Gaea Schoeters, journalist & author, wrote a poignant open letter to me about The Blue Skies Project in the insightful cultural magazine Rekto:Verso. It’s like she was able to take a peek into my soul, so wonderfully astutely written: https://www.rektoverso.be/artikel/beste-anton-kusters
A beautiful publication with all 1,078 images reproduced of The Blue Skies Project. In the weekend magazine “dS Weekblad” from De Standaard.
Opening November 1st, 2018Read More
September 5 - September 30, 2018Read More
I'm in Z33, House for Contemporary Art in Hasselt in Belgium. A group exhibit "The Artist Studio" with quite an interesting premise has recently opened. Here the studios of 14 artists (among which yours truly) have been re-imagined and built inside the existing exhibit spaces of Z33, offering a unique insight into how an artist works and thinks and relates to his/her space. In my case, I'll also be working there for one or two days a week for as long as the exhibit remains open (more details here), so my reimagined artist studio is also going to be a space to work. From the Z33 website:
"'The Artist’s Studio' navigates through various typologies of the artist's studio. Starting from the different artistic practices of the artists of Vonk (an organisation that provides studio spaces to professional artists in the cities of Hasselt and Genk), the exhibition focuses on the relationship between the artworks and their place of origin. Does the artist need a permanent studio to work in? Is the studio a place of reflection or rather a sanctuary? Does the studio function as a museum? Or is it primarily a laboratory for the production of knowledge?"
One of the key aspects is that curators Sofie Dederen (Frans Masereel Centrum) and Dirk Engelen (B-bis architecten) created a concept where I could take time and reflect about the works that I'm now making; something I feel is crucially important. For example, I would have the physical space to work on all 1078 blue sky images from The Blue Skies Project together.
The particular goal for me is over the course of 3 months to reflect upon the correct constellation of blue sky images. Will I organise them by their historical opening or closing date? Will I organise them by hue/color? By number? By gps location? These are all profound questions that I need to investigate.
The result of this reflection I will then be able to use when at a later stage this year, I can hopefully start work on the actual museum installation with the original instant film photographs (insert excited finger crossing here).
I'm now slowly adding about 200 1:1 reproductions every week, and hope that in a couple of weeks I can start my first tests.
And I'm wearing a brace now on my left wrist, as it seems I've been stressing the tendons in my thumb cutting a thousand images out of these large printed sheets, and banging a thousand nails into a wall.
The really funny thing is that this exhibit freakishly coincides with what I've been writing online here with Classroom Diaries: thinking about the impact of my new atelier on my artist practice and vice versa, my way of approaching, research, my process, creating my work. And due to this particular set of circumstances, I'm now able to show a part of this process in public in yet another space. So I work in my atelier, and talk about how it changes me, and now in an exhibit they create a new atelier where I can then talk about how I talk about the other atelier changing the way I work. Quite meta, don't you think? I love it.
Which reminds me. I think there's an important distinction between the English word "studio" and the French word "atelier". My studio is the professional place where I output my already created work and bring it to the world. It's more like a creative office, my place of business. And if I had any, my assistants and interns and studio manager would work there ( - crickets chirping). On the other hand, my atelier would be the absolute private place where I retreat to, to continually confront my artistic practice and expression, and learn and grow and study. In this space, limited dialogue with the outside world is crucial, and experimentation, failure and critical reflection is key.
Martin Barnes (Senior Curator, Photographs at Victoria & Albert Museum London) wrote a poignant essay about The Blue Skies Project (an essay that will feature in the published book). Tim Clark from 1000 Words Photography Magazine published a random selection of blue sky photographs, along with this very text. A wonderful combination.
Delicately worded interview by the wonderful Rachel Gould over at Culture Trip, whom I much enjoyed talking to.
April 19, 2018Read More
May 4 - July 29, 2018Read More
I just came across these medical images of 2015 that were made of my neck. It's one of those moments the doctor tells you that you're actually too young to be worn out like this, but also that it is irreversible at the same time. Quite a mixed bag, feeling secretly proud that you're considered too young for something, but then sad that you're worn out.
The reason for all this apparently traced back to the camper van and my travels for The Blue Skies Project. Initially, I thought using a van was the best way to complete the journey, thinking I had absolute freedom this way and didn't need to worry about finding places to stay in – what I thought would be – the middle of nowhere.
Initially, I just couldn't find a comfortable position to drive, and for the life of me I couldn't figure it out. The seat was infinitely adjustable, trucker-style, so it should have been perfect. But I couldn't drive for more than 45mins at a time without needing a quick rest, as my right arm started to hurt more and more. It turned out that it wasn't the seat, but the position of the steering wheel that put a tremendous strain on my neck (in vans and trucks they're more "flat" as in horizontal, as opposed to regular cars).
In the beginning I endured, thinking that it was just me and that my body would have to get used to this new way of driving. But it didn't get better, and after a year the pain became unbearable. Painkillers didn't help anymore, and eventually I couldn't even lie down, let alone sleep. I was desperate. My doctor prescribed me more powerful medication, which finally offered some relief, and scheduled a CT scan at the hospital.
The diagnosis was quickly made: neural foraminal stenosis, the narrowing of the opening in the vertebra in my neck through which the nerves to my right arm pass. Turned out, a common thing among... truck drivers. Physical therapy brought a little relief, but not enough. I got scheduled for treatment at a pain clinic, where I was to receive three deep injections into my neck with intermittent pulsed electrical stimulation of the affected nerve.
I could barely lie down on the operating table by then, but had to be fully conscious throughout the procedure. It was really straightforward. Local anaesthetic, then they inserted the large needles while checking a live x-ray screen to accurately position them. The electrical stimulation that followed was incredible. The pain seemed to flow out of my body and the pulses offered an instant relief which I hadn't felt for over a year. Even though it was a weird to have three huge needles in my neck, I kinda wished it wouldn't stop.
A single session did it for me, although it did take a few days for my nerves to register the procedure and stop sending my brain all these panicked pain signals. I was in the clear. The specialist said that this treatment was not designed to solve the problem, but it would take away the pain symptoms. The longer they stayed away, the better. Could be 2 months or two years. Whenever the symptoms returned, the same procedure would be repeated until eventually ineffective, at which point surgery would be taken into account. In the meantime, targeted physiotherapy (Lorenzo you are amazing) and daily exercise would be key and the best chance to stop the progression of the stenosis. I don't think I've ever trained that hard.
Fast forward two and a half years to today, and the pain hasn't yet returned. I've also become good at sensing when I'm going too far and straining my neck. I learned to stretch regularly.
The sun is shining today, even though I'm told that it was the coldest night of winter last night.
Last week I finished scanning 1,078 polaroids in high resolution, and today I compared the reproductions that I made to the originals:
A sigh of relief. Many more sighs will be needed, but little steps like this make me confident to move on, damaged and all, looking at the faraway horizon ahead and the adventures it holds.
I'm a month in, etching the victim numbers onto my blue sky polaroids with an old 1951 typewriter. Every mark on the image is permanent, and I was dreading the fact of making any mistake along the way. I did several hundred successfully, and then the first one popped up. A simple case of accidentally switching around two digits. The only way to correct is like you would imagine the good old days: repeatedly backspace with the typewriter and make sure the correct digit is impressed even deeper over the incorrect digit. It reminded me from when I was a kid, playing with an old typewriter found in the attic and writing pages of probably meaningless text, the act of writing meaning more to me than the content at the time. I remember wondering how people could estimate the last word to fit on a line without having to hyphenate. Or how they could hyphenate at the last possible moment without losing or leaving too much space. That eager anxiety popping up again and again at the end of every line was fantastic.
And then came the kind of "automatic" typewriters (yes I sound really old now but I promise I still feel 18. No wait, make that 25) that would have a crude single line LED screen right above the keys fitting approximately 2-3 lines of text, automatically printing a line as soon as the proper length and hyphenation was determined. Or god knows which algorithm was used; probably nothing too fancy, but I was curious nonetheless. And what a miracle that was at the time, it allowed you to backspace and correct on that tiny screen without having to literally use white-out or cross out. Literally a "word processor" in the purest sense.
Fast forward to today and here, anno 2018 I'm going back to those days making a completely analog project again, in the most "dangerous" way possible. Dangerous as in that I have no possible backups for the originals, because they are polaroid images. There is simply no way to go back into a darkroom and make a new print. There is no negative that can be re-used. Gone is gone, any damage is permanent, images are irreplaceable. It's REALLY scary. To put in terms of today: imagine that you have your original RAW files on one hard disk only, no backup whatsoever, and that every time you would make an edit in Affinity or Photoshop, you would not be able to undo and you would have to save the work at every step.
I think the invention of "Undo" and "Save As" is vastly underrated.
Yet at the same time I feel eerily familiar working this way. Boxes and boxes of carefully protected polaroids, all labeled and in order, like a librarian with index cards to organise something much larger looming behind. Every time I take out a polaroid, I need to exercise a certain caution, a way of handling to minimise the possibility of any damage or degradation. I really like it that having a certain touch is required again. It's so much more than working digitally, it has so much more to it and kind of sets your mind free in ways I can only now appreciate after a decade of digital-based work where I would disappear into my screen. Really love that type of work too, but it's a different thing.
Now I appear to be growing calluses on my fingertips because I have to hit the keys to the Olympia really hard so the letters etch into the emulsion layer. Yesterday I broke a steel rod and had to do an emergency MacGyver repair. It made me realise how hard I'm actually striking those keys. Poor typewriter. At 874 polaroids numbered and 204 waiting, I'm almost there.
At the same time, I'm engaging in an attempt to keep the polaroids safe by scanning every single one along the way. A high res scan of 1,87GB, comparable to a 350 Megapixel image. I'm almost at 2TB now, and working right at the edge of what my RAW editor can handle.
This mix of working digitally and analog is really a nice place to be, I've always felt more in control in my digital darkroom than my analog one, yet I loved the latter so much more. Ahh the days inside making prints. Since I stopped with my darkroom I've always missed the analog-ness and the uniqueness of the original. It's something I feared I had lost, but now regained with Blue Skies. Actually doubly so, because I have no negative, only one original print.
For the book – I'm working with Teun van der Heijden – we're following the same thought process of marrying digital with analog. As we all know, no book leaves Teun's hands without also being a worthy physical object and having a well defined position in his mind of what that book should be. And the Blue Skies book has a set of unique hurdles to overcome, the simplicity of a blue sky polaroid being so abstract and unforgiving. The step of going from digital to analog in reverse and all over again. My publisher (who I'll reveal soon) is a wonderful man who's completely on the same page. His approach is equally unique and extremely thoughtful. I'll be in good company in his catalog, knowing that he deeply understands the work.
Today is break day. I tend to go deep and disregard my body along the way and I know I shouldn't be doing that. No stress in my mind though. But then again, who knows what dragons lurk in the subconscious depths of the soul?
Have a great weekend,
After 5 years of on and off journeys to a thousand concentration camps, the cleanup started in the boot of my car. Everything that had been in there for such a long time could now return either to my studio, my storage or simply back home (hello coffee maker).
I actually started off my Blue Skies journeys not by car, but by renting a camper van from dear friends. It allowed me to be quite flexible – or so I thought – in looking for places to sleep. I wouldn't need to plan ahead where I would end up every night, which was a logistical challenge given the fact that I had no idea how fast or slow any given travel day would be. Travel was very complicated and had to be very fast and flexible, because I had to literally drive behind the good weather and breaking cloud cover.
But slowly, changes on different fronts were happening, making my life easier. Google's My Maps became vastly more powerful and allowed custom maps to appear in its iOS app, effectively connecting my location research to my GPS navigation. I didn't have to manually bridge between the two anymore, constantly manually entering GPS coordinates dozens of times a day.
Weather apps were also improving rapidly, I now had access to weather apps that used the European satellites and allowed me to see live infrared cloud patterns over the continent. This proved to be a crucial layer of information for me. Now if only that could have been overlaid over the Google Maps app.
And then – finally – the data roaming in the EU became standardised (gone with the preposterous roaming charges, the mobile networks desperately trying to squeeze out the last little bit of profit before conceding), so I could finally get rid of the bunch of different SIM cards I was forced to use in a mobile hotspot.
The final thing that made my life easier was the possibility to book rooms online on the same day, have all my reservations at my fingertips and easily change if circumstances would arise. I had started out with AirBnB, but that became quite cumbersome and it still was very hard to find same day reservations. In contrast, using booking.com streamlined everything in a wonderful way and openend up rooms for same day reservation even in the most remote parts of Europe. I still am super annoyed though how they constantly push you during every single reservation no matter where you are ("last room available!", "booked 23 times in the last hour!", "hurry" etc etc).
All these unconnected advancements made it much cheaper and more efficient for me to travel by car. Using only 1/3rd of the fuel of a camper van and literally allowing met to work out of my boot, I had finally found the most affordable and efficient way to deal with traveling for this immense project.
Now 5 years later, cleaning out the trunk, I noticed my foldable camping chair that I had always taken along with me. As you can imagine, traveling to more than a thousand WW2 concentration camps wasn't a particularly "light" thing to do, and I ended up looking for every possible way to rest my weary mind. I found that stopping randomly at large fields or meadows at the side of a road and just sitting there for a while staring in the distance, helped a lot to keep things in perspective. My little camping chair became crucial to me, my sanity-keeper.
To this day I keep it in my car, and it reminds me to once in a while just stop and let go.