A LETTER TO THE HAGUE
mariëlle videler
Dear Nancy,
After ten days of silence I continue my letter to you. It is Thursday evening and I have lit the fireplace in the centre of the guest studio Pompgemaal in Den Helder. I like to look at a fire; it is magical and comforting at the same time. In the book, Azetta by Paul Vandenbroeck (Post 032), I read that within the traditional culture of North West Africa the fireplace was constructed with three big stones arranged in a triangle. The fireplace was the centre of the house and the family; the triangle was the main motif of their patterns. It is confronting to be back in the Netherlands. The project, Blinded Resident, brings me close to Moroccan culture and at the same time it serves as a mirror. I see myself; a well-educated female artist, living in wealthy Europe and I am free to travel through Morocco. Again I have to face the heritage of the European colonial system and the capitalisation of the world. This movement destroys traditions and if I like it or not I am part of this culture. Because of this so-called way forward traditional life models and indigenous culture partly or totally disappear; modernisation had and still has a big destructive impact on the life of Moroccan people. I returned from my blinded journey through Morocco and now I am continuing my travel here in Den Helder. Am I not, just like previous generations, causing damage?
The research on the visual culture, especially patterns produced by indigenous people, plays a growing part in my work. Also in my latest project ‘You don’t know where you are going’ patterns form the connecting element. What interest me is the way patterns were imbedded in daily life, the artworks had a symbolical or ritual function for the group. I am interested in their attitude, which view on existence is contained in this? How does it differ from our Western attitude and aesthetics? I came into contact with the culture of the indigenous people of North Africa, the Berbers, through the book Imazighen: The Vanishing Traditions of Berber Woman (Post 002). They rather call themselves Imazighen (Amazigh). The women of this culture used to visualise their identity via different expressions. The things they make are mostly functional, like tents, clothes and ceramics, but serve at the same time as public symbols of the Imazigh–identity, think for example of jewellery and tattoos. Nowadays these traditions have lost its vital connection with daily life. The modern women I spoke with are not familiar anymore with the language of these patterns, ‘they, the Amazigh, are disconnected from the rest of us.’ The patterns of the Imazighen became useless motives in the tourist market.
Quote from my notebook:
‘in the afternoon we visited the village Tamdaght. I was blinded and still have no idea what to imagine; in my head I have constructed a series of loam corridors with small houses and small rooms. Bahia told me that she would guide me to a place where a group of women is working on a carpet: it is a cooperative. The room that I am brought to is filled with six or seven women, sitting on the floor around a loom. After I entered the room we shake hands. They have a lovely way to do this; after holding my hand they kiss their fingers on the inside. Together the women are knotting a carpet with colourful threads. It isn’t sheep wool as I hoped to find, but artificial coloured synthetic thread. Since 1860-80 on European chemical industry sold synthetic colours all over the world and took over the use of natural pigments. Every woman knots one part of the carpet. The woman on the right is chef pattern. She holds the original carpet that they are making a copy from. The pattern of the original carpet is read from the back and she calls the next colours to be knotted on the loom. They knot one full line, on top of that they weave three threads and than they knot another line.’
Bahia told me that her sister Hsna Hma also used to work for the cooperative. She has woven and knotted the carpets that lay on the floor around our bed (Post 012). When I looked closer at one of the carpets, the one you see at the left side of the picture, I smelled sheep wool and I noticed that this carpet contains patterns that I recognized as Amazigh. The next day something unbelievable happened! Bahia gave me this particular carpet as a present. ‘Because you are so interested in the patterns’: she says. I didn’t know how to thank her and spontaneously I gave her three kisses. On the day of departure, I rolled up the carpet and the concrete floor became visible. It gave a strange feeling to remove something out of the already very minimal interior.
Quote from my notebook:
‘today I noticed that it is always very silent in the village, I hear no cars at all. Another blinded trip, this time on the arm of Hsna Hma: who is supporting whom? An embarrassing situation, since Hsna Hma is limping due to a fall a couple of months ago. She should, if the money was available, be helped at the hospital. We go to a small warehouse totally filled with indigenous objects. Mostly Imazighen but some have a more Southern origin. The mix of colours, shapes and compositions is beautiful and I notice that I start to recognize the differences. As soon as I took off my glasses the owner introduces himself and starts to complement me. He shares his knowledge about the Berber culture and tells me about the indigo man and their blue skin. Then he wants to know why I wear these special glasses, am I allergic? I try to explain my intentions. ‘Oh! It is a philosophy’: he says. It is hard to focus on patterns between the many different objects in the warehouse. On all the walls, tables and even on the floors are textile carpets, belts, jewellery, wooden doors etc. Zooming in is almost impossible. Then in I a corner, I am sure I recognize the colours and the pattern; I see the same carpet as the one that the women of the cooperative were making. After a while the owner of the warehouse gets a little bit impatient. Understandable, he would like to sell something. His friend accompanies us so he will make a good price for us. For the first time during my travel I feel like a tourist. But I couldn’t buy something, the objects in the warehouse are disconnected: somewhat dead.’
During my stay at the Kasbah I observed that the two male members of the family spent most of their time outdoors. Even the meals they don’t share with the women. The North-African culture honours the separation of men and women as a social principle. This means that women mostly stay in their circle of their own sex. The women live in their own private world and in they work collectively. During one of the dinners, Bahia tells me that nowadays many men leave their wives to work in lager cities like Ouarzazate or Casablanca. Bahia’s brother in law for example is working in Marrakesh.
Quote from my notebook:
‘as soon as the sun sets it gets much colder. Than you want to wear long trousers, closed shoes and a warm sweater. Diner is cooked by the eldest daughter of Hsna Hma, her name is Wdad, and will be served in the carpet room. You enter the room through two small, wooden and brightly blue coloured doors. ‘It is not necessary’ Bahia says, but of course we take our shoes off. The walls are painted salmon pink, on the floor lays a colourful carpet and along the walls there is a bench covered by another colourful textile. The whole family, the women and the children, is sitting in the room and silently watch a soap on a little television that is placed in the corner. This could be ‘Goede Tijden, Slechte Tijden’. For a few moments the soap is interrupted for prayer and outside the prayer also echoes over the Kasbah. The soap ends and the couscous is served by Wdad’s sister Nabila. A big round plate filled with food is placed in front of us. Together with Bahia and Hsna Hma we eat directly from the plate. We get a spoon. They knead little balls of couscous with pieces of vegetables with their fingers. After a while their hands are completely covered with couscous. We exchange life stories and learn that good night in Berber means ‘Timinziwi’.’
Here in Den Helder the fire has slowly gone out, time to get some sleep. Tomorrow I have an appointment with three Moroccan women that live in Den Helder. I wonder what they see when they close their eyes and think of Morocco.
Love Mariëlle
Den Helder, March 13, 2014