Silent Collocutors by MMSU Rijeka

silent collocutors

This book is the product of a workshop that explored the night life of Rijeka, in the condensed evening hours from the All Saintsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Day onward. The workshop would not have been possible had it not been for the response of the participants and invited artists, who observe this city from a pedestrianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s perspective, beyond bureaucratic procedures and management strategies. Demons and monsters equally visit those who are up and those who are down anyway... In contrast to the panting promises of daily politics, these contributions speak about dreams, desires and yearnings, about collective conductors of imagination and fiction, which, in the entrenched discourse of today, are deliberately labeled as irrelevant. And that is why the contents of this book fall into the night, transforming into a potentially heretic figure ...the night is on the side of the ghostly and the unnamable; we hide in the night, lose ourselves, or search for intensities of freedom; we may grow afraid, anxious or we may become excited, anticipating another type of exchange (Brandon LaBelle). Rijeka: Silent Collocutors is compiled of artwork documentations, essays and accounts of night gatherings, of places in between public and private body, in between the standardized and the deviant ways of using a space, from bedrooms and city dormitories to the abandoned spaces of former factories such as

Rikard Benčić, which is currently the construction site of the long-expected future museum. Rikard Benčić factory acts as a reminder of the incongruous connections of the past and the present, as a nocturnal body existing beyond the simulated spectacles, whose crannies reveal a time that passes, but also remains fozen. The contents of this book aim to give sound to the empty and hollow production plants, to explore the intangible architecture of the city and capture the wanderings of its citizens, to listen to the forms of night commotion, visions and fantasies… Instead of dwelling on the state of post-transitional discomfort, Silent Collocutors support creative forms of anxiety, using melancholia, euphoria, exaggeration and equalization to create fragments of a never-ending composition of disobedience. Night constantly emerges as a figure of pensiveness, (im)possibilities and non-compliance with the norm of reality, just like (Foucault’s) other spaces… that do exist and that are formed in the very founding of society — which are something like counter-sites, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted. Places of this kind are outside of all places, even though it may be possible to indicate their location in reality. Ksenija Orelj & Anamarija Batista

6 Images from the Dark photo-essay | Brandon LaBelle 12 An Echo from Pećine story | Antonia Dika 14 Architecture of Optimism installation | Igor Eškinja 18 My Bed graphic and written account | Nika Rukavina 20 The Night, My Silent Collocutor poem | Romina Tominić 22 Remnants of Night dialogue | Anamarija Batista & Brandon LaBelle

zero hour â&#x20AC;&#x201C; time as a retreat

Images from the Dark

the photos are shot in H-building of the former factory Rikard BenÄ?iÄ&#x2021;

Brandon LaBelle 8

The darkness in which things may find refuge; The darkness in which to imagine other worlds; The darkness in which life and love find new possibilities, undercover and out of sight; From within the abandoned and the derelict; The hidden sphere of the vacant, and the ghostly remains; The darkness of a shared listening; This sound that is an invisible matter; That is mine and yours; Never one or the other, but both â&#x20AC;&#x201C; This sound, a space between; That is restless, and that flees, this sound; From me to you to this and to what is behind and under; This sound that is more than human, and that comes to life in the dark; This sound, like all sounds, an assemblage; With what is close and the different; With the difference that I am always already â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a body of more than one; This sound; And which makes it possible to speak.

An Echo from PeÄ&#x2021;ine

Antonia Dika 14

In my room you can hear the port. Sometimes it wakes me up. Sometimes it annoys me, so I put earplugs and think it is ok that it still operates, because the port is the city. (It wasn’t operating at night for a while, and still it doesn’t operate every night). I have already got used to the sound of the cars. Early in the morning, I hear the garbage truck or seagulls. Or the wind, either jugo, or bura. In my childhood, I used to wake up to the sounds of the Fiume ladies, the old women who were gathering on the waterfront, in front of our building. They would always be the first who came to the sea – they would be the first who came there in the morning, and first who came there every season. Our grandmother called the Fiume ladies, so that is how we called them, too. We used to hear the sounds of their conversations (for example, about cooking pasta), coming from the quay, or from the sea, because some of them were standing on the waterfront, while others were in the sea, aligned in a circle, treading water. The sounds of their voices cannot be heard anymore, I guess they swim somewhere else now (in a place really far away).

Architecture of Optimism

courtesy: Galleria Federico Luger

photo: Antonio Maniscalco

Screenscapes | installation, digital print on fabric, variable dimensions, 2016

Igor Eškinja 16

My Bed

Nika Rukavina 20

The void. Mio letto e mio letto. The freedom in dying every night to be reborn every morning. I love my bed because it leads me into nothingness. The beauty of the black hole I fall into every night. Falling asleep, into dreams, erasing the memory of the day that has just passed, resetting myself for a new beginning.

The Night, My Silent Collocutor

Romina TominiÄ&#x2021; 22

The silent sound of the heater. Movement of dust against the catâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tail on the rug. 3 flies on the wall next to the lamp. The atmosphere is a static performance that goes with being. The world changes in front of the eyes. Wool ages. Smoke is motionless. A letter is flying. As a spook of an echo I am stricken by the moment. I am here. Tiny actions move carbons. From the living room, which is also a working space, and sometimes a bedroom.

Remnants of Night

This conversation was held between Anamarija Batista & Brandon LaBelle 24

Ana: We spent couple of days in Rijeka talking about the condition of night. What was your impression of Rijeka’s night condition? How do you experience its rhythm, ways of appearance? Brandon: I felt a little like living in a bird’s nest: hovering up in the air at night, following the rooftops and the twilight especially, as the sky drops its color, as well as witnessing the small movements below, in the open square outside my window, the comings and goings and the occasional night party – lyrics I recognize yet sung in different languages. It felt like a condition between quiet and noise; a slow oscillation occurring over the days and nights, and that filtered into my sleeping room, to impress my dreaming with colorful bees, a kind of buzzing, and a deep quiet which felt like falling, or floating. Maybe this says something about the city in general, as a mysterious combination of unexpected elements, the youthful emergence of pleasures and new ideas edged by the left-over darknesses of past cultures. As someone that has started to visit the city more often, how do you understand or experience its rhythms, and its nighttime? Ana: Rijeka fascinates me with its diversity and architecture. It is the city that awakens my curiosity about the unexpected. As a young girl, while reading Družba Pere Kvržice, I fantasized about my own island, which I would rearrange and explore at the same time. Rijeka has the same potential, the potential to inspire fiction – and this fiction stems from the city’s reality. The specific combination of industry, old villas, skyscrapers and the sea is in itself surreal. It is no wonder that Rijeka was the city of Professor Balthazar. Different ideological contexts, which created some parts of 25

this city, are still visible, as is the moment of disappearance and transformations of these contexts.

Ana: How have you experienced our night visit to Benčić, the former factory, the site of the future museum? We were there during the day, too, and you also explored its surroundings in the evening. How these projections varied? Brandon: I’m very interested in sites of dereliction and abandonment in general, and I found the Benčić site interesting and striking in this regard. Especially as it is also in transition, becoming a cultural location in the city. Of course, former industrial buildings are often regenerated by giving them over to culture, and cultural organizations; this has a strong economic and ideological backdrop, and while I’m not entirely sure of the specific situation in Rijeka, I think we can already see the possibility of this site becoming a new center in the city - a parallel center in which other businesses and enterprises will eventually develop as well. In our workshop, we were curious to consider the coming museum in relation to questions of night, and in what ways a museum within a former site of labor and collective work will contain certain ghosts. How might the museum relate to such ghosts? To the traces of what has gone missing but persists in the form of collective memories? During one of my night visits to the site, I also spent some time in the nearby “garden” where two (homeless?) men sat, smoking cigarettes and talking together. Such sites of dereliction, of darkness and periphery, are so important for marginal people, for those who drift or fall off the map. I wonder how they’ll relate to the opening of the museum? Though I also saw them there during the day as well, and I can imagine such sites feel safe for those often displaced. 26

How do you think about the future museum as a space in the city? What might the former industrial buildings offer to the presentation of art, and the local cultural scene? Ana: Among other things, the future museum can be seen as the place for discussing issues such as social freedom and solidarity, especially within the framework of social and political realities and visions for the future. It also offers a space for discussing resonance in terms of relationship between a person and the world. In his book Resonance: A Sociology of the Relationship to the World Hartmut Rosa discusses resonance as the result and the expression of a specific relationship between the experiencing subject and the fragment of the world she or he encounters. He says that neither the subject nor the world is existent, but they are both the results of their own resonance. The experience of resonance, with an inherent “overshooting” moment, does exist, which means that behind the reification, another form of relationship to the world is possible. I think these are important questions, questions which serve as motivation and which can be explored and discussed within different formats. This former industrial nucleus, the factory as the place of labor and collectiveness, its historical context, can serve as a link with the upcoming future. Industrija 4.0. and similar concepts anticipate a wave of robotization, which would bring new jobs, but also eliminate the existing ones, and introduce altered structures, different relations of control and discipline… The future museum will acquire the space of a former industrial revolution. This is the time of technological progress, but also of social disorganization, of difficult living conditions and a different relationship of man and nature. Therefore, this old industrial nucleus can truly serve as an encouragement for reflection. 27

anthropology of illusion

The Night notes on the nocturnal logic

Brandon LaBelle 30

I want to focus on the topic of the night as an arena or condition connected to the depths of the unconscious and of the creative imagination. In following the night, and its various cultural and social dynamics, its perceptual and existential orientation, I’m also led to the idea of a “nocturnal logic”: the night, in troubling the demarcations of the rational self and social ordering, requires a particular discourse, one to the side of madness, delirium and magic. I want to suggest that the night is a special arena that inspires or conjures unique forms of perception, social behavior and knowledge. What happens to our senses during the night? How does the world appear when it is dark? Does not the night require another type of orientation as well as representation? I would propose that the night conditions our perception to orient us differently, forcing us into another temporal and spatial experience. When sunlight disappears we enter a zone of ambiguity; the relation between form and shadow shifts to one of exaggeration – everything hovers in a state of indistinguishability; background and foreground become less distinct, bodies seem to appear suddenly, out of nowhere, and then disappear again; our sensorial understandings shift – we must look to be sure we’re not being followed; we also adopt another form of self-presentation – we may dress up, or dress down; the night also requires another way of approaching others: conversations change, identities bend – we can’t be sure who someone is, or what they may become at nighttime. The night, in a way, is not to be trusted. In this sense, the night is on the side of the ghostly and the unnamable; we hide in the night, lose ourselves, or search for intensities of freedom; we may grow afraid, anxious or we may become excited, anticipating another type of exchange. The night, in short, acts as an arena for the emergence of an altered subjectivity, one often close to expressions of loneliness, the erotic, criminality and the creative imagination. 31

Monsters We can appreciate these particular nocturnal qualities by looking at the relation between the night and monsters. For example, vampires, werewolves, boogeymen, and even witches, all emerge at night; the night often induces the very conditions of monstrosity. The monster, in fact, comes to represent the night as a time of fear, ambiguity, danger and altered identity. Yet with the appearance of the monster the night easily slips into nightmare. It would seem the night leads away from the reasonable and the rational, and toward what we might call “the black arts”: the emergence of knowledges based on a nocturnal logic. Even Freud, in his Interpretation of Dreams, was unable to include the nightmare within his theory of dreams – which he defines as “wish fulfillment”; the nightmare, in other words, poses a problem, for what forms of wish fulfillment might the nightmare represent? This is also suggested in the work of Gaston Bachelard, and his theories of poetics and daydreaming, which he contrasts with night dreams. For Bachelard, the night dream troubles our sleep, as well as poetics with a certain depth, and even madness, unsettling language and its meditations Yet, I’d pose night dreams and nightmares as not so much leading away from poetics, but rather giving way to creative forms I might term “anguished” – a poetics not of lyrical becoming, but rather of suffering, trauma, euphoria and delirium. Monsters and nightmares occupy and even manifest the night, and this anguished poetics – they are night-forms, night-constructions and even guides into the logic of the nocturnal. Here we may appreciate the deeper relationship between the night and the unconscious; that which is disruptive of language and reasonable discourse, and that troubles not only our sleep, but also the process of interpretation: the inability to perceive 32

clearly, to apprehend or comprehend all that lurks in the depths and that at times gives way to the emergence of a haunted form: the monster. The cultural theorist Jeffrey Cohen gives a hint of this when he writes in Monster Theory: In its function as dialectical Other or third-term supplement, the monster is an incorporation of the Outside, the Beyond – of all those loci that are rhetorically placed as distant but originate Within. The monster is closer than we might imagine; in fact, it is too close, pointing not so much to an external entity, but to the desires and fears within: the depths of what we cannot speak of and yet which drives us. The monster can be glimpsed as one’s own double finding shape in moments of anxiety and delirium, and within the shadowy ambiguities of the nocturnal. In this regard, the night holds a special place within the imagination – in fact, it might be the depths of the imaginary itself; whether in the form of nightmares or as an appeal to radical freedom, the night is a platform of creative transformation. It is an arena for the externalization of the unconscious. Maybe what transforms a body into a monster is the same type of possibility that may support the creative process, a thinking and being otherwise, and the materialization of unwanted form. Coincidentally, the night is often the time for culture in general: the time for events, for concerts, for club-going; it is the essential moment of experimentation: to dress up, to experience, to party, or let loose, and to attend to the production of staged culture, which is always informed by the inherent drive of the imaginary. The night additionally has its own architectural language in the form of the night club: already we see an expression not of the daydream, but of the haunted, the disoriented and the possible – these night-spaces full of dizzying lights and deep rhythms, and that announce the relation between monsters 33

and the erotic, reminding how close fear and desire are: the desires that may manifest in night-time events can also become monstrous, all-consuming or threatening; the dance floor, for example, conducts the dissolution of the single body into a limitless expanse, a collective body formed in the instant of feverish loss (the exhausted and the drugged). Subjectivity at night is one of experimentation, panicked or sexed, monstrous, erotic, lonely and also haunted by thought, deep reflection, by the anguished poem, which is always close to madness. While the project of the Enlightenment may base itself upon a notion of the illuminated, and the shining forth of a full apprehension of the world, the night instead delivers another type of truth – the truth of the deep body, of desire, hallucination and uncanny formations, and of the creative drive. I might say, that artworks are types of monsters: they are forms emerging out of the formless, and they keep in dialogue with the unnamable as they enter into the cultural scene. Dark light I want to turn to a few artistic and cultural examples where we might consider the poetics of the night, and in particular, through the topic of shadow. The American artist Albert Pinkham Ryder, working in the 19th century, was particularly obsessed with painting night scenes and their shadowy intensities. His paintings, which later Modernists championed for their heavy use of paint and expressive abstraction, attempts to capture the night as a visual and sublime experience; and yet, in doing so, Ryder’s paintings edge close to a dizzying abstraction with swirls of black clouds hovering in a dim sky, or a grainy moonlight hovering above a turbulent sea. There is a visual and even haptic intensity to his paintings, specifically because they do not so much attempt to represent the night, but rather to recreate it – to 34

conjure the nocturnal logic as it immerses us in its disorienting charge. At the same time, I think it is also Ryder’s rather existential character and subject matter that attracted many Modernist painters, in particular the expressionists; in this way, the night also comes to function as the condition of a certain existential angst: it is at night that the painter confronts the mysteries of being – the monsters of one’s own psyche taking shape according to the mesmerizing plasticity of paint. The works of Ryder additionally refer us to the use of chiaroscuro – that method of sculpting on the canvas through deep contrasts between light and dark – and the method of tenebrism developed by Caravaggio in the 1600s, all of which attempt to give image to shadow. In the works of Caravaggio, as well as the Dutch painters Rembrandt and Gerrit van Honthorst, shadows act as the negative of form, yet a form that also starts to take over the pictorial plane. Shadows and darkness, the night and nocturnal logics, lead us to the edge of representation; in doing so, shadows come to indicate the depths of the formless: that which cannot be apprehended fully or circumscribed within the sphere of a public discourse. Rembrandt’s candle-lit paintings are another example where the particular atmosphere of candlelight is put to great effect, often leading to scenes of isolation, wonder and solitude. Candlelight is a light especially made for the night; as Bachelard also examines in his wonderful book on the poetics of the candle, candlelight is essentially a light of solitude; it is the poet’s light, he suggests. Solitude and loneliness, the nocturnal quiet in which shadows envelope us in their secrets, these are paralleled by how candlelight is deeply aligned with the erotic – candlelight may imbue shadow with erotic promise, announcing the night and all forms of darkness as a place of sexual encounter or fantasy. 35

Candles set the mood by highlighting shadows, setting them into motion – the gentle dance – which, as Roland Barthes expresses, punctuates the erotic imagination. His own account of being drawn to the small cavity of shadow appearing just inside the shirt sleeve of a friend sitting across from him is an example of how shadows, and the play of form and formlessness, excite the erotic (and creative) imagination. One final example in which the night and shadows appear dramatically can be found in the cinematic expressions of Film Noir. Film Noir, or “black film”, emerged in the 1940s in the US and is characterized by a rather gritty use of low-lighting, which creates intense shadows and deep contrasts. This visual quality is strikingly expressive, locating us in a space of uncertainty and haunting narrative. This is mirrored in the subject matter, which often focuses on melodrama, sexual innuendo and criminal behavior: a narrative of black arts. Here we can easily see how the use of darkness comes to assist in telling dark narratives. The shadow is thus a condition of liminality; a zone of transition, of promise and of seduction, in which erotic life and haunted forms intermingle to continually unsettle the plays between right and wrong, pleasure and pain. Magic of the state Finally, I want to turn to the question of behavior and social life – from perceptions and poetics to expressions of exchange and interaction. As we’ve already seen, the night seems to inspire what we might call “illicit behaviors”: drunkenness, lasciviousness, prostitution, criminality, debauchery, loneliness and despair, these are central motifs within narratives as well as expectations we have of the night; as with the monster, all sorts of creatures seem to crawl out at night, creating an altogether different social condition. Maybe this is why the night appeals to 36

the imagination: not only does it change how we sense things, but it also produces an amazing set of unexpected encounters: the night is a time of drama based on the production of liminal subjectivities and their intermingling. We might consider this in relation to questions of labor. The working day, as that time period of productivity, of attending school, visiting offices and institutions, and where we perform on a rational level – the structures of work demand productive behavior – these are deeply contrasted by the night; once work is done, we enter into another modality of conduct and contact. The night becomes an opportunity for having fun, for getting drunk, for experimentation and for escaping the reasonableness of production. We can understand how a notion of freedom is supported through the logic of the nocturnal: we are allowed, like a type of carnival, to partake in other modes of expression, often deeply connected to the erotic – the erotic as a force and form of libidinal drive: the thrust of the body as a desiring lifeforce. The night appeals to the inner drives, underscoring the nocturnal logic as one related to what I might call “the deep earth”: the tonalities and vibrations of magical force and the natural rhythm. It is because of this that we might understand why the night is also deeply suspect; it is the time of criminals and secret missions. Robberies, rapes, muggings, killings, fights, smuggling operations and secret rendezvous’ find their ultimate opportunity at night; shadows immediately become a safe haven for enacting forms of misconduct, in support of irrational and socially disruptive actions. The night is thus driven by inversion or perversion, of nightmare and anguished poetics, of erotic and criminal conduct, all of which contrasts sharply with the productive labors taking place during the day. Therefore, the night is also fully occupied 37

by the police. The two meet and occur at the same moment, on the same street: the erotic force of bodies and the agents of control. Law and order are thus challenged by the conditions of the night and the logic of the nocturnal; liminal subjects, liminal knowledge, liminal relations shaped by violence and the unseen – these give challenge to the dictates of productive labor and rational ordering. This can be understood by considering particular state systems. For instance, we can witness this by considering the case of Chile under the Pinochet dictatorship, which imposed a curfew by which nobody was allowed on the streets at night; in states of emergency, the night is strictly forbidden, harnessed by a systemic force of control. In response, this led to the formation of all night parties, at homes or in underground clubs, where people would gather knowing in advance they would have to spend the night and wait until morning before returning home. Night gatherings were thus situations of desperate freedom; a sort of lonely trap that fueled a culture of desperate measures, as well as marginal forms of being together. Within such a system, an artistic culture formed, often using performative methods and materials to address the embedded violence of the dictatorship. One such work by the artist Diamela Eltit gives us a stark expression; her Zone of Pain performance from 1980 consists of a series of actions performed on the street at night: first, the artist lacerates her arms, allowing the blood to drip down from her fingers and onto the pavement; second, she enters a nearby brothel, and reads sections of her writings to those gathered there – a text which speaks of the body and its capture; a sort of analytical dissection of the body in a state of arrest and brutality; finally, the artist returns to the street outside, and begins to wash clean the pavement. In Eltit’s work, we are given the body as a site, a surface that is vulnerable to the forces around 38

it – to the violence of torture and disappearance by which the state operates; at the same time, this body is reclaimed through acts of self-abuse: Eltit takes possession of her own vulnerability, her flesh and blood, experiencing pain yet on her own terms and through her own logic. This logic, I would suggest, is one that negotiates the state through what Michael Taussig terms “magic” – the magic that passes between a state apparatus and its citizens, and that may allow, through mysterious forms of agency and action, the superseding of systemic violence: resistances found in conducting spectral energies, fortifying the weak body and the weak community through engaging in the compounded languages and secret administrations structured by the dictatorship. Eltit’s is a “black art” passing through the logic of the nocturnal to enable the crafting of a monstrous formation that, in this case, attempts to interrupt state functionality and the production of lies. The black arts The night, in being aligned with the unconscious, in providing input into forms of emancipation, of thinking and doing otherwise, is a partner to the work of creative imagining and performance. Giving way to a nocturnal logic, the night may function as a temporal and spatial medium for forms of radical transformation, where formal arrangements and visible bodies are reoriented. This reorientation may enable monstrous and magical formations, which, in giving us what we can only dream about, necessarily challenges constructs of the rational society. Accordingly, I would suggest that the particular expressivity of the night occludes the public sphere as the space of appearance; instead, it forces another system of organization, of appearing before and relating to each other. I might suggest, it is the condition for self-organization, for a type of 39

anarchic modality of conduct, of gathering, of exchange and of publicness. For the night does have its own organizational principles found in the monstrous, the criminal, the erotic, and the poetics of the anguished; as we’ve seen, the night conducts the struggles and desires inherent to singular bodies in motion, particular bodies that, in the transformative conditions of the nocturnal, find possibility for becoming other: for confronting what haunts them – a dream, possibly, or the monstrous truth. The night is always on the side of the suffering and therefore is never quite the space of open assembly, of deliberation and debate. Instead, it is a zone for the resistant, the lonely, the desperate, the lascivious and the outlawed. And for the construction of magic-formations, which may alter the conditions of rational thought toward those of escape, from reasonable discourse to states of madness, from the hospitable host to the unwelcomed stranger – figures of inversion and the uncommon, the delirious. We might think of that instance of Dr. Jekyll transforming into Mr. Hyde on the nocturnal streets of London; such a performance literally embodies a dark challenge to rational science: under Jekyll’s mad theories of transfiguration, unspeakable knowledges are to be found. Here, I might conclude by posing “the black arts” as a body of resources for manifesting expressions of radical imagination, as well as for giving refuge to the unwanted and the deep earth (that earth outlawed by the capitalist logic of production). The nocturnal logic performs as an extremely potent guide by which to imagine and incite possibilities; to be scared of the dark precisely because it contains apparitions of our own fantasies and urgencies, giving appearance to what we desire yet cannot fully articulate: the unnamable. The nocturnal logic, in this sense, both haunts and assists in imagining other realities, which forces into question the visible one in front of us. 40

Traffic of Desire notes on audio-ambiance cruising performance

photo: Tanja Kanazir

Bojan Ä?orÄ&#x2018;ev 42

Hunting for love can commence anywhere, at swimming pools, near the railway stations or parking lots. It is best to start at twilight, when visibility and possibility of orientation are reduced to a bare minimum. G. Ferčec, Arkadija Traffic of Desire is a performance serial designed as a collection of monologues of characters from contemporary literature who wander around the city in search for satisfaction – sexual, intellectual, existential. These stories echo all around us, coming from apartments, hotels, railway- and gas stations, parks, streets, sex shops, present in the ether all the time, but only sometimes articulated. The discourse of desire maps the city and the position of these subjects in the contemporary socio-political context: their criticism, reflexivity and potential subversiveness as the results of (self) marginalization. The city is observed, but at the same time the city also observes. The anonymity of the crowd, so essential to the Baudelairean figure of the flâneur, the stroller, this time is provided by sound files in the form of audio guide. Sound files, arranged as 5 to 20 minute modular units, can be accessed randomly or in a predefined order, at specific locations whose combination forms a precise performative content. Each monologue leads to the next location, which through its topography, frequency of passers-by, objects being observed or entered, becomes the staging for the text coming from the headphones. In this way, the recorded sound and the sound and ambiance of the location become both the performer and the stage. Goran Ferčec’s texts Kruženje (Circling), Text with Changing Parts and Arkadija (Arcadia), selected as a base for this collection, address the connection of desire and text. The language in 43

Ferčec’ texts almost takes over the role of the protagonist. Two of the three selected texts, written in second-person singular, almost demand that the sound coming out of the headphones, the one we “hear in our head”, becomes the ideal performative medium. These texts are the descriptions of the image whose integral part we’re becoming, the image of the body in the city, which is being explored using detailed, thick description, observation. The dramaturgy of the body, its borders as the only genuine contour of the reality (Arkadija), confronts the dramaturgy of the city that pulsates at the iconic points of desire and satisfaction – in this case, the park, train station, public transport, taxi, the streets… Taken as a whole, these texts dissect the city into a series of pornographic close-ups, locations yearning to

Texts in Traffic of Desire, Rijeka: Aleksandar Bender, Text with changing parts; Olga Dimitrijević, Samo da se pozdravimo (Let’s just say Hello); Goran Ferčec, Kruženje (Cruising) and text Ja sam kraljica posljednje slobodne zemlje istočno od bulevara kneginje Marije Lujze (I am the Queen of the Last Free Land East of Maria Luiza Boulevard) based on Marino Krstačić-Furić’s video documentation; and fragments from Le Mausolée des amants by Hervé Guibert. The project was carried out in Belgrade, Zagreb and Rijeka in 2013. Production: Teorija koja Hoda, Beograd; Centar za dramsku umjetnost, Zagreb; Drugo more Rijeka – Balcan Can Contemporary Platform. 44

map: Katarina Popović

be consumed.

Postindustrial Sleepers

Nadija MustapiÄ&#x2021; 46

Notes on waiting and the potentiality of idleness (in relation to Rijeka’s (post)industrial sleepers and the metaphorical condition of night) Sleepers… The metaphorical condition of night as a time of withdrawal from daily dynamics into a state of reflection and poetic anguish, dreaming and becoming the alter-self, can be likened to a condition of (being in) an altered presence. Much like sleepers, many (post)industrial buildings in the city of Rijeka are sites of altered presence, reminders of the faded past and the lost future. Places filled with time, traces and burdens, waiting to be re-thought and re-envisioned. …In Time One minute, twenty-four hours, one afternoon, twenty years… Time is out of our control and in its own course. We start buying time, while rapid and conflicting changes are occurring, along with their entangled aftermaths. The currency is patience. The more we spend it the less vision we are left with for the use of acquired time. We end up waiting. Symbolically, a place for waiting is where now and here get intertwined with the there and then, because waiting is an introspective act of anticipating departure and the unfamiliar future while still being grounded in the familiar past. Waiting is where the future (our expectations) merges with the past (our habits) into the present moment - waiting is where idleness means potentiality if the present manifests itself in our everyday experience as contemplation, uncertainty and reconsideration. To paraphrase Descartes’ definition of presence, we can pose a question: in the larger context of transition is waiting ‘a time of doubt’? And might reflection serve as a replacement for the lost vision? 47

In An Afternoon Without Gravity (Nadija Mustapić, 2010, two-channel video installation / 4.1 surround sound), which was filmed at the launching ramp of the old Torpedo factory, the spatial and temporal dynamics of one of the abandoned ‘sleepers’ of Rijeka’s postindustrial architecture are being captured in a way that could be linked to the Situationists’ practice of psycho-geography. The conveyed non-linear (looped) narrative problematizes the present moment and building’s condition as well as its past or future. Different audio components characterize various temporal components. The protagonist’s bodily (performative) investigation of the site is in a dialogue with the sounds of the environment thereby confirming the unity of time and place, as emphasized through editing strategies. The architectural structure is transformed into a tactile and temporal landscape in which the fictional and the documentary, the historical and the geographic are intertwined with the intimate experience of a non-material world of the main character, as experienced in the mind of the viewer. An afternoon is used as a metaphor for the setting of (sun and) time, melancholy, the physical condition of the deteriorated building and its physical and symbolic weight – which is being suspended or rendered weightless by the protagonist’s action of swinging in and on the building. We are taken on a journey through the waves of fiction and reality and invited to join the (perhaps) imaginary protagonist in a game of discovery.

This description of the artwork An Afternoon Without Gravity contains fragments of writings by Ivana Meštrov, Nadija Mustapić and Toni Meštrović. 48

In Waves

Homage to the sound to the night to the sea of Rijeka.

Sarah LauĂ&#x; 50

Lying in a bed in a room in a city by the sea. Thinking of myself of the city of the sounds I can hear. Listening to all my hopes all my dreams all my thoughts in the night. Hearing not the people, in the house not the traffic, on the street not the noise, in my head but the sea, wild and free. Feeling it in my ears in my mind in my heart now and then.

Referring to a bedroom in the street Nikole Cara in Rijeka 51

Sometime around Midnight

Kora Girin 52

To the north — (very close) hallway of the same apartment — (a bit farther) a row of apartments of the same building, separated by a cortile To the south — (very close) street — (a bit farther) the building across the street To the east — (very close) living room — (a bit farther) the courtyard between primary school “Centar” and High School for Construction Trades To the west — (very close) the space of the neighboring apartment — (a bit farther) the Rječina River In the middle — wooden double bed frame *

* cf. Georges Perec, Vrste prostora (Zagreb, 2005) 53

My bedroom slowly becomes mine. Its sounds, unread at first, become mine too. I have mistaken the whistling of the wind with the whistling of a group of people from the carnival parade, the low sound of the neighbor’s door phone with my door phone, the sounds of techno music with the sounds of a private party somewhere in the block. The sounds of my room float between two different poles, depending on the time of day. The resonant and heavy traffic of trucks, which used to occupy these streets, causing cracks on the balusters of my balcony, has moved on a bypass and unburdened the soundscape of my bedroom. It sort of ‘unleashed’ the other, more delicate, forms of noise. During the day, the life of sounds in my bedroom engages in the events on the east front, i.e., events in the courtyard shared by primary school Centar and the High School for Construction Trades. The recess time is particularly loud and the high-pitched sounds of the teenager’s voices are at times hard to define either as well-intentional or threatening. At night, the eastern battlefront of sounds spreads towards Piramida. This dead periphery of the city center, whose offices, shops and bars, such as the pharmacy, post office, café bar of Neboder Hotel, bakery and bridal shop, have closed down over time, becomes even more lifeless. Therefore, the sounds that fill my room at night, especially on weekends, come from the other bank of the Rječina River. Cars that spend the night on Delta parking lot are often transformed into DJ booths, from which different music genres can be heard. And these are just the constancies, along with the emptying of trash containers and street washing. Sometime around midnight. Apart from that, I evoke to my memory: a tubercular cough that might have been located in the building across the street, a drunken chase and threats of death and violence, singing of Neno Belan’s songs under the windows. 54

Not least important, my bedroom awakens my bodily presence and revives the volume of my own movements and sounds. This is so primarily because of the fact that my apartment and the apartment next door used to be a single space. After the reconstruction, the wall that now divides our apartments, and which is also the wall of my bedroom, remained thin, like a wall that usually separates two rooms within the same apartment. Since my apartment and the apartment next door share the same wooden floor, the movements of my neighbor, appearing in the form of wooden floor creaks and squeaks, travel to my room and back, reminding my neighbor and me of our shared existence. Therefore, days and nights in my room are reduced to an inner struggle between the vision of my room as an intimate space of freedom and the vision of my room as the space of thoughtful self-restraint. Movements and sound volume assume the character of inappropriateness, while external (nocturnal) sounds, paradoxically, turn into a convenient sound insulation. Apart from spreading horizontally, the sounds of my apartment also travel vertically, in a downward movement. They leave me with a question of my too frequent, too inelegant movements at late night hours, as they activate the creaking in the old wooden closets. The walls that represent objective boundaries (I have tried to soften the south wall with Nauman’s text Body Pressure), cannot prevent sounds from coming in or out. The history of sounds is still in the process of becoming.

The room is located in the street Milana Smokvine Tvrdoga 6, Rijeka, with a view on an alley (Ulica Podhumskih žrtava) that connects the shared courtyard of primary school Centar and the High School for Construction Trades with Šetalište Andrija Kačića Miošića, the street that runs parallel with the so-called Dead Channel. 55

56 On the Throne of Concrete story | Nika Krajnović 58 As Tiny as an Eye of a Needle, as Enormous as a City story | Lidija Toman 60 Camouflage (Tribute to René Magritte) intervention at former factory Hartera | Pejac 64 Nocturnal Vanity essay | Anamarija Batista 72 Institutions Need To Be Constructed performance at former factory Rikard Benčić | Badco. 76 The Blue Rider experimental film | Tomislav Gotovac

iii

accustomed to the dark

On the Throne of Concrete

Nika KrajnoviÄ&#x2021; 58

The veil of night enshrouds me, just like heavy curtains, in the liberating darkness, condense the sounds of car tires on a wet road, these bitumen impastos of the familiar distance, which travel, clear but still smeared, to my private nook within the urban termite nest; my intimate shell sheltered by height. On the throne of concrete, among the mystic squeaks of ducts and pipelines, the man is collectively alone. Impressions turn into sediments and only a bridge of dreams separates me from the joyful bustle of children in the morning, a bridge on which my â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;beingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; disperses into different forms. In a complementary refraction, through the room-prism, what is outside becomes inside and what is inside becomes outside. On the sheets, on these vast, warm fields, I meet angels and demons â&#x20AC;&#x201C; on the junction of the future and the past they speak to me about the day that has just passed, but also about other days, days that are entwined with this delicate web of memories. My shell is painted in layers, and my walls are made of laughter, tears and breathing. My room, in that moment of half-consciousness right before I fall asleep, transforms into all the other rooms from which I pulled out my roots long time ago, roots which I carry with me and which I plant all over again into another canvas of moonlight. In the aged shimmer of the sea surface and the glow of trees, I conquer new interiors and contaminate them with colors, until the next sunrise.

As Tiny as an Eye of a Needle, as Enormous as a City

Lidija Toman 60

Once upon a time there was a dark. That was its name, too, Dark. Dark was an unusual creature and it had this peculiar ability to assume the shape of people, places and things he occupied. That meant that it could be as slim as a cylinder, as tiny as an eye of a needle, as enormous as a city or as elongated as a train. It lived only at night and it would die each day. And it was reborn every night: as many nights there were in this world, so many lives did Dark have. Man was always afraid of it. And he fought against it since the beginning of time: with fire, with light-bulbs, with loud music, by means of ingesting chemical substances. And Dark was never afraid of anyone, except Dawn, and Moonlight sometimes. Confidently and courageously, it entered villages and cities, kitchens and bedrooms. And each arrival was accompanied with sounds, which were sometimes reduced to nothing but silent steps or the monotonous humming of a night bus, and sometimes they flowed in the rhythms of midnight parties. Dark has been entering my room, too, confidently and courageously. It assumes the shape of the overstuffed closet, of an open book, of a shirt hanging on the door knob, and it always comes in accompanied with Silence. Dark and Silence together are able to create such eeriness and fear that I, too, wanted to fight at first: with fire, with light-bulbs, with loud music, by means of ingesting chemical substances. Especially in those moments when Moonlight was absent, and Dawn was still far away. One night, instead of letting myself be gripped with fear, I decided to embrace Dark. And to let it assume my shape. And we made peace, so now we exist together, Dark, Silence and Me. From now on, I too have this peculiar ability to assume the shape of people, places and things I occupy. That means I can be as slim as a cylinder, as tiny as an eye of a needle, as enormous as a city or as elongated as a train. And each night, I am reborn: as many nights there are in this world, so many lives I have. 61

CAMOUFLAGE (Tribute to RenĂŠ Magritte)

photo: Tanja Kanazir

intervention in the former Hartera Factory, Spajalica, Rijeka, 2016

Pejac 62

Nocturnal Vanity

Anamarija Batista 66

The Night, a chapter in the book Little Urbanism (1958) by Bogdan Bogdanović, begins with a mention of Gérard de Nerval’s October Nights. The excerpt that Bogdanović speaks of is based on the writer’s personal experience of Paris at night. Waiting for the post wagon to take him to the other side of Paris, the narrator wanders around the city’s periphery, from café to café, discovering a small world, completely unknown to him, and exploring its subterranean landscapes. Proceeding from de Nerval’s projection of night, Bogdanović believes that cities should truly be seen and envisaged in two projections – one in daylight, and the other at night, because at night man not only sees better, but he also tends to enhance and expand the picture, unleashing his own imagination. He comes to the conclusion that man’s experience of a city is much deeper, more permanent and more subjective in this other, night (…), projection. Not only does the night enhance and expand the picture, but it also makes all the daily sounds disappear. The bustle of everydayness goes into off mode, it withdraws from the city streets, it becomes just a story which is discussed and communicated. We can find glimpses of its reflection on bar tables, in vine glasses, in night clubs and in evening gatherings. Daily life evaporates, and the shadows of its presence reveal a certain mysteriousness. At night, we talk with our friends, lovers, strangers, about things that make us happy, or things that make us sad. Night is the time of silent conversations. Above all, night offers a possibility of breaking away, a chance of dissociation from the structures in which we are enmeshed during the day. It cuts off the sounds of requests whose basic purpose is functionality and efficiency. Nocturnal projection allows a different perception of the environment, but it also gives way to a form of reenactment of our experiences. Night makes us closer to the subconscious and the unexpected. 67

I would like to reflect on the ideas of Milo Rau, the Swiss theater director, about stage as the place of performance and reinterpretation. Rau believes that events and conditions taking place in a theater play contain a form of presence – the presence of an absence. He says that reality is created through people’s memory, which comes from consciousness, and through the media. There is no such thing as the historical truth, there is only the truth that is mediated, conveyed, lived (Rau and Ebeling, Es gibt keine historische Wahrheit; Kulturaustausch, 2016). This director takes social and political events from the near past and puts them on stage, and the central method he uses in the process is the method of reenactment. An event is replayed on stage, but with other participants and with a time distance from the real historical event. The repeating of the event, which is preceded by the director’s thorough and detailed research, enables the viewer to meet with this event, as well as with its flow and its emotional charge. Therefore, the reenacted event becomes part of the viewers’ reality, part of their personal experience and reflection, but also part of their memory. The question is: what is the relationship of reenactment, as the moment in which we create reality from our memory, and night? Isn’t reenactment a nocturnal feature, a process that repeats itself every night? Of course, reenactment is not exclusively associated with night, but what we may ask ourselves is this: is the moment of reenactment used more frequently at night and does it contain different intensities then? As already mentioned, we often begin our nights by conversing with other people. But that is not all. At night, we also “converse” with ourselves. We stay alone with ourselves and our memories precisely in those moments when we are falling asleep, when our bodies are idle and our consciousness pours into the state of the subconscious. Night and the city come to us, entering 68

through our windows, doors, walls, entwining with the whispers of memories. We listen to the sounds of night and to the sounds of our thoughts. It is the time when stored memories are revisited, re-explored and re-entwined, forming new interpretations and narratives. Even though social realities, determined by production flows, educational and political systems, as well as technological achievements, affect not just our everydayness but also our lives at night, we may say that nocturnal projection, which encompasses many forms of darkness and silence, creates larger space for fiction and deconstruction. I would like to mention my encounter with Vienna, on a Wednesday, at three in the morning. At that hour, Vienna is almost vacant, with only few passersby and scarcely any cars. In the glow of street lamps, this city assumes a different appearance. In the streets framed by historical facades, wide window panes and varied treetops, the body feels its rhythm, the delirium of the late hour. What happens here is precisely the reenactment, which arises from the moment of comparison. The changed atmosphere of the night surprises us and the lack of hustle and bustle encourages us to explore the experience. Among else, we compare, we invoke the memory of the daily rhythms, we perform the reenactment of everything have seen and experienced. It seems like we entered an architectural structure that needs to be explored. And in this process, comparison seems as an essential method. It allows us to understand the relativity of urban space, its artificiality, the endless range of its variations. And while we are thinking about this, we see a stranger coming our way. We are preoccupied by this encounter. We wonder what the stranger is doing here at this time of night; we listen to the sound of his or her footsteps. And then our gaze suddenly moves onto a window, from where we can hear the sounds of music, the voices of 69

a celebration. What it would be like to join them? Or will we follow the stranger instead, and together with him or her, to listen to the sounds of the night? Bernard Tschumi, architect and educator, suggests that contrary to the modernist thinking about architecture as an affirmation of certainty in a standardized utopia, architecture should be seen as the combination of space, action and movement (Tschumi, Six Concepts, excerpt from Architecture and Disjunction, 1994). Tschumi connects an event with the state of shock, as Walter Benjamin does with images. However, in order for the shock to be effective in our culture, the mediated culture of images, it has to combine the shock of action with the shock of image. In a way, the experience of nocturnal atmosphere in Vienna can truly be defined as a state of shock, as a surprise, as a scene in a theater play that is just about to begin and whose script already takes place in our minds. Such experience of night is not characteristic just of city night walks, but also of bedrooms. Lying in bed, we drift into other worlds, parallel to ours. We listen to the sounds of the city, of a neighbor walking in her bedroom, of wooden floors that creak under her footsteps, the flow of water in the pipes. We are immersed in a book, or in film, series or Facebook writings... And in that moment when we turn off the lights, our thoughts start flooding the space; we explore our wishes, we think about the encounters of tomorrow. We listen to our bedroom, this labyrinth of diverse sounds. Sound images of a bedroom, as well as its physical appearance, is the result of interior design and urban planning. Therefore, the sounds of the city reach every bedroom, whose design, but also the ways of using, changed over time. I would like to mention the example of the Bosnian oriental house, 70

where bedrooms served as living rooms during the day. During daytime, these bedrooms were the places for talking, socializing, eating. However, at night they would transform into places for sleeping. On the ottoman or under it, one would put a mattress, which, wrapped in sheet, waited for its sleeper. Daily footsteps would subside and the room would be filled with night air and the smells of the street. The transformation of the space actually served as a ritual before going to bed. The resulting atmosphere, which existed only at nights, was part of the subconscious, of the movement of bodies and nocturnal shadows (Grabijan and Neidhardt, Architecture of Bosnia and the Way of Modernity, 1957). In the period of industrialization, people started moving from rural to urban areas, which resulted in a shortage of living space in cities and beds were used incessantly. When members of a family weren’t sleeping in their beds, they would rent them for few hours, enough for a man to get some rest. After that, these “sleepers” had to return to the street or to the insides of factories. In addition, industrialization led to the situation in which many people ceased to be the owners of houses and flats. So they were forced to rent not just rooms, but also beds, as sleeping surfaces. Bedroom of a modern post-war city was located in a multi-storey building or a skyscraper. Such bedroom offered a distance from factory gases, a clean bedding and peace. Bedrooms were much alike, and they served people’s needs for rest. Technological and economic growth, as well as development of education system, sought social equality, which was accompanied by individual freedom. Spaces and serially produced furniture were accessible to everyone, and they were envisaged as the guides to a healthy sleep, as something that allows us to forget the daily worries. 71

Todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bedrooms, and here I particularly refer to Rijeka, are often witnesses of past times. For instance, there are bedrooms with high ceilings, dating from the end of the 19th century. These are hard to warm up, especially if they use the expensive central heating services, so it is necessary to start putting money aside as early as in the summer. Yet, regardless of these daytime concerns, the bedroom remains the place of weightlessness, the moment of repose. This is the place where we re-examine ourselves and our relationship with reality, which we pour in and out, inject into mosaics of our subconsciousness. In the current moment of political polarizations, wars, economic colonizations, many people do not sleep in their bedrooms. Either they are on the road, or in refugee shelters, or they simply do not have money for a room. During my visit to Rijeka, I talked to a man selling UliÄ?ni fenjer, the magazine about the homeless, who told me about the discomfort of sleeping in parks or the bus station throughout September and October. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cold, the body suffers in such conditions. My legs are swollen. Doctors say I need to lie down and have a rest. But where? I also think about refugees in Syria, Afghanistan, Libya and other countries. Tents erected in parks, occupied benches, temporary accommodations... Moments that lack bedrooms as the space for contemplation. The improvised settings perhaps offer few moments of break, but the situation is hard. Polarized political climate, full of prejudice and anger, conveys the message that the passenger-sleeper is an unwelcomed guest, the one who disturbs the sleep of a righteous citizen and taxpayer.

Institutions Need To Be Constructed

photo: Tanja Kanazir

performance at former factory Rikard BenÄ?iÄ&#x2021;, 2015

BADco. 74

Institutions Need To Be Constructed is a hybrid of live performance, film set and a temporary occupation of the spaces of abandoned factories or unfinished public buildings. It gathers artists, activists and advocates of new institutional cultural models, potential users, film extras and viewers, in a one-day event structured as 8 hours of work, 8 hours of education and 8 hours of sleep – it is a 24-hour camping with public performances, lectures, discussions and the making of a film. We are interested in the problem of infrastructure in the time of the crisis, the models of organization and management of institutions, as well as responsibility and openness of the existing institutions. We would like, from the viewpoint of art, to analyze and critically reflect on the situation in which institutions are weakened by austerity measures, in which the responsibility for the endangered cultural sector is drastically reduced and in which the institutions themselves have experienced a shift of focus from the field of production to the field of presentation. Therefore, our aim is to open up a discussion about the needs and material requirements regarding infrastructure, about the specificities of local conditions, new models of connecting social and cultural activities, participatory decision-making and, finally, about potential spaces for the institutionalization of contemporary practices.

Co-production: Drugo more Rijeka, Kava-film production. The project was part of the 15th International Architecture Exhibition / la Biennale di Venezia, 2016, together we the work titled We Need It – We Do It, which focuses on the content reconstruction of three buildings, POGON Jedinstvo in Zagreb, H-building of Rikard Benčić complex as the future Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Rijeka and the Youth Centre in Split. 75

The Blue Rider

courtesy of Tomislav Gotovac Institute, Zora & Sarah Gotovac, Darko Šimičić

text by Tomislav Gotovac published in the magazine Film No. 10-11, Zagreb, 1978

Tomislav Gotovac 78

THE BLUE RIDER (GODARD-ART) 1964 (16 mm, black and white, 24 fr/sec, 14 min) Script, directing, editing, sound selection: Tomislav Gotovac Camera: Petar Blagojević-Arandjelović Producer: Petar Blagojević-Arandjelović and Tomislav Gotovac Production: Akademski kino-klub, Belgrade The Blue Rider was filmed by Petar Blagojević-Arandjelović, with hand-held shooting technique, using normal and wide angle lens. The film is full of pans, tracking shots and static scenes. Scenes: the focus of attention in each shot are people’s faces, people’s figures, static or in motion, on a Saturday evening in the city’s bars and pubs. We entered the spaces, holding the camera with high-sensitivity film (3x). Petar was filming the people who looked interesting to him; he used panning shots to follow a person around the space; from time to time, I would pull at his sleeve to show him an interesting scene, or I guided him along, after which he would continue to look for motives himself. People were eating, drinking, smoking, talking, walking around, standing, etc. Some did not notice us at all, while some got excited, some “acted” and “posed” for the camera. Sound: Edited soundtrack of an episode of Bonanza. Film is dedicated to Jean-Luc Godard, Art Blakey and his record The African Beat and the group of painters Der Blaue Reiter. The film is the second part of the trilogy STRAIGHT LINE, BLUE RIDER, CIRCLE. 79

RIJEKA:

translation, proofreading

Silent Collocutors

Lidija Toman

location

graphic design

Rikard Benčić, October, 2016

Marino Krstačić-Furić & Ana Tomić

workshop leaders Brandon LaBelle & Anamarija Batista

printing Kerschoffset, Zagreb

workshop participants Antonia Dika, Kora Girin, Nika Krajnović,

print run

Sarah Lauß, Nadija Mustapić,

300

Ksenija Orelj, Nika Rukavina, Nataša Šuković, Lidija Toman,

catalogue no.

Romina Tominić

358

contributions

supported by

BADco., Bojan Đorđev, Igor Eškinja,

Ministry of Culture of

Tomislav Gotovac, Pejac

Republic of Croatia Austrian Cultural Forum

publisher Museum of Modern and

The residency of Brandon LaBelle and

Contemporary Art, Rijeka

Anamarija Batista was organized by the MMSU, within the framework of

for the publisher

the Kamov Residency Programme.

CIP zapis dostupan u računalnom

Ksenija Orelj

katalogu Sveučilišne knjižnice Rijeka pod brojem 131105051.

program coordination Ksenija Orelj Nataša Šuković documentation Diana Zrilić public relations Ivo Matulić

ISBN 978-953-8107-08-5

Moon, Love and Drunkards | graphic portfolio, leaf no. 2 lithograph, paper, 343 x 490 mm, 1957, MMSU-707

Željko Hegedušić

litografija, papir, 343 x 490 mm, 1957., MMSU-707 Mjesec, ljubav i pijanci |

drugi list iz grafičke mape

Dream | chalk, paper, 750 x 1100 mm, 1984

Petar Omčikus

MMSU-1440

MMSU-1440 San | kreda, papir, 750 x 1100 mm, 1984.

tihi sugovornici