Marcelle Ségal (1962). Avec lunettes ? Avec sourire ? Le stylo entre les dents ? Un peu de fouillis sur le bureau mais pas trop ? Le photographe de mode dépêché sur place est bien embarrassé. Il opte por la seconde. La première lui ressemble davantage..
“My Dear Crown sisters, I am very happy to be able to cross the border for the first time since we met at the beginning of the pandemic and to be able to bring our work to the MAPI Museum in Montevideo, Uruguay, as part of the Bienal Sur. I will go by boat early tomorrow morning, cross the Rio de la Plata, and arrive in Montevideo at noon. I will try to record the trip so that I can share it with you and somehow feel accompanied. I confess I’m a bit nervous, it’s a challenge for me, I will do my best! I want to thank Natacha and the Bienal Sur team for all the work to make this happen and all the Crown sisters for trusting me to represent them in Montevideo. As you know, my English is not good, so I also thank Deepl for helping me every time I write to you : ) I leave you the first picture, the first step for this trip, the place where yesterday I had to take the covid test to be able to travel. Also the link to the MAPI Museum, www.mapi.uy ,which I am very curious to see. It is very symbolic that we are in a museum of Pre-Columbian and Indigenous Art in a small country in South America, and that I am representing women artists from various parts of the world whom I do not know and do not know when I will meet. Women who don’t even know how much they supported me during the lockdown and how happy I am to see them every Tuesday for the last year and a half. I am also proud that all this, the Biennial Sur, comes from a public university in my country, where anyone who wants to study can do so with academic excellence and free of charge. I myself was educated at the public university, so this journey has many layers of meaning for me. That’s all for now, I wish us all the best and good luck in this new adventure! Lots of love and besos, Ivana Vollaro”
I look out at this mountain every day as soon as I wake up and keep checking on it as if it were the barometer that could suggest what the day was good for. I can’t tell how far away it is, or how massive, or how much sea separates us. I feel it solidly there even when it disappears during the long Arctic night, which is most of the time. I have approached my mound from low on the ground at sea-level first thing when the raw day tears through the wispy listless fog and night and drags me outside to touch it, to believe in it. I’ve climbed up the mountain opposite, to get a handle on it, to see the lie of the land, and see the house I’m sleeping in and looking out from. I’ve walked along the beach and cycled along the road to see it from other vantage points and to get past it and look at other mountains. One evening I saw at last – or did I? – a feint veil of aurora waving at the mountain’s void from the left, due north, unaware, unspectacular, unphotographable.
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