Week 5, message from The Weaver

Dear Sneezy Thunderheart,

When I was reading about your trip with your teenage daughters, it almost felt like I was looking at my own future. I'm sorry for the loss of your father earlier this year. I don't know how it feels to lose a parent as an adult, or what you're going through currently — it will depend on the relationship you had with him and perhaps also if it happened suddenly or you had time to prepare for it. I'm glad what was most important to him at the end of his life can now inspire you in yours. What a gift. Without hesitation, I agree with it: (Chosen) family stands above all.

You're probably familiar with the work Father by Diana Markosian, a piece that continues to evoke so many feelings in me about my own father, whom I lost as a little girl. I wrote a letter to him recently and was surprised by the energy it released and how much I'm still grieving for him.

I am also trying to learn and understand from your story with your girls, so perhaps I can enjoy similar experiences in my own future more fully. In a way, it's also an attempt to resist the FOMO culture that the art world often generates in us artists. Of course, it's not just that — it's completely valid to crave connection with fellow artists and friends when attending such events — but this time, I felt something shifting for me personally.

I arrived tired and on my period, which is naturally a time when I want to be alone, rest, and not socialize, talk, or consume. I pushed myself a little to not 'waste' my precious time just on my own — but not too hard. I was gentle with myself, because I now understand better how to listen to my body. It also helped that I was with a friend from outside the art world, who is very understanding of my needs during these events, gives me all the space I need, and has no issue having meals, wandering, or socializing on her own.

After the third day, I suddenly felt more excited and willing to dance and engage more — it was fantastic. By the end of the week, I had taken so much from it, and I must say the first few days were very precious. I had wandered alone through exhibitions and beautiful places at my own pace, without caring for anybody else, and had nourished a side that hadn't been nourished in a while.

As I mentioned before, I had started writing about something very painful before even boarding the plane and continued to think and write about it while I was there. I hadn’t expected to work so much that week, but it was a calling and out of my control. I’ve learned to give in when that happens. It's okay — even when those painful feelings don’t help me enjoy the event in a typical way.

But what are we supposed to feel during an event like this? I start to question myself. And to be honest, I think whatever feelings or conflicts we bring to an event like this are all completely valid. I remind myself that the very reason we are creating and sharing our art is to have conversations — and why not have difficult ones?

At this point, I came to realize that trying to force myself into a happy, light mood is complete bullshit. And yet that mood still came — but freely — after saying yes to the complex feelings, the ugly ones.

Defining an alter ego sounds like so much fun! Even if it came from a place of needing to protect yourself from people's quick and harsh judgment, it sounds like you've found a way to make it both fun and liberating.

You asked about my current work... It's quite an exciting moment I'm having creatively. I have worked intuitively on confronting the wounds of an abusive upbringing for the past five years. And now, to say it with David Lynch's words, I finally feel like I have caught the big fish and am now writing an auto-fictional screenplay around it like in a feverish dream. I tried to go to sleep early last night, lying between my girls like every night, and started hearing dialogues and seeing scenes come up in me as if from the deepest of waters, that finally decided to reveal their meanings to me. So I gave in and continued to write until my body was too exhausted to think.

Right now, I’m recording myself a lot, discussing my own feelings and raising questions.
It took me years to give myself permission to even gently approach this story — years of doubt and fear. I still feel anxious about it and try to throw that anxiety into the work, to be honest about that part too. I feel that when these strong feelings come up, it’s my nervous system trying to protect me from facing them.

I usually don’t share my work in progress with many people in the early stages because I don’t know yet where it's going or how long it will take to bring it to some kind of resolution. But right now, I feel that doesn’t matter. I won’t pressure myself into anything. I’ll take my time. Even if I share it with others, I’ll give it all the time it needs. It’s exciting and thrilling to watch it grow. There’s fear, rage, justice, love, disgust... a wild cocktail of feelings so complex that I refuse to simplify them.

Before I had words for this work, I took images around the places where it happened. Then I experimented with film and recorded myself walking through landscapes alongside my children. Slowly, it started to become a ritual — whenever I had residencies or went on vacation with my girls, I’d do this, watch them play, and let my thoughts shift. From anger about the violence some children had to endure from their parents to peaceful hope that I am breaking that cycle.

After I finished my previous work, I thought to myself: This was so hard, so extremely challenging — nothing could be more difficult than what I just completed. And years later, here I am: working on something I didn’t sign up for, something I was too afraid to face — and here I am. This is what art is meant to do.

I feel the exact opposite of what you wrote: I’ve never felt my art is more necessary than now. If not for others, then simply for myself. And that is enough for me at this moment.

Creating has become a powerful tool — a daily laundromat that helps me wash my feelings clean, to create a space where I can throw everything in and try to make sense of it. A space where I can simply be understood and not judged. Of course, once people see it, they may judge it — but that’s no longer my concern. For me, the making is why I’m here. Everything else is out of my control, and I practice letting go.

I feel we artists are too attached to that second part — and that’s what makes us doubtful. But it’s not ours to worry about. After all, we’re doing free labor, hard labor. We look at things others spend a lifetime avoiding. We face them and open perspectives so that others might have easier access to them. That is so crucial — and necessary — for the world.

I’ve witnessed it through catharsis — from art I’ve seen, music I’ve heard, films I’ve watched, poems I’ve read.

At this point, this letter feels like my manifesto on the creative process, and I’m so happy that this exchange with you brought out all of these thoughts. I’ve never been more willing to give in to it all and let go of my ego — to be seen fully, in all the messiness, in all the imperfections.

It’s okay.
I’m just here to make art.

The Weaver

Week 6, message from Sneezy Thunderheart

Dear The Weaver,

Reading your email felt like sitting down with a long, strong cup of tea — the kind that doesn’t rush you, but quietly insists you stay until the leaves have completely unfurled.

You’re right, it almost like a manifesto, though I think the best ones are always smuggled in like this: hidden in a personal letter, where the reader feels as though they’ve stumbled across something private, something not meant for mass consumption. I like the way you’ve framed the act of making art as a laundromat for the soul — I may have to borrow that line one day, though I promise to return it freshly pressed.

Your description of surrendering to the work and sharing more details makes me feel that I should be sharing more also. I have always made work that is more subtle and understated, giving people lots of room to interpret and project their own experience.  But in the past couple of years, I just felt like shouting out more, be more direct and offensive even. As I have mentioned, I’ve been developing an alter ego, what I never mentioned is that he would be a a self-appointed Taoist cult leader (part satire, part performance art, part anthropological experiment). He’s elaborate — traditional robes, questionable spiritual claims, mysterious “blessings” that come with odd dietary advice. This character would exist mostly online, on social media, as a way to explore how people fall for superstition and charismatic conmen. The genesis of the work hits rather close to home. A few years ago, I discovered that my sister is in such cult and it has caused large division within my own family, and this project is my way of processing all these feelings without infringing her privacy, while simultaneously creating a platform for people to confront these illusions of hope offered by manipulative figures. 

Like you, I find the work often arrives uninvited, takes over the room, and refuses to leave until it’s had its say. The challenge is making sure my ego doesn’t become the uninvited guest. That’s partly why the alter ego helps — the mask is a filter, but also a mirror. I suspect you’d understand.

Your film-walking ritual with your children struck me deeply. There’s something quietly radical about taking the very landscapes that held pain and walking them with your girls, letting them overwrite the geography with their laughter. It’s not just breaking a cycle — it’s planting a new one.

You say you’ve never felt your art is more necessary than now. I envy that clarity. I’m still somewhere between “necessary” and “nuisance,” never quite sure whether I’m building cathedrals or elaborate sandcastles that the tide will erase. But perhaps it doesn’t matter. The tide always comes in — the trick is enjoying the building.

Until next time — and I hope next time includes hearing more about this fever-dream screenplay of yours.

Warmly,
Sneezy Thunderheart

This is just a screegrab of many of the cult videos my alter ego will be reacting to…….

week 7, message from The Weaver

Dear Sneezy Thunderheart,

It's been a busy week for me and that caused my delay, I apologize for that as I'm always looking forward to our exchange. I love good tea so much, so I was intrigued by your comparison with the strong letter you felt I had poured you. I just had a visit in my home studio from a galerist I never met before and planned to introduce him to my astonishing jasmine tea I recenlty aquired from an old local tea store, but he was fine with water, and I have to admit it left me a bit dissapointed. I need to invite more tea loving guests! Oh well. Over the past couple of weeks I have found more clarity on some of the works I am pouring myself into, and raised more questions for others. One work I haven't told you about is writing handwritten letters to my dear friend from India. She and I did our MFA together and share a strong friendship, personally as well as artistically. Currenlty we're guiding each other in our visual works that are both focused on our intimate relationships with our partners. Since February we meet weekly on the screen, (not missing on week!) talk, cry and laugh for at least two hours about our creative ideas, our relationships and our life in general. It's been the most nourishing artistic relationship I have ever had in my life so far. Anyone I share this with calls it rare, which made me appreciate it even more. I think it was born out of a strong urge to have someone to talk to on a regular basis, someone similar to me, who understands both my worlds and desires: the family life and the art life and someone I share some history with. It happened at a time when I again was starting to go through a crisis in my partnership and perhaps also artistcally needed someone to talk to in order to keep me sane. Otherwise, yes I too burn out after I've applied too much pressure for good performances on all fronts, which I do often enough. Did I tell you that I bake obsessively whenever I want to distract myself from working or I feel stuck in my art? I mean it could be worse, at least we all get a handful of sweets we can lick our fingers from, but I had to stop me a bit there after it became clear why I did it. I feel weird at the moment, on the one hand so inspired and determined to see where the exchange work with my friend is going and to write my film (I already started to talk to people from the film world about it and to build a network, and it's fun and feels completely authentic and right!) but I can't help to feel that there is something missing. Something I am sacrificing in that process. I hate these thoughts! I'm not sure if I should do something about that voice or if those are the demons I should ignore or better yell back at. I had a horrible dream last night where I suddenly remembered that I was a murderer of several people, but had successfully covered up my tracks a long time ago. This morning on my bike, I thought: Is this the Imposter-Syndrom coming for me in a shape I've never seen before? Does it too have to get creative in order to trick me back into feeling anxious? When I read about your Cult-Commentary and intervention or reply to this trend as well as your personal connection thorugh your sister, I felt immediately reminded of my own family. I don't want to share too much, it somehow feels still very fragile but I am too planning to be a bit more offensive and direct with that film I'm writing. I need to be, some things simply can't be said nicely. And I love that you are more daring too, I wish more artist would do it (including me) not to be so apologetic and careful and so on.

As I'm writing this I hear a strong wind blowing through the leafs of the birch tree in front of my studio window. I know there is something I have been avoiding and perhaps even hiding from and it's time I face it. Meanwhile, I'm immensely grateful for the exchange we had, it felt like a portal I could throw myself into in whatever shape I was at that current state. I didn't have to brush my teeth or comb my hair for this, to fake a smile or pretend I was someone I am not and know that on the other line someone will sit down and read all of it. And not just that – who will reply thoughtfully and share his vision and doubts too. That is rare and a beautiful gift.

Thank you for this,

Your sincerely Weaver

Week 8, Message from Sneezy Thunderheart

Dear Weaver,

If your previous message felt like a cup of tea, this new one landed like one of those sudden gusts that sends all the papers flying off my desk — a bit chaotic, but invigorating once I’ve scrambled around to gather them back. 

That dream of being a murderer made me laugh,  I suppose we should both be grateful you’re channelling it into art instead of your local crime statistics. 

Your weekly meeting with your friend puts me to shame. I can barely remember to call my best friends, let alone commit to a disciplined exchange. It sounds rare, as you said — though maybe “rare” is just another way of saying requires a stamina I don’t have. Still, there’s something enviable about the structure you’ve built with her. The best I can do with my creative friends is send memes back and forth to each other. Although when I am truly stuck, I can always count on them to give me honest feedback, which is also rare in our world. 

I liked what you said about artists being too apologetic, sanding down the rough edges. It’s why I released my last project under a fake artist collective and why I invented the Taoist cult leader alter ego, a scapegoat who can take the blame when people are offended. It’s liberating to hide behind a mask that everyone knows is fake, while also testing just how real the reactions can get. It also goes against the expected norm of building on one’s career, one’s audiences and one’s followers that’s expected of us. Perhaps your screenplay and my cult will be cousins in this family of blunt instruments.

You sitting by the birch tree struck me. Avoidance is sneaky — it lets you feel safe until you realise you’ve just been building furniture around the thing you’re avoiding. I like that you’re beginning to face it. If nothing else, this exchange of ours seems to give us a tiny rehearsal space for saying the things we don’t usually say aloud.

Thank you for that. And don’t worry — even if you ever did confess to murder in one of these letters, I’d probably just assume it was another metaphor.

Yours in sneezing and second-guessing,

 Sneezy Thunderheart