemed alien to me. My tortoise stared back. We probably were a funny sight.

After a while, I answered him, »No, I don‘t have trouble sleeping though I‘m not so sure now. Why? Are you having a hard time falling asleep?« At that moment, I couldn‘t yet fully comprehend the absurdity of the situation. I was sitting on the bed in my dark bedroom, chatting with my Greek tortoise that I had purchased for a really good price at a flea market a few weeks ago. Egon gave a rattling sigh. »No, I haven‘t slept a wink tonight. Maybe it‘s because of the full moon.« We were silent for a while. »Egon,« I said at some point, »I didn‘t know you could talk.«

»Yes, I can,« he answered in that voice of his that was so deep and loud I was worried it would wake the neighbours. »Tortoises talk. And by the way, my name is Freda, not Egon.«
Now my confusion was complete. Egon was called Freda, had apparently received a name without any help on my part, and belonged to a species that was capable of talking but that, as far as I knew, had never chosen to. Questions piled up inside my head. I asked the stupidest one of them, »So you‘re a girl, Egon? Freda?«
»Yes, I am.«
»Your voice,« I said, »it sounds so masculine.«

»How would you know whether a tortoise‘s voice sounds masculine or feminine? Have you suddenly become an expert on tortoises? Just two weeks ago, I saw you lying on the living room floor in your underpants, looking at tortoise shit on your iPad.«
At that moment I was glad the black night air filling my bedroom managed to conceal my reddening cheeks. I was embarrassed in front of my tortoise. Which made me feel even more embarrassed.
»Well, is a male lion‘s roar deeper than a female‘s?«
»I don‘t know?«

»No, it isn‘t. Does a stallion‘s neighing sound deeper than a mare‘s?«
»Maybe a little?«
»You don‘t know what you‘re talking about.«

»Maybe you‘re right. But maybe you‘ll also understand that I‘m a little confused right now. Have you always been able to talk?«
»Yes, I have. I didn‘t just learn it from you. Don‘t take yourself so seriously.«
»No, I don‘t. Really,« I tried to placate my tortoise, who appeared to be getting upset. »It‘s just, you never said anything before now, so…«
»I simply had nothing to say.«
»Okay, I‘ll be on my way, then.«

After that night, Egon – I couldn‘t bring myself to call him »Freda« – didn‘t say anything for a long time. Soon I had forgotten that he had even spoken to me that night. Still, a strange distance grew between me and my tortoise. I didn‘t really trust him anymore.
I remember a moment when I was sitting on my couch in the living room.

Outside, autumn was already in full swing. On my way home from work, I had devoured a kebab at Yasin‘s, my favourite kebab shop, and the extra onions were giving me indigestion. Pressure was starting to build up behind my waistband. I was about to let off a possibly really loud, really long fart. But then I saw Egon crawling across the carpet, looking up at me. I went to the bathroom and relieved myself there.
A few days after this incident, I suddenly found Egon sitting on my bed again. I startled awake from deep sleep and saw my tortoise sitting on my pillow right in front of me.
»Egon?« I asked.
»I already told you, my name is Freda.«
»Freda. What are you doing here again?«
»I wanted to ask you something.«
»And what?«
»Did you turn off the stove?«
»Excuse me?« I asked, half-confused, half-angry.

»I wanted to know if the stove is off. It might still be running, you know.«
»Yes, it‘s off.« I was flabbergasted.
»Are you sure? Because I thought I watched you take the noodles off the stove without turning it off and then go to the living room. I might be wrong though.«
»Yes, you‘re wrong. Now please, let me go back to sleep.«
»All right. If you say so, I guess you‘re right. I‘m just asking. Surely you remember that one time at the vacation house in Spain.«
I startled upright again. »Wait a minute! How do you know about the incident at the vacation house in Spain?«

»I know a lot of things, Gustav.« For a few moments, my tortoise regarded me with a keen gaze. Then he started moving his sharp lips again, a pink tongue peeking out from behind them. »I also know what happened after that vacation in Spain.«
What on earth was going on? How did Egon know about all that? After that time in the vacation house in Spain, where the little kitchen‘s stove exhaust fan had caught fire and I had been the one to blame, unpleasant things had happened. I had no clue why Egon had brought up this incident now, in the middle of the night. I tried to avoid Egon‘s needling by ignoring it skilfully, didn‘t say much and waited for Egon to leave my room, which he did at some point.
„You‘re getting old,« I heard Freda say one night from across the other end of my bed. I had gotten used to the name »Freda« by now. Again, I had been about to fall asleep when I heard her voice. I rolled my eyes behind closed eyelids.

»Yes, Freda, thanks, I know. That‘s kind of what humans do, and animals, too, by the way. As far as I know, nobody gets younger.«
»Yeah, yeah, I know that you know. I‘m just saying.«
»Just saying what exactly?« I asked rhetorically, annoyed. »Please enlighten me.«
»Well,« Freda began, »I‘m saying you‘re 37 now.«
»Do you really think it‘s wise to focus on your career in painting right now? I get that you didn‘t enjoy your work at the agency any more, I really do, don‘t get me wrong. But still, it was a secure source of income, and simply giving up something like this was a bit, well, I don‘t want to offend you, but it was a bit stupid.«
I didn‘t move, kept my eyes closed and clenched my fists into the fabric of my blanket, trying to ignore my tortoise.
»You have a young daughter to feed, after all. Even if you don‘t see her that often. Because she‘s staying with her mother.« My tortoise‘s loud, deep voice took on a slightly accusatory tone.
»Please leave my daughter out of this. She‘s so none of your business. Just like my career choices are none of your business. Okay. I wasn‘t happy at the agency anymore, and that‘s an important factor to consider. I‘d rather be in debt and a happy father to my daughter than an unhappy one with loads of money in my account. Money isn‘t everything, my dear Freda. Most of all, money doesn‘t equal happiness.«

»With all due respect, Gustav, I don‘t think you‘re unintelligent, and this money-cannot-buy-happiness-thing is cute and commendable and all, but you should be too old for this teenager-hippie-idealism. It‘s not just about you anymore, it‘s about your daughter. How will you ever be able to pay for her university? What if she wanted to study abroad? Or get her driver‘s licence? For all I care, you could live so modestly Diogenes would envy you, but you have responsibilities.«

»There‘s still her mother, it‘s not like that.« I tried to steer the discussion in another direction.
»Yeah, yeah, yeah,« Freda said mockingly, »don‘t go shifting the responsibility onto your ex now. It‘s always someone else‘s fault, isn‘t it? That‘s what you‘re good at, Gustav, aren‘t you? It‘s cowardly and really awful. What happens, for example, if something happens to your ex? If she gets ill? Something could happen any day. Are you prepared for these eventualities?«
»Freda, that‘s really far-fetched now. Please just shut up and let me sleep.«

From that moment on, that‘s how it went almost every night. At some point during the night, Freda would shove herself into my room, mostly at a time when I was just about to fall asleep, and then somehow sit on my bed.

Every time she found a different important topic that she wanted to talk about with me. One time she reminded me that my bank balance was negative right now. Another time, she warned me about my current romance, and another, she brought up the odd rash I‘d had on my forearm for a few weeks.
At some point later, she began to talk about my parents, my brother, my cousin, my weird great-aunt. Freda never ran out of new ideas about how these people could bring disaster into my life. She would talk at me incessantly until I almost lost my mind, and then she would leave again.

At the start, I didn‘t mind so much, because she would come to me at irregular intervals. After a while, however, her night-time visits started to occur more often. Until at some point, it became every night, and the missing hours of sleep began to impact my everyday life. They left me unable to concentrate and constantly drowsy. It wasn‘t pretty. The circles under my eyes grew bigger and darker, my stomach thicker, my hair sparser.
I trudged through my days in a blur, feeling completely out of it. It was a strange time.

One day, while I was crossing a busy street in my city, I saw him again. The man with the excessively puffy moustache, who had tricked me into buying Freda for a bargain price. We looked at each other amidst the hustle and bustle of busy street crossers. We exchanged a short glance, one that said more than most glances, like one between two people who accidentally wind up sitting across from each other on the tramway after a visit to the brothel or an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting – ashamed, knowing, connected. Quickly, we averted our eyes from each other and went our ways.
At some point, I was so exhausted I made a decision. I grabbed Freda, put her in the shoebox, and marched towards the flea market where I had got her back then.

In front of me stood a young student with dark hair that she wore in a thick braid. »It‘s about 16 years old now,« I heard myself say, »With good care, it can live to a hundred.« The student nodded with interest. A bargain offer and a handshake later, I watched the student and her blue shoebox disappear among the crowd. My guilty conscience haunted me for long time.

Biographical to Johanna Sebauer [AT] »

Born in 1988 in Vienna and raised in Burgenland, Austria. She first studied Political Science at the University of Vienna and then pursued a Masters in Journalism, Media and Globalization in Aarhus (DK), Santiago de Chile and Hamburg. A few years ago she stared writing fiction. In 2014 her short story »Edina« was awarded the Burgenland Literature Prize, in 2016 her radio play »Wie Erna Rohdiebl aus Pamhagen ihr Herz an die Nordsee verlor« made the short list of the radio play competition »Textfunken« of Austria’s public broadcaster ORF. Currently she lives as a freelance author and editor in Hamburg.

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Bassam Halaka [AT]

Zum Symposium 2017
entstandenen Werk von Bassam Halaka [AT] »

»Keine Angst, es ist nur fürchterlich.« /// »Do not worry, it‘s just awful.«
Audio | Rauminstallation /// Room installation, Text für Stimme /// Text for voice:
Johanna Sebauer | Ass. Raumgestaltung /// Room design: Hans Wetzelsdorfer
Text zum Werk von Bassam Halaka [AT] »

»Keine Angst, es ist nur fürchterlich.«,
2017, Video-, Audio-, Rauminstallation (Text: Johanna Sebauer/
Raumgestaltung: Hans Wetzelsdorfer)

15 tote in Mumbai, 23 Verletzte in Kabul, Geiselnahme in Paris – Tagtäglich bringen die Medien uns Krieg und Katastrophen ins Wohnzimmer. Wir sehen Leid und Schrecken auf dem Bildschirm, hinter Glas. Angst empfinden wir dabei meist nicht, solange wir nicht selbst am Schauplatz sind. Diese Video-, Audio-, Rauminstallation ist der Versuch, die realen Schauplätze und die Angst, die damit verbunden ist, ins Zentrum der Wahrnehmung zu stellen.

Biographisches zu Bassam Halaka [AT] »

Bassam HALAKA is an Austrian-Egyptian composer was born in Kuwait, El-Jahra in 6th. of April 1977 of orchestral, chamber, choral, Piano, Electronic-Music, Electroacoustic, Audio-Visual Installations and Sound-Artist works that have been performed in Europe, America, Fare and the Middle East.

He Started piano lessons at age five in Kuwait and acoustic guitar at age15 at the secondary school in Cairo.

He began performing guitar at age 16 and at age 17 began to play the bass guitar and then started the academic study of music education, Cello and piano at age 18 at Faculty of Music Education (Helwan University – Cairo). He quickly moved from playing Arabic pop music to blues, jazz and classical music. His study at the F.M.E. caused him to explore all types of music besides music theory as a bass guitar as well as cello player then as student to explore the world of composition from the second year of his studying there. He wrote his first string quartet at age 19 and the first violin sonata at the age of 20. During his study at F.M.E., he created his career as bassist and performed with many jazz formations in Cairo as well as several Egyptian pop singers, at the same time he was also active as cellist with some Arabic music orchestras and ensembles. …

Bassam HALAKA ist ein österreichisch-ägyptischer Komponist, der in Kuwait, El-Jahra, am 6. April 1977 geboren wurde.

Seine ersten Klavierstunden erhielt er im Alter von fünf Jahren in Kuwait und im Alter von 15 Jahren kam die Akustikgitarre an der Sekundarschule in Kairo hinzu.

Schwerpunkten wie Cello und Klavier widmete er sich im Studium an der Fakultät für Musikpädagogik (Helwan University – Kairo). Schnell wechselte er von der arabischen Popmusik zum Blues, Jazz und zur Klassik. Sein Studium an der F.M.E. veranlasste ihn, alle Arten von Musik, neben der Musiktheorie, als Bassgitarrist sowie Cello-Spieler zu erkunden, die Welt der Komposition zu erkunden. Sein erstes Streichquartett schrieb er beriets  im Alter von 19 Jahren und die erste Violinsonate im Alter von 20 Jahren. Während seines Studiums an der FME startete er seine Karriere als Bassist und spielte mit vielen Jazzformationen in Kairo und begleitete viele  ägyptische Pop – Sänger/innen. Zeitgleich war er auch als Cellist mit einigen arabischen Musikorchestern und Ensembles musikalisch unterwegs. …

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Jelena Bjelica [RS]

Zum Symposium 2017
entstandene Werke von Jelena Bjelica [RS] »

»AD LIBITUM«, III, 30 x 100 cm
Acryl auf Leinwand /// Acrylic on canvas, 2017
»AD LIBITUM«, II, 30 x 100 cm
Acryl auf Leinwand /// Acrylic on canvas, 2017
»AD LIBITUM«, I, 30 x 100 cm
Acryl auf Leinwand /// Acrylic on canvas, 2017
Biographisches Jelena Bjelica [RS] »

Jelena Bjelica is born 1974, Novi Sad, Serbia. Graduated from the Art University in Novi Sad, department of graphic print, supervised by Professor Zivko Djak, since 2000. Member of the Arts society of Vojvodina, Association of Applied Arts Artists and Designers of Serbia, and Fine arts society circle. She has had six solo exhibitions, and over 40 group exhibitions in Serbia, and abroad. She has been awarded for graphic print, in 2000. She has participated in numerous art colonies. She works as an independent artist, expresses herself through drawing, graphic prints, painting and graphic design. Runs art workshop for young talents.

Jelena Bjelica je rođena 1974. godine u Novom Sadu. Diplomirala je na Akademiji umetnosti u Novom Sadu, 2000. godine. Izlagala je na pet samostalnih i na preko četrdeset kolektivnih izložbi u zemlji i inostranstvu. Nagrađena je 2000. godine na Izložbi grafike malog formata u Galeriji Grafički kolektiv.  Član je ULUV-a I Likovnog kruga. Samostalni je umetnik, izražava se kroz crtež, grafiku, sliku. Bavi se  grafičkim dizajnom i pedagoškim radom.

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Siegmund Kleinl [AT]

Text von Siegmund Kleinl
für »cahier d‘art« 2016 »

Flucht aus der Ferne

Im August 2015, es war der 27. Tag des Monats, wurde an der Ostautobahn bei Parndorf im Burgenland (Österreich) ein U-Boot gesichtet, das auf Asphalt gelaufen war.

Da stand es, auf sechs LKW-Räder gebockt, ohne Steuermänner, verlassen, ohne Rettung.

Siegmund Kleinl [AT] weiterlesen