The Topography of Dialogue is not a romantic comedy of utopian embraces between two absolute differences. On the contrary — it reveals the cracks.
It speaks of an art market that in Bosnia and Herzegovina hardly exists. Collecting, if not a private compensation for nostalgia, remains a privilege of a class that was never truly interested in art. In Tokyo, by contrast, collecting is a sophisticated ritual, often governed by the laws of fashion and conceptual aesthetics. The gallery scene operates as a synchronized mechanism — aimed at sustainability, but also at narrative control.
While the Bosnian-Herzegovinian artist often assumes the role of curator, technician, and negotiator with reality, the Tokyo-based artist can rely on a system of support. As I write this, I can’t help but think — long live our poverty-stricken freedom. But for how much longer?
Exhibition Topography of Dialogue Ask ChatGPT The Topography of Dialogue exhibition is not a collection of identities, nor a catalog of differences. It is an attempt, in an age of global imbalance — where cultural policies are increasingly reduced to instruments of soft power — to ask: what does exchange really mean? Who benefits from dialogue? And where does art actually happen — somewhere between bureaucratized institutions and exhausted independent scenes?
In Bosnia and Herzegovina, the artist rarely becomes a professional in the full sense of the word — not because they lack knowledge, courage, or capacity, but because the system was never designed to recognize them, let alone support them. The artist becomes everything: logistician, spokesperson, financial strategist, technician, media worker, and occasionally — if there’s energy left — a creator.
In a country where cultural institutions function as extensions of political arbitrariness, and contemporary art is merely an occasional incident in public discourse, the artist is forced to constantly reinvent themselves. Every exhibition is an act of resistance, every collaboration a guerrilla endeavor, and every attempt at structural work a dangerous affair with invisible bureaucracy.
This is not due to a lack of enthusiasm. On the contrary — there’s too much of it, and precisely for that reason, it burns out. Young artists become exhausted before they even have the chance to become naive. Art academies, instead of nurturing autonomous thought, often function as social mechanisms for postponing reality.
Kolekcionari su rijetkost, a kada i postoje, rijetko razumiju da kupovina rada nije čin milosrđa, nego oblik političkog djelovanja. U međuvremenu, tržište — ako ga uopšte možemo tako nazvati — oslanja se na povremene grantove, međusobne usluge i kult ličnosti koji hrani mikroelite.
Collectors are rare, and when they do exist, they rarely understand that purchasing a work is not an act of charity, but a form of political agency. Meanwhile, the "market" — if we can call it that — relies on occasional grants, mutual favors, and a cult of personality that fuels micro-elites.
Bosnia and Herzegovina suffers from too much silence. Artistic work here does not live within a system of support but in a constant state of improvisation — in the illegality of meaning. Culture here is protocol, not process. A product for export, crafted to promote a zen-like image of positivity. Ironically, this image often comes without real infrastructure — without support for production, without residency programs, acquisitions, curatorial networks, or opportunities for professional development.
What remains? Styrofoam art.
Institutions prioritize self-preservation over art. Art councils are preservationist circles. “Young” artists stay “young” for a decade. Ministries are hostages of daily politics, while the independent scene endlessly juggles between enthusiasm and burnout.
The educational system produces graduates, not thinkers. Students rarely travel, rarely exhibit, rarely read — but they often wait. They wait for calls, grants, approvals, permissions.
Here, art is not a space of freedom — it is a space of constant testing of the permissible. It does not belong in protocols, nor among subjects of aesthetic correctness. Its rightful place is at the edge. Disturbing, unwanted, and painfully precise.
