2004
Single-channel video, color, sound, English
18 min.
Filmed in Amsterdam, Frankfurt, London, Seoul, Berlin
Voice-over: Camille Hesketh
| Excerpt of the Video Script “Restrained Courage” (2004) By Haegue Yang It is midsummer. It is very hot. I hear neighbour’s child crying loudly. Its constantly screaming for its mother. Before I get interested in what might have happened, all I think about is that I don’t want to hear this screaming. It’s horrible. It seems as if the heat has turned into sound and is returning like a boomerang. How can the child cry so bitterly... My aggravation has already left my head and has grown so large that it will soon blast the ceiling of the flat. The feeling of hate towards the mother is already bigger than any I have ever had towards anyone. Despite the heat I automatically stand up and walk up the stairway in the direction of the child’s sound, which I hate so much. The door is ajar. The flat is laid out not much differently than mine. It is not only cramped and stuffy, but all the household goods are stacked up to a huge pile covering all the walls. The child apparently notices that I’m there and lowers its crying voice a bit. Untouched, I speak a few words and calm her down, saying her mother will be back soon. The effect is astonishing. The child immediately stops crying. I am suddenly extraordinarily satisfied and firmly believe that this world is still a place worth living in. I descend the stairs back to my flat, but behind me I hear the child starting to cry louder again. It gives rise to a feeling of betrayal. When I now think about it, I can hardly understand how I was only fixated, in an insensitive way, to the acoustic disturbance, without worrying about the child. In the 10 years during which I hadn’t experienced the heat in Seoul, I had probably forgotten that this heat makes people heartless. Here in Germany, I learned that the next morning will not be as cold when the sky is cloudy at night. And when I experience the same thing in Korea, I find the humid air romantic. When there is no space that can fill the distance in-between, it is perhaps my own niche, which I had to create out of necessity. Several lovers are also absolutely necessary. One needs them to find out on account of which mistakes one has lost whom.It has become chilly. It’s as cold as in the wintertime. Late one evening I’m on a train riding from a suburb into the city. A maybe 5-year-old girl is sitting diagonally opposite next to her mother. In an open book, a schoolbook containing many pictures, they add things together, sort the shapes of triangles or squares. It’s the picture of a family, something which I recognise only after quite some time. The family members stand in a close and intimate relationship. They take care of each other. It’s nice to look at. It even seems as if their cosiness und snugness has passed on to me. The mother’s mobile phone rings. She apparently receives from the other party information as to which train she has to switch to. The girl looks out the window and pulls a face. The girl intermittently touches her throat. The mother is explaining things, talking with the person on the other end of the line for quite a while about how to reach her destination. It all takes quite long. I can hear from the conversation that the two have a long trip ahead of them. When I now take a closer look, I see two huge bags standing like a mountain next to them in the passageway, blocking nearly half the space. The mother is finally done with her telephone calls after having noted down a lot. The girl interrupts her mother, who is momentarily speaking about her conversation with the grandmother and sighs: “I’m feeling really sick. I have to throw up!” “That’s why I told you not to eat so much sweets!” “I feel sick.” “We have to get off the train shortly. Here, put on your coat.” “Wait a minute! I have to walk a few steps.” “That’s why I told you to stop eating!” “I have to throw up!” “Come here, I’ll take you in my arms.” The girl presses her hand to her mouth and with an embarrassed expression sinks into her arms. “Is it that bad?” “Yes, my stomach’s rumbling.” “Now, of all times...” “Can you hold out a bit? We’re getting off in a few moments.” “Okay. What does grandma say?” “Yes, there’s a train to Kassel from here. We have to take it.” “Okay.” “Put your coat on! And take your bag.” (….) As soon as they get off they almost start running, but not really much faster. I happen to see a sign at the track to the left indicating the direction and the train to Kassel. Both are standing in front of the timetable, and then I see them running to the right. That’s the wrong direction. The mother’s shoulder is weighed down by the heavy bags and the girl is walking, almost running, next to her. They will certainly miss the train to Kassel. Even if they would arrive in Kassel, there would be no train to Berlin except for the Night Express. It’s about 600 kilometres from Frankfurt to Berlin. A long journey. And the day is almost over. The girl with the sick stomach. The mother with the large and heavy bags.I did not help them. Because I didn’t have the courage to speak to them. That’s reality. I do not have the courage to speak to somebody. The longer I watched them, the more difficult it became to speak to them. It’s not the first time.When I got onto the last underground and went home through the streets of Insa Dong, a district of Seoul, one night, I saw a beggar being hollered at and beaten by a policeman. These things happen in Seoul. I looked at his eyes. I have always seen him around the underground station. Although he is pretty dirty, he is good-looking. His eyes don’t appear normal, more like those of an insane person. Yet his gaze is quite extraordinary. Each time I saw him, I looked at him closely. He is definitely a handsome man. Whether it was because of the feeling of encountering someone I knew or the violence taking place directly in front of my eyes, I was stunned and my heart pounded intensely. Maybe I was paralysed despite the compulsion to help. As was the case this time, I did not help the beggar in Insa-Dong. The policeman continued to kick him and curse him without a pause. I don’t know how long it went. I stood there as though rooted to the spot, without saying a word and without taking action against it. I don’t know if other people passed by or if I just didn’t notice them. My heart pounded so intensely that I could feel my pulse in my head. This state lasted until I heard the voice of a woman dressed in a pair of pants like a Budhisattva, a Buddhist priestess. Upon hearing her voice I saw her take a slight hold of the policeman’s arm and prevent him from continuing. I don’t know how it happened. Only later did I notice how wildly my legs were shaking and how weak I was at the knees. Although I felt as if I were about to collapse, I left the scene behind me and continued on my way. I left the place in calmness.I formulate my ideas in front of the mirror. I want to laugh inwardly, just for myself. Because I needn’t necessarily show it to others. The face of my “self” in the mirror shows no sign of change. Yet I know I am laughing quietly inside. Satisfied, I laugh for a long time. This laughing has no addressee, so I can enjoy it alone. It is pure laughing. It ought to be pure laughing addressed to me. This possibility of an extremely personal and inwardly laugh satisfies me for a period of time.I never admitted to myself that I am a very weak person. Of course I have never claimed to be a courageous person. But at least I believed that I did what I could do. That, however, does not seem to be the case. This sometimes causes me pain. Because I want to live differently. Because I want to change things. I want to rise above the already existing form. A little bit of effort is not enough to do so. I must go very far. Then something will change.As if they had guessed my thoughts, some people have been speaking to me about vanishing lately. ‘Vanishing’ can be understood in different ways. The vanishing I speak of is both a literal vanishing and a kind of isolation. This state implies an extreme break in the course of life or time. Because this break is very extreme. What is the difference between vanishing and death? Normally one can assume that death is even more extreme and relentless than vanishing. But when thinking about it in a more profound way, vanishing is crueller. Because vanishing includes the possibility of a return. (….) The person who has disappeared often wishes to be as innocent as someone who has lost his memory. New stories are constantly fabricated so as to forget recurring thoughts and the past and to lead a new life. And one tries to assert them. While one lie engenders the next lie, a new identity slowly emerges. And for me this identity is familiar and pleasant. But when I’m alone, I gradually grow more fearful. Is this really me? I cannot rely on anyone. There is no one on this side or the other side of the river who is on my side. Because I am a refugee on the other side of the river, who has done injustice, and because on this side I am an illegal immigrant with a forged ID card. The only thing that is exclusively mine is utter loneliness. It is solitude. The freedom, which loneliness and solitude give me and which one attracts all by oneself and in which one cannot share pain and be comforted by others, remains totally independent.Everything is one of these two things. back |