Wednesday, March 08, 2006

On the train to Paris, Part 2

This is the 4th time I have prepared myself to go to Amman, Jordan to meet with victims of torture at the hands of Americans from the prisons in Iraq.  The first two times, in December and in January, the trip was cancelled so far in advance, that departure never became an imminent reality, and I never felt the gathering anxiety followed by calm that proceeds a trip with so many unknowns.  The last time I was ready to go, just ten days ago, the anxiety I felt swelled as the date of departure approached, and, as I was traveling a few days prior to the rest of the team from the U.S., I was particularly aware of my leap into the void.  My nerves were such that I spent several sleepless nights worrying, concerned both about travel arrangements – the small minute ones that can focus my foreboding (how would I find a taxi to take me to the hotel when I arrive, and so on), and traveling alone (how will I feel traveling in a bus filled with only Arab speaking passengers), until at some point on two separate nights I got out of bed and crossed my darkened flat in Pont Aven to make a warm mug of milk into which I stirred confiture de groseille.

Then, only a day or two before I was to leave for Paris, a gate in my mind opened, and I was no longer nervous.  Rather I was energized, excited by the possibilities of travel, of new experiences, of meeting people with other experiences, who, like me, are coming to this meeting with high hopes that the exchange will help move their lives forward, bring a kind of meaning to their experiences that they cannot find elsewhere.  I was elated and looking forward to going. 

The trip was cancelled with an email whose subject line read “Urgent Message: Don’t get on a plane to Jordan,” or something to that extent, and whose message was the cancellation of the trip due to violence in Iraq.  The ratcheting up of sectarian violence, (why insist on the distinction between one kind of violence and another?),  --  the roaming of gangs intent on murder and bloodshed in Iraqi cities seeking vengeance after the tragic bombing of a holy mosque -- made it impossible for the law firms’ clients (such an odd word to describe the victims of torture) to leave their homes and travel to Jordan to meet us.  But the peace that had arrived in my own head remained, and as I prepared this week yet again to partake in this extraordinary opportunity, I thought more clearly about my own role, what I wanted concretely as a witness, as an artist, and (dare I say it?) as a tourist from this trip.  I had been planning to spend a day or two in Petra, which I am sure is worth a trip, in fact, I am pretty sure at this point that a visit to Petra is probably one of the more spectacular places one can go.  However, it became very clear to me this week, that my trip, my visit to Jordan, my meeting with the “former victims of torture at Abu Ghraib and elsewhere,” was really reason enough, more than reason enough for the trip, and, if I am to be responsible to the Gods of fortune and art that have arranged this opportunity for me, I will concentrate fully on the meeting, and what I, awkward draftsman, insecure artist and spoiled and cosseted American that I am, can make out of it. 

I am bringing with me 8 copper plates and a brand new diamond point stylus to do 8-16 dry point portraits of the visiting Iraqis, if they will let me.  I am also bringing 10 pieces of 18” x 24” 100% cotton rag printing paper, which I have folded into 18” x 12” book pages.  With water colors, colored pencils and pencils, I plan on using these pages also to record the faces of the Iraqis, as well as the faces of the American law team and the team of facilitators, translators and witnesses that comprise the whole expedition.  I have no idea what will become of either of these two projects, if anything at all.  But at least now, as this train races at 300km/hr somewhere between Rennes and Paris, I know what I am going for, what I would like to accomplish, what my specific goals are.  I am not going to tour Petra, or at least that is not why I am going.  I am going to listen to some tales that will be unbelievably hard to hear, and try to make something of them that is worth my privileged position as a witness.

A note about Pont Aven and what is happening at the Pont Aven School of Contemporary Art.

This program is such a  wonderful one for the students.  There are twelve of them, mostly American, with one student each from India, Montenegro and France.  States-side, they come from New York, Indiana, Oregon, Utah, Maine, Georgia and Texas, as broad a geographic range as possible really.  To ensure that these 12 students (ages 20-63ish) are artistically challenged and personally happy there are 5 faculty members: three US artists (sculptor, painter/printmaker, illustrator) with a rich diversity of teaching and professional experiences; one US trained art historian whose life long passion for Pont Aven and the work of Gauguin is nothing if not impressive; and one French language instructor who is also responsible for student affairs and organizing the two foreign trips we take as a group. Add to this two young artists, one American and one French who run the physical plant, a French administrator whose no nonsense efficiency is a model of good administration, and a French secretary who brings a note of warmth to the school’s office.  The team is really wonderful, and I feel supported in my teaching work and personal goals.  Most of the students get it most of the time.  They work hard, more or less depending on their own personal styles, and at this point have created some interesting work, and some work that is totally par for the course for their age and experience.

-Daniel