Dea ex machina — Annabelle Schatteman

is fire proofed. One more miracle accomplished. She survived the first biscuit firing in the kiln and so I hereby baptise her the the precursor of my new project. I cannot reveal anything yet about the new project because I have nothing to say yet, only vague visions. The only thing I know is that the seed is planted and I have to do the subterreanean work of gestation of the idea. The subterranea is a dark era and myterious period that requires the right circumstances for the seed to develop. Little thinking, a lot of playing, curiosity, freedom to fail and trust in that all is as it needs to be at that moment. And….most importantly: the alertness to prevent my inner critic from driving my car. He, yes it is definitely a he and he looks like an old art man who for decades was in charge of the telling the world what real art looks like and that mine is not real art but sentimental women’s expressions. This old guy can sit in the back of my car and assist me if I am really taking the very wrong route, but the last thing he can do is drive my car.

This old man was once a real and alive man, alias the art pope, alias monsieur chapeau. Here is the story of me and mr chapeau. More than 10 years ago I was tipped that this hat man was organising an exhibition about the sea in Oostende. I thought, well, I made this beautiful work ‘paradise of surrender’, a work where I made sculptures out of clay that I placed in the sea for one tide to see what the sea (a lot of sees here) would do with these fragile bodies. It was an immense project and it turned out beautifully and I was kind of naively proud of it (isn’t pride always). So I mustered up all my courage and went to a lecture where he spoke about his new plans in Oostende. I had sent him, weeks before, a very well documented mail with my application for the exhibition. No reply of course. So after the lecture I stepped up to him and asked him if he received my mail and what he thought of the work. The first thing he said was: you are of course a beautiful woman but your work is sentimental. Your feelings are still too much in the work. I don’t know exactly what I said any more (I was too puzzled by what my looks had to do with my work) but I do know that I did not agree with what he said and that I defended my work as if my life depended on it ( also naive I guess). He said I should look at Louise Bourgeois and how she made statements and he quoted her: ‘‘the only thing a man is good for is fucking’’ And he thought that was fantastic. She dares to be bold he said. I told him that I don’t think all her work is good (just for the sake of not agreeing with him) and he screamed at me (he was known for his screaming) ‘‘everything she made is good’’ and the more I said ‘‘no’’ the angrier he became and told me I had to read more. I stayed with my standpoint and kept my ‘I can deal with it’ face but once home I broke out in tears of course and had to throw away my woolen sweater that I was wearing because it was drenched in a deep fear sweat. I felt so rejected and so brave and while writing I still feel the deep shame of failing and the pain of his rejection. My reckoning with Louise Bourgeois and her work came ten years later when I researched her work in relationship with her analysis. I still think not ‘‘all’’ of her work is good (but to be fair almost all is good) but I really admire her for not and never giving up on her inner drive to create and to work on herself through her art.

My reckoning with mr chapeau came a couple of years later. He, unfortunately for himself, the people who loved him and the exhibition he wanted to organise, died shortly after our meeting and this, surprisingly, saddened me because I felt connected to him (through fear and rejection, but nonetheless connnected) and because I truly admired him for everything he had done for art. He was a great man and got a spot at campo santo burial grounds next to the chapel where I held my solo exhibition ‘heading for the purple planet’ in 2017. It was a beautiful month of June and on a ‘dead’ moment, in between a handful of visitors, I sat next to his grave and asked him what he thought about my work now and if he agreed that I had progressed with my work. And if he still thought it was sentimental. I never got an answer but I felt his blessing and the blessing of all the people burried there. And the blessing was not for the quality of my art, it was for the sheer persistence of not giving up on creation, for daring to be vulnerable, for the audacity to express how I experience life through art as long as I am in it.

And as this detour is coming to an end I come back to my Dea ex machina who, originally commissioned by someone (read man) who wanted to scan, copy and reproduce her without using my name, became my solemn vow to myself to never ever again let oldornotold men who understand nothing about women besides the fact that ‘they are for fucking', drive my art or any other car! Never ever again.

So this and other dark materials are gestating in the depths of my creative soil. I trust the harvest will be imperfect and ravishing!