Plantain. Circling Gillet square, and a small paper picture of a violin. For an hour I dropped into the slow space of image-building through repeating, destroying and reviving. Voice and sound companionably together and distinct. One man’s pressing into the ground, one woman’s pressing into her violin. One series of sounds is almost a human call. We pulse. She instrumentalizes the coordinates of the violin, he instrumentalizes association and memories – mine and his no doubt.
I’m back in my grandparents’ house, worse, I’m back in my grandparents house when the rift happened between their offspring. I’m seeing my father’s ashen face of insult, bewilderment and disappointment. I’m seeing the beautiful 18 year old whippet-thin flippant man’s eyes twinkle as he surveys the room. I’m seeing the internal sensation of realising regret, of fucking up, of loss, penetrating loss.
Attending to remember. A new place to me with some very old thoughts. An old place to me, with old thoughts. Space and place operating their irrevocable alteration, and preservation.
The two little boys running back and forth after their photographer father provided wind-counterpoint. Their presence shook the fringes of the work a little, the small air streams reminded the object of attention nothing shall be or can be hermetically sealed.
Dalston Boys Club
Tim Etchells and Aisha Orazbayeva’s album launch
Memories of Dagmara’s legs carrying a suitcase. I dropped into its elegantly and elegiac world.
I loom over the balcony to survey a grim hospital scene. A man stumbles into the room onto his face and bleeds from his nose/lip for quite a lot of the first song. A 17th century opera dramatised, embodied fully in physical action. Italian in voice, English in translation – themes still relevant. Ill from heartbreak, anger, destitution, bankruptcy. Rifts of institutionalised ill health and medical greed, docile bodies in their green tunics, corrupted processes, avoidance of remembering death, limbo states of the impossibility of ill health. And piss pot samples, their presence in multiples, like the many bin bags of previous patient’s belongings. I describe scenography as I cannot precisely convey extreme pitch and power. Their sound is unable to be dishonest. The bodies of the instruments, the instruments of their bodies, all so refined in the unrefined pools of piss and scalpel battles. It is highly unsettling in a glorious juxtaposing of human ills and human capacities.
Wilton’s Music Hall
Solomon’s Knot, L’Ospedale
I was thinking about what I recalled being taught about history at primary school. Vikings, Egyptians, Tudors, Stewarts. Depending on the choices one makes and who one finds to accompany one’s body-mind in its ongoing growth and development, certain chunks of ‘history’ take more precedence than others.
Wikipedia has lists of wars going on internationally by year. I look at the year of my birth. I have to measure from somewhere.
There were quite a few. There are quite a few.
I thought about acknowledging larger contexts, wider spheres, and the dangers of narrowing and yet the pleasure in narrowing. Narrowing my attention towards something, and having someone narrow their attention towards me.
The power is in the alacrity with which one can mould and change one’s depth perception. I drop in, but need to drop out again. To look at the crystal from multiple angles, to look at its facets in relationship, knowing that there will always be partially concealed aspects, so it’s never really whole. We are not infallible, but we can try.