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O projektu
Projekt Singer tematizira tekstilno tradicijo od rokodelstva do današnje tehnološke družbe. Ime projekta si sposojam pri popularni znamki šivalnih strojev in se igram s pomenom, ki izhaja iz prevoda besede “singer” - v angleščini in nemščini se ime nanaša na petje oziroma pomeni pevca ali pevko. Idilična transformacija šivalnega stroja v orodje, ki “poje” pod (ženskimi) rokami, temelji na tem, da je bila pesem nekdaj pogosta spremljevalka pri delu, pa tudi metafora za zvok strojev. Pesem da telesu ritem in počloveči proizvodni proces.
V projektu se prepleta več plasti: amorfni zvok, ki je vezan na stroj in mehaniko, slovensko glasbeno izročilo, ki se nanaša na šivanje, predenje in tkanje ter tekstilno-industrijska polpreteklost. Ročno izdelovanje oblek je bilo nekdaj eden od temeljev ženske spolne vloge in velja za izrazito “žensko” tehnologijo. Obleke so včasih „zrastle“ na domačih njivah: naše babice so doma sejale lan, predle in šivale. Pozneje so oblek prihajale iz domačih tovarn, kamor so hodile na delo naše mame. Danes nosimo oblačila z blagovnimi znamkami mednarodnih korporacij, ki jih za nas izdelujejo ženske in otroci v neznanih vzhodnoevropskih in azijskih delavnicah. Tja se stekajo poti do cenene delovne sile, ki so v preteklih petdesetih letih vodile tudi čez slovenske tekstilne tovarne. Intimen stik z oblačilom je povozila porabniška stvarnost. Nit, ki nas je čez obleke povezovala z lokalnim prostorom, se je pretrgala.
Čeprav je nit tanka, je močna in vzdržljiva -- ponazarja čas in življenje. Od tu podoba pajka, ki prede čas in skoraj svečeniški položaj predice oziroma tkalke v mitologiji starih Egipčanov in Grkov. “V vsaki nitki je vtkano nekaj človeške duše. Obleka ni mrtva stvar,” povzema sodobna tekstilka. (1)
Šivalni stroj stoji na koncu linije oblačilnega rokodelstva, vendar pa ni več del njegove kulturne zgodbe. Stroj, ki je sprva obljubljal, pa tudi omogočil enonomsko neodvisnost za ženske, je potem milijone teh žensk po vsem svetu pospremil v prihodnost slabo plačane delovne sile. Za veliko domačih tekstilnih delavk pa se je tudi ta zgodba že končala.
Z množičnim zapiranjem slovenskih tekstilnih tovarn, ki se je začelo pred desetimi leti, je ostala brez dela armada ženske delovne sile. Žensk ponavadi od časov, ko so jim zaprli tovarno, ni več dosti videti, saj z zapiranjem tovarn izginjajo tudi socialne vezi med njimi. Takih „ugaslih“ krajev v Sloveniji, kjer stojijo ali so nekoč stale tekstilne tovarne, je veliko več, kot si lahko mislimo glede na odzivnost javnosti in medijev. Na obronkih vasi ali na robu mest, pa tudi v središčih naselij stojijo ta poslopja v različnih fazah pozabljenja in zapuščenosti. Zarasla s travo, naseljena z začasnimi najemniki, prodana ali po kosih razprodana novim lastnikom. In skoraj vedno se v bližini najde kdo, ki pove zgodbo o ”njihovi” tovarni, o času, ko sta v tovarni našli delo tudi po dve generaciji ene družine. O letih, ko je tovarna cvetela, pa o mučnem propadanju in brezposelni sedanjosti.
Opomba 1: Izjava Dragice Nenadić iz intervjujev Nine Vodopivec s tekstilnimi delavkami; arhiv Tehničnega muzeja Slovenije.
Marija Mojca Pungerčar
(Objavljeno v publikaciji "Singer, Glasilo zaprtih tekstilnih tovarn na Slovenskem, oktober 2003)
O nastopu Pevskega zbora odpuščenih tekstilnih delavk na otvoritvi festivala Mesto žensk v SEM-u
Časi, ko je bilo petje del družabnega in kulturnega življenja v praktično vsaki slovenski tovarni, so že davno minili. Še zlasti to velja za tekstilno industrijo, katere zdesetkani kolektivi nimajo razlogov za praznovanje. Razmere v tekstilni panogi so nestabilne in skrajno občutljive na drezanje javnosti. Po besedah tajnice iz podjetja Mura je treba delavkam pustiti dostojanstvo: „Ni pravi čas za te stvari. Če se bo kaj spremenilo, bomo takrat praznovali“.
Ob upoštevanju te situacije smo se odločili, da nekdanje tekstilne delavke pritegnemo k sodelovanju na nevsiljiv način; da jih ne posiljujemo z nečem, kar bi jim bilo tuje, pač pa jim omogočimo tak nastop, ki bi jim bil v veselje. Njihov nastop v Ljubljani je priložnost, da jih počastimo in jim omogočimo, da se pokažejo v javnosti. Za spremembo drugačne, kot smo jih zadnja leta vajeni gledati v medijih: jezne, razočarane, obupane. Želeli smo, da festivalu Mesto žensk dodajo svoj kulturni prispevek in pečat.
Naše povabilo k sodelovanju je sprejelo 10 pevk in njihovih kolegic iz Mirne Peči. Ob tej priložnosti se jim iskreno zahvaljujemo. Naj se slišijo njihovi glasovi!
Marija Mojca Pungerčar
(Objavljeno v katalogu 9. Mednarodnega festivala sodobne umetnosti Mesto žensk, oktober 2003)
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About the project
The Singer project thematises the tradition of textile production, from the time when clothes-making was a household handicraft to today’s technological society. The title of the project comes from the name of the well-known sewing machine, but I also want to play with the meaning of the English and German words for ‘one who sings’. This idyllic transformation of the sewing machine into an instrument that ‘sings’ at the touch of a (woman’s) hand derives from the fact that work was once usually accompanied by song; also, singing is a common metaphor for the whirr of machinery. Song brings rhythm to the body and helps to humanise the process of production.
The project interweaves several layers: amorphous sound, which is connected with machinery and mechanics; the Slovene musical tradition relating to sewing, spinning, and weaving; and the recent history of the textile industry. As a costume designer and a former clothes designer, I feel linked to generations of women who have worked with and made their living from textiles. I wish to draw attention to the making of textiles at a time when the industry is undergoing the greatest crisis in its history, a crisis that affects women most of all.
The practice of making your own clothes was once a fundamental part of the female gender role; clothes-making was considered to be an explicitly ‘feminine’ technology. At one time, clothes ‘grew’ in Slovene fields: our foremothers would sow flaxseed, weave cloth, and make dresses. Later, clothes came from local factories, where our mothers went to work. Today, the clothes we wear carry the brand names of international companies and are made for us by women and children in unknown East European and Asian workshops. This is where cheap labour can now be found, just as for the past fifty years it could be found in Slovene textile factories. The intimate connection we once had with clothing has been overtaken by the realities of consumerism. Broken now is the thread that tied us through our clothes to the fields and factories around us.
Thread may be slender, but it is strong and durable, a metaphor of time and life. This is why, in the mythologies of the ancient Egyptians and Greeks, we find the image of the spider that spins the thread of time and the almost sacred role of spinstresses and weaver-women. As a modern textile worker summed it up, ‘Something of the human soul is woven into every thread. Clothes are not dead things.’ (1).
The sewing machine stands at the end of the line in the handicraft tradition of clothes-making, but no longer is it part of that cultural narrative. The machine that first promised, and also made possible, economic independence for women, has led millions of women all around the world into a future of poorly paid work. For many of Slovenia’s textile workers, the story has already come to an end.
With the mass closing of Slovene textile factories, which started ten years ago, an army of women workers have lost their jobs. And as a rule, once the local factory shuts down, these women largely disappear from view, the social ties between them unravelling with the closing of the factory doors. The number of places in Slovenia that are now ‘extinct’—places where there once was a thriving textile factory—is far greater than public and media reaction might lead us to believe. Standing on village hillsides, the outskirts of a city, or even, perhaps, in the centre of a community, these factories are to varying degrees now forgotten and abandoned—overgrown with grass, occupied by temporary tenants, or sold whole or in pieces to new owners. But there is almost always someone in the vicinity who will tell you the story of ‘their’ factory, of the time when two generations of their family found work there. They will speak of the years when the factory flourished, but also of its painful collapse and today’s unemployment.
Note 1: Stated by Dragica Nenadić in Nina Vodopivec’s interviews with women textile workers, from the archives of the Technological Museum of Slovenia.
Marija Mojca Pungercar
(Published in a "Singer, Newsletter of Closed Textile Factories in Slovenia", October 2003)
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