Artist Jūratė Stauskaitė talks to Azartget

SHORT VERSION

Antanas, how do you feel about the world now?

Once, I saw someone painting with water on the pavement tiles using impressively long brushes. Over time, the water evaporates, and the artwork disappears. Only the meaning remains if we know how to read it.

LONG VERSION

Antanas, I still remember you, even though we have not met for many years. I am visiting you in your beautiful, stylish home that you built with your hands and have set up a wonderful studio. I remember you as a sixteen-year-old. You came from the academic art school, seemingly frustrated with the world and its injustices, misunderstood, and so on. You said you saw a poster and decided to stop by. Since then, you have remained etched in my memory as an original, an oddball, and a stubborn individual. Before our meeting, I visited your "Meadow Flour" exhibition at the Jonas Mekas Visual Arts Center in Vilnius and ensured that you haven't changed. So, how do you feel about the world now?

Soon, I will be turning 46 and hope to finally become a fully-fledged and "useful" member of society. Comparing myself to my peers, I realize that I am starting to truly live only now, periodically restructuring everything and starting from scratch. People at this age often begin to settle into a comfortable routine, engaging in activities that don't pose significant challenges and creating an environment that doesn't bring about problems. My life trajectory has taken the opposite direction. After completing my studies at the Vilnius Academy of Arts, I delved into construction. It was simply necessary for me. I needed a space to focus and create. I spent a long time building my home. Of course, at the same time, I was making art, teaching and learning new things, and exploring truly fascinating specialties. Now, the results of those explorations are gradually becoming clear. It feels like I am starting to live anew.

It could be maturity. A person of your age should already feel "established." But it seems that you were already "there" at the age of sixteen because the school projects in the art studio already looked postmodern. Still, you couldn't have "borrowed" them from anywhere! I'm referring to 1991-1993 when our (Lithuanian) modernists had yet to emerge from the shadows. How did these visions come about?

There were no references or "guiding lights" at that time. Everything unfolded intuitively and empirically. I was drawn to natural structures and spent much time learning in forests, meadows, and fields. Even now, the moss in pine forests and untouched meadows remain mysterious worlds to me. It may sound funny, but currently, dark matter is relevant to me. What is it made of? What constitutes that nothingness that is much more than everything we strive for? A specific sense of materiality is characteristic of our culture. The materials I use are more diverse and contemporary, and I use them for different purposes. I discovered this in the Art Studio, but after a long journey, I returned to the same thing, only from a different perspective. It's like seeing the same thing but with different eyes. As for maturity, it's not a comfortable personal issue for me—I still don't feel like a grown-up, and I'm not eager to become one. I enjoy doubting, taking risks, not knowing anything, shaking things up, and shaping my destiny as I go. More vibrant colors and fresh air are on the back roads than on the highways.

You say you don't want to grow up. An artist remains a creator as long as they feel like a child. But then, what is the purpose of studies, exploration, and life experience? Is it enough to be born with specific talents? Well, like a self-taught folk master.

I still remember your words that after ten years of finishing the Art Institute, you strived to become yourself. That period is different for everyone. At first, you want to discover many things, learn to draw, paint, and deal with academic tasks. Now, I am learning to think. I studied in your Art Studio for six years. It was my first and most crucial academy. Then came Vilnius Art Academy, studies abroad, an informal "university" with one rector and one student - me.

I was always bothered by visualizing, creating, or constructing secondary, derivative reality based on the primary one. I wanted to get rid of this stage of transformation and move towards pure expression. Over time, I no longer distinguished artworks from everyday or environmental objects. There was only a lack of certainty, nakedness, and facing reality with what was evident but not created. This mental transformation took a long time until I realized that the idea exists independently, and I am just helping it unfold.

In other words, you didn't attempt to patent ideas? 

No, although a few public relations agencies showed interest in a mobile phone filled with rice, I posted on my Instagram account. "Ris(c)ing Connections" illustrates my concept quite well – ideas spread and propagate independently.

Are you saying that we keep going and coming back to the beginning? 

Repeating oneself is very convenient. Even the artistic and social environment encourages it. We know very well that galleries are not interested in drastic changes by artists. But I can't change anything within myself - not trying differently is a crime.

What is this attempt to do things differently? 

It's an entirely unknown path where you cannot see what you will discover. It requires sacrificing not a day or two, not a year or two... Eternity.

To sacrifice or enjoy? Ok, I remember one of your early school "tricks" - we had to bring a "real" tree that we drew to the studio. We improvised, searching for its essence, the arrangement of branches, structure, mood, and so on. We learned to abstract to feel the form. We gathered and started drawing. Suddenly, the door opened, and (of course, late) Antanas entered with a bag from which some piece or branch of a tree stuck out. Where is your tree? I ask. You pour out sand, trash, leaves, and broken branches on the floor and say: here are the banks of the river Vilnelė, can't you see? Great, I said. You brought an idea. Now, we'll all draw the banks of the Vilnelė, the ones we know, remember, and feel. Was it just a provocation or something more?

I don't intentionally provoke. It just happens naturally. The banks of the Vilnelė... Ecology wasn't a pressing issue after the 1990s, but something was already bothering me... I would say it was a need for truth, for authenticity. It's a visual language of the street, of life. That period was particular - after the suffocating Soviet era, we breathed in freedom for the first time. And we didn't know what to do with it. Whatever we found, we found.

That air of freedom! It inspired me the courage to establish the first private Children and Youth Art School. But I want to go back to another "trick." You, Laurynas Šeškas, and Evaldas Dirgėla came up with the "Bones" performance. In a way, you even surpassed time. After all, the famous Marina Abramovič started performing bone-related art 20 years later.

I remember a summer academy called "Wind" at that time. After this plein air event, I created the "War of Birds," a three-part mural in Vilnius Teachers' House. We discussed how to develop this theme further. The idea arose to create an installation at the entrance of the Teachers' House. We were involved in the Vilnius Art Days and obtained their permission. The organizers were delighted that we didn't ask for funding. We introduced ourselves as the creative group "Art Workers." We brainstormed the idea together in the dormitory at Evaldas' place. Laurynas Šeškus was already more inclined towards organizational work, production, curating, and writing articles about exhibitions... He was more cautious. We intended to pour those bones in Moniuška Square, next to the Church of St. Catherine, in front of the Teachers' House. Laurynas was naturally afraid. Evaldas, on the other hand, was more of an art theorist and critic. He couldn't be called an art historian. He was a versatile, unique artist with a different kind of experience. As for me, I had a different perspective. So, all our discussions encompassed the reflections and symbols of that period, which were to be crowned by a mountain of bones. But we didn't know if it could be implemented. Vilnius Meat Processing Plant lent us a truck with bones, asking us to return them later.

What does it mean that they lent it? Did you go to the meat processing plant and say: we want to borrow bones that we will pour in Moniuškos Square, near St. Kotryna's Church?

I remember there was a terrible smell even in the director's office. Strangely enough, the butchers understood our request and kindly lent us the bones. We covered the entire Moniuškos Square with black plastic. It was indeed an action. We consciously avoided using the performance because it felt artificial and staged. Benediktas Januševičius, now one of the most prominent figures in Lithuanian postmodernist poetry, recited poems. We agreed with him to read them just like all poets usually do. They have a borrowed television from the Vilnius Teachers' House nearby, broadcasting a popular Mexican TV series. We hadn't predetermined where to place the TV, which side it would face, or what it would show. The main thing was the live broadcast. This action was not rehearsed. The fundamental idea was to avoid any imitation. Everything had to be as authentic as what was happening around us. We wore black raincoats with "Art Workers" written on the back. Moniuškos' compositions were playing, and Benas recited poems. Some passersby looked at us, others at the TV turned on its side, and some just walked by. The collective intention of these events was to make specific actions highlight the place itself. We meant to emphasize the importance of Kotryna's church, Moniuškos' music, and the life happening here and now. The truck with bones was meant to crown and conclude the poetic chain of events. I remember when we poured out those bones, people were shocked. It was unclear what was happening. However, for some reason, applause was heard, and spectators applauded the pile of bones in the city center. After that action, we all felt terrible. I was sick and treated by Laurynas's psychic father while Evaldas walked along Gedimino Avenue the next day and cried. Laurynas also felt out of sorts. We understood that we had touched on something important. That place is specific. The black plastic and the colorful mixture of fresh bones with meat residues are deeply stuck in our minds. I remember a police officer approached us and asked if he could choose some bones for his dog. Others also expressed their interest. They picked and put the bones in transparent plastic bags without any scruples. Such a sight, I think, speaks volumes.

Why was such a drastic, even feral, action necessary?

We wanted to disrupt what was considered normal at that time. We didn't know why it was necessary, but we wandered through the outskirts of artistic language and goals. We had yet to see similar works at that time. Perhaps I am mistaken, but it was a rude, sharp gesture in the Vilnius art scene. And how would we imagine a contemporary Ukrainian artist, especially from the occupied part of Ukraine? Their works would have no shortage of blood, dirt, or ashes. What we created reflected Lithuania's prevailing mood and state of mind. We were torn from within by those experiences and didn't want to lie...

Yes, it was a complicated, heavy, and strange transition from one state to another in time.

Some artists were shaken entirely when they saw Western art and culture. We may have become more daring, feeling free to act and live. I associate the appearance of bones in that square with the beginning of Lithuanian racketeering and the fear that engulfed society. Rumors circulated about brutal dealings with people in business, about extortion... Private initiatives were inseparable from crime. Equally important was that young people made great efforts to break free from the constraints of Soviet rule. We wanted to tear down walls, run, and scream out loud. I remember well how we first sought contradictions and claims to norms in every artwork of that time—it seemed like a necessary condition for artistic expression. We despised obedient, official art and searched for radical harmonies. But as often happens, you speak first and think later. Quite accidentally, the idea arose to grind a meadow into dust after thirty years...

Meadow Flour is the title of your exhibition at the Jonas Mekas Visual Arts Center. You presented meadow flour in a literal sense, just like you did with bones in the past. It is a tangible thing related to nature - meadow flour exists. Tell me about the idea behind that exhibition. Why are meadows, flour, sand, and tapestries painted with meadow colors?

This exhibition is about the image of Lithuania and an artist creating in Lithuania. It reflects on my experiences and insights from my work in China in recent years. Naturally, I felt the urge to look at myself and other creators at home. In short, having experienced the opportunities in China, the power of its market, and the attention given to culture, I realized that Lithuanian culture is wholly suppressed, resulting in a sense of existential sadness and despair. I need help understanding how my colleagues here live and create, what they make from, what it costs, and how they organize exhibitions and implement ideas. Over the past few years, this research revealed Lithuania's DNA and its unique code of the present. The East enchanted me, but observing the lifestyle and sensibility of Easterners, I recognized many things within myself. For example, let's take the postulates of Korean artist Lee Bae from the exhibition announcement (a brief translation):

"Charcoal has special significance in Asian culture. Traditional painting, calligraphy... I grew up in Asia and felt a mysterious connection with charcoal and burnt wood. I no longer use acrylic paints. Charcoal allows me to feel and sustain my cultural background. In that background, accumulating cultural experience, I can grow. I think using charcoal. This material is from nature. It possesses a lot of untapped energy, power, and strength. In my homeland, charcoal is buried under the foundation for protection before building a house. As an artist, I rediscover charcoal in a new context. It is fragile yet powerful and subtle. It makes me feel myself."

Lee Bae talks about the material and culture... I have always hesitated about my path, but when I saw his works, I understood that I had been wandering unnecessarily between various social issues vinegar...

Did you find a kindred soul in cultural solitude? After all, our culture now is so superficial, scattered, and vulnerable...

Yes, artists learn not only from nature but also from their colleagues. Lee Bae beautifully speaks about the importance of charcoal in Eastern culture. Ink and paint are made from it and used for writing, drawing, and painting. Like how we plant rowan trees, charcoal is buried beneath houses for protection. But in modern times, coal has an entirely different meaning when discussing fires, ecology, smog, and unpredictable climate change... I was also surprised by Lee Bae's words that material is the foundation for his growth and improvement, as it is equivalent to the ability to speak one's native language and express one's identity. This resonated with me, and I understand that much has already been done. For example, Joseph Beuys used crucial materials in his life. However, the Korean artist speaks about material as an inheritance, the foundation of identity. This impresses me immensely. And we have a similar heritage, although perhaps it's just my perception. I feel the power and strength of materials...

It seemed like a patriotic statement before you said how you feel about Lithuania. Still, now I understand there is something more substantial, deeper, and more personal here.

Three years ago, I chose some materials for myself, driven by an internal, profound breakthrough. They appeared as if on their own. I wanted to let go of the lingering attention to form and focus on the essence of what I see around me – a formless creation. It is an opportunity for something new to emerge, but already in the viewer's imagination. Astrophysicists behave similarly as they attempt to explain the universe through the tiniest particles, whose existence they determine by detecting only the "shadows" of their influence. Returning to art, those meadow flour, stored (exhibited) in bags, buckets, or boxes, accurately depict the activities of Lithuanian artists – created and stored in drawers. We sow, grow, and pack the un-dried (unexhibited) harvest for long-term maturation. You asked about maturity. We will likely recognize it by how many shelves we have. So, I dried and asked myself, what is a meadow? What is the color green? It is said that Lithuanians are people of groves and forests with their customs, nurturing a unique respect for trees. That is our cultural background. I feel the pulse of this material, and I am not even interested in turning it into, for example, a sculpture that represents something. I am interested in the material itself with its energy. After the exhibition, I saw that the sand, meadow flour, and granules of tree branches were all picked off. Someone wanted to feel the granules, hold them in their hand, and even taste the flour.

Well, those so-called "tapestries" – the canvases that demanded a lot of work and time? It's not just plain ground hay, and you wanted to do something with it? With them, you wanted to accomplish something. And you did – you rubbed the canvas with grass!

Yes, both canvases were rubbed with freshly cut, fragrant grass. I washed one of them afterward to see how Lithuania looks without the green color we love and take pride in. The primary idea and vision were to connect this artwork with Raigardas Valley, with Čiurlionis (the most famous Lithuanian painter). That was rubbing with grass... Of course, the green Lithuania image has already worn out because it is constantly repeated. The question arose: how does our green differ from, let's say, German green? We say that our country is not only green but also innovative. I tried to feel and perceive our Lithuanian green innovatively. Tediously and monotonously, I rubbed the linen canvas with grass in multiple layers. It was a hard, monotonous physical work reminiscent of spinning or weaving. For me, it was associated with the cultural heritage of labor, with the artist's daily life and difficult circumstances (small market, lack of collectors, etc.). I remember well that I felt a hidden meaning while acting. I am convinced that an artwork is not just a result but also a process and the artist's perspective on what he does. I even started to like documenting the creative action in a different visual expression, not through photography or description. In other words, I was more interested in revealing the process than focusing on aesthetic quality. I think I succeeded. The audience appreciated the efforts put into the artwork – when the canvas is rubbed with grass every day until it becomes monotonous and painful. Right next to it hangs the same canvas, but washed in a washing machine with Ariel detergent, thus "getting rid" of its color. It surprised me the most – the scent of the freshly washed canvas, that freshness, that vitality. Finally, I saw the difference and received evidence that our cherished green color was no longer attractive. In contrast, the washed canvas with traces of green exuded a sense of the future, something different...

It could be that the artificial, chemical scent of Ariel deceived you.

We live globally and use the same things, not just Ariel. By the way, I have also experimented with fresh grass, hay, and meadow flour in my food ration - I baked bread and brewed green tea.

Alright, let's step away from the topic of grass for now. The period in your biography related to beekeeping is exciting. I suspect everything is interconnected, but still, for you, is it meditation or an artistic process? 

The acquaintance with bees is a very intriguing and significant stage for me. My father was a beekeeper, so it naturally drew me in. It was also an adrenaline-filled activity, a break from my creative work. Of course, I approached beekeeping not as a farmer but as an artist - designing beehives and creating various beekeeping methodologies. I even imagined myself as a bee, seeing the world through its eyes to make the most suitable hive.

Let's try to make it more concrete. 

For example, in the exhibition 'Meadow Flour,' I exhibited an artwork for which I used handmade wood branch granules. It may seem meaningless and unnecessary since granules are typically produced in factories by compressing sawdust. This idea came to me while I was beekeeping. It's essential to understand the behavior of bees, the distribution of tasks in the hive, who does what, who is responsible for what, and so on. Whether it's beeswax, honey, or simply a successful overwintering, the final result depends on a compromise - the collective work of all. Each bee contributes to that success - they take care of the cleanliness of the hive, gather nectar, and collect pollen... But people often want to do everything suddenly and individually - paint an entire wall or change the world. Beekeeping has shown that you cannot modify the world with one swing motion; accidents happen that way.

Is it a certain calming or realization that we won't change anything and rushing will only cause damage?... 

Yes. Beekeeping provided such understanding, so I made wood branch pellets by hand. After cutting and drying the tree branches, I chop them into equal-length twigs and sand the edges. In this work, the main thing - the goal - became unnecessary. I was interested in reaching the point where I would realize that it's no longer an artwork but just ordinary, mundane actions. The more granules I made, the further I moved away from the thought that it was all nonsense and a waste of time. Over time, the action became a ritual, a way of thinking and meditating. Numerous new ideas emerged from it.

Even though the exhibition has already occurred, the artwork still needs to be finished.

I have previously worked as a website designer, and we tested the products I created online. We could see how everything looks and how it functions. After this experience, the exhibition is not a final result for me but just one stage of perfecting the artwork. When making the granules, numerous thoughts arose, and my perspective on the process changed. In the future, when those granules wear out, or I can no longer handle them, I might only be left with their ashes. I still need to unlock their secret. I got stuck with "why," and moving toward the end of this process, I discovered so many new beginnings.

But let's return to China - what happened there? What did you bring back from it?

I ended up in China by chance, a twist of fate. While working as an advisor on aesthetics, stylistics, and graphics for director Ramunė Kudzmanaitė during the production of the documentary "Chodakowski Sisters. Lithuanian Case". A Chinese theater and film company was searching for a director, specifically a European, for their play about the situation of women during the Mao era. The offer reached Lithuania, and after Ramunė submitted her artistic description, the company asked who would be the visual artist. She chose me, and we found ourselves in China. Of course, it was a challenge, especially for the first time. We didn't know who we were talking to or where to go. It seemed like we were diving into some big affair, but we weren't frightened and flew there. And now we have been successfully working there for several years.

What did you bring back from China - the event, impressions, and experience?

China changed me, and perhaps Ramunė as well. What has changed? Honestly, I don't know. Maybe the dissolution of Eurocentrism, which even the Chinese don't shy away from - they copy European culture, want to adopt and "consume" it and strive to resemble Europeans. When we arrived, we encountered a completely different culture. It took us about two or three months to feel the people, understand their relationships, get used to the scale of cities and villages, and not be surprised by the astonishing economic growth and cultural thirst.

While preparing for the first performance, we were exploring a play about the dark side of China. I saw two main challenges, two voids that I had to fill - the world through the eyes of contemporary Chinese people, their perspective on their past, future ambitions, and aesthetics. Colleagues often ask if it is even possible for a Westerner to empathize with Eastern aesthetics. It was easy for me because I have been interested in Eastern aesthetics and philosophy for a long time. However, contemporary Chinese culture is a world of glitz, ornamentation, and grandiosity, where everything is determined by social status. It was also challenging to blend in with the Chinese. Wandering through the corners of Beijing, I felt my height was giving me away.

As I arranged the pieces of the scenography mosaic, I was searching for an answer to a question that wasn't even asked or perhaps the key to the play. I understood the solid cultural hunger of this Eastern giant. One Chinese stage worker described it most accurately when they admitted, "We are very ignorant, especially the older generation. They still live in the spirit of Mao's era." This "confession" helped me feel the tragedy of the nation - the mass killings and the almost destruction of the cultural layer... I better understood how people with uprooted roots think in the modern world. They want to be heard and valued and strive for it relentlessly, fiercely, by any means possible. It was a new cultural experience for me and a professional challenge. Scenography is a specific field, although I wouldn't say it is unfamiliar.

But you needed to gain experience as a scenographer.

Scenography has always fascinated me. A theatre is still magical for me, especially the softly fading lights just before the performance. I was fearless of the grand scale of Chinese stages (which we don't have in Lithuania), the enormous number of spectators, and the utterly different understanding of aesthetics and the language of theatre. They discovered us, and we found them. I've heard that other creative groups from the West sometimes fail there. Even audiences of famous theatre creators don't accept them; the connection between the stage and the audience doesn't ignite.

Why were you accepted? What happened differently compared to those who were not?

Chinese theater, like the entire society, highly respects hierarchy. The biggest challenge fell on Ramunė's shoulders. As per the Chinese understanding, the director is responsible for everything. During rehearsals, she quickly found a common language with the actors and producers, often alongside young, inexperienced students next to "stars" who even had their fan clubs. In one radio show, the director from an unknown Lithuania was introduced simply as 'she has a perfect character.'

I was also fortunate because the audience loved the scenography. Once the performances started, I would see raised hands with phones - many wanted to take photos. Perhaps the audience was fascinated by the forgotten aesthetics of the Chinese themselves, without pomp and with a serene, uncluttered stage. We intertwined multiple metaphors and used materials such as half a ton of wheat scattered on the floor, corn bubbles, dried palm branches, or simple soil dug up near the theater.

We have already created three performances and one feature film. Our performance, "New Wilderness," in 2017 was recognized as China's best new drama production. The others are still getting on track. We eagerly await the film's premiere and a new play this spring. We have become accustomed to working between different cultures as if it were cold water after a sauna. It may sound strange. Lithuania and China have something in common.

And what about it?

I am still looking for out, but I remember our attitude toward Chinese culture during our student years. We were fascinated by their paintings, art, poetry, philosophy, and music... We studied brushstrokes and admired the Chinese attention to detail and focus. Not to mention Chinese thinkers and philosophers, whom we also read. You can find a book of Eastern poetry or something similar in many Lithuanian home libraries. Our attention was directed towards the East. Lithuanian and Chinese mentality have something in common. We recognize ourselves in them during the period of our rebirth in 1990. The Chinese have experienced even more severe repression. We find a common language with the actors and the entire staff and understand their contemporary plays. However, the translations are only sometimes smooth and often need to be more explicit, not due to quality but because of a different school of thought/writing and tradition. We managed to unlock their works. Let's also add the experience of liberation and transformation, which is particularly relevant to them now. However, I have yet to grasp everything fully. There is something that musicians call harmony. It may not sound right, even dissonant, but there is harmony.

By the way, Chinese theater is a culture of images and symbols derived from their traditional opera.

But you're not an advocate of visual arts, are you?! 

Once, I saw someone painting with water on the pavement tiles using impressively long brushes. Over time, the water evaporates, and the artwork disappears. Only the meaning remains if we know how to read it.