Scripta Manent or Writing About Applied art
	Ele Praks

	From 21 September to 22 October 2000, the Tallinn Art Hall presented Scripta manent II, an international exhibit of bookbinding and calligraphy. The Latin title implies the obvious fact that any message survives and acquires cultural significance only when reproduced as written text. But how does one approach writing as a subject matter? How to write about the most formal expressions of writing, about bookbinding and calligraphy?
	This was an applied arts event that attracted lively interest and a warm reception by specialists as well as by the public at large. It was an event that is becoming a valued nostalgic tradition, which is not going to disappear from our culture any time soon. Certainly, there will always be persons who will write about applied art - scripta manent. After all - this is the only way a phenomenon can secure and maintain a significant place in a culture.
	Aesthetic fluidity and the culture of self-fulfilment In writing about applied art, writers often seek superlative synonyms for beauty, and sometimes the objects of applied art are valuable items of design. At the same time, the definition of beauty is subjective, something conventional and variable, for which there are no absolute criteria. Today's world favours pluralism, accepts variety and is emphatically tolerant. It is difficult to negatively review the small items of applied art with a personal touch from an aesthetic viewpoint. The handcrafted item is often artistically significant only because it reflects an artist's free expression - self-realisation, after all, is a highly rated attainment in modern Western culture. The self-affirmation and self-esteem which the artist receives while making an object of art, is transferred to the viewer who perceives his own uniqueness by understanding the artist's self-fulfilment, and who may even perceive a creative revelation of a sort. The public is captivated by simple everyday things, which have been hallowed by being labelled Art. The viewer perceives a feeling of gratitude and purification. S/he does not have to make an effort, nor does s/he feel haunted. It is like a mass without a confession of sins. S/he can leave, brimming with his/her better self, the sacral-sounding music, which filled the exhibition hall resounding in his/her ears.
	Without the Word nothing was made (John 1,3) In these fast-paced times, what dominates is the temporality and replaceability of things. This trend is intensifying. The time spent on the making of things no longer represents their value and significance as it used to during the heydays of bookbinding and manuscripts. Maybe it is to compensate for this loss, that alongside rare luxury items, a field of art has flourished which tackles handicraft techniques as phenomena in themselves, just like fine art largely dealt with meditating upon art throughout the previous century. Whereas Art will always involve thinking, with the mental and linguistic effort this implies, applied art is primarily and inevitably linked to tools, technology, and materials and the skills in handling them. In this exhibit, the materials were texts (Doris Kareva's and Jaan Kaplinski's collections of poems) in need of form. Fortunately, these two poets are considered among the most talented in present-day Estonia. The material was thus of high quality. "Scripta manent II - it is more than 300 ways of drawing words, assembling them, dressing them up, disguising them..." writes Hélène Jolis, a member of the jury, in the exhibition catalogue. This would be the place to remark on the fatal distinction between handicraft and art which results from the difference between manual and linguistic talents, the opposition between material and spiritual worlds. But this particular writing appears in a publication bearing the word "Art" on its cover. The boundaries between these two attitudes are dangerously fluid.
	Presence of art Not all the 108 participants of the exhibition wanted to remain bookbinders and calligraphers. In the catalogue introduction, Anu Purre mentions Tom Gilhespy and Pavel Makov as her favourites: "The reason - the presence of Art." Hence a few words to explain why writing about applied art is so complicated: 1) The presence of art is not a prerequisite in applied art. But if you want to adequately evaluate the presence of art, then the idea of art should be very precisely defined, 2) Applied artists themselves tend to admit to the hierarchical inferiority of manual talent compared to language-focused art, as if implying that the mere use of an applied-art medium excludes or at least impedes the presence of art. In order to move closer to art; the applied artists are driven to employ methods of form typical of the trends of fine arts, without bothering to ponder on the meaning or causes of these trends. Tom Gilhespy cleverly exploits the method of fine arts by burning poems and presenting their ashes. But the matter, the reason of this work, remains in the poems, and Gilhespy is still a mere interpreter. Pavel Makov, though, does not surrender to Kareva. He assimilates the printed quires with his own interests. With dispassionate ease, they become part of his idée fixe. Kareva's poetry is simply a new layer in The Place, the artist's hometown that is his object of research. The sheets of the book arrive there by mail and are equal to other found objects that provide The Place with its spirit. Without being arrogant, Makov refuses to stoop to material, he remains unbiased, and this, in my opinion, creates "the presence of Art".
	The word becomes flesh Simultaneously with the Art Hall exhibition, the Gallery of the Estonian Academy of Arts presented the work of two young leather artists, titled Forgive Me. Both Art and applied art were present, which makes it difficult to speak about the irreconcilable difference between applied art in the clutches of material, and language-based art. Associating a pinkish canvas exhibiting hairs and sperm-like varnish (it could easily have been a worn sheet, soiled by bodily excretions) with photographs of a human body, and excerpts of text pressed into leather, the artists did not abandon their source of inspiration - the poetry - and reserved a special place for it as a title beside the picture. The love poetry of Estonian poets, including Doris Kareva, begins to compete with the pictures, as if the title and the picture were rivals in their power of illustration. Once again, the poetry is excellent, from a splendid collection. And even if a poem would want to move away from carnality to other paths, the intensity of the picture would not allow it. The topics tackled - sexuality, bodily love - are very general, and do not recognise the boundaries of time or culture. The flush of a stamped word on a pain-sensitive body suffices as an image, alluding to the intimacy of the body. The banal material of love (flesh-coloured canvas, hair, sperm) is dragged into the daylight by the cynically grinning artists. Helena Hage and Elin Kard's pictures do not actually need these poems. Stains, leather and pain are proof enough of the presence of logos.
	It might be assumed that the habit of thinking as a bookbinder has caused the poem to be placed beside the picture (or the other way round). Such confirmation of an idea with written culture, however, can be seen elsewhere as well. The young composer Helena Tulve chose Khalil Gibran's love poetry in Doris Kareva's translation to accompany her 1998 work for the NYYD ensemble. Maybe this is nothing but the young ladies' vain modesty, concealing their more tender and lyric feelings under another's name? Or perhaps the artists turn to the poet as an already established expert so that, while interpreting his/her work, reflecting themselves in its light, they finally realise themselves and find an identity? Who knows?
	| Estonian Art 2/00 (8) | Published by the Estonian Institute 2000 | ISSN 1406-5711 (Online) | ISSN 1406-3549 (Printed version) | einst@einst.ee | tel: (372) 631 43 55 | fax: (372) 631 43 56 |