The artist Jasleen Kaur was born in Glasgow in 1986. She studied at Glasgow School of Art and later at the Royal College, and had her first solo show, Be Like Teflon, in London in 2021. She works mainly with installations, using everyday objects to explore identity, cultural memory and political belonging. Earlier this month, Kaur won the Turner prize for her 2023 exhibition Alter Altar at the Tramway in Glasgow, which memorably featured a replica of her dad’s red Ford Escort covered in an outsized doily. A group show of this year’s shortlisted artists’ work is at Tate Britain until 16 February. Kaur lives and works in London.
1. Art
I heard about this on the evening of the Turner prize ceremony: some of the folk protesting outside the Tate [calling for institutional divestment from ties to Israel and a permanent ceasefire in Gaza] have also been organising with the artists in Gaza who are putting on their own biennale. I don’t know what to say about the fact that, amid total destruction, artists in Gaza are putting on a biennale. I could say that it shows something about the power of art. But it also feels like a call to the global art community to listen. It’s a point of connection, it’s an attempt at connection or conversation.
2. Film
I find that the energy of [the Northern Irish hip-hop trio] Kneecap feels really vital – they are totally honest in speaking truth to power. The film is the heavily fictionalised origin story of the band, who rap in the Irish language. A couple of things stood out to me. One was about a relationship to music that is anti-imperial, something I’m thinking about in my own life and practice. The film also tells how each of us has a political voice and the need to exercise it. These working-class rappers have a place to push things forward.
3. Nonfiction
Island of Us: Conversations About Justice With Children by Jack Young
This is a resource born out of a beautiful exhibition by Rory Pilgrim at Chisenhale gallery earlier this year featuring work by people who are incarcerated. This book, developed from workshops with local primary school-age children, contains conversations around justice and freedom. It reminded me of conversations I have with my own kids. There are questions like: “If somebody who’s really poor steals an apple, what should happen?” The answers are really thoughtful. I just think young people are incredible. I learned a lot from it.
4. Singing
Where to begin with the force that is F*Choir? They are a queer-led choir based in London. I saw them perform with my kids at the Walthamstow Trades Hall two years ago. I’ve also marched with them during Palestine protests and been to open singing sessions with them. I’m just so in awe at the way that they practise singing in community with such dedication. They’ve got this session called Singing to Stay Alive. You can book to sing with them, and you really feel that singing collectively is part of living. It’s a life force.
5. Fiction
We Are Made of Diamond Stuff by Isabel Waidner
As someone who is heavily dyslexic, I find reading really hard. Recently a friend said: “Put down your theory books and pick up some fiction.” So I went to a bookshop and deliberately chose books that were thin, with a font that I could cope with. I wanted to check out Isabel Waidner, who writes really thin fiction, and they’ve got me hooked. This novel takes place on the Isle of Wight. There are protests and climate migrants and right-wing LGBTQ+ factions. Their writing is so visual, it’s like a film, and each sentence is like something I’ve never read before.
6. Poetry
The distilled language of poets such as June Jordan is bringing so much solace at a time when language is kind of failing. I’ve decided that Jordan is one of my ancestors. Her poetry and her political life were not separate and she had the ability to get to the heart of things with so few words. Her [1982] poem Apologies to All the People in Lebanon is heartbreaking. You read it and think, it must have been written now, surely.
7. Music
We were filming up in Glasgow for the Turner prize and one of the crew who were driving us around had an album by Caoimhín Ó Raghallaigh playing, and his music has been carrying me through the past months. The fiddle really gets to my heart. I feel like it’s part of my ancestry, it moves me in the way that an Indian stringed instrument might. This album [Caoimhín Ó Raghallaigh & Thomas Bartlett] is really comforting but it’s also a lament, and there are times when the fiddle is barely even playing, it’s just a scratch of a string.
