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To Whom It May Concern

Gisela Casimiro

 Part I

To Whom It May Concern

 

Both launched in 1999, one in August and the other in September, LiveJournal was one of the first social networks ever, alongside Blogger/BlogSpot. Despite the later migration of many users to formats such as Facebook (2004) and Instagram (2010), after the fading of networks such as Myspace (2003), Hi5 (2004), and Orkut (2004), the nostalgia of it remains intact. This was the time of mIRC (1995) and MSN Messenger (1999), when you'd be talking to somebody in the street and go home running to continue the conversation; when you'd leave short subliminal messages in your handle or status; when you'd paste some song link into your post; when linguistic and geographical borders were erased, when digital-bound projects were created for which post, nevertheless, was quite relevant still.

 

"To Whom It May Concern: Please fill my body with perennials and compost me with the pomegranate, clementine and mango leftovers of my memorial to a field in Gwanju."

 

This is how a collaborator of Miranda July's project Learning to Love You More begins her contribution to the website. Assignment 51 was: "Describe what to do with your body when you die". This project ran from 2002 to 2009, started on LiveJournal, became a homonymous website, a book, gave rise to museum exhibitions, and featured the contributions of over 8000 people. Other assignments include: recording the sound that is keeping us awake, making an encouraging banner, asking our family to describe what you do, photographing a significant outfit, taking a flash photo under our bed, writing the phone call we wish we could have, recording our own guided meditation, giving advice to ourselves in the past, braiding someone's hair, listing five events from 1984, making an LTLYM assignment, healing ourselves, documenting our bald spot—should we have one—drawing Raymond Carver's "Cathedral," growing a garden in an unexpected spot, spending time with a dying person, making a poster of shadows, recreating a poster we had as a teenager, writing our life story in less than a day, making a paper replica of our bed, making a protest sign and actually protesting, covering the song "Don't Dream It's Over," recreating a snapshot provided by July herself, saying goodbye.

Overall, 70 short assignments allowed every person to play an active part in a personal exhibition that was intended to arrive at a deeper self-knowledge and to be shared via sound, video, and image, with a community that was many kilometres apart, comprised for the most part of people of whom only the name—if there even was one—was known. It's interesting to see which of the assignments were better received—some even included multiple contributions from the same person—in opposition to other assignments only three people replied to. In 2010, the website was acquired by the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, in what seems to be a primordial version of that which is currently happening with NFTs in the world of visual arts, music, and memes.

A project of this sort inevitably brings to mind a couple of Instagram challenges, like the 2014 Ice Bucket Challenge, where participants had to either pour a bucket of ice water over their heads or donate money to social causes (many would do both, nonetheless). LTLYM also calls to mind manifold mid-pandemic proposals from museums across the globe for both physical and virtual visitors to recreate certain works of art during lockdown using whatever materials they had at home, the pictures of which could and should be later shared online using the museums' hashtags.

Although the original website has been discontinued, different versions of it still exist, with the blessing of both July and her creation partner, Harrell Fletcher. It should be noted that all of this was done with simple instructions and without language restrictions, without requiring perfect photos or professional artists. Any person from any place was able to take part in it, both individually and in pairs. Every voice was relevant—and so was every silence, every flash bouncing off tiles, every blurred index finger rebelling upon the lens.

 

Part II

e-motion

 

The pandemic has brought us unexpected challenges—as well as others of a different kind, consciously determined to not let us dissociate from our appearance and our life, to make us present. That's the motto of Joana Barrios's "#lyndaemcasa" (2020), which consisted in dressing up in something other than pyjamas (humankind's official pandemic kit) just because, despite being stuck at home, which gave rise to comical, or dramatic, or high-fashion, or "we don't know how long this will take—just let me feel good about myself in the mirror" photos. As Barrios writes in her iconic Trashédia:

 

"#LYNDAEMCASA is my invitation to all who want to shake it off, as Taylor Swift would sing—"it" being ill-humour, boredom, agony, dreariness… It's an invitation to express and celebrate the subjectivity of individual beauty in a free, open space solely bound by a single hashtag I've created for us to know who we are and to encourage one another. It's an invitation to as simple an action as that of individual growth, for us to emerge from this situation better than we entered it. It's a very easy thing to do every day, really, like checking in on our friends or family."

 

I would also like to recall and highlight Joana Linda's projects "e-motion", "Find Me", and "Passepartout", although there are almost no traces of them online. "e-motion" was an initiative that brought artists from several countries together, resulting in a photo exhibition at the São Jorge Castle, Lisbon. "Find Me" gathered old photographs, collages, and a story created by Joana Linda herself, who interconnected them through her words on self-made websites. At the time, I contributed to "Find Me" with family pictures: my mum on the porch of my maternal grandma's holding my uncle—a very old, worn out photo, from Guinea-Bissau. The personal history of each contributor was given a new narrative that turned it into a common, communitarian one. As the saying goes, once it's out on the internet, there's no pulling it back. Regarding "Passepartout," we are currently only able to find the following description online:

 

"This project, at first reading, proposes an instant journey across the globe—not a physical but rather a visual one, allowing us to glimpse at what's happening in various places around the world at the same time. Passepartout can be seen as an internet-mediated collective performance. The artist had issued a challenge to internauts on her personal website: they were to take a photo of themselves, wherever they were, at 3:30 pm GMT on 30 April 2004."

 

The photos from this project are no longer available, but we will be able to remember it, forget it, and remember it again for as long as we're around. Whether it be because computers and external hard drives have been lost or damaged or because the owners have since changed domains and filtered the older parts of their professional trajectories, the truth is some of these projects live in our memory more than on some cloud. I remember Marta Loureiro's photograph, taken on a regional train somewhere between Vila Nova da Barquinha and Lisbon. Why do I still remember this? Why do I remember this only? I still follow both Joana Linda and Marta Loureiro on social media; however, I only got to meet in person the former, and before that I even got to meet her mum by pure chance. Along with these photography- and music-bound international communities, what stands out from the time of LiveJournal and Blogger is a self-taught knowledge of HTML, CSS, and—for the bolder—Flash and JavaScript programming. All was starting to begin then. Between loves and friendships, some departed from the virtual to meet in the real, wherefrom trips all around the world, collaborations, weddings would come. We live many lives throughout ours, but to have followed this process in which artists such as Joana Linda or Filipa Barros Castro would use scanners as cameras and open Flickr and Lomo accounts, in a combination of analogue and digital photography with videoclip and short-film direction, means to be part of a practical, affective collective memory—an extremely original, unique one when compared, were such comparison even possible, with a time when the internet is rapidly slipping out of our control and starting to control us, more than ever. 

Existing nowadays not only as a website but also on Instagram, PostSecret is another project that links Blogger and LiveJournal together. The concept is to write a secret on a postcard: a secret, a fear, a betrayal, a confession. The point is that it reveals something, as long as it's true and has never before been shared. The writer must fill the postcard as much as possible, be concise, and send it anonymously by post. Yes—still today, whoever wants to contribute to it is asked to send a postcard, in what can be seen as a sort of digital purge, evading the info hoarding we're usually subject to. It is indeed a way to really entrust a physical part of this secret to someone else. The postcard, then, is scanned and posted online. More than eight PostSecret books have been published, the first being PostSecret: Extraordinary Confessions from Ordinary Lives, from 2005.

 

 

In 2005 too, two women met and became friends; in 2007, they started the project “A Year of Mornings: 3191 Miles Apart". Their names are Maria Alexandra Vettese (MAV) and Stephanie Congdon Barnes (SCB), and they live 3191 miles apart from each other—one in Portland, Maine, and the other in Portland, Oregon. This exchange began on LiveJournal, later becoming likewise a book filled with daily-life pictures of both. Their photographic and artistic affinities allowed them to share moments, recipes, mornings (upon which the book, always in diptych format, would focus), and nights (which would set the theme for the second book). The seeming simplicity of such slow sharing is almost inconceivable in a society dominated by livestreaming, in which not posting a photo right after taking leads us into throwback territory. Given the daily number of live broadcasts, we quickly become obsolete, lacking the time to enjoy our memories and the need to keep them within, since Instagram, Facebook, and Google Photos allow us to revisit them anytime we want to—but only if we have uploaded them onto these apps, of course, even though our phones listen to everything we say and know all our secrets. They are the opposite of detachment; maybe they are something that makes us older on the one hand and allows us to revisit fragments (if filtered) of our lives on the other, should illness come upon us one day. We live in an age in which we are expected to meditate every day as we cope with despair, with the insatiableness of nonstop notifications, and with a lack of patience to be with ourselves and others. It's this thing of going to a concert and it being more important to prove we are there indeed than to watch whoever is presenting us with their art—an art we pay for, though the expectation of it remains on the outside: the number of people leaving a like, saving our posts, sharing them once more. It's this thing of constantly dealing with mental health problems. It's this thing of being under lockdown and realising with stinging clarity what's wrong or right in our lives.

 

Part III

 

A revolution with what's within reach

 

HONY, or Humans of New York, may well be the project that more often pops up in my Facebook Memories. Having also migrated to Instagram, it has become such a well-known project that it has even featured celebrities and other famous people. I remember a photo of pop sensation Katy Perry whose caption read: "I'm trying to look at my phone less." Humans of New York started in 2010 seeking to gather ten thousand portraits of New Yorkers; yet, photography would then be joined by interviews, and the project's creator, Brandon Stanton, would also start including quotes and first-person stories told by the people he had approached. Just like the aforementioned projects, the latter has also materialised into a book, and even managed to raise 1 million dollars for different causes, which led to it earning Obama's recognition. At first solely centred on New York, HONY's geography now spans over twenty countries. Invisible Wounds is one of the several ramifications of it; in it, Iraq war veterans tell their experiences. Through Humans of New York (easily the favourite page of most of the people I know), we stop to meet others and ourselves once again as they share their experiences, loves, regrets, sorrows, hardships, and joys. It is perhaps the only place on the internet where the comment section is almost always a safe place, be the subject at hand drugs, sexual abuse, going to university at an advanced age, or succeeding in getting a role for a TV show.

 

ne of the major references in terms of community creation is Blitz journalist Lia Pereira, a veteran from the Fórum Sons generation who invariably presents us with the best Spotify playlists, and who once kept a solo blog titled ​​​​​​​Sofá Verde (2003-2012). for quite a while (2003–2012). Being one of many Portuguese HONY fans, she has created three other absolutely fundamental projects to help us navigate the sorrows of everyday life with humour, tenderness, some disgust, and useless or useful knowledge—both being equally important. In a recent conversation with singer Selma Uamusse, the latter recalled​​​​​​ Corta-unhas — "the everyday-life click-clack," a Tumblr page ran by Pereira from 2012 to 2018 that was entirely dedicated to people clipping their nails in public. This website was collectively curated and featured various contributions, from bus stops to the underground, balconies, hairdressers, taxis, beaches, and music festivals—sometimes with the guest appearance of tweezers, nail varnish, nail files, and even knives, of course. Once, there was even a nail clipper hanging from the hand of a TV guest, the caption of which reads: "This gentleman went on Prós e Contras with a nail clipper hanging from his thumb. No, he didn't actually clip his nails there, but him going on TV with a nail clipper (with it showing, on top of that) means he's got it in him to do the deed in any public place—hence this honourable mention of ours." On the screen, one reads "Who are we?" We clearly are a country that takes good care of their hands (and feet, make no illusion—there are plenty of them on this ten-page long blog), wherever we are and regardless of who might be looking at us. Proof of that are the Galicia and China click-clacks adorning the feed, because there's more to this tourism thing than tuk-tuks. 

 

 

Facebook Groups is another form of community, a sort of "modern" version of old forums and chats. "Gataria" [roughly The Cat Place] is one of the latest creations of Lia Pereira (who can henceforth be referred to as "Administrator"), an excellent story-teller and a premium cat-lady living full-time with Farrusco Rameiro and Fëi Tripinha and part-time with Areias Guna. "Gataria" is the place for people who love cats (henceforth designated as "Donos Disto Tudo" [Owners of It All]), whether they've had them as pets or not, oscillating between memes, veterinary advice, and news or stories related to this inter-animal ecosystem. From people who only know one another virtually to friends we'd ask to pet-sit for us, there's room for everyone. Finally, we arrive at Lia's third creation, the only one she developed after the pandemic: "Amigos em tempo de corona" [Friends in Times of Corona]. These are democratic groups; anyone can invite new members and post updates. Lia's generosity in posting news about the vaccines or about the effects of the pandemic on our affectivities or brain cells is most commendable. 

 

Afrolink (2019), (2019), by Mozambican journalist and entrepreneur Paula Cardoso, was developed on Menos Hub, currently known as Impulso (a learning platform for entrepreneurs). At first, Afrolink was a private Facebook group, an ever-updating database of résumés and job offers from, to, for, and with racialised people. In its simpler genesis, it was a sort of LinkedIn for racialised people, but it's grown to be so much more than that. Indeed, Afrolink allowed a whole community to identify its members, skills, availabilities, talents, and experiences; in short, to value itself so as to conquer space, visibility, and social and labour rights. Today,​ Afrolink is a fully accessible website of its own, posting job offers still but also interviews, a cultural programme, opinion articles, images, and news, and even promoting internship programmes, among others.

 

How many people are required to create a community? In addition to the friends I've made, there are professional relationships I have maintained up to the present day with people I have or not met in person, but of whom I know friends, cousins, aunts, ex-flatmates, neighbours and so many members of their private support network, which has gotten close to mine over time. No matter how much we want to stay away from social media, it is a tool just like any other: the thing we use it for is what turns it into something positive or negative, no matter how sophisticated and problematic they currently are.

 

An initiative created by Nuno Botelho in April 2020 which I got to know through actress Cláudia Jardim, Caixa Solidária [Solidary Box] emerged on Facebook during the first part of the pandemic—boxes containing indispensable goods with simple instructions, which are then photographed and which, most importantly, help those in need. Although, just like any other initiative, it may have some flaws and be subject to appropriation by people who sometimes just take everything with them, one can't help but respect those who, whether they belong to some association or organisation or not, come together to gather resources to help those who need them in a non-judgemental, open way. The Cascais Municipality, where Botelho lives, would quickly join this initiative, distributing Solidary Boxes all over town; other public and private entities have since followed suit, and now these Boxes are found all over Mainland Portugal and the Islands, in addition to the virtual version of it, for whoever wants to contribute in some other way.

 

Going back to Joana Barrios:

 

“#lyndaemcasa is exactly about this idea of social construction, about the opportunity to operate such construction from a previously unseen, potentially revolutionary place. It's about the possibility to create a new way of being, to be closer to what one wishes to project; it's a means to overcome the fears, complexes, and limitations imposed by a status quo which rather easily collapses when confronted with non-essential matters such as tattoos and hair, nail, or lipstick colours. It's about starting the revolution with what's within reach. Because the great unknown, the void, the arid plain in front of us may seem to be a source of anguish due to the size of it, simultaneously coexisting with four-walled restrictions and the open-ended portal that is the internet. But only if we really want it to be the case. The Future is built with the present. ​​​​​​​”

 

There's this pessimistic, resigned way of viewing the world believing that all has already been invented and done which is offset with the unproven belief that it has only now been done; yet, these projects show us there has been a before. It falls to us to ensure there will be an after. Despite the differences between these projects—predominantly developed by women who may or may not be connected to one another (e.g. Barrios and Jardim, both from Teatro Praga), be it pure chance or not—the points of contact are far greater in number. So, we've been talking about citizenship, neighbourhood, open curation, collective healing. We've been talking about how the best part of the internet is the people on it still, how they reinvent themselves and come together when all seems to contribute toward distance and indifference. How many people are required to create a community? Well, haven't we just created one—me and whoever has just finished reading this text?

Thank you for being there. It makes me very happy.

 

 

 

 

Gisela Casimiro (Guiné-Bissau, 1984) is a portuguese writer, artist and activist. Published Erosão (Urutau, 2018) and was a part of anthologies like Rio das Pérolas (Ipsis Verbis, 2020), Venceremos! Discursos escolhidos de Thomas Sankara (Falas Afrikanas, 2020) and As Penélopes (Bairro dos Livros, 2021). In the last years, she signed regular chronicles in Hoje Macau, Buala and Contemporânea. Has been a part of exhibitions in O Armário, Galeria Zé dos Bois, Balcony and Museu Nacional de Etnologia. Directs the department of Culture of INMUNE: Instituto da Mulher Negra em Portugal.

 

Images: © LTLYM; Post Secret; RTP1.

 

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