If you walk down East Houston Street on any given day in early June, you’ll notice a few storefronts. There’s Café Earth Matters, a vegan joint selling smoothies made of root vegetables you can’t name and filled with couches whose yellow stuffing is falling out in artsy cascades. A little farther down you’ll glimpse Laboratorio del Gelato, an acclaimed center of research investigating all possible flavors of that Italian ice cream imported into America. But the newest neighbor occupying a storefront in the area is No Longer Empty, temporarily located at 215 East Houston St and Ludlow St.

In fact, No Longer Empty makes a career out of opening up shop in vacated spaces. NLE is veritably a travelling contemporary art gallery, assuming the shape of its space with site-specific installations, educational programs and community outreach efforts.  This latest exhibit, About Face, on 215 E. Houston Street explores different modes of communication, the evolving role of multimedia in art and the human element of 21^st century society.

Between the canvases and screened art pieces of the exhibit stands a lone figure in a spidery black dress, surrounded by stories wound onto tapes. Maria Jose Arjona, a performance artist, has literally installed herself in the exhibit. As an artist seeking to create performances with universal appeal, Maria Jose has made her work accessible by using the most basic, comprehensible of art forms – the body. In today’s digital age, there are many layers to push through until a point of connection is reached: tangles of circuits, hidden-meaning emoticons, netiquette, “offline” indicators, words that are copied and pasted and rewritten again. Yet Maria Jose represents the initial mode of communication – oral transmission, words in their first form as they emerge from her, telling the story of the human race.

As a High 5 Freelancer and member of the newly-launched NLE Youth Docent Program, I had the remarkable opportunity to speak with Maria Jose about her history and her art. The following interview is Maria’s story, but to hear a precious story told in Maria’s voice, hurry down to East Houston Street and meet the artist in her own space, face to face and personal.  Click here to read the interview::

Note:  This interview was conducted via Skype on April 4, 2011, before the opening of the exhibition.

Biography and Creative Process

DALIA WOLFSON:  While doing research for this interview, I read through your biography. You were a dancer until a tragic accident which ultimately led to your art-form switch from dance into performance art. Could you please elaborate on that transition and discuss the interaction between these two stages of your creative development.

MARIA JOSE: I was a contemporary dancer, and I had an accident that pulverized my knee while I was dancing. It was very traumatic, because I knew that something really bad had happened. I knew I could not dance, but I’d been dancing forever as a very focused dancer – I was clueless about the future, and suddenly a friend suggested the arts. I had a very conservative family and my father told me I should go into the sciences, claiming with such a great brain it would be a shame not to use it. I actually passed in the University for physics and art. I went to the Physics department, saw the people and thought: “I don’t think so.” I didn’t belong there. But then I visited the School of Arts. I felt a tug to join, but I had never even learned to draw properly. I had never done anything related to visual artists, and any transition into the arts would need to be related to my dancing.

DW: I bet the transition from Physics Major to arts nut probably wasn’t so popular, right? There’s usually a stigma against switching from cold sciences to the creative arts.

When I told my father I was going to study arts, he told me he wouldn’t pay the expenses and called the arts “a hobby.” The university that had accepted me was a private university and charged high tuition, so I had to apply for public school which mandated a series of tests for admission. I thought I could never pass: I didn’t know how to draw or sculpt. I didn’t undersea the text that they read to me, and I felt like an all-around failure. There were students around me producing incredible things on canvas. I assumed that I hadn’t passed, and I had already rejected the physics tuition at the other school, so I was sort of floating. And then, miraculously, the university contacted me to let me know I’d passed.  When I went to the interview, they asked me: “Why are you here if you’re a dancer?”  I remember being very honest and telling them: “ I really don’t know, but I know that my life is within the arts. I am a very good student, extremely disciplined, and I just wanted the opportunity.”

DW: Reflecting back on your time as a visual – as opposed to performance – artist, what was the experience like? How did you feel, working with materials as opposed to with your body?

First semester was very frustrating because there was a lot of drawing and I don’t like to get dirty that way. I don’t like oil – I don’t like the smell of it and I don’t like charcoal. I was very paralyzed with these white papers in front of me, frozen by aggression of having a wall in front of me to draw on. Fortunately for me, I had incredible teachers. I explained to them that I needed to use my body somehow, because I felt so restricted to a page. I started to use rolls of paper on the floor, and literally just make lines upon lines upon lines. Those lines contained my motion, my thoughts –  everything. That was the first time I grasped the form’s ability to transmit a feeling: the line was not only a line, but a concept.

Art theory also helped me transition. We were reviewing art history, and all of a sudden I discovered Fluxus.  I thought this movement was incredible.  I found Joseph Beuys, and I started to research his work. I loved the fact that he healed himself through art. For me, I had to go through a similar journey, to somehow heal the accident so I could kind of have closure with my own process as a dancer.

DW: That’s awesome! I’d planned to ask you about Fluxus, actually, because I’d learned about it in the Guggenheim’s “Third Mind” exhibition and had been intrigued by the  specific, interactive nature of the Fluxus movement that reminds me so much of the characteristics of performance art. How did you move from Fluxus to performance art?

While I was researching Beuys, I visited the library often. In those days I happened upon a photocopy of Marina Abramovic, a nearly-black, blurry image. I began to read about her and thought: “This is what I should be doing.”  I obtained a book and studied the images of her work. Unfortunately, in my university there was no performance art teacher.  Everybody started to tell me: “You are going to be a painter!” I replied:  “No, I will not be a painter – I hate painting. I’m not going to paint, and if I paint, it has to be in a different way.”

I started to create works but I knew that they were very much choreographed, and I knew that I was not understanding clearly how to enter a piece of work without choreography. I had to erase my mind and trace back the whole history of performance to dune sand how these pieces were created, to explore the process of forming a concept, doing research and writing sketches. It was a process of almost erasing of everything I had learned from the body to acquire a completely different body.

The first time I was conscious of performing was a piece that was with standing eggs in 2000. I knew then that I was not dancing, that the elements I had chosen were totally related to the action. I was very lucky because one of the best performance artists of South America was there, and she became my teacher. And along with her I was working with philosopher Consuelo Palon, who introduced me to Vezhil Velez. If Fluxus blew me away, then this was like the next atomic bomb my life – Velez taught me how to place things in time.  Marina also taught me time, because I followed her work very much. It’s been a very beautiful journey for me, because finally I was performing her pieces at MOMA with her, and not long ago I was in Italy and she came for my performance. Now, it’s a circle that has closed:  when you have a master, and as a student you have the honor of the master going to your pieces. So it’s been an incredible path to travel that way. And now, I’m a pure performer.

DW: What is your creative process? Where is your inspiration born, and how do you develop an idea?

MJ: Yes, I do start with an idea, a concept more than an idea. Of course, I have topics that I want to deal with, all of them related to the body somehow. I try to step out from identity problems and gender and related ‘issues’, and instead I prefer to talk about more universal themes.

In 2008, I started the White Series, a five-piece composition.  Before I got to the five pieces, I knew what I wanted to talk about: I wanted to address violence, memory and the process of healing.

Also, I am Colombian. Sometimes, when you deal with certain topics, they are instantly tied to your nationality, and I wanted to tie my work into the force, rather than the situation in Colombia. I wanted to explore this force is in every community, and how it permeates people in such a way that we don’t even see it until the event happens. I was dealing with the problem of trying not to get trapped in the event itself. Since I wanted to talk about violence as a force- which is a concept, not an idea – I wanted to know where it comes from and why we tend to be violent people in general.

I started to think about games. I thought about childhood, and how as a kid you play and are involved in certain things that seem to be innocent when really they have darker undertones. I also wanted to be very literal in certain aspects o the piece. For example, when a child blows soap bubbles, the whole process is very pure…but then the bubbles explode and suddenly they are bombs. And since the bubbles are transparent, you don’t see what they leave behind, with no trace of a mark or reminder of the explosion. So I decided that I wanted to speak about violence –  the explicit symbol of violence is blood, so I decided to add red coloring to the bubble solution. I created the bubble in such a way that it’s transparent when you see it, and only upon touching the surface does it leave a red mark. So it seems very innocent, but upon exploding and over a duration of time, it turns out to express harm and danger. After two weeks of blowing bubbles, the gallery was pretty intense, with the wall red-washed.

The second component of the performance was Memory. I wanted to see how memory interacted with the type of situation I left behind. Every single performance was in the same space, recapturing what I had left before. I wanted to talk about memory, and the particular way in which we remember very certain things.  I also had a very clear idea: any memory is specifically strong when something happens to you in your body. I chose to tattoo a phrase, “remember to remember,” on my back, encrypting the memory onto myself. Then, I started to write this same phrase with white chalk (thus going through the process of learning to write) until, through repetition, this language started to erase the red-white mark left on the gallery.

I go through the process of cleaning up the initial concept to the minimum, so the whole entire piece falls in your body. I don’t have a lot of objects to rely on, or to work with. My tool is my body, and therefore I try to really leave the space very open for the audience to experience what’s going on. I develop from the initial concept to understanding how to express it in term of the space and the matter and time. Finally, I arrive at the action to going to perform, and this action ends up affecting every single element that I have chosen for each piece.

DW: How do you prepare for performances?

MJ: I do have some very internal processes that I go through before a performance. I start to forget things, about very personal situations in my daily life. I contain my existence: I don’t go outside much Sundays or weeks before the piece; I start to eat more of certain things and less of others. In ordinary life, you’re really spread out. From next week and onwards, I just don’t want to be involved in any other transaction that is not related to specifically the action that I will be performing, so I will try to restrict the phone calls from my gallery manager, because it addresses a very different realm. It’s almost a religious ritual of regrouping and collecting myself. It depends very much on the presence that I need for the performance, so I also meditate through my work. It’s very important to hear the material you have, because it allows you to have a a very intuitive process.

DW: Ah, so this Skype conversation we’re having is a pretty valuable opportunity, if you’re preserving your voice for the exhibit, and already in the process of withdrawing from distracters in the city. I’m curious about your thoughts regarding this new medium of the voice (rather than the body) to communicate through performance art.

For this specific performance that I will have, it’s the first time that I’m using my voice. This is an especially challenging element because I’m not trying to tell my story; I’m trying to channel other stories. I’ve been recording myself, listening to the stories many times over. I have read the stories. I am also working with my voice more: I hear my voice a lot more.

I’m trying to submerge myself in my voice. I want to talk to the stories instead of talking to everyone. This time the preparation is intuitive because its’ not the same type of work that I was doing before. I’m very quiet, actually. In my performances, I never talk and have barely any verbal interaction with anybody. The interaction happens more energetically. This time, since I’m using my voice, it’s quite different and when I hear my voice – it’s like a different body for me

I’m trying to channel the energy of each story through my voice. I am actually going to whisper the stories. That will be a big chunk of the performance. The piece will be titled “Transcription, Infusion and Memory,” and it’s the process I’ve gone through in order to get through the final performance. I’ve been trying to transcribe the stories onto actual pages, and through repetition I try to learn them. Then I read these stories into a recording machine, so I can hear them again. By the time I jump into the performance, I’m ready for the infusion: an infusion is when you add a substance to another fluid, and voice is understood in performance as another fluid of your body. I’m infusing this into your stream by whispering to you, so I’m very close to your ear, and the interaction is also private. In that way, my air goes through your ear and it’s permanently living there in your lungs, in your blood, everywhere – so you become the physical archive of that story. The actual tapes of the video-recording that we did in the session will be used to construct an object, a sort of space within the space. In that space I will tell you the story, and this is because I thought that the magnetic tape keeps the story there. As I make this other space out of the stories, the stories are there but they are quiet, so I’m not publicizing them widely. They are just standing there suspended in total silence, but at the same time, they are public. I touch both dimensions, of making something public of a private moment, but maintaining privacy within that public space.

DW: How has your background, as a Colombian, as a woman, affected your art?

MJ: Of course, my Colombian heritage makes me sensitive to certain issues because I’ve lived through those experiences. Instead, though, I choose to explore the concept as a force. When you jump outside of yourself, you realize that this force is not exclusive and it merges into another form. I try to exercise myself into being very conscious of the fact that a force is not only affecting me as an individual and a woman. For example, I could ask you the following, as a woman: if you see a boy and a girl crying, which is more important? No matter the gender, the answer is “both.” But what I need to understand is why. And I need to create a situation where these two specific bodies respond to that. My purpose, then, is to transform a personal sensitivity to universal relevance.

I understand why we feel: we respond very much to things with identity, because you comprehend very clearly what is happening. Your experience creates the piece, and therefore it’s far easier for your brain to connect with a concrete reference;  when the image is more abstract, there’s a lot of space to think, and we’re not used to thinking anymore. We are used to certain cues and signals, and we engage so quickly with the work that it’s fantastic. But when a work allows you to think with yourself, there is wonder in that too.  There are some works where you don’t understand everything, but all of a sudden you stop and stay and ponder. With a more universal work, an element of thought is present because you need more time to relate to the piece. In a way, this demand creates a difficulty, because we don’t have time, but we create time.

Back to the MOMA retrospective: if you wanted to sit with Marina- not even to sit, but just stand in line for 8 hours – the line was very important, because the other side of the whole performance was the one happening outside, in line. That’s the beauty of the piece: in New York, she was able to make people stop and stay in one place and even sit with her. I think that when you’re able to jump out of yourself and your own experience and sensitivity to something beyond you, you’re pushing the boundaries. And once you  push the limits, then we can open up a discussion about  talking about social justice, equality, respect and tolerance.

I love performance because it is your body, and this is a media form that is already universal.  With your body, you can address a very fragmented world with a very unifying image. In performance art, all of a sudden tensions are dissolved, creating an extraordinary space for people to think again, to feel, and to stay still for a second.

 

Projects and Performance

DW: Is there a common theme between your pieces? How do you move from one series to another? How is your work for NLE linked to past projects?

MJ: I’ve been working on cycles a lot, instead of portraying one piece. I try to create a whole group of actions that deal with one theme. Since I perform, the documentation becomes very critical. Documentation is almost like an afterlife of the performance. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the documentation and archiving, and about how memory works in performance. It’s a long process, but when I finally get to see the documentation, the footage and my own experience throughout the pieces form a combination that leads me to the next piece. It’s like a never-ending process.

For example, after the White Series I created VIRES.  VIRES concentrates on a whole cycle of power and addresses power in different ways. I am finishing that cycle with No Longer Empty now as I tell stories. This method is based on using an oral tradition as a tool that enforces certain values and captures the way we create history from a very individual perspective. This individual approach is the reason I solicited works form an audience: I wanted to collect your experience of the world and see your perception of events. In the beginning, I thought we were going to have very impersonal stories, but the project developed into a very confessional encounter. We received 252 stories and all of them are extremely personal, addressing our society and our individual sorting of experiences.  Tell Me A Story allows you to see what’s happening in a more universal way:  it exposes the needs we all have, our dreams, our fears, our strength and our courage. This last part of the process has been also very intuitive – I was thinking of the project in a certain way, but as we got the stories, I started to change my approach. The material is so human that you have to let it direct itself. I know that every time I get into a project, I have to track how the process is going throughout production, so that the work is always relevant in the present. The events of one year past are not as important as current news, because these days we’re living so fast. With this specific project, I’m open to wherever it leads me, instead of following through with my initial thought.

DW: You participated in Abramovic’s retrospective last year, performing in the piece “Nude with Skeleton.”  I personally remember seeing that – and, I suppose,  seeing you – and feeling taken aback by that room in particular, where Abramovic made more explicit references to her Serbian, ethnic heritage. How does it feel to be a performance artist performing another person’s story? What was the artistic process in that situation?

MJ: It is a long process to perform that piece. When the pieces were finally designated to us, I asked her about the specifics of each piece, and did research about each piece that I had to perform. Of course, the beauty of also re-performing is that the piece suffers some sort of transformation, because my body is not her body and my energy is different. But within the specifics that she gave me, I was very respectful and tried not to gravitate outside of the conceptual and formal boundaries that she had set. When you are re-performing –and this happened to me with Luminosity – there was a video Marina performing it, and it was therefore very difficult, because the comparison between performances was available. Ultimately, though, there’s no way to compare because our bodies are telling a different story; visually it may be similar, but the experience changes because it’s me.

The performance transformed me. Initially, it was very difficult – first of all, being naked and complete in one position makes you very vulnerable. By the end I really enjoyed the process and understood the real power of the piece – it was the only one where you were alone in the room, and you were completely the image, just the body.

In terms of preparation, the artists attended Marina’s workshop of “Cleaning the House,” with no cellphones and a no-talking rule.  We also did exercises – she was very generous because she essentially equipped us with her own preparation techniques. Through the exercises, Marina tried to help us forget ourselves and be present. That purpose – of “being present” — was really her goal in the exhibit. She was trying to prove in body that the “Artist is Present” is not a retrospective of a person that happens to be a performance artist, but rather to make the statement of “I am going to be there every day of the exhibition process.” The presence is very related to the present. You acquire a presence in the present.

 

Current Project @ No Longer Empty

DW: This newest installment, Tell me a story because I can’t sleep, focuses on storytelling, which is often an activity associated with words. As a performance artist, how do you convert words and text into choreography? What challenges did you encounter  in dealing not with bodies and actions, but rather with words?

MJ: Since we launched this whole project via Internet and different communications platforms, the process for submitting a story was through a one-to-one interaction with me. The first type was of an interaction via email, so I understood the text as if it was a voice. With the Skype calls, every video became a story, with both image and sound. With the personal meetings, I was videotaping the session and recording it at the same time, so I was accumulating the voices and visuals.

The most important element in the composition for the last piece was the voice – how we address this voice today? I tried to address the text, image and sound as well as a voice. Voice is very related to a person- when you say, “I have a voice,” you exist somehow; you have a choice, you can talk and address things. A voice functions in many ways, not only as a tool to communicate with another person, but also as a way to be present to other people.

For the last piece, as I went through each part of the process, I started to understand that since the stories were very personal. I was very concerned about how to publish these stories, given their private nature. The exchange of stories was an intensely private matter: the story was entrusted to me as a listener, with no one else involved. I felt very much like the keeper of the stories, so I though: “If I’m going to perform in a public place, how am I going to respond to the private element of the project?”  I couldn’t really make a show out of someone else’s story, so I decided to work with the tapes and all of the records as actual material. I’ve chosen to tell these stories through one to one interaction, because I want to have a connection between two people only. It won’t be a public shout out:  I’ll pick a story as you come to me, and I will infuse this story into you, so that you become the archive of the project.

In this project, I’m also relying human memory, as opposed to the external hard drive of a PC. I was also concerned with any conflict that could arise if I could not access my computer- would I remember every single story? We don’t use our brains anymore because we’re plugged in. I wanted to convey that the most important memory that we have to rely on is human memory. So I’m trying to make the public into the archive; a live, breathing archive of the project. As you leave the performance, you have a piece of the work. When you retell the story, it starts to transform and evolve and it becomes a sort of oral tradition.

Personally, I’ve had eight months of addressing the body as the main archive, with the capacity to plug into you as the most relevant recipient of the piece. I’m actually giving you the piece, and you recreate the piece and store it as a living archive.

DW: Are there any particular artists that have had a special effect on you?

MJ: Well, one example is Frida Kahlo, who saved me during my college interview. The interviewees asked me about my favorite artists, and I had an answer ready.

You see,  when I was in the hospital, a friend introduced me to Frida Kahlo (not in person, of course). I had been in bed, with weights tied to my limbs and not much to distract me. My friend offered to bring me books, and among them was a Frida Kahlo book.

At the college interview, I told them one of my favorite artists was Frida Kahlo, because this was true, and honesty put me into the university. I’m a very thirsty person, so of course I did research on her. She’s a Cancer, born five days before I was born, still has scars, and she also had an accident on her right leg. The number of our shared experiences was kind of crazy to think about. I started to understand that if you’re in an accident and you’re suddenly disabled, there’s something to be learned out of it.

DW: Particularly with this new installment, your story will be intermixed with those of international submitters. How do you balance the personal and universal elements in your work?

MJ: It always happens that the body that’s performing is a universal body. It’s not my identity that’s brought into the performance. My body is like a tool, so when I’m there, I’m very present and I empty myself from me so that I can channel the concept without persona intake. So for this piece, the body works the same way as all the other processes. The idea was born from me, I’m  working with somebody else’s material that was sent to me, but the body remains  the same.

It’s a very interesting question because I used to be a dancer, and when you dance it’s very different. There’s a different take on the choreography and how you express it, and that makes you “unique” within a dance group. In performance art, I try to do completely the opposite and take away all my personal views on something, and just deliver the concept. When you work with concepts, you’re working in a far more universal way.

DW: What have the submissions to Tell me A Story been like? Is there a pattern you’ve witnessed?

MJ: There was something that was repeated throughout all of the stories, and that was an accident. Something happens that changes your life, and you spend your life telling a story about how the event changed your behavior and identity.

But I heard from everyone, old people to young people: it’s a wide spectrum of ages, and nationalities and genders and all sorts of stories. All of them, however, tap into a life-changing moment. But there was no specific group or a specific theme- it’s a variety but they’re all related to the human experience in an honest and incredible way.

DW: You’re currently working with No Longer Empty, which fills vacated spaces with art. How does the space – rather than the performer – determine a performance?

MJ: I am actually acknowledging the space as a platform. The building is giving me a chance to build this other space that responds to my project, my work is specific to the people. And in that way, the project is site-specific, because it will be specific as you enter that space. It could have been any other building, because I’m actually creating this other space within the space.

I am not addressing the location itself as much as I am addressing the concept of the exhibition, “The Festival of Ideas” with the New Museum. Mannon, the curator, wants to explore the process of creating an exhibition – it’s a convergence of ideas, and how the curator ties them to tie them together. It’s interesting for the NLE staff because it’s the first time that they’re working with a site-specific project that is not specific to the building, but rather specific to the concept. The idea becomes the site.

 

Take Three: Artist’s Message, Audience’s Perception, Critic’s Response

DW: There’s always a fine line between the artist’s intent and the audience’s attention span. How do you balance your media’s two aspects  of “performance” (more entertainment-centric) and “art” (a formal, creative expression)?

MJ: Working…and trying to come across with really good work – putting my best out there and being serious. I try to establish the line between performance and entertainment. People are seeing performances now because they’re turning out be like a concert. But a concert is not a performance, it’s a musical experience. With my performances, I’m very persistent in presenting pieces that require time. In this way, I’m never underestimating the audience, and instead I’m actually being very positive about people being smart enough to absorb the message.

I try to truly deliver the process, too, to make you digest the work.  I think that only if you work that way, eventually the division between entertainment and pure art will dissolve, or at least it will dissolve for the audience – the investment of time achieves that purpose.

Also, a lot of the artistic process is concerned with depth. I had the opportunity to teach for a while in Colombia, and it was a very interesting experience because I was very demanding on the process: I was not very concerned about the outcome. Instead, I was very much into following each student’s process. I found that a lot of them were lazy at the beginning, because these days it’s easier with the Internet – you have access to all this information at your fingertips. I was very demanding with the time they were giving to the process. I think at the end they were very thankful, because they understood the relevance of time. That’s why the work is long duration; I allow you to go as many times are you want, whether you want to stay for a minute or hour.       Time allows people to process things. That was the first noticeable aspect about Marina Abramovic’s performance at MOMA. The first days were okay, the opening was okay, but through time it became a huge event because people had the experience and they shared it with their friends. These works have a way to evolve through time and they kind of grow into the audience. You need to grasp the importance of time, and grant the audience time to go through the process.

DW: As a freelance writer for High 5, I’m always faced with the dilemma of figuring out the artist’s purpose. Some artists won’t explain themselves at all, while others will write treatises about their intended meaning. How do you want your work to be perceived? Do you respond positively to people imposing their own interpretation upon your art?

MJ: I am very open, because I think that critique is important for your work: you hear someone else’s opinion and perceive what you’re doing. But there’s one requirement: the critique must be constructive. If the review allows me to understand something about the work and its role in contemporary society, I am pleased. If the review becomes a frontal attack on me, it’s not about me.

In Miami, my show” Influence Identity” discussed identity in Miami. I thought I could relate to Miami because it didn’t have an identity- you think of parties, of Pink, of all of these associations that the place has accumulated over the years. I did a video called “FAKE” and it was a video piece. The review came out a week later, and the reviewer didn’t even discuss the piece. She was furious with me, and instead of addressing my work she talked about my body, mentioning anorexia and attacking my interpretation of Miami on a very personal level.

When reviews adopt a personal perspective on someone else’s persona, it’s not doing anything for the community, for the work or the readers. I’ve encountered very tough but good critics. When they criticize a piece, they validate their criticism. Reviewing and critiquing properly is a hard job, because you’re given the responsibility of adding something to the dialogue of their cities, approaching the work in a way that allows the reader to understand the work and the world that surrounds you. Also, reviews shouldn’t be descriptive; not like “There she was, sitting on a chair…” Yes, there should be a passage describing the piece itself,  but there’s a point where you have to have an opinion. Sadly, more and more reviews are becoming summaries, and criticism stays at a very superficial level. Look, instead, to Art Forum, Art Papers and October Magazine – they’re all serious magazines with writers deeply invested in the works and in the artist, so they take their time to really do their research and write about you. When it’s a well-written, qualified review, I learn to accept criticism with grace.

DW: Lastly, as a member of High 5 I find myself surrounded by creators and critics, artists and reviewers alike. Do you have any advice for young, creative teens?

MJ: First of all, allow me to express my admiration for the High 5 team through my own story. High 5 teens sent me their stories, and I was blown away by the quality of the texts – not only were they very well-written and powerful, but the majority of them revealed a rather extraordinary message.  Older generations need to hear what the young generations need to talk about. In their ways, within their language and within their world. Tt’s such a different world for today’s youth. The stories were vivid, charged with a lot of feeling for the outside world.  

I felt very illuminated by their texts because with every text, the students gave the story time. It was not a simple text, not superficial, not a five-second composition (or if they were so quickly written, then these kids are brilliant). I even received some small, short texts, but the content was so concentrated and strong that it allowed me to see things that I never experience anymore. I also got really poetic texts and I was surprised – nobody’s buying poetry from bookstores anymore, but there I was, reading texts that were individual, self-contained poems.

I think that if you have a talent, focus on it. Dedicate time to it. Give it full attention. Eventually, it will take you somewhere. And I think that for you guys, it’s sometimes very difficult because there are so many people waiting to be famous or know all of these things – with all that pressure, it’s hard to practice discipline. I saw so much talent and dedication and real control – you have to be disciplined to write certain things and do what you’re doing. Mastering an art form lies in the dedication of time. You can be successful in whatever you want to be if you donate time to your passion in any field, from music to film to pictures to dance to a band or poetry.

I also think that younger generations are exposed to very different things than my own generation, so I am very open to see that change. I find it very interesting to see the way in which new generations are acknowledging issues of their own time.  I think that as long as you dedicate seriously to what you’re doing, you will be good. It’s more about discipline than talent. So I think when you acquire discipline, the work will evolve into something very interesting, naturally and organically.