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Q: Could you describe how the work Lifeguard was created and what was the initial impulse behind its creation? Ask ChatGPT

The work Lifeguard was created during my return from the USA, with the creative process lasting throughout my final year. Lifeguard emerged from my own desire to “cleanse” and “heal” from the negative experiences I went through in America. Instead of addressing the problems and their consequences through psychotherapy or legal means, I decided to take matters into my own hands and confront the issue through my art. I have always dealt with my problems by constantly talking about them, and through the concept of Lifeguard, I told yet another story. The initial impulse arose during my stay in the USA when I experienced the consequences of my rebelliousness—specifically, when I was fired from my lifeguard job. This impulse intensified after experiencing violence from my partner, and upon returning home, it practically “exploded.” This initially led me to create an ironic Instagram reel about the Work and Travel experience, which, by all accounts, should have been wonderful (of course, the lie of social media). After that, I began working on the overall concept. The video work Lifeguard came from the desire to use metaphor to explain my internal state and the worries that tormented me regarding everything I had gone through.

Q: Šta te je inspirisalo da uzmeš upravo figuru spasioca kao centralni simbol?

I was inspired by the very word “lifeguard,” which literally means “guardian of life.” By chance, I met my own guardian of life, while at the same time, I was also one myself. When I lost my role as a lifeguard, I was completely left at the mercy of my guardian. It soon became clear that this guardian was a false protector. What else could a guardian of life be but a rescuer? A false rescuer who uses the role as a cover for violence, dominance, and control. Thus, the figure of the rescuer took center stage in my concept, woven throughout with irony and sarcasm.

IDENTITY AND ROLE

Q: In the text, you say: “I am me, at the same time I am also the guard (the tube).” Who are you in this work – the lifeguard, the drowned, the protector, or the observer?

In this work, I am everything. At the same time, I am the lifeguard, the drowned, the protector, and the observer. I am a symbol of everything that can happen in situations where someone needs saving. I could be just an observer who chooses to watch and do nothing; I could be the drowned who is struggling and will grab the first helping hand, no matter what kind of hand it is; or I could be the protector, the lifeguard. I identify most with the lifeguard because, at the end of the day, I was the one I needed and could rely on the most. The tube (the red object), on the other hand, is the “false protector” and a false helping hand—it takes on a masculine identity. It presents itself as a protector and everything a masculine identity is supposed to be, but here, its violent side prevails. This object literally—and metaphorically—gets in the way and drags down to the bottom.

Q: How do you see the difference between the lifeguard as a function and the lifeguard as an internal figure?

The lifeguard as a function is the most banal form of the word, while when we talk about the internal figure, we shift it to the word form “savior.” The lifeguard at the pool comes across as a symbol—somewhat superficial, or even a meme. The savior, on the other hand, carries a deeper meaning and truly scratches beneath the surface of the water that the lifeguard actually guards. The savior appears when we are at the bottom—the real bottom, not just the shallow pool surface, a meter and a half deep. The savior as an internal figure truly exists deep within every person, while the lifeguard remains somewhere near the surface. The lifeguard is often a false salvation, a function that exists for some greater benefit. The lifeguard as a function always expects some form of payment, whereas the savior is sincere and genuine. The lifeguard is there for themselves, their reputation, salary, higher position, or sense of power. The savior asks for nothing in return. The lifeguard knows how to cleverly present themselves as the savior, which is why the concept is called “Savior.” Ask ChatGPT

PERFORMANCE AND MOOD

Q: You say, “The performance actually depends on my mood.” How does your inner world influence your artistic practice?

This quote is a sarcastic response to a statement made by the company. It plays on words, translating from English to Serbian. Literally, it critiques the company’s remark directed at me after I said that the performance depends on my mood. What I want to convey is the fact that it is completely natural for one’s behavior at work and in everyday life to depend on their mood. No one will walk into the workplace smiling if they have just received bad news or simply woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Of course, we wouldn’t say it’s acceptable for someone in a bad mood to cause the death of guests at a pool or provoke a scene—that would be an extreme, which the company considered potentially possible. For that reason, I approached the issue sarcastically and imagined a reality where my mood is allowed to influence my performance. In art, I believe it is perfectly legitimate to be honest with our emotions and moods; therefore, it shouldn’t be surprising in the art world if an artist’s mood leads to a certain outcome in a performance. The answer is that my mood directs my practice, and my works come from my sincere reaction to the world.

Q: Is your mood a tool, an obstacle, or a field of resistance?

My mood in art is both a tool and a field of resistance. It is a tool because in everyday life it always creates that initial impulse which I later shape into my works. In daily life, one could say it is sometimes also an obstacle, but even that obstacle works in favor of my work, as it sparks my inspiration. Ask ChatGPT

BODY AND TRAUMA

Q: You mention a bite, a label, a scar. Where is the boundary between physical and symbolic violence? Ask ChatGPT

In my case, the boundary between physical and symbolic violence is not very clear. The scar from the bite is simultaneously a physical manifestation of violence and a symbol of a cycle of events that led to that violence. The bite is symbolic in nature because, by itself, it does not reflect violence unless it is amplified by digital tools. Also, it cannot serve as evidence of violence; it is simply a symbolic mark. It serves no other purpose than to poetically mark a period, possibly an era, of life. The only place I would draw the line is that physical violence is the trace left on my arm, while the bite’s intention is symbolic. According to my understanding and beliefs, I wouldn’t have a scar if the bite had been affectionate. Here, the physical and symbolic coexist with each other, and neither would have meaning without the other.

Q: Is there healing in documenting and recognizing these traces?

Healing definitely exists, although I believe it depends on the person’s character. For me, it is interesting to record, document, and present personal experiences. Someone else might not be able to confront things this way, but I personally want to talk about my problems. I documented the bite mark at the moment it happened with the intention of having evidence, but I was consciously aware that I was doing it because I also saw the potential for artistic work in such situations. My way of healing is through creating artworks, but healing was certainly not the primary goal of this entire concept.

LIFEGUARD AS A CRIMINAL Ask ChatGPT

Q: Who is the "lifeguard who is not a lifeguard"? Ask ChatGPT

The lifeguard who is not a lifeguard is exactly the one I mentioned in one of the previous questions. This is a lifeguard who saves for personal gain, a sense of power, or possession. It’s no coincidence that people say, “nothing is free.” This lifeguard will sooner or later charge a price for their “rescue.” In everyday life, when we trivialize it, it could be a friend, an acquaintance, a partner, a company, an authority figure, or even a parent. The lifeguard who is not a lifeguard is the one who “catches” us at our most vulnerable and presents themselves as support. This lifeguard is a narcissist. Someone who, for the sake of their reputation, goes against their morals but quickly breaks when you’re no longer in a vulnerable position. The lifeguard who is not a lifeguard is false hope and false care. They are everything that makes you open up and relax, but when they have your flaws and fears on display, they suddenly change their tune. Ask ChatGPT

Q: How does the figure of the one who is supposed to save you transform into the figure of the one who causes you harm?

The figure that is supposed to save you never truly existed. It is merely an illusion, to put it mildly—a mask. It has always been a figure that causes harm, but as I mentioned before, it presents itself as a savior who is not really a savior. It holds great power to overshadow and dominate an individual. The moment it takes control and is on its territory, it removes the mask and reveals what it essentially is — a figure that inflicts harm. Ask ChatGPT

CRITICISM AND IRONY

Q: There is a strong tone of irony and self-irony: burning laundry, surveillance, gaslighting. Is humor your way of coping?

Irony and self-irony exist because I play the game of the false lifeguard. I choose to confirm that I am crazy and to blame in order to sarcastically point out the problem of mistrust towards the victim. I imitate the gaslighting that false lifeguards inflict on the victim, as well as the victim syndrome known for justifying their false lifeguard. I myself have found myself in a situation where I was under the influence of gaslighting and justified my false lifeguard. Judging by that, I believe I use that language very skillfully. Ask ChatGPT

POWER, SURVEILLANCE, AND VOYEURISM

Q: "He would never spy on me, only monitor me." How do you address the themes of surveillance, control, and privacy?

I approach the topic in an ironic way. I sarcastically convey the message that we should accept surveillance, control, and the invasion of privacy as something normal. Again, I take on the role of the false savior and affirm him—not to support or protect him, but to portray the whole situation as something completely abnormal and absurd. I display the characteristics of a victim who justifies the abuser. That is exactly what the false savior wants.

Q: Is the camera a tool of protection, domination, or truth?

The camera can be both protection and truth. Its role is determined by the intention behind its use. Just as my lifeguard turned a naive object into a tool of abuse, anyone can use that same object for different purposes. I chose to use it for artistic purposes. As for truth, is it necessary for the camera to reveal the truth within someone’s private space? That’s a very ambiguous question. In my case, photographing the bite mark, the camera was desirable and necessary. On the other hand, a camera that monitors someone’s private or intimate life is an abusive use of the device. It becomes a form of domination, a source of power, and blackmail.

HONESTY AND MANIPULATION

Q: The text is full of contradictions: "I want to be a lifeguard" – "I can’t be a lifeguard" – "I save myself." Do you believe in a stable narrative?

The change of narrative is a reflection of my unstable state during the time I was going through everything. I was unable to determine whether I wanted to take control or let the lifeguard take control. It reflects my getting lost in chaos and my lack of trust in myself as the figure who should save. On the other hand, it is also a sarcastic approach to the role of the lifeguard, as well as to the role of the inner lifeguard. I neither want nor can be a lifeguard (as a function); it is just a provocative response to the experiences I lived through. Certainly, I always save myself, and I believe that everyone must first save themselves in order to even consider saving others. A lifeguard must learn to swim on their own in order to save drowning people.

Q: Can you explain the role of gaslighting and deliberate distortion of reality in your work?

As I have already mentioned, through gaslighting I take on the role of the false savior, as well as the role of the victim who justifies the actions of the false savior. In a sarcastic way, I point out the problem of distrust towards the savior’s victim. Ask ChatGPT

ART AS THERAPY ?

Q: Is this work for you a form of self-healing, testimony, revenge, or play?

The work for me is self-healing, a testimony of an era, and play — a form of relaxation. Revenge is not in the classical sense; I am not pointing fingers at any specific individual. This revenge takes the form of proving to all rescuers that their attempts to harm me only serve as an inexhaustible source of inspiration, growth, and the desire to improve and become more aware. It is not only personal but also takes on a universal form. I confront false rescuers with the question, “What now?” and show that they are the ones who harm themselves, while their targeted victim moves forward.

Q: Where does the personal end and the universal begin?

The personal ends when the story is told. The universal continues as I take on the roles of the false savior, the victim, and the true savior. These are situations and roles that anyone can find themselves in under certain circumstances. In this case, both the personal and the universal coexist within the entire concept, supporting each other. Ask ChatGPT

TERMINATION AND TRANSFORMATION

Q: "‘Termination opened the door to my lifeguard.’ What does losing the role of a lifeguard mean — both literally and symbolically?" Ask ChatGPT

The literal loss of the role signifies losing security, a sign that I am not competent to fulfill that role, and a signal that I must manage on my own. Symbolically, losing that role truly “opened the door” for my lifeguard. It helped him establish his ground. Symbolically, I lost the role and ability to save and manage myself. From that moment, my false lifeguard had all the predispositions to exploit my vulnerability at will. Essentially, the symbolic loss of the savior role represents the state when an individual is most vulnerable and helpless—like a drowning person who will grab any “helping hand” that happens to be in the right place at the right time. Help and care born from self-interest then step in and inevitably come with a price.

Q: Is there a new beginning after the dismissal?

A new beginning always exists, whether the dismissal is literal or symbolic. I believe that throughout life, many versions of ourselves “die” during different phases. While that’s not an excuse for every mistake we make, it’s up to us whether we continue building a new and better version of ourselves or cling to old habits and principles that led us to the “dismissal.” I see dismissal as something necessary to happen, so I could learn something new about myself or realize what’s holding me back. I always lean towards positive thinking and believe that most situations happen for a reason. Ask ChatGPT

If you could send one message to your inner lifeguard today, what would you say to them?

My inner lifeguard and I are one and the same, so I tell myself my motivational mantras every day and firmly believe in achieving my goals. The lifeguard isn’t only there when bad things happen — they’re also there when life is going well. I would say I speak to them every day with gratitude, and whenever I face a problem, I support them so we can move forward together, just as they support me. Ask ChatGPT

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In the work Self-Portrait and Other Ruins, artist Ghazal Ramzani inscribes her body into the genealogical continuum of female memory, treating it as a living architecture—a space where the traumas of exile, loss, and transgenerational resistance accumulate. This film functions as a visual-poetic, choreographed essay, where dance is not mere expression but an epistemological mechanism—a mode of knowing that operates beyond language.

 Returning to the maternal home, the house of childhood, is triggered by the loss of a foundation: the death of a grandmother, a figure of homeland and country. Entering these ruined topographies of memory is not a return to nostalgia, but an archaeological act. The home becomes an emotional foundation—one that we often forget to feel in the midst of movement. Again and again.

 In Self-Portrait and Other Ruins, the subject moving through the corridors of the family home is not merely an identity-bound entity, but a bearer of unspoken and repressed histories. Here, the archive is not a collection of objects, but a vibration of movement—a porous threshold between the personal and the collective. Through choreography, Ramzani destabilizes the linear perception of time: the past is not behind us, but under the skin. Her body becomes a site of enactment for a dislocated past, a haunted dwelling of social ghosts that inhabit the present.

 The dancer with closed eyes does not perform memory — she inhabits it. In that space, movement becomes an act of haunting, but also of emancipation. For it is precisely where the languages of the state, patriarchy, and hegemony fail that the body begins to speak. As archive. As affect. As aphorism.

 Ghazal Ramzani’s work offers a critique of representation. She rejects the spectacularization of pain and the aestheticization of trauma. Instead, she establishes a kinetic politics of memory — a way for the past not to be depicted but re-enacted through the body. Her art is a feminist intervention in which the genealogy of female laboring experience is not written through narrative, but through rhythm, pause, silence, and contact with the ground.

 In the spirit of deconstructing postcolonial and exilic narratives, Self-Portrait and Other Ruins opens a space for thinking of memory not as an archive of data, but as a fragmented body — a body fractured by history. This dance does not unfold within a closed choreographic system, but in liminal zones. By entering the space, the audience steps into a singular world of thought, memory, and identity — one that simultaneously pulls them in, dissects them, and stretches them apart.

There is a strange kind of dignity in this work. A heavy poetics. A rebirth.

It does not strive for wholeness, but for the point of rupture.

So — be silent and dance.

 

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Deities whose temple is invisible, and yet the believers continuously perform rituals, unaware of its actual presence. This God has neither icon nor image. Well—perhaps a manifestation. Its existence is predicated on faith, on the unwavering need to believe in its power. Sounds familiar? The phenomenon commonly known as artistic success. It is not the transcendence of achievement, but the immanence of a system that exists only through its own rituals. In this sense, belief in success becomes an epistemological act—one that is inseparable from the ignorance it presupposes. An ignorance that is not a failure, but a condition of survival in the field of art. To endure, one must believe in a system whose criteria remain opaque, elusive, almost mythical. Doubt simmers constantly, but it survives in the exile of consciousness—as a complex and necessary paradox. The rituals surrounding the aura of so-called artistic success—from selection and evaluation to recognition—are not merely formal acts, but performative rites that reaffirm the believer’s position in the hierarchy of sanctity. By inviting the viewer to cast spells, the artist exposes the inner architecture of belief that sustains the system. It is a diagnosis of the collective religiosity of the artistic field. Hope, in this context, is not an optimistic impulse but a fundamental ontological condition. It is not the light at the end of the tunnel, but a state of being that keeps the ritual alive. Like faith, whose presence is never confirmed but whose absence is unthinkable. In that sense, hope is a continuous performance of belief—and a refusal to believe in absence. 

No. Let’s try again. 

 In the contemporary art field, where success remains an elusive deity, the performance Patience is Key Zoran Stevanović takes on the task of unveiling the ritual practice of faith. Everyone believes, but few have truly found it. Success does not manifest as a direct emanation of artistic talent or work, but as a sanctity whose power is sustained by collective devotion. Faith. Strong, brave, and quiet! Only within one’s four walls. And I pray for more walls to sit among. In this light, waiting is not passivity but an active liturgical act. Patience becomes a sacred practice, a pilgrimage into uncertainty, where every ritual movement, every gesture, is not a magical trick but a performance of dedication. Faith in that which cannot be proven. 

Patience is Key draws attention to the complexity of the relationship between the subject and the deity of success. The artist invites conscious participation in a ceremony where presence is more significant than outcome. Participants in the performance, with their magic wands, enter a world of ritual belief, becoming metaphorical actors of invisible forces that determine artistic fate: gallery owners, professors, curators, grants, critics, algorithms, institutions. This collective prayer is not merely a call for support but a diagnosis of a system that exists solely through shared faith. 

The paradox of faith in success lies in its functioning as an autoimmune mechanism. A system that demands belief is often itself immune to doubt. A deity whose true face remains unknown, and whose power is not given as a gift but as a condition of survival. The artist participating in this ritual is neither victim nor prophet, but a priest who, despite the awareness of the absence of a definite answer, persistently sustains the sanctity of faith through the repetition of rites. 

The performance thus becomes a diagnostic tool—an exorcism of the belief that success can be the result of individual effort or the truth of an artwork. It reveals the deeply entrenched dogmatism in contemporary art, where hope and faith merge into a singular existential paradigm. Faith in the uncertain remains the only reality. 

In this context, Patience is Key deconstruct the entire system of values and power within which art operates. The performance demonstrates how faith in success is performed, how it becomes institutionalized, and ultimately how it turns into a means of commodification and control. 

In the end, this prayer is not a call for help but a radical reflection on the artist's position in a world where every act of faith and hope is also an act of political subversion. Patience is a dynamic practice of survival. Patient — saved, my dear ones. 

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Spasiti. Termin za kojim u realinosti bespogovorno maštajući u dubokim krivudavim oblicima svijesti. Svaku noć pred spavanje ja mislim o njemu. Spasilac. Kakva zavodljiva riječ! Uvijek se po malo oznojim. Dok ženska figura spremna svjesna neuhvatljivo misleća postaje predmet duboke manipulacije divljaštva i silne potreba za zaštitom. Institucije su vječito u PMS-u. Nema šta drugo da bude. Da li je institucija neuračunljiva žena, ili emocionalno nestabilan muškarac prerušena u sistem ?

 

Polako me izvlačiš iz sebe. Ti me štitiš. Prepoznaješ. Uvijek znaš šta je za mene najbolje. Da. Znaš ko sam, jer si ti – neutralan. Jer ja sam – naglašena. Ja sam višak, a ti pravilo. I to pravilo se širi kroz institucije, tekstove, jezike, sjećanja. Humor, ironija i autoironija ključni su alati u ovom radu. Autorka se poigrava jezikom gaslightinga, ulazeći u uloge žrtve, nasilnika i posmatrača, pokazujući koliko je manipulacija normalizovana u svakodnevnom govoru. Scene nadgledanja, performansa „zavisnog od raspoloženja“, paljenje veša i i pozicija nadzora u svrhu zaštite i čuvanja ironizuju stvarnost u kojoj se nasilje često prikriva pseudobrigom i racionalizacijom. Kako je emotivna regulacija često kontrolisana od strane nasilnika, ali i kako umjetnica, u posttraumatskom razdoblju, performira sopstveni oporavak. Taj oporavak je fragmentiran, nelineran i uvjetovan društvenim kontekstom u kojem trauma nije priznato političko stanje, već privatna anomalija. Kroz niz radova pratimo dualnost identiteta umjetnice i radnice. U svrhu ekzistencijalne nadopune i prividne kratkoročne sigurnosti pretapa se sa emotivnim odnosom. Ivana Ružić kroz video, performans i ready-made uvodi nas u svijet iskrivljene perspektive fantazma i duboke iluzije. 

Na kraju, ovaj rad razotkriva još jednu istinu: spasioci su često upravo oni od kojih treba da se spasimo. I samo kroz prepoznavanje te perverzne zamjene uloga – između moći i brige, autoriteta i nasilja – moguće je otvoriti prostor za subjektivnost koja se više ne oslanja na spoljne oblike validacije. Spasilac nije samo rad o traumi – već o (ne)mogućnosti povjerenja u sistem, u odnos, u moć koja obećava zaštitu, a isporučuje kontrolu. Moj leptiru, odnekud doleti. Žrtvuj se zbog mene, pređi preko stakla. Spasi me iz ovog pakla!

 

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  U izložbi Trilogija tuge ova slojevita ideja doma mapira se kroz ličnu, ali duboko
strukturiranu genealogiju, fokusiranu isključivo na žensku liniju porodice. Bajka koju baka govori pred san prenosi formu transgeneracijskog znanja. Bajka u ovom slučaju ne oblikuje priču, već model prenosa: kroz glas, ritam, ritual i atmosferu. Trilogija tuge oslanja se na matricu znanja koje se  prenosi ponavljanjem, svakodnevnim radom, brigom i afektivnim oblicima prisustva. Umjetnica koristi sopstvenu kosu kao materijal. Biološki trag koji istovremeno pripada tijelu, ali može preživjeti izvan njega. Kosa postaje nosilac vremena i rada. U njoj su istovremeno sačuvane i ćelijske informacije i emocionalne sedimentacije. Vezenje kosom funkcioniše kao epistemološka gesta. Riječ je o načinu bilježenja koji je uporno prisutan. Taj trag nastaje sporo, ritmično, kroz ponavljanje koje podsjeća na tihe forme ženskog rada u domaćinstvu — šivanje, čuvanje, pripremanje, preživljavanje. Ovaj gest aktivira oblik sjećanja koji nije individualan, ali nije ni institucionalno zabilježen. To je sjećanje koje pripada linijama ženske genealogije. Nesigurno, krhko i postojano. U ovom kontekstu biološki materijal postaje supstanca. Kroz tri prostorne cjeline izložbe formira se osjećaj kruženja. Ne napredovanja. To je ključno za razumijevanje koncepta vremena i doma: linearna nasljeđa se zamjenjuje repetitivnom praksom. Dom se u ovom slučaju održava. Trilogija tuge mapira dom kroz fizičku i emocionalnu infrastrukturu. Tu dolazimo do drugog ključa izložbe: biološki elementi nisu samo materijali, već svjedoci. Kosa, tijelo, glas, prostor — svi funkcioniraju kao mediji u registraciji iskustava koja se najčešće ne smatraju znanjem. U ovom radu, oni to postaju. Kada dom više nije moguće identifikovati  jednom lokacijom, on se vraća kao fragment. Vladimirka Velaga formira strukturu osjećanja kroz koju se tuga, pažnja i pripadanje organizuju. Ovdje se govori o osjećanjima
koji su vezani kroz odnose. Ne događaje.

Šta to stoji iza doma ? Trilogija tuge se bavi infrastrukturom svakodnevice. Fokusira neplaćeni, nevidljivi i rodno kodirani rad koji stoji u temelju održavanja života. Rad koji nije arhiviran, institucionalizovan niti
valorizovan, ali čini materijalnu osnovu društvenih odnosa. Kosa, tekstil, prostor i ponavljanje funkcionišu kao operativni elementi kroz koje se bilježi kontinuirani napor održavanja. Umjetnički rad ovdje ne posreduje značenje, već modelira proizvodne odnose.

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U nastavku teksta Zorana Stevanović!

Q: Kako vidiš „nevidljivo božanstvo“ uspjeha u savremenom umjetničkom polju? Kako te ta ideja inspiriše u tvom radu?
To „nevidljivo božanstvo“ meni zapravo deluje vrlo vidljivo i konstrukciono – sastavljeno od talenta, rada, ambicije, komunikativnosti, ali i od nepotizma, kapitala i pripadnosti određenim krugovima. Iako se često mistifikuje, uspeh u umetnosti je sve više prepoznat kao nešto što se strateški gradi i što nije dostupno svima. Ono što me zanima jeste trenutak kada umetnik, suočen s granicama vlastitog uticaja, poseže za dijalogom s nevidljivim – bilo kroz spiritualnost, manifestaciju ili molitvu. Taj momenat nemoći i nade postaje ključan motiv u mom radu.

Q: U „Patience is Key“ istražuješ rituale vjere koji podržavaju sistem umjetničkog uspjeha. Kako ih prepoznaješ u svakodnevnom životu umjetnika, kustosa, galerista i drugih aktera?
Ti rituali često deluju nevidljivo jer su normalizovani – postali su svakodnevnica. Kod umetnika su to stalna apliciranja, izlaganja koje niko ne vidi, pisanja motivacionih pisama bez stvarne motivacije, portfoliji koji se stalno doteruju. Kod kustosa i galerista, to su rituali prepoznavanja potencijala, vere u viziju umetnika. Svi oni funkcionišu kao posrednici između onoga što je trenutno nevidljivo i onoga što može postati vidljivo i priznato.

Q: Performans sugeriše da je vjera u uspjeh uslov opstanka u umjetnosti. Kako se to poklapa s tvojim ličnim iskustvima sa institucijama i sistemom?
Moje iskustvo sa sistemom bih najlakše opisala kao jurenje za dečkom koji nije zainteresovan. I kada očekuješ minimalno, opet moraš da spustiš očekivanja. Sistem ne funkcioniše u skladu s trudom, nego po sopstvenim, često neprozirnim logikama. Ipak, umetnici ne mogu potpuno da ga ignorišu – pa se u njemu snalazimo kako znamo i umemo.

Q: Kakvu ulogu publika ima u ritualima koje postavljaš? Kako njihovo aktivno učešće mijenja njihov položaj u umjetničkom sistemu?
U ovom radu, publika ima aktivnu, skoro saučesničku ulogu. Prvi put dajem publici mogućnost da bude deo procesa, a ne samo pasivni posmatrač. Andre Lepecki pravi razliku između posmatrača i svedoka – dok je posmatrač pasivan, svedok preuzima odgovornost, prenosi iskustvo i tako postaje deo transmisije. Time se menja i njihov status unutar sistema – nisu više konzumenti, već učesnici.

Q: Zanimljivo je kako vjerovanje i neznanje funkcionišu zajedno. Kako taj odnos oblikuje tvoj kreativni proces?
Neznanje vidim kao važan element koji omogućava otvorenost. Ne vodi sve znanje – nekad vode intuicija, greška, slučaj. Umetnost se često dešava upravo u tom prostoru između onoga što znamo i onoga što slutimo.

Q: Strpljenje se u tvom radu prikazuje kao aktivni čin, gotovo liturgijski. Kako to vidiš u kontekstu svog rada i šire društvene stvarnosti?
Strpljenje je nešto s čim se stalno borim. Kroz razgovore s iskusnijim umetnicima, često čujem da je strpljenje ključno. Ja lično nemam potvrdu da ono vodi uspehu, ali znam da se bolje osećam kada sam iskrena u onome što stvaram. Strpljenje, za mene, znači ostati u procesu čak i kada nema rezultata.

Q: Sistem uspjeha traži vjeru, ali je imun na sumnju. Kako gledaš na ulogu kritike i sumnje unutar tog sistema?
Sumnja je neizbežna i, rekla bih, neophodna. Problem nastaje kada se osećaš zarobljeno – kada ne možeš da kritikuješ a da ne snosiš posledice. U zdravim količinama, sumnja je korisna. Ona te tera da preispituješ, da ne pristaješ na prvi impuls ili očekivanje.

Q: Kako vidiš prostor za subverziju unutar sistema koji komodifikuje i kontroliše umjetnost?
Mislim da je subverzija danas dominantan jezik umetnosti. Umetnici biraju da komuniciraju kroz otpor, da odbijaju da učestvuju u određenim strukturama, da prkose pravilima tržišta. To je možda i jedini prostor u kom se trenutno možemo direktno suočiti s institucijama koje oblikuju umetničku vrednost.

Q: Šta za tebe znači strpljenje kao „dinamička praksa preživljavanja“? Kako se to može primijeniti u umjetničkom djelovanju?
Strpljenje je za mene aktivno stanje opstanka. Biti prisutan i kada nema priznanja, kada ne vidiš izlaz – to je snaga. U umetnosti to znači odupirati se pritiscima brzine, algoritama, stalne vidljivosti. Znači dozvoliti radu da sazri, formi da bude nejasna. U tom smislu, strpljenje je politički čin – protiv logike kapitala i tržišta koje traži stalni output i samopromociju.

Vjera, neznanje, sumnja i strpljenje više nisu znakovi slabosti, već alati otpora u sistemu koji rijetko oprašta nevidljivost.

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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.

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