FROM RESISTANCE TO ROOTS

At the School of Disobedience, we don’t think about time as a straight line. We see it as cyclical. Practices evolve through phases, each with its own character, its own texture, its own climate. A cycle is not better or worse than another; it simply gives a different orientation to the work. It influences how we teach, how we create, how we gather, how we listen, how we speak, what we focus on. A cycle is a climate, a direction that is born, grows, transforms, and eventually becomes something else: a new cycle.

We have just completed the first cycle of the school.

From 2020 to 2025, the School of Disobedience lived in what I now call the cycle of resistance. The school had no fixed ground. It was nomadic, porous, constantly moving between spaces, cities, and contexts. This instability shaped the pedagogy itself: everything was moving. Moving physically, moving emotionally. The method was also in motion, constantly shifting between observation, analysis, and adjustment. The work was dynamic, sometimes raw, often intense. We were questioning inherited structures of art education, refusing the acceleration of the art world, pushing against systems that reduce artists to productivity and visibility.

Disobedience, at that time, meant opposition.
It meant opening temporary clearings where artists could breathe outside institutional expectations. The tone of the school reflected that: strong, searching, restless, exploratory, empowering.

But cycles transform.

Since 2025, the School of Disobedience has entered a new phase. I call it the cycle of roots.

For the first time, the school has a stable place — a house and a garden where the work returns regularly. This physical stability changed the orientation of everything. When you work in the same place over time, something shifts. The work can deepen. Practices can mature. Relationships with one’s own material become more attentive, more layered.

The presence of the garden makes this visible every day. Roots grow underground before anything appears on the surface. Growth follows seasons. Some processes take time, and you cannot accelerate them without damaging what is forming.

This new cycle brings another quality to the school.

If the first cycle was porous, in movement, in the fire,
this one is structured, in stillness, in the ground.
If the first cycle was liquid, this one is solid.

The school becomes a place where artists can encounter themselves and their practice differently. Not through urgency or reaction, but through continuity. The pedagogy becomes more architectural: building frameworks, developing methods, allowing ideas to take shape and stabilize.

Stability does not mean rigidity. On the contrary, it allows experimentation to go further. When the ground is solid, artists can take risks. They can explore, fall and fail, and try again. They can return to their work over time instead of abandoning it too quickly. They dare to stay long enough for something to appear.
And with this new cycle, the meaning of disobedience evolves as well.

In the first cycle, I described the school like this:

“The School of Disobedience is a new form of resistance. An antidote to fast art, a collective healing garden, an ode to sincerity and courage, a passionate and radical platform for simple actions and profound changes.”

Today, I would say something slightly different.

The School of Disobedience is a new form of art education. Not an institution. Not an academy. But an ecosystem. A garden to cultivate and grow, a mirror to see and reflect, an ode to sincerity and generosity, a passionate and joyful platform for simple actions and profound changes.