Collective Dreaming at the Centre for Contemporary Arts, Glasgow by Nastia Svarevska
A few years ago, when studying postcolonial theory and reading sociologist and cultural studies scholar Paul Gilroy, I asked my professor if we could apply 'postcolonial melancholy' – the phenomenon Gilroy described in a book with the corresponding name – to the former Soviet states. "That is a good question," he said.
Although I did not hear the answer then and am yet to find it myself (without denying the possibility that there is none), the coloniality in the post-Soviet space has been present in my conversations for the past few years, both before the Russian invasion of Ukraine and even more so with its current – and endless – manifestations. In particular, it has been the gaps in the colonial discourse and representation that the post-Soviet world (including the Baltic States, trans-Caucasian region, and Central Asia) has suffered in the West, the struggles in reclaiming its identity and narrative described so comprehensively by Madina Tlostanova in What Does It Mean to Be Post-Soviet?: Decolonial Art from the Ruins of the Soviet Empire.
These gaps have also been the driving force behind Collective Dreaming, the three-part screening and research programme at the Centre for Contemporary Arts in Glasgow that brought together Scottish, Ukrainian and Lithuanian moving images and ideas to explore and emphasise this fight for collective liberation; both now and throughout history.
Visual design by Urtė Račiūnaitė / @raciunaitee
According to the curators of the programme, Julija Šilytė and Milda Valiulytė, both from Lithuania but currently based in Scotland, the overall programme was “conceived in response to the ongoing war in Ukraine ... to question colonial, capitalist, and patriarchal systems of power to make sense of our current reality – a reality that we share, yet all experience from different perspectives.” In our conversation, they referred to the overwhelming urge to respond to the invasion, especially considering the ensuing feeling of dissociation from the immediate environment in which so many of us who come from the countries affected by Russian imperialism residing in the West found ourselves, including me.
Further projecting, to use a metaphor, the power of art, Šilytė and Valiulytė claimed it as “a method to open ourselves up to new possibilities of thinking, relating and collaborating,” the potential that found its full expression in the third screening titled ‘The ties that bind’ that I lived through and with. The first two being ‘Elucidate the wit, sanctify the spirit, clarify the intention’ and ‘The smoke of burned witches still hangs in our nostrils’, magic and ritual as the key themes explored in the programme.
First, as I am currently weaving my understanding of the meaning of threads as connections – and tying myself in knots in the process – the screening resonated on a deep level. Secondly, it was also built on the foundation of the questions I ask myself weekly, if not daily: What does belonging mean? What are the ties that bind us together? And what does it take for us to form or lose them?
The six films in the screening, for better more than for worse, did not provide definitive answers to these questions. Instead, they invited contemplation and introspection, encouraging viewers to question their own understanding of identity and belonging by taking them on a visceral journey through what felt like a musical composition that read without the knowledge of musical notation; according to the curators, “they all dealt with contemporary and historical environments that shape our lives,” and that condition is not limited to the post-Soviet space; we are all products of our environment.
The Bearers of Memory, film still, 2020, image courtesy of the artist, Miglė Križinauskaitė-Bernotienė
Halo Nevus, video still, 2018, image courtesy of the artist, Tako Taal,
The two opening films, The Bearers of Memory (Miglė Križinauskaitė-Bernotienė, 2020) and Halo Nevus (Tako Taal, 2018), immediately set the scene by exploring matrilineal ties through the body (including its politics) and gently tuned me to the shifting nature of our roots, or routes, the term used by Gilroy that I often refer to when speaking about identity, asking me to question how we are bound to them and how our memory preserves them.
The films reminded me that “the human body is the first and the most immediate cultural location of water," as to Margaret Somerville, Professor of Bioethics at the University of Notre Dame Australia; we are, first and foremost, bodies of water, not only because it sustains us but also because it connects us to other bodies, human and more-than-human. That understanding contradicts the Western idea of embodiment, according to writer and cultural theorist Astrida Neimanis, yet, in and beyond the context of this screening, we are here to challenge the dominant perspectives, not to reinforce them.
The concept of belonging, like everything else, is thus a fluid one. Sometimes, we can choose who and what to belong to. Other times, we do not have the privilege of a choice.
kitchen.blend, video still, 2021, image courtesy of the artist, Nataliya Ilchuk
Roots, film still, 2021, image courtesy of the artist, Jonas Juškaitis
The following two films, kitchen.blend (Nataliya Ilchuk, 2021) and Roots (Jonas Juškaitis, 2021) took me through the experience of navigating the Soviet world, almost bringing me back to my childhood as a post-Soviet subject. They were too familiar and, at the expense of repeating myself, hit close to home - home and its definitions being the main point of reference for Ilchuk when she quotes Gaston Bachelard in Poetics of Space: "The memories of the outside world will never have the same tone as the memories of home," which, for all of us, can take on a variety of meanings.
These geographies are thus both real and imaginative, borrowing the term by Edward Said, one of the founders of the academic field of postcolonial studies; in other words, they are endowed with a range of cultural meanings that we understand but often forget about until we need them to process our feelings; like that one chocolate bar that Ilchuk so decisively attempts to recreate when reconstructing a 3D version of her grandparents' kitchen. Through this act, she finds belonging in a private space, unlike the main character in the film by Juškaitis, who struggles to hold onto it in the outside world that is a product of the Soviet project.
Again, sometimes, we are bound to certain ties that we wish to keep, protect, and reconstruct over and over, while other times, we want to cut them like hopelessly entangled hair.
A love, film still, 2021, image courtesy of the artist, Anne-Marie Copestake
Dear Friend, video still, 2019, image courtesy of the artist, Agnė Jokšė
The final films, A Love (Anne-Marie Copestake, 2019) and Dear Friend (Agnė Jokšė, 2019), wrapped the below statement like a well-packaged gift that, upon opening, completely took over the space. Dear Friend, in particular, seemed to be everything I ever wanted in a film about identity and belonging, and it could not have been a better ending to the screening, reiterating and re-emphasising how the ties we hold onto can be strengthened or weakened by forces outside of our control.
Choreographed almost as a dance, it tells a story of a broken friendship through the author reading aloud the letter written to a long-lost friend from the past, not just as a confession but also as a protest against the cultural and social norms that devalue platonic love; in the context of this film, between queer women. I felt every word in every fibre of my skin; on an intellectual and physical level. The language, the voice, the choreography, the storytelling, and the narrative turned me inside out, and there I was, not thinking anymore but being; my fluid self that has never found belonging in a place but did so in people, the people who, guided by requirements of the outside world, cut the ties.
Because sometimes, it does not take much for us to do so.
Pulling myself back together and stepping out into the streets of Glasgow, I thought about how our experiences, though unique, are interconnected through the threads of history, memory, and shared humanity. I also felt grateful, first, to art and its power to transcend borders, dismantle oppressive systems, and ignite conversations that shape our collective understanding of the world, and then to the screening that served as a reminder that the fight for liberation and self-determination is ongoing. In a society often dominated by divisive rhetoric and disconnection, the ties that bind us can be easily lost. What we need to do, then, is to nurture them, both through collective dreaming and collective action. And how we do it is, indeed, another good question.