Esther Naomi van Dijk

DAGAH

My work begins with personal discomfort. As a woman and a believer, I feel the pressure of societal and religious expectations, which arise primarily around motherhood. This pressure fuels questions, such as: Who decides that I want to be a mother? Is it me, or is it something I've always been taught? And what happens if I refuse to follow that image? In my work, I explore these questions, seeking a better understanding of my own will in this regard.

The fish functions here as a bearer of meaning: cold, slippery, elusive. This is in stark contrast to the warm, vulnerable, and soft symbolism of a baby.

This contrast is my fascination. The fish evokes little empathy; it is a symbol that grates, repels, yet also arouses curiosity. In male contexts, the fish functions as a trophy: proof of skill, dominance, and control. It is proudly held, presented, and shared. In my work, that same fish represents something defenceless, something that lacks self-evident pride.

This fish simultaneously refers to something religious, human, and primal. According to Christianity, the fish represents a secret sign of faith and connection. At the same time, Charles Darwin's theory of evolution posits that we are descended from these creatures who subsequently emerged from the water. The fish thus symbolises a starting point, before civilisation and before certain norms and roles were created and adopted. Simultaneously, a rupture has occurred: where we were once connected to the water, the fish now dies on dry land, and we return to the sea. The fish embodies this paradox—as something that reminds us of what we were, but that we are no longer.

Dagah is my centre in this, a word derived from Hebrew, just as my own name is. This word means both "fish" and "to produce," a unity that addresses the theme of my work in various places.

In my practice, the tension between fascination and aversion plays a central role. I amplify this tension through the choices I make in my performance and video installation. In several videos, you see me looking through the lens of an intruder, as if through a keyhole, at something not meant to be seen. The camera moves unnaturally, taking angles that feel slightly distorted. This creates a sense of alienation. In his theory of the keyhole gaze, Jean-Paul Sartre describes how someone who looks feels safe as long as they remain anonymous. But as soon as they realise they themselves are being watched, shame and self-consciousness arise.