This article first appeared in Arts of the Working Class.
Art practices open spaces of existence that may denounce or be less violent than geographies shaped by the extraction of knowledge and goods that national governments continue to impose upon each other. We might say that the act of creating and sharing art in diasporas and migration is a form of resistance and affirmation of identity, engaging both the artist and their audience in a process of reflection on the longing for a homeland or collective memory.
Regardless of movement, an artist’s rootedness, challenges, and struggles in a place are nurtured by the ubiquitous presence of museums and cultural institutions. Whether these spaces represent a national desire to capture visual cultures and their forms, they are not just venues for art and its dissemination to the public. They can provide community amidst flux and, in the best cases, offer a home away from home for artists worldwide.
For five days, from 11 to 15 September 2024, Berlin’s art venues become a temporary home for an international community of artists as part of Berlin Art Week. This annual gathering draws together over 100 museums, exhibition spaces, fairs, private collections, project spaces, and numerous Berlin galleries. These venues open their doors to artists and the public, offering a chance to engage with the current landscape of contemporary art.
The following pages present a selection of participants in this extensive programme. In collaboration with A*Desk, we asked artists to share their stories, reflecting on their origins and the ways they navigate the global art system. Their works offer commentary on the intersections of culture, identity, and globalisation, underscoring the transformative power of art to bridge divides, foster understanding, and build communities across borders.
Tracey Snelling
›How We Live‹
At Haus am Lützowplatz
12 September 2024 — 9 February 2025
For ›How We Live‹, I present a piece that reflects the essence of belonging through my work, ›Sozialwohnungen Admiralstrasse‹. This sculpture, a meticulous representation of a Brutalist social housing structure that is just down the street from my Berlin studio, embodies the diversity of my neighbourhood. The piece incorporates videos and images on both the front and back, capturing the multifaceted cultures that coexist in this urban microcosm. Creating sculptures of my neighbourhood not only deepens my connection to the area but also serves as an artistic exploration of place and identity.
Being a local transcends mere residency; it’s about knowing one’s neighbours and being an integral part of the community. Berlin, particularly my beloved Kreuzberg and the Kotti area, has influenced me deeply, inspiring me to craft multiple sculptures that mirror the architectural and energetic pulse of the neighbourhood. This artistic engagement is not just visual but also emotional, as the neighbourhood’s vitality stimulates and anchors my practice.
Originally from Oakland, California, I have called Berlin home since 2016. The international character of Berlin, coupled with its vibrant art scene and the vast array of experiences it offers, solidifies my bond with the city. However, I do acknowledge that a significant shift towards conservatism, or the allure of a perfect seaside town, might tempt me to leave, should such an opportunity arise.
For me, art is a sanctuary —a place I return to, especially during trying times. While I appreciate the experience of viewing art, it’s in the creation process that I find solace and a reconnection with myself. My work is a testament to the concept of community, capturing the essence of place and people, almost like love letters to the areas I represent. In return, the community nourishes me with a sense of belonging, reinforcing the bond I share with my creative peers.
Eli Cortiñas
›The Machine Monologs — Part I: The Storm‹
At Fotografiska Berlin
23 August — 1 December 2024
I was born in the Canary Islands and moved from one island to another, as well as briefly to Morocco when I was little due to my father’s quest for fortune and work. My mother’s family emigrated, partly from Cuba, and my father’s family from the north of Spain, where he left a mysterious father he never met.
At age 14, I left home to live alone and work. At 17, I arrived in Germany and have been living abroad ever since. Berlin has been the first place I’ve spent many years of my life —full disclosure—with many long breaks in between. My roots, AKA my communities, are here, and they bind me to this place and influence my thinking and doing in the world. Then again, since many of my closest people aren’t originally from here, this place is a for-now home, an ephemeral anchor destined to maybe be only another station on our road.
During Berlin Art Week the first iteration of ›The Machine Monologs‹ will be shown at Fotografiska Berlin. The work proposes a speculative exercise to reflect on the impact of our technologies on us and the planet. In this way I aim to reveal not only the obvious benefits—such as ease of communication and playful identity mutations—but also to delve deeper into how technology shapes and influences us. My research centres on the quest for consciousness and a »soul in the machine«, a theme increasingly present in robotics, neuroscience, sociology, philosophy, and geopolitics, as these technologies touch on many aspects of human existence. ›The Machine Monologs‹ focus on AI-driven machines or avatars that mimic human or animal traits. The series centres on humanoid robots, avatars, and chatbots engaged in monologues about the challenges of our time. They express concerns about our anthropocentric worldview, disconnection from nature, and the impacts of techno-capitalism and autocratic regimes.
Scholar Julie Carpenter has studied the attachment military professionals form with intelligent machines in wartime, finding that humans often project narratives onto life-like machines, creating emotional bonds. This raises the question: what does it mean to be »human« today? Another crucial issue is the hidden, tangible impact of technology—not just its carbon footprint, but also the effects of racial and gender biases, and automated warfare, on human lives and our planet.
It is the need for us to rethink the material reality of our existence, our technologies, and the humanity that lies beneath. These days, this reality undoubtedly further facilitates the classification of certain groups as being less than human, persecuting and annihilating them and rendering their lives simply unlivable.
Sara Ouhaddou
›Display‹
curated by Meriem Berrada and Alya Sebti
At ifa-Galerie Berlin
12 September 2024 — 19 January 2025
My fascination with art began early. While I can’t recall the very first exhibition I saw, I vividly remember the one that had the deepest impact on me. I must have been 7 or 8 years old when my class visited the Museum of Archaeology in Marseille, where I saw an Egyptian mummy and its tomb for the first time. The objects surrounding it left me in awe, and this deep fascination with objects has never left me.
Beyond this fascination, art grounds me because it represents one of the last spaces of true freedom, and I live and experience it as such. Communities, for me, are spaces of exchange and commitment—porous spaces where ideas, culture, and connections circulate. My practice revolves around these exchanges, working within and between various communities. Through this collaboration, I try to create works that offer these communities the tools for emancipation or independence they seek, whether it’s freeing themselves from reliance on the tourist market, preserving cultural richness, or addressing challenges related to natural resources.
In this pursuit of collaborative and transformative practice, my work is an ongoing experiment in collaboration, one where communities and I work together to imagine and create solutions to our shared needs.
This collaborative approach is deeply intertwined with my own sense of identity and belonging. My work reflects on the lucky exchanges I have had with the people I meet. Born in France to a Moroccan family, my roots are split between Draguignan in the south of France and Meknes, Morocco. Now, I find myself living between Paris and Marrakech, traveling between these places and others, drawn by encounters, the craftsmanship of artisans, and the unique know-how of various communities. My movements are shaped by the desire to learn and exchange, whether it’s through historical research or scientific inquiry, or simply by connecting with a community and its traditions.
This ongoing connection with various places and communities informs my perspective on what it means to be locally grounded. Being a local, for me, means having a profound connection with a particular geography. It’s about understanding the culture, the history, and engaging with the people and spaces that make up that place. I believe we can be locals in many places at once, connected to multiple communities and environments.
Calla Henkel and Max Pitegoff
›Theater‹
At Fluentum
12 September —14 December 2024
›Theater‹ is a film shot episodically and durationally on 16mm film at New Theater Hollywood, the space we currently run in LA, and whose first part premieres at Fluentum during Berlin Art Week. It is a film about living and breathing space. The film opens with Kennedy (played by the filmmaker Leilah Weinraub) espousing her desire to develop an ensemble for whoever she picks up in her Uber. While driving, Kennedy is hit by a bus and receives a settlement check from the city, a payment for all that pain. It gives her a chance to do what she wants at last. So she buys a theatre, a black box on Santa Monica Blvd—which also houses New Theater Hollywood.
Kennedy quickly runs out of money, so she moves her life into the theatre. The entirety of the film ›Theater‹ teases this braid of fact and fiction. Kennedy’s unstable life in the black box mirrors our own story. We signed the lease only in January and have staged one play a month, subsisting on a mixture of rentals, ticket sales, and fear. Just across the street from us, a sign adorns a lamp post in front of a strip of crumbling theatres. It reads ›Historic Theatre Row, Live Theatre District‹. In this case historic means the 1990s, a mere key bump backward into the past, but there is a clear haunting on the street; almost all the old theatres are now closed. There are ghosts. We feel it often at night, when something hangs in the balance, some collapsing idea, some forgotten line, some broken zipper, mended or whispered or saved by forces we cannot quite pinpoint.
Harry, who runs ›The Hudson‹, the only other thriving theatre nearby, is also in the film. Gesturing among the blue seats of his auditorium, salvaged from the Academy Awards, Harry tells the camera that the ghosts are happy when a theatre is making theatre. Like us, ›The Hudson‹ survives on rentals. When we signed the lease, Harry gave us a mop, knowing what truly matters. In our film, Kennedy uses that same mop to clean the stage—a hand-me-down performance of labour on an infinite loop.
We’re from the U.S., met in New York, and grew up as artists in Berlin. Now, we live between Los Angeles and Berlin. Los Angeles’ relationship with performance keeps us there; healthcare might drive us away. Being a local means being deeply involved with the everyday life of a place—asking questions, calling 311, chatting with neighbours, petting Cookie, the insane dog next door, giving water to the girls puking outside the club, and experiencing the emotional weather of a space. Our neighbourhood is the set for our work. Art allows us to ask questions, and community means making a big salad backstage, even if no one eats it. We offer space to our community, and they give us a reason to keep going.
Danielle Brathwaite-Shirley
›The Soul Station‹
At LAS Art Foundation, Halle am Berghain
Until 13 October 2024
The question, »Where are you from?« always takes me back to when I was younger. It was often asked with an undertone, as if to imply you didn’t belong, especially in the UK, at least during the time I was growing up—around 2016 or 2017. Now that I’ve moved to Berlin, the question feels different. People hear my British accent and are more genuinely curious. While I would say that I’m from the UK, a big part of my identity comes from my online community, from the virtual spaces where I’ve spent a significant amount of time.
I used to be on VRChat a lot—there was a time when I logged in daily. The experience was so immersive; it felt like sitting next to someone, having a real conversation. There’s a certain freedom in these spaces, where identity is less confined to who you are in the real world—you can choose an avatar that reflects how you want to be seen. Many of my core memories are tied to these online experiences: discovering new facets of myself, encountering concepts, for example, transness before I even had the vocabulary for it, or experimenting with identity.
When I’m in these online spaces, it feels like I’m stepping into a new room—disconnected from my work life and real-world concerns. It’s a space where I don’t have to constantly filter myself. Social media, on the other hand, feels far more controlled, even dangerous, as it’s easy to worry about how what you post will be received. I prefer the internet as a place to step into and out of, rather than someplace that constantly lingers, like Instagram—where even after you log off, your profile continues to represent you. It’s a place of curated personae, where everyone is self-focused, contributing to a self-fulfilling prophecy of performance. The more time we spend on social media, the less we engage with the real world.
For me, being »local« is about being present for someone. It’s not about proximity but about connection. For example, sending thoughts and prayers when someone passes is about as distant as you can be. Online, a video call is closer—you can sit in silence with someone, which feels more intimate. In VRChat, holding someone’s virtual hand feels even closer. And then, flying to them, being physically present, staying for two weeks to make sure they’re okay—that’s the ultimate closeness. I think it’s about engaging with what’s around you, both in physical and digital spaces.
In my work, I archive moments within these online communities and try to echo the emotions they evoke. My goal is to make the audience feel what I felt during those moments. I constantly ask myself, »How can I recreate that experience for someone else, even if it’s an uncomfortable one?«
Ana Alenso
›Forgive Us Our Trespasses / Vergib uns unsere Schuld. Of (Un)Real Frontiers, Of (Im)Moralities and Other Transcendences‹
At Haus der Kulturen der Welt
14 September — 8 December 2024
The Project ›Forgive Us Our Trespasses‹ is about queering all that claims normativity. It’s about embracing life’s winding paths, getting lost and found, and trespassing as an act of resistance—without seeking forgiveness. In this context, I present two works: ›Glück auf!‹ (2023) and ›Blood of the Earth‹ (2019).
In an attempt to deconstruct belief in the limitless resources of the planet into a single optical illusion, the installation ›Glück auf!‹ features a wagon from the former Röhrigschacht Wettelrode mine, which I visited in 2022. This mine is a remnant monument of the Mansfeld copper slate industry. Like most mines I have visited in Germany, the Röhrigschacht Wettelrode now functions as a tourist museum and historical monument. The earliest technologies of extraction were developed and exported to other countries from these sites, including to my homeland, Venezuela. The territorialisation of nature in Latin America began more than five centuries ago, and it has been closely associated with extractivism ever since. The sound piece ›Blood of the Earth‹ aims to capture this sense of how oil extraction affects the lives of local communities through a collage of site-specific audio recordings from South America, including lectures, documentaries, machine noises, and Venezuelan folk music.
The dialogue between these works, allows for a wider geologic understanding of today’s geopolitical landscapes. If we consider that oil is ›ruiria‹, the blood of the earth, as the U’wa Indigenous people’s leader claims, this reinforces Paprika’s (2015) notion that we must begin to understand the subsoil and the earth as another kind of medium that communicates. Both perspectives suggest that the earth, like the mines, is far from being inert, but instead is a living entity that communicates and sustains life through its resources.
These pieces also reflect my identity as an immigrant and the way in which I approach my work. Having a studio in Berlin has profoundly shaped my practice; many of the materials I use were gathered from the city’s streets and scrap yards. My work has also led me to explore remote parts of Germany, helping me to develop a personal understanding of life here—always in contrast to what I left behind in my homeland, from which I self-exiled more than ten years ago.
I’ve always described Berlin as a city in constant flux. However, the changes today aren’t about new buildings rising; instead, an old, deep wound has reopened, demanding significant effort to heal. These are uncertain times, but my experience here gives me hope that Berlin will continue to evolve—hopefully for the better.
Selma Selman
›Ophelia’s Awakening‹
At ChertLüdde, Berlin
7 September — 9 November 2024
My work alternates between sensitive, harsh, and ironic gestures, revealing discriminatory identity attributions, role expectations, and stereotypes. In this way, my body and identity become mediums for capturing civic and personal themes that articulate political resistance and feminist empowerment. This exploration is central to ›Ophelia’s Awakening‹, my first exhibition at ChertLüdde, where I repeatedly evoke the motif of scrap metal collecting and recycling. The metals I use—remnants of catastrophic meteor showers from 200 million years ago—remind us of the ancient and violent origins of our tools, from forks to phones. By carving out separate pieces from vehicles, my works reside between the painterly and the sculptural, blending my lifelong rapport with metal with impressions from everyday life, art history, colloquial language, and personal experiences.
Through my performances, I reveal the interconnectedness of all beings, using my personal experiences as a lens. My aim is to communicate with both art world insiders and general audiences, which leads to varied reactions—often leaving me emotionally exhausted yet relieved after each performative act. In contrast, my studio work offers a sense of calm and new avenues to question myself, even as I navigate the complexities of my identity and practice.
My latest works, paintings on scrap metal, continue to explore the everyday, intertwining impressions of life, art history, and text collages. These creations are not just artistic expressions but also speak to a deeper connection with the very materials that have shaped our existence. Humour, wordplay, and relentless exploration of art’s boundaries are central to my process, allowing me to blend painting and sculpture into small, intimate objects. This practice is deeply connected to my sense of community, which, for me, is a reflection of my integrity—a way to connect with my roots, to understand who my parents are, what my surname signifies, and where I truly belong.
The influence of my origins is ever-present in my work. My roots are in Bihać, Ruzica in Bosnia and Herzegovina, but my life is spread across Amsterdam, New York, and my hometown. Despite this constant movement, part of me longs for the stability of staying in one place for more than six months. Yet, the road always calls me back. Even though I left the place I was born, I find myself returning time and again. Being a local there, for me, means understanding the culture, knowing where to find the best food and drinks, and having a profound connection to a particular geography. This connection informs my work and keeps me grounded. My neighbourhoods in Amsterdam and New York are uninspiring, even dull, in contrast to the chaotic vibrancy of my village. This balance—or perhaps imbalance—keeps me from being overly influenced by either environment. Instead, it allows me to offer my community the transformation of impossibility into possibility, while they, in turn, provide me with stress and brutally honest ideas about the current state of art.
Désiré Feuerle
›Natural Beauty. Curated Nature‹
At The Feuerle Collection
13 September 2024—2 February 2025
The Feuerle Collection creates a strong connection between Berlin and Barcelona, thanks to its founder, Sara Puig. We spoke with Desiré Feuerle to reflect on his origins and how art bridges borders, fostering belonging.
›Natural Beauty. Curated Nature‹ presents symbols of prosperity in an enchanting setting where light and space form a total work of art, juxtaposing precious pieces from the collection alongside simple natural objects.
What does this work tell us about your belonging?
My work reflects my journey more than a sense of belonging. I’m interested in exploring new places and ideas, letting each experience shape my perspective.
Where do you come from, where do you live?
I’m originally from Germany, but I feel like I come from many places. My curiosity and experiences around the world have shaped who I am, making me feel like a global citizen. I’m based in Asia but spend time where I find inspiration, letting each location offer something new.
What makes you stay or go away?
I stay in places that inspire and challenge me. If I feel curiosity and discovery, I’m happy to stay. I might move on if a place no longer offers new experiences or inspiration. I’m drawn to the excitement of exploring new possibilities and ideas.
What does it mean to be a local?
Being a local isn’t something I focus on. I see myself as someone who appreciates the world from different viewpoints, always open to learning from new environments. I like to feel like an observer, a visitor, even in places I know well.
How does your neighbourhood influence you?
My neighbourhood is wherever I am. Each place I spend time in influences me in different ways.
How does art ground you?
Art invites me to explore, offering a sense of freedom. It opens doors to different dimensions, letting me transcend time, space, and reality.
What do you offer to and receive from your community?
I offer an invitation to experience something different, beyond the ordinary. My exhibitions are spaces where people can step outside their daily lives and connect with something deeper. The responses and feedback from visitors to my museum inspire me. Their experiences encourage me to keep creating meaningful spaces for exploration and reflection.
Grayson Earle
›No Departures Without Arrivals‹
At ZK/U
13 – 15 September 2024
I originally hail from California but my political and artistic consciousness was informed by my time in New York City, in particular during Occupy Wall Street, and, subsequently, with The Illuminator art collective. The latter is a guerrilla video projection group which would project text and images as site-specific interventions in public space. One of our more popular projections included the text ›Ultra Luxury Art, Ultra Low Wages‹ on the facade of the Guggenheim when they were found to be using slave labour to construct their building in Abu Dhabi. That work was very much engaged with belonging, but in a materialist sense: To whom does public visual space belong? In a legal sense the answer is simply that it belongs to advertisers, which is why each projection was also an act of trespass.
›Return to Sender‹ (made in collaboration with Charmaine Chua for Berlin Art Week) is an act of trespass onto the Amazon logistics network. In this work, participants from across the United States purchase GPS units via Amazon which are then remotely activated. The activated devices are returned through the standard returns process, and, thus, the path of the package is revealed. By tracing the paths these devices take back to warehouses, repair sites, and landfills, we can offer a more complete map of Amazon’s infrastructure. Participants are encouraged to include a letter addressed to a worker within the return package, expressing care and support. This act challenges the anonymity and invisibility often associated with corporate logistics, and serves as a reminder of the human element within these systems.
The piece speaks directly to the complex networks of belonging in a globalised world. Now that I live in Berlin the next step is to expand this project to engage with the encroachment of Amazon here. Given that Google’s prospective Kreuzberg campus was summarily kicked out by locals, I find it troubling that the Amazon building went up without a hitch. I think if we consider ourselves locals, it’s our responsibility to refuse corporate control, speak out against the genocide in Palestine, and generally reconnect with the belief that Berlin is a place worth defending against illiberal tendencies.
I live in Friedrichshain where we have a punk bar called Supermolly. There’s a legend associated with the bar that goes something like this: back in the 90s or the early 2000s when the city was clearing out all the squats, the police gave the neighbourhood warning that they would come back in a week to arrest those who remained. Instead of running away, the residents stole tractors to dig trenches in preparation to defend their homes. Once the battle was over, the police found a Molotov cocktail said to be so large that it contained 100 litres of gasoline. It gained the title of Super Molitov, taken on by our local bar. I have no idea how accurate this story is, but it does inspire one to think about what sorts of legendary challenges we could create ourselves.
Chaveli Sifre
›After Images‹
At Julia Stoscheck Foundation Berlin
12 September 2024 – 27 April 2025
For the opening of ›After Images‹ at Julia Stoscheck Foundation, I’m presenting a commissioned work titled ›Adonia‹. The name is inspired by the ancient Greek festival dedicated to Adonis, a symbol of beauty, desire, life, death, and rebirth.
During the Adonia festival, women planted quick-growing, short-lived herbs and flowers in shallow containers called Adonis gardens, symbolising the fleeting nature of youth and beauty. The festival included mourning Adonis’ death, celebrating his resurrection, and marking the renewal of life. It was a private, often domestic event primarily observed by women.
My installation features glass limbs filled with camphor; a sublimating resin traditionally used in purification rituals around the world. This piece functions both as a cleansing ritual and a meditation on transformation. It explores the concept of belonging and taking root, while also reflecting on the themes of temporality, invisibility, and impermanence.
In Puerto Rico, where I’m from, we often use the phrase »hechar raíces« (to throw roots), which, to me, captures the notion of growing in one place, but almost like an orchid: floating, yet attached. As artists, we grow rhizomatically, or in spirals of love and friendship that connect people who find themselves on this unconventional path.
I’ve lived in Berlin for the past decade, and my roots have grown deep. I’ve met many artists and friends, many of whom have since moved on. That’s the beauty and tragedy of Berlin. It feels like a port, a revolving door, where you connect with many beautiful souls who continue their journeys elsewhere, yet the connections remain. Next year, I’ll spend ten months in Florence, and I’m deeply grateful for this, as it feels like a portal to the south, where my »plant body« can thrive in warmer climates. The political climate in Berlin feels increasingly oppressive, and many of us are concerned.
I see staying, occupying space, as a form of resistance. As a woman from the Caribbean, saying »hello« or »good morning« is just a part of daily etiquette. Smiling at people on the street might seem odd to some, and it did feel out of place when I first moved here, so I stopped. But now, I’ve reconnected with that part of myself, allowing me to be who I am and to bring my ways of being into my community of friends and strangers. I’ve noticed a difference—people start to smile back, and a sense of recognition and unity begins to take hold in my neighbourhood.
Statistics often show that regions with the least immigration have the strongest anti-migration sentiments. I believe direct experience is the antidote. In my practice, I focus on the senses and their hierarchy. I used to see this focus as a decolonial tool, but now I view it as a world-building tool—where gestures, tastes, smells, and sounds bring us closer to one another.
Taína Cruz
›Nexus‹
At Kraupa-Tuskany Zeidler
11 September—26 October 2024
Art has always grounded me, serving as a means to process the world around me and connect with those around me. The work I included in BAW reflects my exploration of what my belongings reveal about my identity and experiences. Through the creative process, I find a sense of belonging, anchoring myself in both personal and collective narratives. This connection to community is vital, as my art delves into the complexities of human emotions, conflict, and movement, using bold contrasts and expressive forms to capture the intensity of the human condition.
I come from New York City, a place that shaped my early experiences and artistic curiosity, but now I live in New Haven, Connecticut, where I’m pursuing a two-year Master of Fine Arts programme. The school keeps me grounded here for now, but once I graduate, I’ll be ready to explore new opportunities elsewhere. This transition reflects my understanding of being a local—not just living in a place, but being part of a living, breathing community. My neighbourhood influences my practice; its vibrant energy and cultural dynamics inspire my work. Within these dynamics, I find the struggles and resilience that inform my art.
My first artistic inspiration came from an installation of ›Frog and Toad‹ at the Children’s Museum of Manhattan—a whimsical introduction to storytelling. More recently, the Whitney Biennial reminded me of art’s ability to reflect society’s pressing issues, often rooted in community experiences. Community, for me, is a shared experience of struggle and resilience, a space where people come together through collective histories and challenges. These experiences have shaped my perspective, both as an artist and an individual, influencing how I view community and identity.
Through my art, I aim to offer my community a means of reflection, a voice for the emotions, identities, and cultural narratives that shape our lives. I am drawn to moments of vulnerability and urgency, aiming to convey a visceral understanding of the struggles we all face through dynamic compositions. My practice is grounded in the lived experiences of those around me, as I explore the tensions and connections within my local environment. These interactions fuel my creative practice, making my work not just a personal endeavour but a collective one.
Ultimately, art has been a way for me to give back and express gratitude for the connection and richness my community offers. In return, my community gives me endless inspiration, providing the stories and interactions that fuel my creative practice. I aim to create work that resonates with those who encounter it, fostering understanding and a deeper sense of collective identity. Through this interplay of personal reflection and community engagement, my art becomes a means of navigating the complexities of belonging, identity, and the human condition, rooted in the very communities that shape these experiences.
Chto Delat International
Tsaplya Olga Egorova and Dmitry Vilensky
›Vulnerable‹
At KOW
8 September — 16 November 2024
We believe that the piece ›Personal Code of Navigation Signals‹ transmits our affiliations, fears, and engagement in times of emergency, war, and crises. As of September 2024, it reflects the fragile state of personal existence—a fragility that feels ever-present.
We arrived from a place where supporting LGBTQ+ rights, defending Ukraine, criticising the church, protesting Putinism, or practicing contemporary art are treated as criminal acts. It’s a place where simply standing up for basic human values, like peace, could be dangerous. Now, we live in a place where another fundamental human act—condemning Israel’s politics of occupation—can be seen as anti-semite, and voicing that condemnation comes at a cost.
We stayed in Berlin because it was generous to us and our comrades. It’s a place where both the people and the state understand what it means to flee from a fascist regime, and they remember that anti-Semitism is not just a Zionist invention. We could also generalise and say that Germany and Russia share similar experiences of tragic catastrophes (though, of course, these are incomparable in scale to the Nazi era), and both countries have a strong fixation on their »great« cultural achievements of the past, which creates a shared understanding and similar critique.
Now, you often hear demands that you cannot live in Germany anymore. Such requests usually come from people with valid passports and well-paid positions. But if we were to leave, where would we go? Watching how things are unfolding globally is terrifying, but we’ve learned from our past experiences that you hold on and resist. After some time, you begin to feel local here. It means meeting friends and familiar faces on the street, holding keys to others’ homes, and knowing the stories of many corners. It’s a sensory experience—walking barefoot and feeling the earth beneath you, triggering memories of childhood. It’s also about understanding the dark humour woven into the local language.
In Berlin Mitte, we run a public art project in the vitrine of our Emergency Project Room. It’s where we live when we are in Berlin, and it’s also where we engage with the community. We develop ›Mad Tea Parties‹—performative discussion circles—and other gatherings that bring together people, mostly with migrant backgrounds. Breaking the walls of ghettoisation is vital to us—we aim to build strong relationships with the neighbourhood. Through our space, we send signals and hope that someone, somewhere, responds. This is slow, deliberate navigation.
Art, for us, both grounds and elevates. It is both an escape and an anchor. Through our art, we aim to build new communities and nurture existing ones. In return, our community gives us the most essential gift: the feeling that we are not alone.