A Stroll with an Anxious Soul. Tallinn Biennial

Things that change usually start with a crisis, or begin before dawn: everything kicks off on a pinned location and a few moments later someone’s already begun talking to god. As to spiritual exchange, I’m glad that the premium Tallinn LGBTQ+ party at Sveta bar found its place in the Tallinn Biennale programme: this year’s theme revolved around global language, and the party couldn’t have been more wide-mouthed.

I started my trip around Tallinn Biennial somewhere midway, in a resort “of questionable curatorial practices and blissful ignorance”^{[1] [1]}, which felt more like a home. Before entering, I was politely asked to leave all my troubles by the door with the promise that they’d be kept safe, and that I’d be able to pick them up afterward, when leaving. I failed to do so, instead swiping some obsessive thoughts under a table with donut-shaped legs. I’d learned from one of the artistic health workers teaching me that the table was never actually meant to be exhibited: the artist “had personal reasons for creating those”. A “personal reason” of course explains everything, especially in an “Artist Crisis Centre”, where everything is beige and pasta inspired. The centre was mainly held in the hands of artists Ieva Kraule-Kūna and Elīna Vītola, with artist Darja Melnikova being a third, less direct, component of the facility. And although the centre had been accessible from the 2-9 July, I managed to get there on the very last day. When I arrived, there were only a couple of restless bodies moving throughout the space – perhaps most of them had already been taken care of. The atmosphere felt calm but simultaneously eerie and haunting, with many of the identities of participating artists left unknown since according to Elīna, “many of the works were dealing with failure or were otherwise sensitive”. It is failure that haunts: the ghost of an abandoned artwork hiding itself in the softest parts of the centre; in the upholstered fabrics; in painted oils. Regardless, even the very lost souls found their place in this centre shelter, even those not blessed with talent or those haunted by doubts. I wandered around the healing equipment longer than I had planned, for personal reasons, leaving feeling flushed in beige, with a speck of blissful uncertainty blushing my cheeks.

While uncertainty is our mother tongue, bliss is optional. Like hedgehogs in the fog, we move in neon-lit vapour, secretly hoping for a wise owl to show up with some advice. I’ve noticed that creatures that always have answers appear from out of nowhere, especially those who happen to pop up around midnight. I happened to pass by quite a few of those creatures on the Sunday night at the Sveta BÄM! 4th birthday party. One creature looked like a frog while another looked like Lady Gaga and the list went on. And I’m not being rude – the looks were creatively chosen for Vogue’s style runway. “The mysterical vision is always of noon or midnight”, –Jean-Luc Nancy’s words would pop to mind, – “dawn is the drawing of a line”^{[2] [2]}. Which chimes in this instance, as various types of alternative conversions  occur before the sun, returning to the axis of this year’s Tallinn Biennale. “What’s more common than bodies?”^{[3] [3]} What’s more common than trembling in a fog of uncertainty, guided by touch?

Keeping in touch with the frogs and other water residents, there was an exhibition called Under the water on the moon 2 at Okapi Gallery^{[4] [4]}, which focused on certain states that the Artist Crisis Centre would’ve been more than willing to take care of. Serving as vases for plants, the loneliness and silence of two free divers floated in the form of glass bubbles. However, my attention was drawn to a side of the show that was more alien: two four-legged beings with diving clothes and strange tubes dangling around them carrying a table to the bottom , caught on video., Uncertainty appeared to float everywhere: no matter the space, bodies reached. I was told a rather curious story about the hand-like sculptures growing from the floor of Okapi gallery: originally, the limbs were supposed to settle at the bottom of the Rummu quarry in Estonia, but as soon as they reached the ground, the platoon started paddling upwards getting high below the sea level, perhaps towards the moon.

Returning to earth, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a money machine? There is one for common use, but not even close to wondrous. It looks like hell, actually; money falling freely from the ceiling of a factory, where chemically-technological apparatuses for nuclear power plants have been manufactured. Sounds tempting? Now there is a church inside that place, one with a “mirror reflecting the soul of humanity, frightening 25m² large-scale works”^{[5] [5]} and 300,000 banknotes scattered over the floor. It’s the work of artist Edward von Lõngus, unsurprisingly titled Doomsday Cathedral. It feels like walking into an apocalyptic video game in which a new character pops-up on every corner, where safety instructions hang on walls, and some objects are really just an illusion. But the hedgehog has somehow found its place in here as well, no longer lost in the fog anymore, but surrounded by banknotes surfing the net. Perhaps the owl’s wisdom worked, as far as I can see.

Things that change usually start with a crisis, or begin before dawn. This year was the first for Tallinn Biennale, which kicked off on the 2nd of July. Standing amidst the Artist Crisis Centre, I was told that it had been planned for the Tower of Babel to rise up in the central square of Tallinn before getting distracted by a soft voice, addressing the anxious souls. Uncertainty was on the tip of my tongue, obsessive thoughts haunting me calmly.

^{[1] [6]} Ieva Kraule-Kūna, Elīna Vītola and Darja Melnikova, Artist Crisis Centre, ARS Art Factory, Tallinn.

^{[2] [7]} Jean-Luc Nancy, Corpus, Fordham University Press, New York, 2008.

^{[3] [8]} Ibid.

^{[4] [9]} Under the water on the moon 2, artists: Maarja Mäemets, Rait Lõhmus, Okapi Gallery, Tallinn.

^{[5] [10]} Doomsday Cathedral, artist: Edward von Lõngus, Tallinn (Ülemiste City).