The Moment You Gain Awareness of Who You Are

A conversation with Jeremiah Day

In 2008 the artist Jeremiah Day and scholar Wouter Davidts met in Istanbul for a studio visit – an encounter that meant the start of a long-time collaboration and friendship. In anticipation of Jeremiah Day’s exhibition at Netwerk Aalst in April 2021 – the artist’s first institutional solo show in Belgium – Day, Davidts, together with art historian Eléa De Winter, convened for a formal conversation on Sunday, March 8, 2021. Excerpts from the 3-hour long online exchange are published here.


Wouter Davidts (WD): I am trying to find out what your stakes are. Is it the cause itself, that matters as the event, or as the event in history? Are you as an artist interested in the capacity of art to address that event? Or is art only a means to address human capacity for resistance and then the cause itself, which is just one out of many or one of maybe few? Is art first and foremost used as a means or a tool to disclose them, to speak to them. Or are you, as an artist, also interested in the very agency of art itself to address such events and causes? In the second option, the subject is not the cause itself but rather the ability of art and artists to tackle the human capacity for critical resistance.

Jeremiah Day (JD): I am trying to understand what the hell is happening to me. And so, in order to understand… I only understand that in concrete details. I am actually not really theoretically astute. I only think in terms of very detailed specific things.

I am interested in the causes for their exemplary quality – how they can illuminate broader issues – and they are mobilized as examples, like non-fictional allegories or lo-fi fables. It is a strategy drawn from Walter Benjamin and Hannah Arendt, who both used this exemplification method; making insights and arguments meaningful by routing and rooting in concrete lived experiences and artifacts.

Arendt used this quote by Juan Gris: “If I am not in possession of the abstract, with what am I to control the concrete? … if I am not in possession of the concrete with what am I to control the abstract?” For Benjamin, these concrete things could be artifacts, images, fragments with which he said he could make a kind of constellation between past and present and open up the present for action, literally revolutionary political action.

For Arendt, the starting point was often people themselves, their lives. Lived examples like Rosa Luxemburg or Isak Dinesen, Arendt said that they had more potential than theories or concepts to help us gain understanding, or as she put it, “illumination.” But how do we know those people? She said we live amidst a “web of human relationships” whose “medium” is stories, memory made concrete through things like monuments, poetry, this glue that holds everything together. Art is part of that glue and I see my practice as having a status with hopefully a potential meaning outside of the narrow professional art field, but as part of this ‘web of relations.’

At the same time, I am realizing more and more how influenced I am by John Cassavetes, by Cassavetes saying that making films was his whole life. That was all that there was, nothing else in life besides making these films with his friends. This because in the filmmaking process, he had a chance to work out all of his big questions about life. About how he was a messed-up guy, about people cheating on one’s partner, about his father, about his kids, about politics, about going crazy: everything could happen, be addressed, explored in the films.

There is a story that in filming The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976), about whether a man should commit a murder to get out of a big gambling debt, Cassavetes and the star Ben Gazzara stopped the production when filming the scene with the gun. They sat in the car to debate what to do next. How far will you go for money? Would that save your life or break you? What would it mean to make a film of such murder for them, the public, or their kids? This is artmaking as shared wrestling with the world, our place in it, what we do, and the suffering from what is done to us.

In that sense, the question of the art or the cause is not an either/or question. Addressing politics is a way of asking questions about people because there is no other meaningful way to ask than by attending to such human things, which in turn are actually only made understandable at all through representation. More and more, in my case, the process of representation itself is also a form of organizing; gathering people to share in attending, either as collaborators or the public itself.

WD: You can document civic or political causes if you are an archivist. Or you can write a paper about them when you are a political scientist. But you are an artist. You are addressing a different field, audience, and discourse. Does it bring another type of responsibility? Isn’t the degree of self-reflexivity somewhat different in your case? Since art’s capacity to address the kind of issues you tackle is invariably at stake in your work as well, no?

JD: Do you mean is art’s meaning… Or the potential of art itself an issue, as such?

WD: Yes. It seems that the negotiation you have as an artist in establishing this type of practice is partly also the subject of your work. I think you genuinely believe, and I share this, that art potentially serves as a realm to address societal, political, and cultural causes. Not to promote them, but to make them public.

JD: When I started as an artist in the 1990s in Los Angeles, I made videos about places – the African-American community in Venice Beach and the town in Cape Cod where my grandmother lived – and then the screening of these were the basis for a public discussion, like an occasion for a town-hall meeting. These videos were so bound to the local discussions and meant for a local public that they didn’t really work beyond that context. However, on one occasion, real political action came out of one of those video-screening-townhall meeting events. There really was an effect.

Those pieces that I made, those videos that served as the basis for the town hall meetings, I showed them also to Allan Kaprow – the artist who invented Happenings. Kaprow was an artist from another generation. He was a big influence and met with me a few times in a helpful way. And he was like: “If you want to do good in the world, you’d be much better off being a pediatrician than being an artist. Because people really need pediatricians when their kid gets sick. You really want to do good and you want to have a good feeling of having a meaningful role in the world, in people’s lives? Be a pediatrician.” He was very suspicious of these claims that art could be a basis for making anything better. In that sense, I think I am kind of testing, I am interested in testing what is possible. And so, that is why I do think about examples all the time. Like, you know, Bob Dylan’s song Hurricane (1975), like, OK, huh, what kind of role in public life can a song have?

WD: You seem to use art as a legitimate field to address things that happen out there in the world – as art is the field that you know best. But on an institutional level, there is often the belief, a deep belief, that art can and should effectively achieve something in that world it addresses. How do you relate to the prospect of instrumentalization?

JD: The downside with this idea of having broader meaning in the world is the confusion that just because you have agency in the white cube, this invariably means you have agency in the world. In this way, you might propose that the public has a feeling of engagement, which in actual civic terms is impossible. This is, of course, related to ‘institutional critique’ and the argument that the production of critical self-awareness in the art frame would have some meaning in the world generally.

Also, we have to admit that there is now a phenomenon of ‘artwashing.’ The term comes from ‘greenwashing’, the way polluting businesses often make minor contributions to ecological causes in order to cover up the more substantial damage they do. The term ‘artwashing’ was used most in gentrification struggles in Los Angeles, where the supposed benevolence of the cultural scene was often used to distract from an underlying cultural conflict: the displacement of a traditional Mexican-American community by young professional whites looking for affordable housing and working space, which was actually organized by powerful financial interests. This also came up with the censorship at the Museum of Modern Art’s show on the Iraq War (Theater of Operations: The Gulf Wars 1991–2011, 2019-2020) too – a show that blunted questions of responsibility at an institution deeply enmeshed in the business of military contractors. Or more relevant to us, the recent Documenta in Kassel in 2017, in which Yanis Varoufakis observed that even left-wing theory was used to cover up political responsibility. Because, if we make lots of emotional gestures about capitalism in general, then we conveniently never mention the actual human beings and political parties (the Dutch labor party, for example) who take actions or how the Euro-Group actually effects our children’s schools, libraries, visits to the doctor.

But most of all, in the Western Europe of today, the technocracy of social democracy has joined forces with the market fundamentalism of neoliberalism, which has led to a radical demand for direct applicability and instrumentalization. Art, and everything else, needs to justify itself in terms of impact, usefulness, and often exaggerated claims of making the world a better place, exactly the kind of thing that Kaprow was so suspicious of.

Art shows sometimes offer no more than some kind of emotional journalism about sensitive topics so that people have a feeling of participation. But in fact, they are not. Like Tom Yorke from Radiohead singing in There, There (2003): “Just ‘cause you feel it / doesn’t mean it’s there.”

This occurred to me when I was living in the Netherlands and learned about the country’s involvement in Nigeria with the firm Royal Dutch Shell. Shell had to settle out of court for its involvement in killing the poet Ken Saro Wiwa, but nobody ever talked about this. There is a kind of political correctness in the Dutch art world – they advocate social change, decolonization, and anti-racism –, still I have never heard anyone mention the actions of Shell in Nigeria and what had happened, all those murders to protect oil profits. That lack of reckoning makes me also suspicious about what is effectively going on. But does that mean artists have to take a stand against Shell? Maybe just take a stand against self-deception and organized amnesia.

I have to think here of the Václav Havel example, of Charter 77, when they wrote a letter that their human rights were being violated by the state. They really all took a stand on a principle. And they knew that this would cost them considerably, personally – losing jobs, going to jail – but by confronting the political order directly, they contributed to a dramatic shift, with Havel, a playwright, ultimately becoming a political leader. And that kind of stand-taking at some moments has to happen. But it remains awkward as an artist, contradictory.

An almost opposing example here would be the Baader-Meinhof paintings (1988) by Gerhard Richter and the very lack of stand that he took in painting them. It is precisely this lack of stance that gave the artworks more political meaning. Because if he had said, “I am for the RAF” or “I am against the RAF,” the work would have flattened out to illustration. Richter’s ambivalence allowed the work to be the basis for plural debate. This is precisely what an artist like Luc Tuymans realized. He totally mobilized that deadness in a strategic way, not only in his Congo paintings (2000) but into his whole oeuvre. He showed that this kind of detachment can be the basis for public thinking and for judgement. When I was studying at the Rijksakademie in Amsterdam, Tuymans did give me one very blunt piece of advice. “Don’t get into the political artist box,” he said, “because once you are in the political artist box, you won’t come out of it again.” It is actually a way of censoring, oddly enough. It is a way of neutralizing all of the implications of what you are doing. I remain very torn about this issue of art and taking a stance.

Eléa De Winter (EDW): This notion of stand-taking is even more crucial when we realize how much we benefit today from those sacrifices people have made in the past. Many of the liberties and possibilities we currently take for granted we owe to the fact that people have taken action, have put pressure on the system, and demanded change. How should we relate to that?

JD: It reminds me of a story that I shared with Gilles Vandaele – he joked about making a film out of it – there is a small island off Mallorca called Dragonera. In the info center of the nature reserve – the whole thing is protected –, there are these posters from political demonstrations that took place in the mid-70s. If you look at these for a little bit, you can come to understand that the whole island was actually supposed to become a giant condominium complex. This was right in the period when Franco dies, and so, there is this sea of public activity and a sense of; ‘what kind of society are we going to be?’ It was, in fact, hippies and ecologists that have saved the island from becoming condominiums. You can read about the island in the EasyJet magazine. But the EasyJet magazine isn’t going to tell you that the island only exists for you to visit because these people gave up their weekends for two years to fight for it. I have come to suspect that we are deprived, in general, of stories of such accomplishments, such successes, because if such stories were to circulate, people might just start doing more activism! Is telling such a story taking a stance, though?


WD: In any case, in your work, I have never sensed the kind of ‘waving with the finger’ attitude; telling people what they should do. If you address a problem or a situation, does it immediately mean that you tell what is to be done? In your work, you seem to instantiate rather than advocate political awareness.


JD: By leaving it a question, you don’t fall into the trap of telling what people ought to do. The waving of the finger would also mean that people should know what to do next. This is a kind of left-wing position that I question. David Mamet said that the left-wing aesthetic is a lecture and the right-wing’s is an action movie. And the lecture is made in a tone of superiority. It is a bit like the Noam Chomsky book that gives you like three hundred pages about why the US government is hypocritical and perhaps even full of war criminals, and then you don’t even get five pages at the end about how you could all change it, right? It feels symptomatic for the states without properly functioning democracies, in which people have less and less access to political power really. It is like telling people that “if only you would eat more carrots, you’d feel better,” in a world where there are no more carrots. You know, it is like “you should go and be more involved!” Being more involved, how? Like those in the Netherlands or Germany who built up the Green party only for them to give up their anti-war commitments and continue to support 20 years of NATO in Afghanistan? It makes people feel like, maybe these systems are not reformable. And that too has to be described, that is part of the aesthetics of everyday life too.

This week, I took pictures in the Dannenröder forest in the South of Kassel, pictures that will be in the show in Aalst. Activists wanted to protect this forest between Kassel and Frankfurt from having a new freeway built through it. Fritz Winter, one of the biggest auto parts manufacturers in the world, and Ferrero Rocher, the candy company, both have their major German factories in the neighboring city of Stadtallendorf. For both companies it would be more efficient to have a freeway to reach the factories. As a reaction, a group of young people went into the woods to live in the trees, to block the freeway, because if you are concerned about the climate crisis, of course, destroying forests for freeways doesn’t make sense. Then the police came and cut them out of the trees, pulled them out, and locked them up. But what did these kids do? They have stayed in their little camps next to this new freeway while it is being built. They are not going anywhere, they have set up a sort of commune. However, the most challenging part is the kilometers of razor wire, giant lights and containers around the freeway construction site to prevent the activists from potentially breaking back in and re-occupying it. In order to protect the equipment and the construction site they built a fortress out of cargo containers around all of their trucks, as these companies and the state are worried that the activists will try and sabotage the equipment. You really feel the scale of state power. After years of trying to build the freeway, the government finally said yes. But it is a Green government! The Greens join the seat of power and then rip the kids from the trees to build a freeway for an auto-parts manufacturer’s convenience. At such a moment, it is tempting to conclude that the system cannot be reformed. These young activists, who live in their tents and have a public plenum every day, might be the ones who deal most realistically, most reasonably with these questions.

Like my experience in Alabama and working of the memory of the Freedom Struggle there – which will also be present in the exhibition through the example of Joanne Bland’s story, put into juxtaposition with Youth For Climate in a series of open discussions organized in 2019 – spending time with these activists is for lack of a better word, inspiring. In Alabama or in that forest, I spend my time hearing about courageous people and death-defying odds, trying to make a change in the world. And so, this is not a moral critique like Chomsky’s, but an aesthetic based on affirmative examples and arguments.

WD: Is the activist then a model for you as an artist?


JD: No, and I am not trying to. But it is complicated, when I made the performance about the Sivens Dam on the Tescou river in the South of France and the occupation that blocked it, the day after the public performance at Art Centre Le Lait in Albi last year, I was really freaking out to one of the other performers, Claire Filmon. Did we do justice to those people? God help me, did we even do like a tenth of justice to those people? These people had done something truly remarkable; did we even describe their actions adequately? I don’t think the activists who came to see the performance liked it, really. I don’t think they understood it. But it meant something to them. They saw that we were not playing. Claire and I and the rock band Chicks on Speed, we were not just genuine, we brought our absolute best. We brought our absolute total commitment. We were 100% committed to dealing with their struggles at the best of our capacities. And we treated their fight like it was one of the most important things in the world ever because to us, it was, is. They may not have understood the form, but for them, it was really something to see that some people came from around the world to wrestle with this landscape and story, the death of an activist, and the preservation of a river. Also, emotionally… we took it on emotionally, and that seriousness we brought gave the performance a quality, a valorization, maybe… some sort of dignity?


EDW: What do you mean? Did you feel a kind of debt towards them? Because you used them and their actions as the subject of your work?


JD: Yes, because in artmaking about someone, there is always an aspect of exploitation involved, of course. As Audre Lorde said, “use without consent is abuse.” So, I am always shy to meet these people. Because I know that once I have met them, I am obligated towards them in a different way. It is hard not to listen to them when they would give me advice on what to picture and how to take photographs, what the work should be. In France, one of the activists insisted that contemporary art was really a stupid framework, a perversion of actual meaning. He called it a “box that should be exploded.” He wanted us to do the performance in an outdoor marketplace in another village. Claire Filmon and I went there, checked it out, debated it. We spent an afternoon on this request and decided that the site he proposed was not suitable. It would not serve us and thus not serve the ambition to deal respectfully with this political situation. But we had to go, we had to take this request deadly seriously. Therefore, I am sometimes cagey about meeting these people and about how close I get to them. And that is also part of the obliqueness.

It is not so much debt as the feeling of using an inadequate vocabulary in the face of the incredible meaningfulness of the topics or of the subjects. Or the difference between object and subject matter, I mean. You know why Cézanne is so great? Because he was having both the mountains and the apples. If Cézanne were to have only the mountains, it wouldn’t be as good because the subject matter would always be so grand. But he went back home and tried to do the apples. So maybe I need to work on some more apple pieces and not so many mountain pieces?


WD: The notion of resistance seems to be at the center of most, if not all, of your works. I am thinking here of your early performance (Maquis, 2004), which was centered upon the French resistance in the second World War. But you yourself also engage in forms of resistance? I am thinking of the many events you organized in Berlin and abroad concerning the European Union crisis of 2011, which mobilized your own discontent about the direction Europe was taking. Is there some kind of resistance involved in addressing the denial and defiance of power the way you do it?


JD: Well, in that case, it is not about discontent or a bad feeling: it is about my life, your life, our kids’ lives. We pay the price, the kids already pay a price for the way 2010 and 2011 went down: they pay for it at the university, the doctor, the library, the museum, the welfare office. At the time of the Dutch restructuring of culture budgets into support for ‘creative entrepreneurs’ – i.e., a state ideology against poetry, in effect – indeed I wrote an open letter based on Arendt’s text The Crisis in Culture: Its Social and Its Political Significance (1961), and we had public readings of the letter.

But my friend Fred Dewey suggested, really, that I should convince Marlene Dumas to join me and lock ourselves to the Van Gogh Museum doors in protest. At the time, it seemed totally wild and out of proportion, but looking back, it would have been reasonable, modest even when you consider the consequences. How many institutions ‘lost’ since then? And what kinds of descriptions, what kinds of art emerges in such an environment? In sciences, this is called ‘confirmation bias,’ the vast majority of studies that get made public – the practical definition of general knowledge – are those that confirm the interests of those who fund the research.

I don’t want to overstate my political activity, which these days consists mainly of trying to preserve the independent dance studio K77 in Berlin, but I would say that I am still working at the intersection of culture and the term that Dewey insists on, ‘public life.’

This is why Arendt’s text The Crisis in Culture became so crucial to me. She talks about the potential meaning of art, not in terms of it as an instrument. It shaped my interest in arts status and role, not its use. The emphasis lies on the word capacity – which I got from you, Wouter! – a term from the hard sciences. It allows us to think about potentiality rather than instrumentalization and opposes the strict instrumentalist logic that prevails today.

WD: Is it also experiencing the potential of agency, is that it? Because at the moment you gain awareness of who you are, with how you relate to what is around you, like structures and, or other people, then that is the moment where decision arrives.

JD: I think without other people’s art, I would not have survived. And that makes me think that somehow there could be a justification for my own efforts.


EDW: Do you mean find direction or?


JD: I don’t think I could have dealt with the pressures of the contemporary world without art. I don’t think I would have made it through high school and college without art, music, books. I think all those things – Jack Kerouac, Barnett Newman, Fugazi – are actually what really kept me intact in some sense.

Or Hal Hartley’s films, for instance, the wrestling with living in the face of nuclear war in The Unbelievable Truth(1989). Then in Trust (1990), with Adrienne Shelly, a guy carries a live hand grenade around with himself all day.


WD: Yes, just in case. I remember that film. She asks him, “why do you have a hand grenade?” “Just in case.”


JD: The new official order has become so dominant that we no longer recognize it anymore. When I saw that film, it wasn’t so prevalent yet. There was still more of an ‘outside’ to it back then. And it shaped my belief that art has a meaning. It must have the potential for meaning for other people because it has meaning for me.


WD: How does this figure within your plans for the exhibition in Netwerk, Aalst?


JD: It really is a ‘web of human relationships.’ In 2019 I read of the Belgian student strikes, and I really didn’t understand. What did it mean for thousands of children to strike? I had to think of the Children’s Crusade (1963) in Selma, Alabama, that chapter of the African American Freedom Struggle in which children played a big role. So I gathered together resources and institutions and raised the money for a short tour, a series of forums with someone from that Alabama struggle – Joanne Bland – and a representative of Youth For Climate, Gilles Vandaele, who then went on to film school and help edit the video documentation of the tour which is in the exhibition.

Vandaele has a very stark analysis, informed by many scientists, of what the future holds and what we will lose to the climate emergency. And the meaning of saving things, preserving things, became more and more important for my thinking. It inspired me to do the work in France I mentioned before – about the preservation of a valley and stopping a dam from being built. I realized that preservation is paramount in a world of young people that are filled with despair. The knowledge that things can be saved is very important to them. Vandaele also made a film about a forest occupation in Arlon, Belgium – a protest that very few people here in Belgium actually know about since it has been barely covered in the press. For a year and a half, young activists have been trying to block the Belgian state from developing this site of biodiversity into office buildings and parking lots with dubious legality. Vandaele’s film is an intimate portrait of this occupation, in which very little happens, strictly speaking. It is very tender. It has a fragment in it of two young girls comparing tattoos and singing a song in a bathroom. It is as if there is no struggle in it.

When I discussed with Gilles my plans to include his film in my show in Aalst, he said that wasn’t an option. Before that, he had mentioned to me that he could not ever show this film, but he never made it really clear why. Apparently, he had promised the people who let him in on this protest and had agreed to be filmed that he would never show the film. Thus, if I show this movie, Gilles and I would exploit these activists, perhaps even endanger them or simply piss them off. I then asked myself if there was any way I could flip this situation? What would be the opposite? Instead of exploiting them, was there a possibility to work with the film so that one might invest in them? Instead of endangering them, could one protect them? Instead of pissing them off, could one make them happy?

At first, I thought I would enact the film all by myself. I would do a one-man performance where I acted out the whole film. I would remake the film as it were, a ‘Jeremiah Day remake’ of it all. But then I figured it was too sentimental. It could be pathetic even, this middle-aged man’s ode to activist kids. But then I came up with the following solution: what if I invite everyone I have ever collaborated with to join me and make an assembly? To reenact the whole thing together. That is what I will be doing, that is the piece. I can’t invite everyone, because that would involve too many people. I have got fourteen artists now chipping in who will contribute in different ways. There will be a painter, a musician, an artist from LA, a band… All of them will remake this video, or perhaps better said, cover it, re-do it in their own vocabulary. I don’t know what it is going to be like. Therefore, when I introduced the piece to the collaborators, I told the story of the performance in France with Filmon and Chicks on Speed: “I don’t know if this will be good, but I believe that art has a capacity to produce some kind of meaning by addressing things seriously. And we are all serious.” Many of us are already 25 years committed to art. “We are not playing around (even when we’re playing around.) And we are going to bring our ‘not-playing-around-ness’ to the table with this, and it is going to mean something to somebody.” So, I don’t know if it will be a good art show, but I think it will mean something to somebody.

The name of the piece is still referring to the title of Vandaele’s original film. When he made it, the French Gilets jaunes (Yellow Vests) were considering changing their name to Citoyens (Citizens). So, they would just be The Citizens. And the film was mostly a portrait of one woman, a young woman. So, the title for the exhibition in Aalst is Citoyenne Reprise. With this title, I hope to convey the secrecy of the struggle – other people simply do not know about – and mobilize the show’s publicity machinery. With the publicity of the show, I hope to be telling an unknown story. Besides, it suggests that the show can actually renew your capacity to be a citizen, right? Just imagine there is a poster that says Netwerk Aalst, Citoyenne Reprise. Citizens, citizenship is back!

But then again, I remain cautious about such a statement. Especially if you look at the human problems in a city like Aalst. Netwerk is located in a neighborhood that is apparently the place where people arrive first. And as soon as they can afford to leave, they move. So here I am, an American dude with a Ph.D., saying: “Oh yes, hey everybody, I have ideas about citizenship!”

WD: Love me!


JD: Indeed, it is presumptuous to say, “I have so many ideas for you, you know!” That is the moment I wonder whether I am in the ‘lipstick on the pig department.’ I am thinking here of what Smithson wrote in this letter when he withdrew from Documenta 5 in 1972: “it is better to disclose the conditions of confinement than to make illusory gestures of freedom.” This illusory gesture of freedom business is a big business, you know. It is a thriving business!


EDW: But there is a fundamental difference. You do not promise empowerment and agency. However, through addressing situations and events, you create a circumstance in which empowerment, agency, belief, conviction … can actually happen. Because these are things that matter to people. You are not saying, “here is a way to get empowerment! Let me tell you how and let me solve your problems.” I think you offer moments and occasions of identification, as you show specific cases in which they happen.


JD: Barnett Newman made a key difference between object matter and subject matter in painting. The things depicted in a work sometimes are not the point. This was important to him because, even though his paintings didn’t have depiction, he for sure had a point. The story of the occupation in Arlon is actually more object matter, while the subject matter is something else: it is something about connection, about loss, about preservation, about shared struggles. In the show in Aalst, this endeavor is going to be on the line. Because for the first time, I am actually really mobilizing the exhibition as a medium for political storytelling. The show is not just a vehicle to do so. The whole exhibition, including its publicity, including the construction of its working institutionally, will be mobilized to address a specific political cause in Belgium.

At the same time, I am aware of the potential downside of my strategy. I need to be cautious about what I am promising. Can I meaningfully contribute to civic life in Aalst with this exhibition? Because civic life in Aalst is a big honking problem. The city of Aalst is a particular case, raising many questions. Should that factory remain in the center of the city? Can this city or Belgium, or Europe, come up with a model of citizenship that is multi-racial? If you don’t take a stand on that, then what? How credible are you?


Berlin – Antwerp, 08/03/2021

Jeremiah Day

Wouter Davidts

Eléa De Winter