Olson Lamaj runs a gallery with three friends: from their own money and in their spare time. They have to because it is the only way to give young, contemporary Albanian artists a chance.
Lamaj studied photography in Milan and fine art in Florence and now earns his living as a graphic designer. He speaks to me after working hours in Galeri Miza: a cool white basement room. A video projection by a Bosnian artist plays in the background. With a video projection by another Bosnian and a photographic work by an Albanian artist, this forms the exhibition 'The Soft Meal'.
Innovation comes from foreigners
Lamaj: 'Cooperation between foreign and Albanian artists is important to us, as we learn from each other. That is why we select foreign artists and modestly fund their travel expenses.' It is a contrast to the exhibition of big foreign names next to the office of Prime Minister Edi Rama, who is an artist himself.
'That exhibition is impressive but unfortunately does not provide opportunities for Albanian artists,' the young gallery owner continued. 'The only way to young emerging artists give a chance is through underground initiatives. That is where a young, intellectual audience arrives who studied abroad. 'Because students at conventional art schools in Albania itself don't come. They don't want to come here.'
That link with abroad is strong. Success seems to be achievable only there. As for the Albanian-born choreographer Angelin Preljocaj, the writer Ismail Kadare or opera singer Ermonela Jaho performing at Covent Garden and the Paris Opera. They belong to an earlier generation who worked their way up, supported by the once excellent education.
Empty land
But still many people are leaving this country of only 3 million inhabitants. I speak to Vincent Triest who works for an Albanian news station: he is Dutch, did an internship with the president (not the prime minister) and his grandfather is Sadik Kaceli, an Albanian painter who once corresponded with Matisse. For his work, he keeps current figures: 40,000 Albanians left for Germany this year, 50% of asylum seekers there are from the Balkans. It saddens him.
'It shows that something still motivates people to leave, even if they have little chance elsewhere,' sighs the young correspondent with a tight parting in his hair. 'There is little confidence that things will get better here and corruption also plays a part in that.'
So why is there such a culture of corruption here, I ask. Sad: 'Firstly, there are more opportunities because there is less control. Also, bottom-up corruption is very common: if you apply for a driving licence in the Netherlands, you don't have to give the desk clerk an extra €10, so we think everything is okay here. Besides, the financial incentive is greater here for those who have to support a family of four on a monthly income of €300.'
Courageous boys?
Building a gallery in such a context is brave or airborne. The young curators realise that they will have to trade in their spontaneity for a more businesslike approach. Because making money in modern art is ultimately necessary for them but also useful for the development of the sector.
Better still, Olson Lamaj believes, would be if there were a debate between young, contemporary Albanian artists and Prime Minister Rama: at his own Center for Openness and Dialogue. Or a museum dedicated solely to modern art. For instance, in the dictator's former mausoleum that is now impoverished.
So there are opportunities too. 'That Albania is moving forward is a fact,' Vincent Triest said, 'the question is just how hard'.
Footnote
As evidence of this development, the Dutch ambassador (see part 1) mentioned the new gay scene in Tirana. But not everyone is convinced of that. Albania's 'first gay man' Victor Musha (he once had to serve five years in prison for it, on the women's wing no less) is averse to it: 'Those young guys of the gay scene don't understand what happened here.' I promise him to include this as a footnote in my article. In his Albanian way, he thanks me with food, a bag of fresh figs.