On "Triangle" by Sanja Iveković

Juliet Jacques considers the changing meaning of a seminal work of performance art.

The action takes place on the day of the President Tito’s visit to the city, and it develops as intercommunication between three persons:

  1. A person on the roof of a tall building across the street of my apartment;
  2. Myself, on the balcony;
  3. A policeman in the street in front of the house.

Due to the cement construction of the balcony, only the person on the roof can actually see me and follow the action. My assumption is that this person has binoculars and a walkie-talkie apparatus. I notice that the policeman in the street also has a walkie-talkie. The action begins when I walk out on the balcony and sit on a chair. I sip whiskey, read a book and make gestures as if I perform masturbation. After a period of time the policeman rings my doorbell and orders that ‘the persons and objects are to be removed from the balcony’.

*

So runs the final English-language text that accompanies Sanja Iveković’s Triangle, first performed on 10 May 1979 when President Tito’s parade passed the artist’s apartment in Zagreb, and then turned into an installation consisting of four photographs and this explanatory note. It is considered in detail by Ruth Noack, Head of Curating Contemporary Art at the Royal College of Art, in Triangle, the latest entry in Afterall Books’ One Work series.

Noack places Triangle within the political and artistic context of 1970s Yugoslavia, assessing the changing relationship between its form and content, and asking how its ‘canonisation’ turned it from a private act into public art. Well known in Croatia for the explorations of identity and ideology in her performances, videos and photomontages, Anglo-American audiences and critics are slowly discovering Iveković: her first UK solo exhibition, Unknown Heroine, took place at Calvert 22 and the South London Gallery just last year. Aware of potential dehistoricisation if Triangle is read primarily on aesthetic terms, Noack avoids efforts to integrate Iveković’s local avant-garde into the 21st century art world, instead trying to understand Triangle’s statement through analysis of its structure.

Noack had a personal role in Triangle’s transition from performance art piece to gallery installation. Co-curating at Documenta 12 in 2007, Noack dispersed the four photographs – of Iveković on her balcony, the apartment block, Tito’s parade and the people on the street, beneath the Yugoslav flag – across a display board. The next day, Iveković asked that it be re-hung, with the image of her on the right and the others on the left, with the text, framed, next to them. Noack is particularly interesting on the instability of Triangle’s documentation, and Iveković’s need to fix it as a work in its own right. On its first display in December 1980 in Zagreb, the image of the late Tito was missing: sure that the gallery director removed it, Iveković told Noack that ‘Self-censorship was the most powerful institution in our socialism’.

The directness of Triangle’s symbolism, exposing how thoroughly the state sought to maintain ‘visual order’ at mass spectacles even in private spaces, sprang from her concern that the artistic language of the late 1960s was too difficult and too detached to successfully democratise Yugoslav art. Although not a formal movement, several individuals and groups who emerged in the 1960s and 1970s were critically united under the New Art Practice banner. Dušan Makavejev’s short film Parade (1962) concentrated on the preparations for the Mayday event in Belgrade and the crowd’s irreverent disinterest, and was soon censored; in 1968, just before the student protests in the capital, an artist-activist group in Split painted their own red square in Split, attempting to take control of socialist iconography back from the government.

Aware that these bold, simple gestures had a profound effect on Iveković, who was studying in Zagreb at the time, Noack opens with a quote from the artist, who said that ‘those who were active on the counter-cultural scene at the time took the socialist project far more seriously than the cynical ruling elite’. Iveković’s grasp of power structures, and of the gap between the state’s rhetoric and its implementation, were fundamental to her art. Feminist criticism didn’t exist in Yugoslavia, partly because officially, women were central to its socialism: not taking its ideological lead from Moscow, the country had advanced abortion policies, social security, childcare and paid maternity leave. However, concerns about unpaid reproductive labour, domestic violence and the sexism of the growing advertising industry were seldom discussed, as the workplace took priority over the home, and the gender balance of these spaces remained relatively unchanged.

Developing Iveković’s concern with the place of women in Tito’s Yugoslavia, Triangle explored various power dynamics simultaneously, contrasting the public male politician with the private female artist, the former demanding the adulation of his citizens, the latter alone, nonchalantly reading T. B. Bottomore’s Elites and Society.  It was this ability to explore a number of ‘social relations and subject formations’ at once, suggests Noack, which makes Iveković’s work stand above that of her contemporaries, with Triangle’s strength lying in the clarity of the question it asked: Would you rather watch the old leader for the umpteenth time or a young artist masturbating?

Iveković’s concern with who was watching was vital. The whole point was that the original performance could only have had a very small audience, possibly just one, and that this viewer was sufficiently affronted to report her behaviour to the authorities – although Noack says that nothing in the presented evidence conclusively proves that the chain of events actually happened. Noack refuses to get too mired in this possibility, however, aware that it is more interesting to ask how Iveković simultaneously removed herself from and inserted herself into the spectacle, and how the size and type of her audience changed over time.

Perhaps strangely, Noack makes no mention of Iveković’s repeat on 15 October 2005, for the visit of George W. Bush, attempting unsuccessfully to inform the Croatian President, Parliament and Ministry of Foreign Affairs before she did so, and apparently producing the same outcome despite the shift in official ideology. Nonetheless, Noack makes a convincing case for the original performance and installation of Triangle as a landmark post-war work: it may not have been the foundation of a movement, but it was an intelligent, utterly original piece that continued to ask searching questions about the relationship between politics and art long after it was first performed and recorded.

"Triangle," 1979. Image: The Museum of Modern Art, New York.

Juliet Jacques is a freelance journalist and writer who covers gender, sexuality, literature, film, art and football. Her writing can be found on her blog at and she can be contacted on Twitter @julietjacques.

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How the death of a militant in Kashmir went viral

Burhan Wani was a 22-year-old Hizb al-Mujahedin commander. In life, he resuscitated the flagging insurgency. Now, his death has put it on a firm road to revival.

His photographs began to circulate on Facebook last year. In one, he leans against a cedar tree in a forest in southern Kashmir, a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. In another, he stands before lush green mountains under a cloudless sky.

But the picture that created the myth of Burhan Wani, the 22-year-old Hizb al-Mujahedin commander, was a group shot with ten armed associates standing around him. They faced the camera calmly, a hint of a smile tugging at their lips. The photograph went viral, not only in Kashmir but also across India and Pakistan.

On 8 July, when Wani and two other rebels were shot dead in a joint operation by the police and paramilitary forces, thousands of people across southern Kashmir took to the streets to mourn and protest. The mosques reverberated with slogans of freedom – a throwback to the late 1980s, when armed struggle against Indian rule broke out in the region. The protesters lobbed stones. The police fired back.

The following morning, news of protesters’ deaths started to emerge. The injured, numbering in their hundreds, began to reach the hospitals in Srinagar. Many had been hit in the eyes with pellets from pump-action guns, non-lethal weapons used for crowd control in Kashmir since 2010.

The eye doctors at Sri Maharaja Hari Singh Hospital said that more than a hundred people had been partially or completely blinded. Among them was a 14-year-old schoolgirl, Insha Malik, who lost the vision in both eyes. A picture of her pellet-riddled face has become the symbol of the ongoing mayhem.

The fury soon spread across Kashmir. Mosque loudspeakers boomed with slogans and songs calling for resistance against India. Apart from the government-owned broadband service, internet and mobile-phone networks were shut down. Yet this made little difference. Roughly sixty people – many of them teenagers – have lost their lives. According to figures presented to parliament by the Indian home minister on 11 August, 4,515 security personnel and 3,356 civilians have been injured in the protests.

What made Burhan Wani important enough to warrant such widespread mourning and anger? The answer is tacitly understood in Kashmir but little articulated. In his six years as a rebel, Wani revived anti-India militancy from near-extinction. His strategy was primarily tech-driven – according to police in Kashmir, he hadn’t fired a single shot.

The image of a handsome young man in battle fatigues against a pastoral backdrop, calling for a new attempt at jihad against India, held a powerful appeal for a young generation in Kashmir. These are the people who are enduring the fallout of more than two decades of separatist insurgency, and they are bitter about New Delhi’s oppressive hold over their homeland. With his fresh, viral image, Wani separated his movement from Kashmir’s history and bestowed a new moral glamour on their actions.

He was soon joined by scores of recruits. In 2015, for the first time in a decade, local militants outnumbered outsiders. This year, out of 145 active rebels, 91 are from Indian-administered Kashmir and most of the rest are from Pakistan or Pakistan-administered Kashmir (though this is still a far cry from the early 1990s, when thousands of militants, both local and from elsewhere, roamed the valley). The recruits – many of them home-grown, Wani-inspired youths – are replenishing the ranks as others are killed.

As the ongoing turmoil shows, Wani long ago transcended his modest militant credentials. He has become an emblem of Kashmir’s deepening alienation from India and a role model for young people for whom guns seem to be the only route to a better future.

In life, he resuscitated the flagging insurgency. Now, his death has put it on a firm road to revival. Unlike during the mass uprisings of 2008 and 2010, Kashmir today is drifting back to active militancy, with the myths about Wani enlivening the separatist narrative.

“You will kill one Burhan; thousands of Burhans will be born”, one slogan goes. “Burhan, your blood will bring revolution”, promises another. The millennial generation has little memory of the horrors of the 1990s, of the innumerable killings and disappearances. An estimated 60,000 people have been killed in the armed rebellion against New Delhi, in part aided by Pakistan (which claims Kashmir as part of its territory, in a dispute that stretches back to the 1947 partition of India). Human rights groups put the number of enforced disappearances in the present conflict at 8,000.

Contributing to this mood are India’s rightward turn under Prime Minister Narendra Modi and the perception that New Delhi wants to forcibly change the demographics in Kashmir. This fear has been reinforced by recent government measures to set up colonies to be settled by Indian soldiers and Kashmiri Pandits – the latter from a small Hindu community that was forced to flee the region during the separatist violence.

At Wani’s funeral on 9 July, all eyes were on a group of masked rebels in the front row. They fired their guns in salute to their fallen chief. When prayers ended, the mourners strained to catch a glimpse of Wani’s comrades. Those who were close enough kissed them on the forehead before they escaped.

More than a month later, the anger on the streets shows no sign of abating. Protests take place daily across Kashmir. Businesses are shut down for most of the day, opening only briefly late in the evening and early in the morning. Internet access is restricted, except through the state-owned broadband. With each week of disturbances, the numbers of deaths and injuries continue to mount.

Meanwhile, a new video has appeared on Facebook and YouTube. This time, it comes from Sabzar Ahmad Bhat, Wani’s successor. Again, it shows a commander and his associates in battle fatigues, in a forest in southern Kashmir. Bhat waves to the camera as the others remain engrossed by their phones. It, too, has gone viral. 

This article first appeared in the 18 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Corbyn’s revenge