BREAKFASTCLUB #9: Normality/Normal Worries

Tijdens Playground Festival organiseerde Breakfastclub een sessie rond ‘normaliteit’. Wat is een normaal kunstwerk, een normale kunstenaar, toeschouwer of instituut? Hoe vervagen die normaliteiten? Stine Sampers blikt terug.

It has been almost two months since the Breakfast Club on Normality took place in Leuven, yet the topic of normality has lingered with me every day since. Perhaps it is something that is always with me, which might be why Vivi and Marie from Gouvernement reached out to me in the first place. After all, we often hear people longing for things to ‘go back to normal,’ while dismissing others—people or phenomena outside themselves—for not being ‘normal enough.’

Our collective understanding of normality resembles a rigid, barbed-wire boundary, too narrow to encompass the full spectrum of life. This understanding is culturally shaped and varies slightly depending on where and with whom you live. To comprehend where ‘our’ normal originates, we wrestle with the ghosts of the past. To understand why it persists, we must confront the demons of the present.

In recent weeks, I have been listening often to a track called ‘Lift You’ by Moin and Sophia Al-Maria. An understated, moody alt-rock song, it is transformed by the way Al-Maria delivers her spoken-word lyrics over the melody:

To read in a time of war, to read it again
Think about it, to read it aloud
To record it, to try again
To listen back, to send and unsend

The opening mention of war contextualises the lyrics, colouring everything Al-Maria speaks of with its gravity. I see this as an exercise in mindfulness: cleaning our living spaces in a time of war, speaking to friends in a time of war, celebrating Christmas in a time of war. Quarrelling with lovers, working, changing nappies, comforting children, cooking meals—all in a time of war. The list is endless because we live, or attempt to live, in a perpetual time of war.

I notice the uneven pavements and cobblestones, hoping no one in our audience had to navigate them in a wheelchair or with a walking aid.

At present, multiple genocides are taking place across the globe. Over the past year, I have participated in more protests and organised or attended more fundraisers than I have had paid work. To be fair, I have never had much paid work; that has become part of my ‘normal.’ While this doesn’t always bother me, there are months when my budget simply does not stretch far enough. ‘Can’ and ‘want’ are, after all, two very different things.

What seems normal today is the quiet awareness that many people live below the poverty line. In Belgium, for instance, individuals earning €1,450 or less per month are considered at significant risk of poverty. Yet society remains unable, or unwilling, to address this, often preferring to blame individuals for not working harder. Regardless of personal effort, a certain amount of money is required to maintain a basic standard of living. Research even highlights a ‘disability tax’—the additional costs incurred by those with disabilities, who are often unable to work as much as their non-disabled counterparts. Importantly, any of us could become (more) disabled over the course of our lives.

Meanwhile, the existence of billionaires—a concept just over a century old—has also become normalised. Rather than striving to improve life on Earth, we compare ourselves to these ultra-wealthy few, chasing unattainable standards.

Early morning in Leuven, on my way to STUK, I walk through the streets wearing headphones to shield myself from the chaotic rush. City life is not designed for autistic people who are easily overwhelmed. I notice the uneven pavements and cobblestones, hoping no one in our audience had to navigate them in a wheelchair or with a walking aid. My thoughts drift to the concept of ‘normal’ art, a ‘normal’ artist, a ‘normal’ arts institution, or even a ‘normal’ audience. I trust that our panel of artists and cultural workers will conclude that normality, like art, is subjective and ever-changing. It must adapt to meet the needs of the most vulnerable among us.

The panel at this Breakfast Club, organised on November 15 2024 at STUK Leuven, included Amari, Shervin/e Sheikh Rezaei, Diederik Peeters, Gladys Ngoga, and Alice Ciresola for Art 4 All (Globe Aroma). We discussed creating and experiencing art through an intersectional lens, considering background and roots, migrant status, (economic) class, neurodivergence, illness or (dis)ability, gender, and sexuality, among other factors. This vital conversation could, can, and should continue for a lifetime; in our morning together in Leuven, we barely scratched the surface.