AUSTTELLUNG! LAIBACH KUNST: OPERACIJA BARBAROSSA
Razstava bo odprta: 24. 12. {od 10. do 12. ure}, 29., 30. in 31. 12. {od 10. do 12. ure}, 5. in 6. 1. 2026 {od 10. do 19. ure}, Anton Podbevšek Teater
Razstava OPERACIJA BARBAROSSA je povezana s projektom Alamut, simfonično pesnitvijo, ki jo je Laibach premierno predstavil leta 2022 in ki nas popelje v zgodovinsko zgodbo iz Perzije v 11. stoletju o Hasanu Ibn Sabi, karizmatičnem verskem in političnem voditelju. Laibachov Alamut temelji na istoimenskem romanu slovenskega avtorja Vladimirja Bartola (iz leta 1938), ki poudarja grozljiv cinizem Ibn Sabe, v katerem je moto knjige »Nič ni res, vse je dovoljeno,« vrhovno načelo izmailcev, kot tudi vodilna ideja romana. Laibachov Alamut je torej meditacija o cinizmu in nihilizmu politične oblasti, o radikalnem filozofskem skepticizmu in zanikanju vseh tradicij, o duhu makiavelizma in vzponu fašizma.
Tako se Laibach podaja v daljno preteklost in tujo kulturo v njej, da bi tam naletel na teme, za katere si predstavljamo, da so svojstvene v našem času. Laibach tudi z razstavo nadaljuje takšno osredotočenost na Bližnji vzhod, muslimanske kulture in islam, torej politično vroče in spolzke teme, h katerim skupina pristopa v svojem prepoznavnem slogu, z razumevanjem, a brez zadržkov, predano, a brez usmiljenja.
Na steni vidimo veliko črno-belo sliko, naslikano s tušem na papir, pod našimi nogami pa je ročno izdelana, filigransko tkana barvna afganistanska preproga, enake velikosti kot je slika na steni, ki jo občutimo tako z vidom kot dotikom. Takšne preproge so sicer še posebej pomemben del islamske kulture in umetnosti, vrednost imajo tako kot okras kot molitvena relikvija ter kot vsakodnevno počivališče. Seveda nam slika na Laibachovi preprogi ne ponuja priložnosti za sprostitev. Slika je prvotno nastala kot zamenjava za Guernico: leta 2017 je kolektiv nastopil v madridskem muzeju Reina Sofía, za naslovnico albuma We Forge The Future (Live at Reina Sofía) pa so želeli uporabiti fotografijo članov, posneto pred Picassovo Guernico (ki ima svoj domicil v istem muzeju). Toda potem, ko Picassovi dediči niso dovolili uporabe slike, je skupina naredila svojo različico, ki se je pojavila na naslovnici albuma, nato pa na tej razstavi kot njen temni dvojnik. Kompozicija slike se odkrito nanaša na Picassovo delo (iz leta 1937), motivi pa so neposredno vzeti iz slikarskega cikla Domovi, ječe, gozdovi. Na pragu svobode (1944) slovenskega slikarja, kiparja in ilustratorja Nikolaja Pirnata (1903–1948).
Pirnat je leta 1942 pristal v italijanskem koncentracijskem taborišču Gonars, nato pa se je po izpustitvi leta 1943 pridružil partizanom in ves čas slikal. Ne da bi fetišizirali trpljenje, je treba poudariti, da je Pirnat videl in doživel tisto, česar Picasso ni mogel sanjati niti v najhujših nočnih morah. Guernica, nastala po nemškem bombardiranju španskega mesta, prikazuje človeka v stanju šoka in osnovnega človeškega strahu, medtem ko so Pirnatovi ljudje v svetu po nepredstavljivi »operaciji Barbarossa« ostali celo brez tega. Na eni strani krvniki, na drugi strani uničeni ljudje, razčlovečeni, zreducirani na zlomljene kosti in ničvredno kožo, zdrobljeni ali že mrtvi, daleč od vsakega strahu in upanja, Pirnatova bitja ne izpustijo protivojnega krika kot Guernica, ampak izžarevajo povojni mrki mrak, jemljejo dih, pišejo poezijo po Auschwitzu. Edina človeška skupnost tam so morilci v uniformah, edina rešitev je hitra smrt, namesto boga pa pokonci stoji le črno sonce z rdečim bleskom.
Če nam Pirnatove slike dajejo upanje, je to dejstvo, da je tisti, ki jih je videl, vendarle preživel in našel moč, da jih naslika. Kdo je tisti, ki nam danes vrača te slike? Dve različici, ena, ki jo prepoznamo kot muzejsko slikarstvo, in druga, ki bi jo prej pričakovali v kakšni mošeji ali arabski palači, nas vodita k vprašanju, kdo umetnost pravzaprav ustvarja in razstavlja. To izvemo s fotografij na razstavi. Sliko, obešeno na steni, je ročno narisal umetnik in eden od stalnih anonimnih sodelavcev Laibacha v Trbovljah in po naključju v istem studiu, kjer je Laibach leta 1980 bil ustanovljen.
Izdelava slike je torej intimna, neposredno povezana z idejami in dediščino Laibacha, ekspresivna in umetelna, mojstrsko natančna. Po drugi strani je kolektiv za izdelavo preproge zadolžil družino v ruralnem delu Afganistana, ki je stkala isto sliko po naročilu in jasno določenem modelu. V tej različici je ustvarjalčev odnos do dela strogo profesionalen: družina je preprogo izdelala skrbno in natančno, pri čemer je prenesla tudi pikselizacijo slike (saj so zaradi šibke spletne povezave lahko kot model uporabili le fotografijo nizke ločljivosti). Toda družina je delo opravljala predvsem za plačilo, brez osebnega odnosa do naročene slike, enako kot bi stkali izvirno Guernico, tradicionalni vzorec, ali sliko Mikija Miške.
Obrt izdelovanja in proces ustvarjanja se v tem primeru zdita ločena od razumevanja, ali občutenja, ali ustvarjanja podobe. Toda – ali je tako preprosto? Kot izvozni izdelek islamskih držav so preproge stoletja služile kot most med kulturama Vzhoda in Zahoda. Način njihove izdelave se je prenašal iz roda v rod, glavno vlogo pri ročnem delu pa so imele ženske. Zato je v današnjem Afganistanu izdelovanje preprog redek prostor ženske svobode, saj talibanski režim ženskam onemogoča nadaljevanje šolanja po osnovni šoli in s tem tudi prostor ekonomske emancipacije. A ni bilo vedno tako. Že leta 1957 je Afganistan ženskam omogočil visokošolsko izobrazbo in zaposlitev, vendar v »perifernih« državah zgodovina ne teče linearno. V drugi polovici 20. stoletja je bil Afganistan nenehno prizorišče političnih in vojaških napetosti med ZSSR, ZDA in konservativnimi muslimanskimi gibanji. Konec hladne vojne ni prinesel miru, v 21. stoletju pa je dosegel vrhunec: po terorističnem napadu v New Yorku so se ZDA takoj začele maščevati Afganistanu in v treh mesecih z oblasti odstranile talibane. Po dvajsetih letih nestabilne demokracije pod taktirko ZDA je ameriška vlada avgusta 2021 opustila svojo misijo, vojski ukaže umik in prepusti državo nazaj ponižanim in maščevalnim talibanom. Tudi če se ne spomnimo dejstev, se lahko spomnimo posnetkov preobremenjenih letal, ki so takrat zapuščala državo, obupani ljudje pa so se oklepali njihovih kril.
Od vrnitve talibanov na oblast je Afganistan postal država v najhujši humanitarni krizi na svetu: lani je humanitarno pomoč potrebovalo 28 milijonov ljudi, od tega 14,7 milijona za osnovno preživetje. Evidentirano je dva milijona pogrešanih in 6,4 milijona beguncev. Državo pestijo naravne katastrofe, pomanjkanje hrane zaradi suše, revščina in seveda brutalni talibanski režim.
Tja je Laibach odšel naročit izdelavo preproge po predloženem motivu OPERACIJA BARBAROSSA v obdobju, ko so talibani že prevzeli oblast in je Rusija začela agresijo na Ukrajino. Tam živijo ljudje, ki so nit za nitjo tkali grozo slovenskega partizana. Izdelava preprog ima zato drugačno težo. Evropska visoka kultura tradicionalno ceni umetniško ustvarjanje bolj kot rokodelstvo, a v današnjem Afganistanu lahko rokodelstvo pomeni karkoli, medtem ko je »angažirana umetnost« le neuporaben tuj izraz, ki ga uporabljajo oddaljene elite. V tem smislu obrtniški preprogarji v Laibachovo sliko spontano vnašajo tisto, česar umetniško ustvarjanje ne zmore. Po njihovi zaslugi slika uspe združiti čase in kulture ter postati temačna razglednica iz pretekle sedanjosti.
Te zgodbe lahko odpišemo in sklepamo, da so daleč in nas ne zadevajo. Toda Laibachovo delo kaže, da Zahod in Vzhod nista ločeni in nasprotujoči si kulturi, temveč dve različici iste podobe. Verski fanatizem in politični nihilizem gresta skupaj, tako kot vedno znova strah pred višjo silo in krutostjo do šibkejših. Zato lahko v slikah iz druge svetovne vojne prepoznamo nekogaršnjo sedanjost in slutimo svojo prihodnost. Laibach ni edini, ki na to opozarja, je pa edinstven, ker ne igra na sentimentalnost osebne zgodbe, ampak nam pokaže, da nismo izolirani od drugih in se nismo dvignili nad kolektivizem. Če razen svojega ega začutimo strah, krivdo, zaskrbljenost pa tudi ugodje, ponos ali kljubovanje, so ti občutki povezani s tistim delom nas, ki je potopljen v kolektiv, ki v skupnosti išče zaščito in moč. A ko nas kolektiv brani, neizogibno čutimo bolečino vseh ostalih, ki mu pripadajo. Odpor je zaman, ne glede na to, koliko je odpor naravna reakcija na nepredstavljive grozote, ki se izvajajo v imenu naših namišljenih skupnosti. Toda samo zato, ker so skupnosti namišljene, še ne pomeni, da niso resnične. Pa ne samo to, resnične so tudi tiste skupnosti, ki niso namišljene – dejstvo, da ljudje pripadajo drugim civilizacijam, religijam in svetovnim nazorom, ne pomeni, da jih ne bomo čutili kot sebi bližnje.
Odpor je zaman, – nam bodo ponovili Laibach in dodali: torej lezite in se sprostite. Zato nas Laibach istočasno privlači in pritiska na živec. Zato je še vedno tako pomemben.
Zato pripada vsem nam, tudi ko si to najmanj želimo priznati.
Besedilo: Luka Ostojić
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23 December 2025 at 7 p.m., at the soirée marking the opening of the exhibition AUSTTELLUNG! LAIBACH KUNST: OPERATION BARBAROSSA by the art collective LAIBACH, Ivan Novak {Laibach} and Matjaž Berger {APT} are performing. The exhibition will be on view at APT until 6 January 2026.
Soirée and exhibition opening:
23 December 2025 at 7 p.m., Anton Podbevšek Theatre
Exhibition opening hours:
24 December {10 a.m.–12 noon},
29, 30 and 31 December {10 a.m.–12 noon},
5 and 6 January 2026 {10 a.m.–7 p.m.}, Anton Podbevšek Theatre
The exhibition OPERATION BARBAROSSA is connected with the Alamut project, a symphonic poem that Laibach premiered in 2022, taking us into a historical tale from 11th-century Persia about Hasan Ibn Sabbah, a charismatic religious and political leader. Laibach’s Alamut is based on the novel of the same name by the Slovenian author Vladimir Bartol (1938), which emphasizes the terrifying cynicism of Ibn Sabbah, for whom the book’s motto—“Nothing is true, everything is permitted”—is the supreme principle of the Ismailis, as well as the guiding idea of the novel. Laibach’s Alamut is thus a meditation on the cynicism and nihilism of political power, on radical philosophical scepticism and the rejection of all traditions, on the spirit of Machiavellianism and the rise of fascism.
Laibach thus ventures into distant history and a foreign culture in order to encounter themes we imagine to be specific to our own time. Also with this exhibition, Laibach continues its focus on the Middle East, Muslim cultures and Islam—politically hot and contentious subjects—which the group approaches in its recognisable manner: with understanding yet without restraint, with dedication yet without mercy.
On the wall, we see a large black-and-white painting, created with ink on paper, and beneath our feet lies a hand-crafted, filigree-woven Afghan carpet in colour, the same size as the painting on the wall, perceived both visually and through touch. Such carpets are an especially important part of Islamic culture and art; they hold value as an ornament, as a prayer relic and as an everyday resting place. Naturally, the image on Laibach’s carpet does not give us an opportunity to relax. The picture originally came about as a replacement for Guernica: in 2017, the collective performed at the Reina Sofía Museum in Madrid, and for the cover of the album We Forge The Future (Live at Reina Sofía), they wanted to use a photograph of the members taken in front of Picasso’s Guernica (which is housed in the same museum). But when Picasso’s heirs did not permit the use of the painting, the group made its own version, which appeared on the album cover and now at this exhibition as its dark twin. Its composition openly references Picasso’s work (1937), while the motifs are taken directly from the painting cycle Homes, Prisons, Forests. On the Threshold of Freedom (1944) by the Slovenian painter, sculptor and illustrator Nikolaj Pirnat (1903–1948).
In 1942, Pirnat ended up in the Italian concentration camp Gonars, and after his release in 1943 he joined the Partisans and continued to paint. Without fetishizing suffering, it must be stressed that Pirnat saw and experienced what Picasso could not have dreamed of even in his worst nightmares. Guernica, created after the German bombing of the Spanish town, depicts humans in a state of shock and basic human fear, whereas Pirnat’s figures, in the world after the unimaginable “Operation Barbarossa”, are deprived even of that. On one side, the executioners, on the other, the destroyed people—dehumanized, reduced to broken bones and worthless skin, crushed or already dead, far from fear or hope. Pirnat’s beings do not let out an anti-war scream like Guernica; they radiate a post-war grim gloom, take one’s breath away, write poetry after Auschwitz. The only human community present are murderers in uniform, the only salvation is a swift death, and instead of God, only a black sun with a red glare standing upright.
If Pirnat’s works give us hope, it comes from the fact that the one who saw them survived and found the strength to paint them. Who is it that brings these images back to us today? Two versions—one recognisable as a museum painting, the other more likely to be seen in a mosque or an Arab palace—lead us to ask who actually creates and exhibits art. We learn the answer from the photographs in the exhibition. The painting on the wall was hand-drawn by an artist and long-standing anonymous collaborator of Laibach in Trbovlje, by coincidence in the same studio where Laibach was founded in 1980.
The making of the painting is thus intimate, directly connected to Laibach’s ideas and heritage—expressive, elaborate, masterfully precise. The making of the carpet, on the other hand, was entrusted to a family in rural Afghanistan, who wove the same image on commission and according to a strictly defined model. In this version the maker’s relationship to the work is strictly professional: the family produced the carpet carefully and precisely, even transferring the pixelation of the picture (because, due to a poor internet connection, they could use only a low-resolution photograph as a model). But the family did the work primarily for payment, without a personal relationship to the commissioned image, just as they would have woven the original Guernica, a traditional pattern, or a picture of Mickey Mouse.
In this case, craftsmanship and the process of creation seem separated from the understanding, feeling or imagining of the image. But—is it really that simple? As an export product of Islamic countries, carpets have for centuries served as a bridge between Eastern and Western cultures. Their method of production was passed down from generation to generation, and the main role in this manual work has traditionally been held by women. Thus today in Afghanistan, carpet-making is one of the rare spaces of women’s freedom, since the Taliban regime prevents women from continuing their education beyond primary school, thereby preventing economic emancipation. Yet it was not always so. As early as 1957, Afghanistan enabled women to obtain higher education and employment, but in “peripheral” countries, history does not run linearly. In the second half of the 20th century, Afghanistan was constantly the stage of political and military tensions between the USSR, the USA and conservative Muslim movements. The end of the Cold War brought no peace, but the tensions reached its highest point in the 21st century: after the terrorist attack in New York, the USA immediately began taking revenge on Afghanistan and within three months removed the Taliban from power. After twenty years of unstable democracy under US leadership, the American government abandoned its mission in August 2021, ordered the withdrawal of its military and handed the country back to the humiliated and vengeful Taliban. Even if we do not remember the facts, we may remember the images of overloaded planes leaving the country, with desperate people clinging to their wings.
Since the Taliban’s return to power, Afghanistan has become the country with the most severe humanitarian crisis in the world: last year, 28 million people required humanitarian aid, of whom 14.7 million needed it for basic survival. There are two million missing persons and 6.4 million refugees. The country is plagued by natural disasters, food shortages due to drought, poverty and of course the brutal Taliban regime.
It was there that Laibach went to commission the making of the carpet based on the submitted design for OPERATION BARBAROSSA, at a time when the Taliban had already seized power and Russia had begun its aggression against Ukraine. This is the home of the people who wove, thread by thread, the horror of the Slovenian Partisan. The making of carpets, therefore, carries a different weight. The European high culture traditionally values artistic creation above craftsmanship, but in today’s Afghanistan craftsmanship can mean anything, while “engaged art” is merely a useless foreign expression used by distant elites. In this sense, artisan carpet-weavers spontaneously imbue Laibach’s image with what artistic creation cannot: through their work, the picture manages to unite eras and cultures and become a dark postcard from a past present.
These stories may be dismissed as distant and unrelated to us. But Laibach’s work shows that the West and the East are not separate and opposing cultures, but two versions of the same image. Religious fanaticism and political nihilism go hand in hand, just as do fear of higher powers and cruelty toward the weak. Thus in the images of the Second World War we may recognise someone’s present and foresee our own future. Laibach is not the only one pointing this out, but is unique in doing so because it does not play on the sentimentality of personal narrative, but rather showing us that we are not isolated from others and not elevated above the collective. If, beyond our own ego, we feel fear, guilt, concern but also pleasure, pride or defiance, these feelings are connected with the part of us immersed in the collective, seeking protection and strength in the community. Yet when the collective protects us, we inevitably feel the pain of all others who belong to it. Resistance is futile, no matter how natural this reaction is to the unimaginable horrors committed in the name of our imagined communities. But just because communities are imagined does not mean they are not real. And not only those—communities that are not imagined are also real: the fact that people belong to other civilizations, religions and worldviews does not mean we will not feel them as close to ourselves.
Resistance is futile, Laibach will repeat—and add: so lie down and relax. That is why Laibach simultaneously attracts us and presses on our nerves. That is why it remains so important.
That is why it belongs to all of us, even when we least wish to admit it.
Text: Luka Ostojić