Radar Redux.com is expanding the traditional concept of journalism, to cover a wide array of Baltimore Arts and Culture.
At the beach in Zuid Kennemerland National Park, The Netherlands, staring West.
With the idea of here sort of explained in my previous post. Now I write on, “What I am doing here.” I am posed this question, “What are you doing here?” on a weekly, often daily basis. When meeting someone new, they really want to know. After 6 months of hearing it from both Internationals and the Dutch, one begins to notice differences in the way the question is posed. There are variations in intent and expectations in responses. This question has induced everything from anxiety attacks to pensive self-inquiry sessions. It shouldn’t be this hard to answer, but every time I have to answer it, I seem to have a mini mind-battle. It has to do in part with the idea of here not being the here that I am used to. However, it also has to do with the implications of the worddoing, which, along with the idea of here, is constantly evolving.
Doing the mundane, the everyday, the relatable, the universal. A specific response unrelated to space, place, or the idea of here because this doing can occur anywhere.
“What are you doing?”
“I am sitting at my desk”
“I am typing these words.”
“I am eating a banana.”
“I am listening to music.”
“I am thinking.”
Doing as a concept rather than as an actual physical task. This is an everyday given, it just is. It is vague and not easily accepted as an answer, but it is most accurate.
“What are you doing?”
“I am living.”
With the Dutch, it always comes down to an issue of space. They want to know, “What are you doing here?” to make sure that you are here, in their country, for an identifiable reason—that you have not just moved for a new experience, to just live. This is because the Netherlands is one of the most densely populated countries in the world. There is not enough space in this country, especially not enough in Amsterdam. If you are here for no specific reason, then you are just taking up precious space. Space that they could be using for other, very specific things, such as outdoor café seating or bike parking. The little table and chair placed strategically in the sun at a café serves an exact purpose, it is as much a symbol of the culture as an upright bicycle. The café space is a purposeful one, it is always doing something. It provides a space for necessary people watching and beer drinking. There are numerous ones because they are used based on location of the sun rather than what is served. It may seem counter-intuitive to devote so much space to cafés offering the same food and drinks when there is a severe housing shortage in Amsterdam, but these cafes are ingrained as indispensable spaces within the culture. They are everyday, relatable and universal spaces. They exist, in large quantities, for an unquestionably necessary reason and therefore are fully accepted. They are unlike me, who at this point, just takes up space.
As I begin to understand the Dutch more, I realize that the “What are you doing here?” question reveals a lot about their cultural mind-set, as exemplified by the way they approach café culture. The Dutch just want to make sure that any new thing that is taking up space fits into the already existing culture. First and foremost, they want to find a place for it. What this new thing can add is only secondary. If there is no space for it, then it is unnecessary, there is no point in getting attached. There are limited cafés serving decaf coffee and salads, not because these things have never been thought of before, but because they have nothing to add to a culture that only wants strong coffee and sandwiches. As an artist (and American), my mind-set is the opposite. I first think about how I can add something to a space or place, then worry about fitting in later—it can always fit in somewhere, us space-naïve Americans like to think.
With other internationals, we bond over the “What are you doing here?” question in a philosophical way. We don’t think about it as a matter of space, but as a matter of existence. It is not a question with a specific answer, but one that is more open-ended, since most of us are still figuring it out. We accept that the answer is amorphous and fluid, it is ever-changing. What is this doing referring to? What is this here referring to? Space does not even cross our minds. It is not an integrated café space with an exact purpose. It is not just a space to go to get exactly what you expect with tables that can be moved to be in the sun. In this way, the answer is not always aligned with cultural normality. It is unpredictable. Instead of an already existing café space with a specific purpose, it is a search for free public space in the sun. You never know what to expect, but you can assemble your own picnic with whatever you like. Sometimes it might be along a busy canal across town or right down the street. Sometimes it can’t be found at all. The search becomes the doing, it becomes the act of living, and it is not necessarily attached to taking up space for a precise reason.
This is the first time that I am beginning to understand what it means to be unattached and independent (as an artist) and I am not used to it. I like it, I know this much, but it is hard to let the idea of quantification and labels go, to the point where an “organization” or “title” now seems like “the man” to me. This is because I am used to checking boxes next to a list of mediums that read: photography, painting, video, performance, etc. I have been conditioned to need some form of structure. Have I turned into an anarchist living for free on squatted land in the middle of the city? No, but my mind has. Or at least that is where my mind would like to be—at peace, off the grid, just living. “What are you doing here?” I am living, just living. This is the ultimate conceptual art challenge, moving was the piece. I am the art object. Essentially, this has become an existential journey, a complete de-conditioning. Sometimes, this kind of doing, this idea of living, is all that is needed. That is the reason I moved abroad and I am thankful to have the opportunity to experience this choice.
The other day, a favorite Microphones song got stuck my head as I was jogging along the canals. Phil Elvrum’s songwriting style is quiet, yet deliberate. His lyrics have a way of giving the Pacific Northwestern United States, where he is from, an atmospheric presence. There is a line from the song “The Moon” that goes, “I went to the beach and I just stared West.” It is a simple, seemingly insignificant line, but whenever I am reminded of it, I like to visualize myself standing on the beach on the West coast on a windy and gray day staring calmly at the Pacific Ocean. Living on the East coast for the majority of my life, I have always gone to the beach and stared East, at the Atlantic instead of the Pacific Ocean. Because of this difference in direction—East instead of West—and in oceans—Atlantic instead of Pacific—the exact sentiment of the lyric is lost. I could never easily mimic the action of going to the beach and staring West. Now that I am living on the other side of the Atlantic, I realize I can actually go to the beach and stare West. I would still be staring at the same ocean, the Atlantic, but I’d be staring at it from another direction, from Europe to North America, instead of vise versa. This shift in perception, this change in direction, it is a small reminder in the grand scheme of things, but it represents a new point of view, both literally and philosophically. What am I doing? I am figuring out what it means to live as I stare West, at the continent I used to call home.
__________________________________________________________________________
For more by Ding Ren visit her website at: http://www.dingren.net
No Comments