Letter from a broken (he)art Teklal Neguib
The evening of the terrorist attack against Charlie HEBDO the 2015 january 7th i began writing this very emotional letter and the various questions this attack implied : what will be the consequences on the metamodernist generation ? will it be the end of innocence ? What about the artists ? #META
The evening of the terrorist attack against Charlie HEBDO the 2015 january 7th i began writing this very emotional letter and the various questions this attack implied : what will be the consequences on the metamodernist generation ? will it be the end of innocence ? What about the artists ?
#META
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<strong>Letter</strong> <strong>from</strong><br />
a <strong>broken</strong> (<strong>he</strong>)<strong>art</strong>
Text :<br />
<strong>Teklal</strong> <strong>Neguib</strong><br />
Written 2015 01 07<br />
Publis<strong>he</strong>d in L.ART en Loire 8 (February 2015)<br />
Photography (previous page) :<br />
From “Tombe la nuit” series by Talulah Naakre (publis<strong>he</strong>d<br />
in Céréales & Tubercules issue Manioc (September 2018)<br />
<strong>Teklal</strong> <strong>Neguib</strong> :<br />
Known too as Lamena Lahgo and Talulah Naakre, <strong>Teklal</strong> <strong>Neguib</strong> is a writer, poet,<br />
<strong>art</strong>ist and t<strong>he</strong> former EIC/founder of L.ART en Loire (average c. 100 000<br />
read./issue//2013-2018).<br />
Publis<strong>he</strong>d in various magazines such as Internet Poetry, Minorites, Artefact,<br />
Queen Mob’s Teahouse, BonjourPoesie, Bloganoz<strong>art</strong>, lorem_ipsum, L.ART en<br />
Loire/Céréales & Tubercules, VoiceIn Journal, and books (MACRO an anthology of<br />
image macro, T<strong>he</strong> Twitter biography of Matt<strong>he</strong>w Britton), some of <strong>he</strong>r <strong>art</strong> was<br />
p<strong>art</strong> of t<strong>he</strong> online exhibition “Listen Audioselfies !” a group show curated by May<br />
Waver, and p<strong>art</strong> of t<strong>he</strong> exhibition “Nature insolite en ville” (group show, curated<br />
by Ville de Saint Nazaire, L’Atelier).
Tonight, I am writing to you <strong>from</strong> a country in tears, in tears of<br />
mourning and horror, a country who has seen 12 of its people dying<br />
for drawing c<strong>art</strong>oons. Bullets for c<strong>art</strong>oons. No comment.<br />
Since Wednesday, I have spent my time crying. My body shaking, not<br />
<strong>from</strong> fear, but because of emotions, overw<strong>he</strong>lming emotions.<br />
Thoughts, shock, knock toget<strong>he</strong>r. My <strong>he</strong><strong>art</strong> is <strong>broken</strong>. C<strong>art</strong>oonists,<br />
columnists, policemen, a cleaner, a proofreader, a festival founder<br />
are dead. Dead for France. Dead for an idea, a beautiful idea, one of<br />
t<strong>he</strong> founding ideas of our democracies: freedom of speech.<br />
Our ancestors of blood and <strong>art</strong>s fought before, and for some died for<br />
it, for us now. XVIII° century philosop<strong>he</strong>rs, rest in peace. Such<br />
freedom, such right, so dearly obtained, Wednesday was flouted.<br />
Murdering Charlie has murdered t<strong>he</strong> Revolution. Murdering t<strong>he</strong> 12 has<br />
murdered Voltaire. Murdering t<strong>he</strong>m has murdered French people,<br />
t<strong>he</strong>se people t<strong>he</strong> Revolution told "all free man is French". Our <strong>he</strong><strong>art</strong>s,<br />
our bodies and our souls vandalized by bullets and t<strong>he</strong> blood of our<br />
dead. Our <strong>he</strong><strong>art</strong>s are <strong>broken</strong> and our souls shattered. We are touc<strong>he</strong>d.<br />
All t<strong>he</strong> country, t<strong>he</strong> World, toget<strong>he</strong>r behind Charlie, whatever we may<br />
have thought about it before. Get behind it, because it’s not time … no<br />
time to criticize. It’s time to be ONE, one people, one soul, one <strong>he</strong><strong>art</strong>,<br />
with our decimated family.<br />
Because it’s an important p<strong>art</strong> of our family that we have lost, a p<strong>art</strong><br />
of what makes us who we are, we, this generation raised in t<strong>he</strong> 80’s<br />
and t<strong>he</strong> 90’s. Charlie Hebdo represents t<strong>he</strong> p<strong>art</strong> of irony which is so<br />
important to us, which built us as humans and now as adults. Our
generation has lost p<strong>art</strong> of what educated it. But t<strong>he</strong> question is how<br />
will this generation of irony act and react ? out of sincerity, out of<br />
cynicism, out of hypocrisy and out of naivety, this generation which<br />
had been described as metamodernist. A generation born in crisis,<br />
nurtured in crisis, living an adult life in crisis. Living in a crisis<br />
culture. Living this days a transitional crisis moment. What will we do<br />
with this time? This event? Which p<strong>art</strong> at t<strong>he</strong> crossroads will we<br />
choose? More irony, in this time of t<strong>he</strong> murder of irony? T<strong>he</strong> increase<br />
of cynicism as a complete fall in faith for t<strong>he</strong> future and for humanity?<br />
Could sincerity win, after t<strong>he</strong>se events? Or naivety as all t<strong>he</strong><br />
gat<strong>he</strong>rings seem to show? Or, perhaps, a sort of balance will appear.<br />
Our generation is at t<strong>he</strong> crossroads of which ways humans envisage<br />
t<strong>he</strong> world and future.<br />
In 10 or 15 years, we will reach in masses t<strong>he</strong> levels of power:<br />
political power, economic power, <strong>art</strong>istic power… Some of us will<br />
become leaders. But how will this metamodernist generation use its<br />
power? What will we do with t<strong>he</strong> World, with our siblings? What<br />
leaders will we become? This event is such an important moment,<br />
which impacts not only France, but t<strong>he</strong> whole world, citizens of all<br />
countries, members of our generation all over t<strong>he</strong> world, that we may<br />
say it will have an impact upon what sort of humans we will become,<br />
we will decide to become. Perhaps we will do nothing following this<br />
event (which is yet doing something). Perhaps we will do something,<br />
perhaps it will empower us. For t<strong>he</strong> moment, it’s much too early to<br />
know, to answer t<strong>he</strong> questions, but t<strong>he</strong> next weeks, months and years<br />
will teach us a lot about our metamodernist generation, and what it<br />
will become. This event is such an impacting moment because t<strong>he</strong><br />
dead were our fat<strong>he</strong>rs, our brot<strong>he</strong>rs and sisters, and we are t<strong>he</strong><br />
depositories of t<strong>he</strong>ir legacy, of this murdered irony. T<strong>he</strong>y died for<br />
freedom of speech. Because of a war, a war declared on <strong>art</strong>,<br />
politically correct or incorrect. To fall on a battlefield should not have<br />
to exist for paper and c<strong>art</strong>oons.
What did we think about t<strong>he</strong> c<strong>art</strong>oons? Most of us appreciated t<strong>he</strong>m a<br />
lot, and some of us were shocked. Does that still have any<br />
importance? T<strong>he</strong>y are dead for us to have t<strong>he</strong> right to agree, or not,<br />
for us to have t<strong>he</strong> right to think, to question, about ourselves, about<br />
ot<strong>he</strong>rs, about everything. T<strong>he</strong>y are dead for us to be free. T<strong>he</strong>y acted<br />
without hate, and that is t<strong>he</strong> essential. Because today, t<strong>he</strong>y can’t<br />
publish anything, even things which could make us moan. And that,<br />
that makes us moan even more. Because what is t<strong>he</strong> use of having<br />
t<strong>he</strong> right to moan if t<strong>he</strong>re is no-one to moan against? What is t<strong>he</strong> use<br />
of having t<strong>he</strong> right to laugh if t<strong>he</strong>re is no-one to make us laugh?<br />
Never forget that t<strong>he</strong>y are dead for us to have t<strong>he</strong> right not to agree<br />
with t<strong>he</strong>m. Because, it would be better to moan, to grumble, to be<br />
angry, instead of seeing t<strong>he</strong>m all dead, all twelve of t<strong>he</strong>m, fallen for<br />
France and for freedom of speech. Dead on t<strong>he</strong>ir own battlefield.<br />
Because being a journalist, a c<strong>art</strong>oonist, but also an <strong>art</strong>ist or a chief<br />
editor seems to be dangerous professions. How could we imagine<br />
that with our paintbrus<strong>he</strong>s, our pencils, our pens, our photo-cameras<br />
and our film cameras, our bodies, our canvases, we could risk our<br />
lives, our safety, while we live in democracies? Our goal is never<br />
hatred, our goal is t<strong>he</strong> instillation of thought within our fellow<br />
humans for a more peaceful coexistence, for all of us to reflect upon<br />
t<strong>he</strong> world we live in. Because it’s t<strong>he</strong> vocation of <strong>art</strong> and newspapers,<br />
even t<strong>he</strong>y are ironic or t<strong>he</strong> complete opposite to make people reflect,<br />
question, effect self-analysis, widen t<strong>he</strong>ir perspectives. How will t<strong>he</strong><br />
<strong>art</strong>ists of our generation act and react? Art and newspapers are a<br />
richness, and an enrichment for each of us, as citizens, as <strong>art</strong>ists, as<br />
humans.<br />
How can <strong>art</strong> and newspapers play a role, a key role in t<strong>he</strong> creation of<br />
contents, creators of thought? How may we p<strong>art</strong>icipate in t<strong>he</strong><br />
emergence and vitality of our cultures in situations w<strong>he</strong>re sometimes<br />
t<strong>he</strong>re is not a lot of safety, and at worst no safety? Yet, culture, <strong>art</strong>,<br />
knowledge construct us as humans, and as citizens. T<strong>he</strong>y are our<br />
souls, which <strong>he</strong>lp raise us, touch us and sometimes appal us. T<strong>he</strong>y
can unsettle us, but always t<strong>he</strong>y educate us, show us t<strong>he</strong> way, give us<br />
faith in humanity, even in t<strong>he</strong> most dreadful moments.<br />
So our weapons are our drawings and c<strong>art</strong>oons, our canvases, our<br />
novels, our poems, ours haikus, as our short texts, our essays, our<br />
magazines, our films, our happenings, our dancing and our music.<br />
Our <strong>art</strong> is our shield. Our "wars" don’t kill anyone, because our fights<br />
are for love, and faith in humanity.<br />
Among t<strong>he</strong> Charlie Hebdo dead, t<strong>he</strong>re is one who p<strong>art</strong>icularly touc<strong>he</strong>d<br />
me. It was Cabu. Cabu, for t<strong>he</strong> french of our generation (described as<br />
at t<strong>he</strong> crossroads of irony, sincerity, hypocrisy, and overt naivety) was<br />
our fat<strong>he</strong>r. As T<strong>he</strong> Simpsons, and South park, our fat<strong>he</strong>r in irony. He<br />
educated us to caricature, to t<strong>he</strong> press c<strong>art</strong>oon, with tenderness and<br />
love, with patience and respect. Cabu? We waited for that moment, in<br />
front of t<strong>he</strong> TV, w<strong>he</strong>n <strong>he</strong> was going to draw in our favorite kids TV<br />
show. For me, it was like waiting for a sweet, a long awaited moment.<br />
And I remember seeing him on TV.<br />
Oh my god, no, it was not bullets I wanted to send him. Certainly not. I<br />
remember, w<strong>he</strong>n I saw him, I wanted to kiss and hug him. W<strong>he</strong>n we<br />
saw him, it was only tenderness and love we wanted to give him, to<br />
share with him, and nothing else. I was young, it was long time ago,<br />
but I never forgot this great Cabu with his sweet and funny c<strong>art</strong>oons.<br />
Fat<strong>he</strong>r has passed, our generation is orphaned.<br />
His c<strong>art</strong>oons were an emotion because <strong>art</strong> is emotion. And emotion<br />
creates us as human, as being. Emotion and tears are beautiful. T<strong>he</strong>y<br />
are our <strong>he</strong><strong>art</strong>s’ <strong>art</strong>, t<strong>he</strong> bloody tears of our wounded bodies. Wounded<br />
to unspeakable depth by t<strong>he</strong> death of our fat<strong>he</strong>rs, our brot<strong>he</strong>rs, and<br />
sisters. About t<strong>he</strong> gat<strong>he</strong>rings, some said it was beautiful, but of no<br />
utility. I answered that beauty is yet useful by itself. It shows t<strong>he</strong> unity<br />
of a nation, a people, behind this idea of freedom of speech, and its<br />
corollary, freedom of opinion (for agreeing or disagreeing). It shows<br />
this solidarity, this shared mourning, this support we give each ot<strong>he</strong>r,
for staying on our feet. It’s a great moment of naivety. But sometimes,<br />
naivety is necessary. Believing in us, having faith in humanity is what<br />
t<strong>he</strong> world needs, what human beings need, to have trust in t<strong>he</strong> future.<br />
In France, in foreign countries, this seen support is a caress to our<br />
afflicted and teary <strong>he</strong><strong>art</strong>s, a sweet caress of reassurance in this time<br />
of mourning and pain. It is a little soothing, a way to show to our dead<br />
what t<strong>he</strong>y meant to us, what freedom represents for each and<br />
everyone of us.<br />
Caresses to t<strong>he</strong> soul, caresses to t<strong>he</strong> <strong>he</strong><strong>art</strong> are so important in t<strong>he</strong>se<br />
moment, a calming cure. Sometimes, what makes you feel good can<br />
take peculiar ways. T<strong>he</strong> day of t<strong>he</strong> twelve's murders, an <strong>art</strong>ist had<br />
publis<strong>he</strong>d <strong>he</strong>r last song, and t<strong>he</strong> video of it. It’s Sia, and I can say, at<br />
that moment, my mind was not in listening music mode. In t<strong>he</strong> end, I<br />
decided to listen to it (for permitting me to think about something<br />
else). It was no deception. Both t<strong>he</strong> song and t<strong>he</strong> video are absolutely<br />
splendid, very emotional. But more, it was a shock. T<strong>he</strong> music and t<strong>he</strong><br />
video spoke to me about myself, my feelings, after t<strong>he</strong> attack. About<br />
my emotions, various, contradictory, savage, violent or sweet. A<br />
desire for revolt, a desire for crying, breaking everything, hiding<br />
myself away, being angry, being with t<strong>he</strong> ot<strong>he</strong>r, needing him or <strong>he</strong>r, a<br />
desire for tenderness and rendering tenderness back.<br />
T<strong>he</strong> music and t<strong>he</strong> video have no link, of course, with t<strong>he</strong> event, but in<br />
t<strong>he</strong> end, t<strong>he</strong>y accompanied me in my process of mourning and shock.<br />
Because t<strong>he</strong> music of Elastic He<strong>art</strong> is t<strong>he</strong> symphony of my emotions,<br />
t<strong>he</strong> video t<strong>he</strong> mirror of my pains. T<strong>he</strong>y are my music for Charlie, a<br />
music video I spend my time listening to and watching. And I cry…<br />
Because emotions are music. And music is emotion.<br />
We always come back to (<strong>he</strong>)<strong>art</strong>…
He was named Cabu<br />
He was named Ahmed<br />
He was named Charb<br />
S<strong>he</strong> was named Elsa<br />
He was named Tignous<br />
He was named Franck<br />
He was named Wolinski<br />
He was named Mic<strong>he</strong>l<br />
He was named Bernard<br />
He was named Frédéric<br />
He was named Honoré<br />
He was named Mustapha<br />
For Charlie Hebdo<br />
For t<strong>he</strong> 12 For t<strong>he</strong> 17<br />
For freedom of speech<br />
For newspapers<br />
For <strong>art</strong><br />
For we, all.