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Jamal Penjweny: Saddam is Here review – 'work of great depth, breadth and empathy' from Iraqi Kurdistan Jamal Penjweny: Saddam is Here review – to the heart of Iraqi Kurdistan
(about 9 hours later)
The scene is a makeshift stall in the middle of the desert. Five Kalashnikovs dangle like dead chickens from butchers' hooks. The first customer is a soldier who has lost his gun and needs another before his superiors find out. The second is a shepherd trying to defend his flock from wild prey. The third is a tense villager who wants a weapon for his son, or so he says. The child looks frightened and confused.The scene is a makeshift stall in the middle of the desert. Five Kalashnikovs dangle like dead chickens from butchers' hooks. The first customer is a soldier who has lost his gun and needs another before his superiors find out. The second is a shepherd trying to defend his flock from wild prey. The third is a tense villager who wants a weapon for his son, or so he says. The child looks frightened and confused.
In the back, a Kurdish teenager is filing down the serial numbers. Out front, the seller is doing brisk business – 300,000 dinars a time, about £150 – explaining that the Kalashnikovs mainly come across the border from Turkey these days, what with free trade and all, and used to be pricier when the Americans were still in Iraq.In the back, a Kurdish teenager is filing down the serial numbers. Out front, the seller is doing brisk business – 300,000 dinars a time, about £150 – explaining that the Kalashnikovs mainly come across the border from Turkey these days, what with free trade and all, and used to be pricier when the Americans were still in Iraq.
At which point the film cuts nimbly to a woman who has been shot in the head by her husband, and a husband who has killed his entire family. He would have shot himself too, he insists, only the gun had run out. Four bullets appear on the darkened screen, one for each victim, as if chalked by a child on a blackboard.At which point the film cuts nimbly to a woman who has been shot in the head by her husband, and a husband who has killed his entire family. He would have shot himself too, he insists, only the gun had run out. Four bullets appear on the darkened screen, one for each victim, as if chalked by a child on a blackboard.
Only a couple of minutes have passed in Jamal Penjweny's brilliantly condensed portrait of lives and deaths in Iraqi Kurdistan, but already one has a sense of the terrible complexity of the times. Each man – soldier, seller, shepherd, even the policeman who cannot keep track of the guns any more – speaks of his situation, so that the picture keeps shifting and shifting.Only a couple of minutes have passed in Jamal Penjweny's brilliantly condensed portrait of lives and deaths in Iraqi Kurdistan, but already one has a sense of the terrible complexity of the times. Each man – soldier, seller, shepherd, even the policeman who cannot keep track of the guns any more – speaks of his situation, so that the picture keeps shifting and shifting.
In the background, the rat-a-tat gunfire that breaks into the soundtrack is as irreducibly simple as the child's drawings in its way – simple but devastatingly real, and present for the full 10 minutes. Are the targets animals or people?In the background, the rat-a-tat gunfire that breaks into the soundtrack is as irreducibly simple as the child's drawings in its way – simple but devastatingly real, and present for the full 10 minutes. Are the targets animals or people?
Penjweny was born in a village in present-day Kurdistan in 1981. He first began taking photographs on an old-fashioned camera as a young shepherd. His subject was and is all around him: the people of Iraqi Kurdistan. His means are so limited they would challenge many a European artist: the camera, a mobile phone, paper, chalk and pencil, nowadays a computer for editing. From these he has made work of great depth, breadth and empathy, taking one into the furthest reaches of another world. His is a kingdom in, and of, art.Penjweny was born in a village in present-day Kurdistan in 1981. He first began taking photographs on an old-fashioned camera as a young shepherd. His subject was and is all around him: the people of Iraqi Kurdistan. His means are so limited they would challenge many a European artist: the camera, a mobile phone, paper, chalk and pencil, nowadays a computer for editing. From these he has made work of great depth, breadth and empathy, taking one into the furthest reaches of another world. His is a kingdom in, and of, art.
The photographic series for which he is probably best known over here, shown at last year's Venice Biennale, is the group portrait Saddam is Here (2009-10), in which Iraqi citizens hold life-size pictures of Saddam's face in front of their own; the hydra-headed monster blocks them out, and yet one has a partial glimpse of their lives as surgeons, farmers, butchers, teachers, potters, always going on behind that grotesque shadow.The photographic series for which he is probably best known over here, shown at last year's Venice Biennale, is the group portrait Saddam is Here (2009-10), in which Iraqi citizens hold life-size pictures of Saddam's face in front of their own; the hydra-headed monster blocks them out, and yet one has a partial glimpse of their lives as surgeons, farmers, butchers, teachers, potters, always going on behind that grotesque shadow.
In Birmingham, the picture widens. One sees across the mountains and valleys of Kurdistan into the lives of chess-playing shepherds, travelling tailors, local bakers. The farmer grows the lamb's lettuce sold alongside the Kalashnikovs on the stall. Always there is a narrative drive to the work, as if old folk tales were running below like an underground river. Penjweny says that he began with the village stories told by his neighbours at night, and that could stand as the model for his work: characters and tales amounting to a collective portrait. A farmer leaps in the field. But it turns out to be a minefield. Both of his legs are missing beneath the knee and only endurance and crutches are keeping him up; and still he leaps as if the air was his element.In Birmingham, the picture widens. One sees across the mountains and valleys of Kurdistan into the lives of chess-playing shepherds, travelling tailors, local bakers. The farmer grows the lamb's lettuce sold alongside the Kalashnikovs on the stall. Always there is a narrative drive to the work, as if old folk tales were running below like an underground river. Penjweny says that he began with the village stories told by his neighbours at night, and that could stand as the model for his work: characters and tales amounting to a collective portrait. A farmer leaps in the field. But it turns out to be a minefield. Both of his legs are missing beneath the knee and only endurance and crutches are keeping him up; and still he leaps as if the air was his element.
Three soldiers, clutching their Kalashnikovs, fling themselves upwards in a feat of athleticism. Above them the golden sky is wide, behind them the vast crossed swords of Saddam's triumphal arch in Baghdad glint in the sunset. But the photograph raises these young men higher.Three soldiers, clutching their Kalashnikovs, fling themselves upwards in a feat of athleticism. Above them the golden sky is wide, behind them the vast crossed swords of Saddam's triumphal arch in Baghdad glint in the sunset. But the photograph raises these young men higher.
Life goes on, to be sure, but it's more than that. Iraq is Flying. A boy bearing fresh green herbs springs up like a season of hope, the good nature of the artist himself reflected in the mirth of his eyes. These people are jumping for glee. Some of them seem to cross their legs involuntarily in mid-air, like mystics. It is the smallest of freedoms but the nearest thing to flying.Life goes on, to be sure, but it's more than that. Iraq is Flying. A boy bearing fresh green herbs springs up like a season of hope, the good nature of the artist himself reflected in the mirth of his eyes. These people are jumping for glee. Some of them seem to cross their legs involuntarily in mid-air, like mystics. It is the smallest of freedoms but the nearest thing to flying.
What would Penjweny make with more advanced technology? The question becomes irrelevant. He can get people to leap for a little camera, he can get people to talk to him with a device not much bigger than the palm of his hand. A good deal of his filming is done undercover.What would Penjweny make with more advanced technology? The question becomes irrelevant. He can get people to leap for a little camera, he can get people to talk to him with a device not much bigger than the palm of his hand. A good deal of his filming is done undercover.
Penjweny now lives where many of his photographs are taken, in the old city of Sulaymaniya near the Iran-Iraq border. Where he used to fund his art by working as a shepherd, he now runs a cafe-cum-gallery for both men and women (an uncommon enterprise even now). Although his pictures have appeared in the New York Times and National Geographic, he could not get a visa to reach Britain in time for the opening of this event, his first solo show.Penjweny now lives where many of his photographs are taken, in the old city of Sulaymaniya near the Iran-Iraq border. Where he used to fund his art by working as a shepherd, he now runs a cafe-cum-gallery for both men and women (an uncommon enterprise even now). Although his pictures have appeared in the New York Times and National Geographic, he could not get a visa to reach Britain in time for the opening of this event, his first solo show.
The most devastating work here shows that border by night. Another Life, a film of young men smuggling alcohol between Iran and Iraq – bottles of gin made in Scotland, bottles of Russian vodka – was made with a mobile phone and some superlative editing. Saddle-sore, stinking of horses, scarred from the bullets of roving border guards, exhausted but desperate to make a living and feed their families, the smugglers burn the crates to keep warm at night. One young man holds up a can of Amstel: 'For this I am shot at?'The most devastating work here shows that border by night. Another Life, a film of young men smuggling alcohol between Iran and Iraq – bottles of gin made in Scotland, bottles of Russian vodka – was made with a mobile phone and some superlative editing. Saddle-sore, stinking of horses, scarred from the bullets of roving border guards, exhausted but desperate to make a living and feed their families, the smugglers burn the crates to keep warm at night. One young man holds up a can of Amstel: 'For this I am shot at?'
The rhythm of the film is the rhythm of their lives: brief snatches of conversation, intermittent movements, spells of silent darkness. There is no time for anything but the moment and the urgent news. Even the epitaphs rush rapidly past us as if ducking for cover. Penjweny's film is deeply affecting in its brief and shocking passage across the screen.The rhythm of the film is the rhythm of their lives: brief snatches of conversation, intermittent movements, spells of silent darkness. There is no time for anything but the moment and the urgent news. Even the epitaphs rush rapidly past us as if ducking for cover. Penjweny's film is deeply affecting in its brief and shocking passage across the screen.
This is one more in a long line of terrific exhibitions at the Ikon Gallery in Birmingham, which turns 50 this year. John Salt, pioneering photorealist and the first artist to show with Ikon, has a group of paintings in the tower to celebrate, followed by Cornelia Parker and Julian Opie in the summer. I can think of so many great experiences at the Ikon, old and new given the closest attention – Mariele Neudecker, Carmen Herrera, Thomas Bewick, Luke Fowler, Len Lye. May there be many more happy returns.This is one more in a long line of terrific exhibitions at the Ikon Gallery in Birmingham, which turns 50 this year. John Salt, pioneering photorealist and the first artist to show with Ikon, has a group of paintings in the tower to celebrate, followed by Cornelia Parker and Julian Opie in the summer. I can think of so many great experiences at the Ikon, old and new given the closest attention – Mariele Neudecker, Carmen Herrera, Thomas Bewick, Luke Fowler, Len Lye. May there be many more happy returns.