Closing Casa Jasmina

Closing Casa Jasmina
Casa Jasmina started from a ruin. In 2014, my husband and I discovered an abandoned space in a once majestic factory, the old “Garrone Foundry” in Turin, which had been built in 1919 and abandoned in 1980. It was my idea to revive this derelict space, chase the rats from the corners and the pigeons from the broken windows, and transform it into what I thought of as the “Turinese House of the Future.” Our plan was to rethink home life from scratch as a utopian experiment.

In Europe, one doesn’t often get the tempting chance to start over clean without the heavy burdens of the past — especially in a city like Turin, which is famous for its aristocratic palaces and baroque marble porticos. Turin does, though, have zones of industrial decline by the old railway tracks, which sometimes disgorge unexploded World War II bombs, much like the bombs that once rained down on our old factory. So we were free to reinvent our space with jackhammers, power-cables and plumbing pipes.

We began with internet. What would happen, we wondered, if you deliberately put the values of open-source networks first, and then designed your house, and chose and built the objects in the house around those open, shareable concepts? The commercial, for-profit “Internet of Things” technology was rising worldwide, so why not try an alternative version? It might be hard to hack, and risky, awkward and even dangerous, but it was sure to look radically different from anything we’d experienced before.

We curated every object that entered “Casa Jasmina” — a venue that was wittily named after me by Massimo Banzi, the leader of the Arduino open-source electronics prototyping platform network, because it was a home not a house, and homes need a woman’s name. We also had Turin’s open-source “Fab Lab” downstairs, where we could 3DPrint, laser-cut, router cut and even robot-fabricate all kinds of newfangled oddities. But we needed standards of judgement: Casa Jasmina had to seem sensible and plausible to us and to our many guests and visitors.

Is it beautiful?

Does it efficiently perform a useful function?

Does it have emotional value?

If it doesn’t, out it goes!

We borrowed this credo from the designer Karim Rashid, and it served us well. We never lacked for input and invention from the Maker movement, Arduino programmers, the Turin FabLab, local designers from Toolbox Co-Working, and kind supporters from Internet-of-Things groups all over the world. These activists cheerily built, borrowed or simply gave us kitchen appliances, tables, chairs, lamps, beds, bookcases, children’s toys, door locks, irrigation systems — you name it. Except for groceries and our Roomba robot vacuum cleaner, we scarcely bought a thing for Casa Jasmina. Every single one of these innovative domestic objects would have baffled or horrified my mother — except for one of her vintage carpets, which I donated myself.

People are naturally curious about a “home of the future,” even though such homes always grow old much faster than normal homes do. Our experiment attracted designers, journalists, politicians, engineers, educators, museum curators, even staffers from the United Nations. Turin is keen on “smart city” initiatives and often invests in high-tech urban control and monitoring systems.

But if you make your smart bed, somebody has to lie in it. And you must be careful that the mattress does not outsmart you!

We were volunteers on this project. We learned a lot, but many of our dreams are still unfulfilled, such as a smart and glamorous laundry display line, and a smart Prosecco faucet that dispenses fizzing Italian wine on demand.

Women find the idea of a new home more interesting and inviting than electronic soldering kits and fabrication laboratories, or sci fi fancy fantasies! Also male Italian tech nerds, have too-smart answers for everything, and have no idea how to do everyday housework or to pick out a comfortable couch.

So Casa Jasmina became a small arena for serious gender-crossing discussions of how to live in a connected house. “The Internet of Women Things,” a feminist group, was created in Casa Jasmina. The group brought Turinese activist women out of the factory basement and right into the living room. We even issued a feminist manifesto.

Neither I nor my husband are Italian, but as the hostess and curator of Casa Jasmina, the two of us learned to appreciate Italian styles, Italian standards and Italian ideas about quality-of-life. As a married couple from Belgrade and Austin, we have plenty to debate when it comes to own domestic life, but we now discuss our shared life in a much deeper, better informed, more contemplative way. We will never be as “deeply superficial” as Italians, or as enthralled by beauty and comfort as they are, but we listen with genuine interest and sympathy as they wrangle, exult and complain, and we can even advance their debates.

Casa Jasmina was fun. We held parties there, and invited people to create, laugh and take risks with us, from artists to astronauts, from makers to cooks. I was especially happy to host babies and toddlers to test our family-home inventions. It was eye-opening to see innocent children outsmart the plywood chairs, hop on the body temperature mattresses, spit out the organic food in disgust, and ignore the avant-garde techno-artworks. Toddlers care nothing for technical smartness, and they will inherit our smart rubbish.

Eventually we hit the wall. We promised we would engage with Casa Jasmina for two years, and we enjoyed it, but after five years, we had new personal priorities and the technical landscape had shifted. We were volunteers in a utopian experiment, but we weren’t landlords or real-estate developers. We had surfed to some rather undeserved fame and glory, in press events, conferences, classroom lectures… even design prizes. Not too bad for people who had deliberately avoided any business model at all. It lasted longer than John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s 1969 conceptual bed-in in Amsterdam. And no one has yet to build another Casa Jasmina.

Also, the factory that hosted our project is still developing in other directions. Turin, this ancient city, is valiantly re-developing itself. No other city would have asked us to build a “Casa Jasmina.” Our house project was the product of a creative local tech scene. It was a local-global confluence of happy events.

In Italian there is an expression, “concomittanza degli eventi,” or coexistence of events. When this “concomittanza” goes bad, wars break out, as it did in ex-Yugoslavia, a socialist utopia that lacked an exit strategy. When the concomittanza is happy, though, pleasant new things blossom in the world, like pumpkins on the compost heap.

So let Casa Jasmina — a sense of which is conveyed by these miscellaneous photographs — become another of the many urban myths of Turin, a small legend of a special time and place where people sat on the floor pondering a digitized future and re-inventing Vermouth with their own herbal ingredients.

Even Google found our refuge.

In the end, my idea for Casa Jasmina was to escape the mainstream, to shine some light on the unexpected, and to pay attention to second prizes instead of killer apps. Imaginary projects, one-off inventions, provocative design fictions: the kitten in the ditch, the Cinderella story in reverse. I have always loved technology, but I never adored or worshipped it, and I’ve always been aware of the endless potential for its abuse.

A house needs walls, and an internet house needs firewalls.

The future? Like Walter Benjamin’s Angel of History, I fly fast-forward with my back turned. I have been catapulted from my past into a space of the everyday that was beyond my young imagination — I couldn’t even fear the truly strange things that surround me nowadays. I have learned to find my freedom in that.

“The future” is overrated, especially when it’s told in a linear narrative: when some prophet preaches that you are sure to end up where he tells you will, and you have no say about it. Whatever happens, you won’t want to live there. You’d be far better off in a kitchen, baking the I Ching into some homemade fortune cookies, and tossing them into a flock of black and white swans.

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Passports and Nobels

Boing Boing

My life-long work of performance art is to somehow maintain my original passport: notwithstanding the life and opportunities of a techno-nomad.

I used to have a proper passport from the “Socialist Federation Republic of Yugoslavia,” and a fine, diplomatic one, too. At the time that was the most-desired passport in the black market, requiring the fewest travel-visas from any other country. It was a diplomatic passport from a buffer-state, a Cold War cushion-country between the East and West, between the imperial walls of USSR and USA .

Today my travel document is a Serbian passport, one of the worst passports in the whole world, from a small post-war country in transition to nowhere, hoping to make its way among the power-players of the Russian Federation, the European Union, and expansive China, the militant Turks, and other small, rival Balkan states that used to be our fellow-citizens. Marshal Tito had a tradition for living that way, but Tito was a shrewd and talented victor of war, and maybe our world was simpler then.

Serbia is an ancient place but a rather new country, so people often don’t know what to make of my passport. Recently a guy who holds a Serbian passport won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Of course Peter Handke isn’t “really Serbian,” but I was born in Yugoslavia, so I’m not all that Serbian either.

People admire this “Nobel Prize,” they think it must be a noble prize fit for noblemen, even though Alfred Nobel was an arms trafficker and an emigre. So who is the noblest Nobel-winning writer of Serbia — is it Ivo Andric, the Yugoslav writer and diplomat who won the prize for Yugoslavia in 1963, or is it Peter Handke?

To be fair, Ivo Andric never wanted to be “Serbian,” while Peter Handke deliberately took Serbian citizenship during the Serbian darkest hours of the Milosevic regime. Handke’s mother was from Slovenia, so Handke had a lot of polemical ideas about the situation, although, whenever Handke wrote about subjects other than Serbia, Handke was a good novelist of genuine Nobel caliber.

Handke’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech was simply unearthly about his Slavic mom and his childhood days, stuffed with songs and fables: very poetic.

It shouldn’t hurt my feelings if Serbia is seen as a nation of literary excellence. Once I was in the USA on a fancy USA writer’s grant, and with my sanctioned Serbian passport, I couldn’t even enter an American library.

Peter Handke’s Austria was no paradise for us Serbs, either. In the nineties of last century I was the token Serb in Vienna during annual general meeting of the PEN International Congress. No litterati wanted to sit with me at my morally diseased Serbian table, although, like a lot of people who show up at PEN, I was a literary dissident risking my life against a violent government.

I still remember one elderly couple from Vienna who approached my table and dared to talk to a Serbian woman about the weather. At the end of that evening they quietly told me: If ever you need a shelter, you have a home with us here, because we know what it is like to live within a Nazi country. We were children of Austrian Nazis who cheered for Hitler before they were killed in Allied bombings.

These wise people were the Ebners, and Peter Ebner was a career engineer who became a writer on religion.

I knew people who fled Serbia and became Austrian. They went through the necessary ritual: passing exams, swearing in front of a judge, renouncing other loyalties, their victory condition being a different ticket in the lottery of history, a roulette where people like me don’t even count anyway: mere women, nomad chattel, without a mother language or a fatherland.

So why bother to change countries and passports? On the contrary, I prefer to stay in my original state of semi-legality and semi-visibility, and watch countries wash over me. My legal address, on my passport, is on street in Belgrade close to the national parliament. The same street-address: five different national passports.

It’s been a process of my-life-without-me taking place on some national level. As for the street, and the building, what if it falls to fire, flood, bombing or earthquake, or they change the street-names? Or maybe I’ll be subjected to travel restrictions, have my passport confiscated, and have to live there all the time.

How can I outsmart the chaos: well, I don’t even try. I have been a refugee several times in my life, legally, or invisibly, or even impossibly, but I am still alive and kicking, and still travelling… just like bastard children used to be considered non-people, now it’s stateless people who are shunned and clandestine.

In Estonia I once held in my hands their “e-residency” card: a political fiction of being commercially Estonian without being Estonian. How many flags does a modern woman really need for a safe and fulfilling life? Probably five flags, at least, and maybe even more, if tomorrow’s unnatural climate disasters burn and drown one favorite city after another.

Serbs rather imagine that the nation might join the European Union some day, especially now that the United Kingdom has left it, and looks ready to split up as an ethnic island Yugoslavia. Unlike the British, we don’t fuss about what color the passports are, since we’ve had so many.

People with passports come to visit us in Serbia, too. Somehow Peter Ebner, Peter Handke and I have all shared the same space-time, despite nazis, ethnic cleansing, bombs, dissidents, publishers… Years ago. I met Handke in Belgrade during his controversial public stay as a Milosevic regime apologist. He struck me as erudite, knowledgeable and kindly, drinking in Serbian quantities while endlessly quoting obscure poets.

Peter Ebner came to Belgrade too, to pursue his religious researches about Prince Eugene of Savoy, a Christian military crusader against the Ottoman menace, in the pay of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Peter Ebner toured a few old battlefields, but preferred to sample the fine wine of the monks in the Orthodox monasteries.

These two Austrian writers had one great commonalty: a respect amounting to holy awe for the long-suffering Serbs in their endless historic defeats and lamentations. Poetry came pretty easily to my forefathers in Herzegovina, a pre-literate region of rocks and shepherds where everybody quoted proverbs, metaphors, and poetic hyperbole just to get through the day. Why should I sit bolt upright at midnight, drinking beer and wondering about Handke’s Nobel Prize? He’s only 77, still a mere youngster who might overcome his political radicalism! Is this prize too political or too apolitical? What about nomads without national literary background, mother land, or homeland, or even a mantelpiece on which to put the noble award. Is that too political or not enough political?

I’m not the first woman writer who wonders and all I have to do is look across the English Channel to see that I won’t be the last, either. As Virginia Wolf said long time ago:

“As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world.

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Fare rete con la rete

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TransJesus Belgrade

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Marina Abramovic in Belgrade

boing boing


Marina Abramovic in Belgrade

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I have always liked Marina Abramovic, from her earliest works to the latest ones.

Many who knew her in the legendary early years of bitter struggle now resent her grand fame and success. They consider her commercialized, cosmopolitan, a celebrity artist recycling proven successes, but they’re all wrong. This is mere snob activity.
It’s possible to be the cliched, true artist who is permanently poor, pure, and out of touch with the entire material world, but art snobs never notice or praise these people. They’re too busy attacking Marina for not being like that. Oscar Wilde used to point out that snobs are a useful motor of society, propelling the fame machine by loudly including, excluding, over-praising and denouncing. Women artists might even get snobbishly confined to small pedestals and defined as muses rather than real artists.

But snobs will always lack Marina’s creativity and painful brilliance. I appreciate Marina’s direct and sharp attitude towards fame, glory, wealth, the female body and universal death. She confronts complex issues directly, in the world as it is, instead of accepting trends at face value. Her work will be noticed, disciples will follow her, but by that time she will already be elsewhere.

The grandma of performance art, as she calls herself, will soon be playing Maria Callas, the diva of opera, in her most famous death scenes. At Maria’s age, and with the portfolio and life-histories of Marina-and-Maria, I feel sure that is not only the best way, but the only way. Marina Abramovic and Yoko Ono are my role models for female living artists who have transcended the many threats of fame and glory, and prevailed over suffering.

So, Marina is returning to Belgrade

In September, after 45 years of exile, like a much-condemned heretic witch finally accepted as a goddess. At long last, a proper, large-scale show in the museum of modern art on the Danube, with a welcome from plenty of celebrities, friends and of course politicians. Naturally her long-time local foes and critics will be there to wave national flags.

This show will be a performance in and of itself: life is art and art is life, the conceptualist credo. In this case, a kind of Warhol ghost of the art-is-life of the former Yugoslavia, the Belgrade of Marina’s youth, that underground stage like an art-factory, neglected, obscure, weird, where three artists performed for an audience of two, and all recording was forbidden… This show will have the melancholy grandeur of the last volume of Proust’s memoirs of lost time.

Will these artists recognize others, see themselves after the wars, the gossip, the death of a nation, of a lost social order? Will they have the courage to say hello and goodbye to their past?

We will see!

I will be there, watching from the second row, while Marina will perform the story of her life, as she always does. When I last met her in Torino Italy, she offered a deeply sentimental speech which ended in tears, about her artistic credo. She said: I believe in telepathy, not in technology. Today she is doing some tech art, so I wonder how things have progressed with the telepathy. I am willing to trust her instinct even when she is wrong! Creatives are never exact, they are just daring.

In her recent public “Letter to Serbia,” the cover story for a local magazine, she says: I worked and lived in Belgrade for 29 years. I was coming back only to visit family. My last personal show here was 45 years ago. Now almost half a century later, I want to show, especially to the new generations, what I did all these years. And I want them to understand through my work how important it is to risk, how important it is to have seen the big picture and to have big dreams, notwithstanding everything.

In that public letter, she speaks about the importance of failed projects in order to find the path as an artist, about the need not to abandon the impossible. (I was already making a list of favorite projects that “failed,” the second-prize winners of shows that I curated. How often, with time, the second-prize reveals itself to be more prescient, more forward-looking and inventive, than the first prize that seemed such a clear winner).

Marina talks about her luck in discovering early on that performance is her way through art, either once, for a small public, or, today with an attentive worldwide audience. Especially, long performances can have the transformative energy of life itself. Performance is a living art, not a recording, like video or text. A performance can be re-enacted by other people, but they will be living it, not creating the artwork.

Marina says if she paid attention to what was written about her all these years, she would never have left her room. At age sixty, though, she proved that all she needs is a room, along with a couple of chairs. That was the famous performance “The Artist is Here” at the Museum of Modern Art, where she sat in a room and registered her presence, eye to eye, with her public. For days on end that other chair was never empty.

The Marina Abramovic show in Belgrade will be her biggest retrospective ever, and she is close to a popular sensation in contemporary Serbia. After decades of studiously pretending that she didn’t exist and had no significance, everybody knows and quotes her name, from politicians to the handyman. She and Novak Djokovic are the queen and king of the updated Serbian national image.

This art and sports mania may have an unhealthy air of Serbian royalty above the common unwashed herd, but I think we should embrace good news about Serbian culture, when it occurs. The Museum of Modern Art on the Danube has been a decaying ruin for years, but is recently re-opened as a beautiful space and place. So why not enjoy the Marina Olympics?

I happen to be a Serbian expatriate myself, the notorious activist and artist of a wretched Balkan country beset with too much history, but I can cheerfully admit that Marina Abramovic is global art-world royalty, and even Novak Djokovic can really whack a tennis ball. Who knows what the next, still-nameless Marina Abramovic is doing right now in her overlooked niche-space, somewhere in the cracks of the walls of our 21st century? In Belgrade a street artist can be a fairy queen, and only from the outskirts one can see the center. Only from a distance one can hit the target.

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Sedim na vrhu brda i ne radim nista: nirvana, zen budizam, opuštanje mišića i bez misli. Oko mene samo šumske životinje, brze i vredne, za razliku od mene. To je njihov svet, ja sam im došla u goste. Gamižu mravi, veliki, poneki i polete: čuveni divčibarski mravi koji su nam pojeli krov od kuće. Zato sada i sedim na miru u trenutku u kome je nestala i struja, da ne pominjem kako su nam pre neki dan pukle cevi od vodovoda, zatim crkao bojler i veš masina.

Sve je to normalno i uobičajeno za ovo mesto sa mikroklimom usred mikroklime ruže vetrova gde su moji roditelji pre pedesetak godina podigli vikendicu, 77 kvadrata po JUS-u, ali opremljenu kao vasionski brod. Moja mama je bila pedijatar a moj otac inžinjer: pokrivali su svojim stilom i znanjem jedno veliko polje zvano preživljavanje, komotno, čak luksuzno.

Olivetti, ćirilični
Olivetti, ćirilični

Izgradili su i agregat za struju, jer struja često ovde nestaje, grejanje na struju i naftu, imali su malu ambulantu jer nije bilo javne i malu radionicu. Postali su poznati kao SOS centar za hitne slučajeve, a za vreme bobardovanja 1999. bili su određeni za generalštab na Divčibarama.

Lepo, teško i opet lepo. Dok sedim besposlena od silnog posla i truli krov mi pada nad glavom, pokušavam da racionalizujem kako se valja osloboditi tog materijalnog i emotivnog bremena danas, toliko godina kasnije, u nekim drugim okolnostima opet emergentnim kao sto su globalno zagrevanje, potrošačko drustvo i njegov raspad, ekološka kriza ili katastrofa. Šta sačuvati, šta baciti? Mudrost dizajnera Karima Rašida: Sačuvati iz prošlosti samo stvari:

koje imaju emotivnu vrednost
koje funkcinišu efikasno i svakodnevno
koje su lepe
Ostalo je otpad protoka vremena i balast pojedincu, od palate do kolibe.

Decenijama sakupljano
Decenijama sakupljano

I dok mirišem ovo malo vazduha magično čistog, iako proređenog, prustovski mi se vraćaju scene protoka vremena na ovom mestu, od ljudi do reči i događaja, predmeta čak. Ali onda shvatam da se neke stvari uopšte i nisu promenile: taj jak miris šume koji zagađuje i najmanji auto u daljini, i ti zvukovi kao simfonija sa naletima potpune tišine. Naravno, veverice, mravi, pauci, bube, žabe, ptice kukavice… tu su, nekako iste, možda su večna reinkarnacija uvek jedne te iste… Moj majstor na krovu, na pitanje šta da radimo protiv mrava koji su nam pojeli kuću, odgovara smireno: ništa, oni su tu više od vas.

Priv pasoš i to diplomatski
Priv pasoš i to diplomatski

Ta tišina i zvuci koji me plaše jer priroda više nije prirodna nama urbanima iz velikih prljavih gradova sada postaje čudo prirode, i eto neko se setio i ovde na Divčibarama da po ko zna koji put oproba sreću da podeli prirodu sa urbanima. I ranije je ovde bilo nekog pre svega seoskog i dečjeg turizma: godine 1984. u februaru bili smo zavejani sa gomilom dečice u hotelu Maljen nekoliko stotine metara od moje kuće i bacali su nam iz helikoptera keks i biskvite. Nekoliko nedelja smo bili pod metrima snega, ali na divnom suncu posle vejavice, bez struje, bez vode, na skijama, na pivskim gajbama pod nogama da ne propadnemo kad izadjemo kroz prozor iz kuće da lovimo hranu i vodu…Ovih godina zavejanost se rešava brže nego tada, poslednjih godina često i nema snega na Divčibarama ali zato ima mnogo vise žičara, kioska za iznajmljivanja opreme, i svega ostalog potrošackog, vruće rakije na stazama i domaćinske kuhinje, zaista domaćinske i ponekad zaboravljene tj izumrle.

Sada kada na svakom ćošku vidim neko novo zdanje, kada busevi voze na svakih nekoliko sati, kada postoji vozić koji kruzi planinom, kada postoji čak i Mountain festival muzike i etno svega… pitam se, šta bih volela da nestane, a šta da ostane. Opet prustovsko pitanje s obzirom na to da ne zavisi od mene, ali možda ima neke veze i sa mnom, tj. sa svima nama koji smo ovde već nekoliko decenija. Moja ćerka je ovde odrasla i nije bilo mnogo igračaka i provoda, osim konja i šetnji i lopte i ljuljaške; deca su bila iz lokalnih odmarališta, delila su skije i sendviče, a uveče išli u čuvenu Maljen diskoteku! Recimo to je ostalo nekako isto i ne bih ga menjala jer tako nečega nema nigde na svetu, to nije etno turizam niti eko turizam, to je šta jeste, identitet? Neka Divčibare ostanu Divčibare s tim naglaskom ljudi koji ako se ne varam odjednom postaje sličan naglasku mladih ljudi koji žive u Beogradu! Neka nestane i nestaje zatvorenost, provincijalizam, strah i nepoverenje koji su svi zajedno kao neka magla zamućivali perspektivu Divčibara.

Klabing u Valjevu
Klabing u Valjevu

Magla prava, koja su zapravo niski oblaci, neka pobedi zamagljenost uma i duha. Sećam se Žike Pavlovića čija deca i unuci još uvek dolaze u porodičnu kuću ovde na Divčibarama, kako me je vodio kroz tu maglu po uskim puteljcima pričajuci o Dragoslavljevoj rakiji najboljoj na planini, lokalnim celebrities i njihovim šumskim navikama. Sedeli smo do duboko u noć pijući i pričajući o stvarima koje se samo na Divčibarama mogu iskazati. What goes on in Divčibare stays in Divčibare. U Beogradu bi smo se ta ista ekipa samo ljubazno pozdravljali na ulici, izvan te magle, bez Dragoslavljeve rakije. Obični ljudi iako celebrities na Divčibarama u tim sedeljkama postajali su mitske ličnosti sa čuvenim rečenicama koje i dandanas pamtim: povodom istorijskih događaja dalekih ili budućih, od ratova do nacionalizma, smene vlasti, ubistava političara i novinara. Nikad neću do kraja shvatiti koliko od toga što sam čula zaista jeste bilo istina, ali znam sigurno da je tu bilo više istine u magli nego u javnosti. Još uvek sklapam mozaik sad već minulih događaja i ljudi koje je stvarnost opovrgla ili podržala. Good and bad guys čije se uloge lako smenjuju.

Alfred Hičkok i Jasmina Tešanović početkom 70ih u Milanu
Alfred Hičkok i Jasmina Tešanović početkom 70ih u Milanu

I čekajući i dalje da mi dođe struja, da se vratim kućnim poslovima, ribanju zarđalih polica, da se vrati signal mobilne telefonije i interneta i kontakta sa celim svetom gde sada i ja živim, gde žive svi moji mili i dragi…čekam i pomišljam, a šta ako ovo potraje? Ko zna zašto bi to bilo dobro, jednoga dana će ljudi plaćati sve više da ovako nešto potraje: splendid isolation i povratak prirodi. Zapravo već negde to i traže da sačuvaju. Dok Amazon gori nemoćno na drugom kraju naše izmaltretirane planete pomislih – možda je i dobro što Divčibare nemaju uvek struju.

Jasmina Tešanović je književnica i aktivistkinja, rođena u Beogradu.divcibare

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TransJesus in Prishtina

TransJesus Prishtina from Jasmina Tesanovic on Vimeo.

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