SHELL SCHWOON by Ali Razzak
Recounting a string of awkward date nights, a sketch of Stockholm's gallery scene shines through Razzak's (mis)adventures.
An electronic chime ushers sensation back into your body. As the stupor lifts, your gaze turns to the glowing screen nestled between your hands. The device suddenly jolts in revolt and as you focus into its hypnotic light the realisation that you’ve bamboozled yourself into a date takes hold. A somatic force launches your mind through a dazzling highway of prospective Stockholm-catered escapades, each glimmer conjuring a myriad of prospects.
Despite this, your neurotic-tuned first date calculator converts thoughts of picnics into mud baths, coffee into gastrointestinal jousts, museums into jarring staring contests, & most honourably of all you’re too broke for a drink. The once glittering horizon dims with each revision, pulling you closer to an endless darkness, while the potential that your mind could render this opportunity destitute knots your stomach. Before retreating into a paralytic state, a final “seaslug” spelled spark ignites your imagination.
Art spaces seldom involve mud and sometimes doesn’t even include coffee; it offers room for the pretentious and importantly, occasionally there is free booze from a local brand you’ve not yet heard of! Ecstasy courses through your hands as you swiftly type “seaslug.se”. This time the surge of hormones oozes through you as if it were a panacea, harnessing the chemical imbalance to navigate the banquet of art exhibitions bouncing between your fingertips. As a terminal manoeuvre to guide your selection, you summon the immeasurable awkwardness of all past vernissage first dates to light your path. Even if fortune fails to favour, surely pity will play a part.
Fate's first lesson was found on the hallowed grounds of Stockholm’s Moderna Museet. A forlorn afternoon like any other- having already mixed up the meeting point, the charm of first meetings was sloughed off by sweat. We clambered through tenuously related anecdotes, each seeming only to extend our trek to Skeppsholmen. All things considered, we arrived remarkably late but just in time to see half of Nan Goldin’s works with ample reason to evade the permanent and architecture collections.
In my experience, cinematic viewings are accentuated by smuggled box red-wine. However, Goldin’s art is captivating enough that any accessories would detract. In hindsight, the material was a bit heavy for the occasion- we scarcely made eye contact, let alone communicated. A pretty unceremonious first meeting.
The second bout of bitter-sweet memories was served at a Coulisse Gallery opening. On paper it seemed bound for success: a cozy gallery that tactfully curates up and coming local artists alongside international ones, it is close to several hotdog vendors and a wealth of poorly lit bars. What could go wrong? We met at St. Eriksplan station and began clumsily talking about our impressions of Stockholm as two dazed and confused migrants. Before long we were met with Coulisse’s window stickers, clamoured through their doors and beelined for the chrome cooler of complimentary drinks. It would prove too early to relax.
Coulisse being a quaint enough place where it’s difficult to remain sly, the inevitable and daunting task which accompanies all outside ventures remained. How to tactfully but casually say “hello” to people you know while also introducing your company. It’s not clear to me if I’m better off just shouldering the arrogance that comes with ignorance or accruing the pity that comes with anxiety, but I intuitively pursue the latter. This was all before the performance had even begun. I’ll let you imagine how that transpired.
Our final dystopian glimpse into the abyss of the past was hosted at Issues Gallery. Like Coulisse, Issues has established themselves as a place where compelling art is found among compelling artists. Any given opening at Issues will leave someone unexpectedly brushing shoulders with some of Sweden’s most talented Artists scurrying about the work. These events leave little to be desired, in turn speaking volumes of my skill to excise the worst out of a date.
We tumbled down the decline from Drottninggatan relapsing through the goofy existences we inhabit as we approached Issues’ windows. I braced myself for the routine distress management processes. The ritual of haphazardly bothering acquaintances ensued as we slithered between art and appendages. The truly remarkable thing about the evening was that I did not buckle under the immense weight of this socially saturated space. I even managed to mumble entirely incoherent thoughts about how Crash (1996) is the best movie of all time.
