I have managed to carve out about 2-3 hours each week for arting and art adjacent purposes. That’s an infinitesimal amount of time compared to previous epochs of my life. Almost non-existent to be truthful. But I’m still really proud of myself that I’ve found that time and that I’ve been able to maintain it most weeks. Because it’s fucking hard. I never know from day to day (some times even from hour to hour) how I’m going to feel, and I never know what else the day is going to throw at me. Train delay? Contrary toddler? Late leaving work because I had to put out a metaphorical fire? Have yet another doctors appointment (I have been to the doctor’s literally once a week every week for the last month, with at least another two weeks ahead of me 😤)? They all happen. All. The. Damn. Time.
When I initially started to play around with this set of images, I was concerned that I would lose my place. That, since there were such big gaps in time where I wasn’t working on them, wasn’t thinking about them, I would never “figure it out.” I was scared that I was never going to progress on them. And you know what? Yeah, I DO forget things. I sometimes repeat the same experiment on an image file or print, only to remember half way through that I’ve already done this. Or I find that I can’t always rely on my notes to myself to help keep my place. They’re unclear, contain too little information, or I just straight up can’t read my own damn handwriting. And yeah, it does take me forever to make even the most incremental progress, but it’s still more than I could have anticipated. I’m counting it as a win that I’m still working on them six months later.
Most importantly though, in the time I’ve been slowly crawling forward on this series, I’ve learned that I never know what is going to come out of the printer at the very end anyway. Regardless of how meticulously and specifically I have edited the digital files. Regardless of how methodically I approach the file in the hex editor. Regardless of what the final image looks like on screen when I send it to print (True story… Some of my images are so damaged by the time I get to the print phase that what the screen shows me isn’t actually the information the printer gets 😂). And of course, there’s always the variable of the printer itself. The trusty old 9880 and 9900 I’m printing on have some head issues that lend me even more unpredictability.
Somehow though, working this way hasn’t brought me the expected anxiety and insecurity I’ve come to expect from everything I do. Somehow it’s actually been relaxing and therapeutic to do it this way. It means that no matter how many notes I take and how methodically I approach the creation of each image, I ultimately don’t know what the fuck is going to happen. So then it doesn’t really matter so much if I’m having trouble thinking or focusing on a particular day, or if I’m not being as detailed as I should be in the process. It means that if I’m having an off day physically or cognitively, it’s not going to impact the work in a negative mannner. That’s so very encouraging to me. It gives me such freedom to work at my own pace, in my own way. It has also forced me to slow waaaaay down and focus on right now, as opposed to what might be next. Which, let’s be honest, has always been a downfall of mine. 🤫
Sundays in our house are days of cooking. Sundays, all the food for the upcoming week is prepped and prepared. This is a task that is mainly my responsibility, but Matthew helps when and if I ask, and of course the Noodle “helps” whenever he feels like standing in his Learning Tower long enough to make a mess.
This Sunday practice (tradition?) comes from long before I had a kid though. And from before I met Matthew even. Back during my first year of grad school I fell into doing meal prep, because I couldn’t afford to eat out much (if at all), and if I wasn’t doing the cooking, no one else was. Eventually it developed into full on meal planning, grocery shopping, batch cooking, weekly event. It’s been 6 or 7 years running now.
Understandably, this practice has become more challenging after the arrival of the kiddo, but it has been my health that has impacted the ritual the most. Whereas in the past I found this tradition really refreshing and invigorating, I found myself completely exhausted and overwhelmed by the prospect. I started to hate it. Not only did it take the obvious physical toll, but believe it or not, the mental strain was also pretty intense. So things had to change. Grocery shopping was moved to Saturday mornings, simpler recipes were selected, fewer “extras” were made, naps were added in to the mix, everything else was removed. A leaner, meaner version of Sundays evolved.
It would obviously be very easy to just give this practice of mine up. To either do carry-out, prepared foods, or prepackaged meals the majority of the time. To attempt to do “30-Minute Meals” each evening when we got home. Sure. I could. Might my life be a teeny tiny bit easier? Possibly. Would my stubborn little heart rebel at that level of privilege (and waste), when I can still very much recall times in the recent past when I didn’t know how I was going to pay for my next meal? For certain.
My stubborness aside though, this ritual is important enough to me to continue because it is a routine. I can count on it. Every. Single. Sunday. With my health and it’s associated cognitive problems, routines are important. Predictability is crucial, and the rest of my life? Not so routine. My work schedule changes every day, as do my duties and efforts there. The way that I feel can wildly vary from day to day. Also, Toddler. Doing this one thing (albeit a big thing) gives me one definite check point in my week. It gives me some security and sanity, when I often feel as though I am juuuuuust barely keeping my head above water.
And so, The Kitchen and The Kid finds it’s way back to it’s point of origin, the kitchen. Which is undoubtably the center of my home. AGES ago I brought home the large canvas test prints I made. They wound up thrown on the floor of my studio, right in front of my desk, when I cleaned the apartment about a month ago. Matthew asked me if that didn’t worry me… My knee jerk reaction was neatly roll them up and tuck them away somewhere, to protect them. But then I thought about it, and I actually didn’t care that they were on the floor and that I might step on them. And more to the point, hadn’t I brought these prints home so that I could live with them, and look at them, for awhile? Yes, that’s why I brought them home. Why ignore them? Then a few weeks ago as I was gearing up for Sunday cooking, the idea struck me to put one of them down on the floor of the kitchen where I would be spending the day. Where everyone will walk over, spill on, and generally fuck up, the print. And there it has stayed. How long, I don’t know, but I like seeing it every day, and I’m curious to see what affect life will have on the work.
Bear with me, this is going to be rambling and probably pointless.
I’m not exactly an avid Facebooker. I tend to use it more as a news conduit and to keep tabs on/in communication with friends and family I don’t get to see on a regular basis. I find the obnoxious over-sharing and stupid meme trading really annoying and totally overstimulating. Especially given that people tend to share things with out checking it’s validity or ensuring it comes from a trusted source. It’s just not my style. Anyway, this afternoon I happened to see something that a former colleague from grad school had “reacted” to (why I see their reactions, I have no idea), which ironically ties into something my last post was talking about, which I had totally forgotten I’d even written. The reaction was to an image of a banner that simply read:
“If it’s inaccessible to the poor it’s neither radical nor revolutionary.”
Now, I have no idea where this image originated, or the context in which it was shared and then reacted to on Facebook. But it hit a nerve for me. I’ve been thinking about privilege and access a lot lately, it’s difficult not to. From watching the current presidential race unfold, to seeing the effects of the current economy on those who were not born with a silver spoon in their mouth, to the absurd and disturbing fight over transgender rights and sexuality… The (mainly rich, white) privileged seem to be desperately grasping for any control or supremacy they can maintain, and society as a whole seems to be trying to stand up against it and call that privilege into question. It also comes up in my personal life as I consider things like paying for childcare, the ability to be a stay-at-home parent, and as it relates to my own artistic practice…
As I mentioned in my previous post, the ability to access and view art comes is made possible by a certain amount of privilege. Fuck man, just making art can be a bit of a privilege (for which I realize, many artists fight). And that upsets me. I believe that artists should work to impact the world around them and to create experiences for their viewers. For their art to be seen and shared. Instead, I think that often times we work toward finding a place in a gallery’s stable of artists where our work can be shown, bought, collected, but those who have the money and access to go to galleries/museums/etc. Why are we making work if it’s not going to be accessible to the entire population? Why should our work only be available to a privileged few? Why do we continue to work within and perpetuate this stupid, outdated paradigm? Is it really the money? Or perhaps the potential for fame? Personally, I don’t want to make art that everyone can’t access, I could care less about actually making money off of my art (I have literally only ever sold a single print in my entire career thus far), and I hate attending my own openings because of social anxiety and introversion. These are sincerely things that I don’t understand, and ask from a place of curiosity, with a desire for discussion on the matter.
I struggle, though, with ways of getting my art “out there” and “building my resume”, so that one day in the semi-near future, when it comes time to go on the job market again, I can show I have been pursuing my practice and I would be a worthwhile addition to a faculty somewhere. I struggle with the knowledge that the vast majority of my work is not well suited for many galleries, museums, or art centers, and try to compensate by creating small bodies of work that can fit in those confines. For instance, I’ve spent the last few months working on a series of photographic images that are totally abstract and inoffensive visually. The only context or content is provided by what I say about them in an artist statement. Just so that I might get another line on my resume. And for every two or three applications I send out using that body of work, I send out another two or three of my other, more performative or conceptual work. Guess which applications are more likely to receive acceptance? What am I even supposed to do with that? In my mind, it’s ultimately an empty gesture because I’m making something I don’t fully feel invested in and so exhibiting it is pointless, and that’s on top of the fact I know perfectly well that I’m producing work that will only be available for viewing by those privileged enough to visit said gallery/museum/center.
Then I think about when I do performance or video work out in public, leaving behind the context of the art work or the white cube. Sure there are individuals out there who will appreciate it as art, smiling as they walk by, or nodding and saying “Right on” when they can relate. But there are also many people who will be completely turned off by it, because they cannot relate to where I come from, to my privilege as a college educated visual artist, a cog in the wheel of academia, as a white woman from the upper middle class suburbs. I can pull source material from Rebecca Solnit’s Men Explain Things To Me because I think her writing is beautiful and witty and valuableall I want, but again it becomes an empty gesture if no one understands the reference, is aware of Solnit’s work, or makes the connections I’m trying to facilitate about gender and society. It’s not everyone who has time to even acknowledge that gender inequality still exists in a major way, let alone contemplate the impact that has on society at large, and their personal lives in particular.
Even my contention that having art online makes it readily available to any one who wishes to view it is still premised on the privileges of having both access to a computer and access to the internet. Despite the fact that I often felt at times that I was one of the last people in the world to have internet connected in my own home, that is categorically untrue. And I have had the benefit of having regular access to some sort of computer nearly my entire life. This is not the case for everyone.
So then where does that leave me? I can be as radical or alternative in my practice as I want, but does it mean anything if it’s inaccessible to the majority of the population, the very audience I want for my work? Is it possible to create those experiences and effect that change I so desire if privilege blocks the audience?
Regardless of the answers to my own personal struggles here, I think its worthwhile to keep this idea of access and privilege in mind. You can decry the evils of vaccinations and feel like you are challenging the status quo and big pharma and helping to open society’s eyes to the dangers of vaccines all you want. But that view is not so revolutionary outside of your own context of the privilege to turn down what others would give anything to provide their children with. You can rage against the machine about GMOs and organic foods and how that’s all we should eat, but you don’t live in a food desert where all you can find are sodas and pre-packaged foods at the corner 7-11. You can bitch about Uber surge pricing ’til the cows come home, but you still have a smart phone and ultimately the means to get around while there are others who must beg rides from friends and family or walk, all relying on increasingly nonexistent pay phones, phone calls “borrowed” from who ever is around, or even a pay-as-you-go flip phone… We just all need to stop for a moment and put ourselves in someone else’s shoes in order to consider the fact that reality exists outside of our own little bubbles.
I don’t know what my point here is or that I’ve actually said anything of substance, but yeah… Privilege and access.
Rant: Part I (In Which I Think Deep Thoughts About Art, Art Ownership, and the Institution, Then Get Sidetracked)
I’ve been reading a book called Ways of Looking: How to Experience Contemporary Art by Ossian Ward. It is a bit of a beginner’s guide to looking at contemporary art, which I picked up with the idea that it might be useful for teaching younger kids or non-art folk about contemporary art. Yes. I am that nerd that thinks about pedagogy and teaching ALL the time. It’s a pretty basic read, but interesting. Anyway, it dredged up a few thoughts that have been kicking around in my head for awhile and got me thinking about them again.
The premise of this book, is that it breaks down contemporary art into “Art as” sections to be decoded using the author’s TABULA Rasa formula (Time, Association, Background, Understand, Look again, Assessment). These “Art as” sections include: Art as Entertainment, Art as Joke, Art as Message, etc. The last two chapters are Art as Spectacle and Art as Meditation, which I was reading on the train on my way into work this morning. Toward the end of the Art as Spectacle chapter the author discusses Urs Fischer’s You, and writes:
“Resembling a battlefield or a construction pit rather than an exhibition, Fischer’s destructive, anti-artistic statement was not only an assault on the senses—involving as it did a precipitous 8-foot drop and the risk of serious injury—but it was also an attack on the very structures that support and validate art itself (it was nevertheless sold to a foundation for excavation at a later date at some other location).”
At which point I literally wanted to stand up on the train and flip a table. It just seems so ridiculous to me that this piece was bought by a foundation to be moved from it’s context, making it even less accessible. It actually made me angry. Because let’s face it, there is a certain amount of privilege involved in being able to visit (access) a museum, gallery, foundation, or other arts institution. But also, I really HATE the idea of ownership when it comes to art (especially when it comes to something so ephemeral and site-specific). I want everyone to have access to art all the time. I don’t think you should have to pay to see something that is culturally relevant, or interesting, or thought provoking, or just plain fucking beautiful (although I could personally not care less about that particular criterion). And I think art objects are stupid. It upsets me that these are things which artists have poured themselves into, and they are hoarded away by private collectors or museums, only to see the light of day occasionally. Art isn’t about just looking/seeing. But I’ll get to that rant in a second.
The author continues his bit about You, referencing the writings of Robert Smithson (of Spiral Jetty fame). Smithson was a leading figure in moving art outside of the gallery, and helped to develop the Land Art movement of the 70’s. At one point he wrote that museums are just graveyards above ground. And, regardless of the context in which Smithson said/wrote that, or the context in which Ward is theoretically linking it to You, I really am starting to believe it’s true in a very literal sense. Museums are places that art goes to die. Art no longer exists as it was originally envisioned once it’s consigned to a collection, where it is restored, or stored, or academicized. It becomes part of a hushed atmosphere, in which you are supposed to take everything very seriously, study the beauty of the “masters” (which, fuck that noise), and learn something. These randomly selected objects are placed onto white walls and white pedestals to be admired and revered (from a distance), because someone employed by the museum said that they should be. Aside from the usual rhetoric over who gets to decide what is art, what isn’t, and what should be displayed/preserved, it’s a stupid, stupid system. And sure, there are museums, or exhibitions out there that challenge this status quo, but not enough. The majority of them do not. The majority of them are the white cube-didactic-no-touching model.
This makes me think of the Futurist Manifesto (because really, it’s never far from my mind), and the Futurist’s desire to destroy all museums/libraries/academies etc, because they viewed them as antiquated and therefore an impediment to the progress of the future. Sometimes, I think they weren’t far from wrong (aside from their somewhat blatant misogyny and general delight at war). We have created these repositories of things that we are told to revere. I can easily question and challenge it because I have the theoretical knowledge and art back ground, but the average person does not. They take it to heart. We cling onto these things, as if they truly are the end all and be all of beauty, or whatever the hell it is that we are looking for in art. We uphold the past, and scorn the contemporary (Thats why books like Ways of Looking are written…). It’s almost like we want to hold ourselves back.
My ponderings on art ownership, objects, and destroying museums also started me thinking about the other forms of art that we accumulate and store. For instance, why am I OK with collecting outrageous numbers of books, of which many are works of fiction, and therefore art? I LOVE books. I learn things from them, I escape every day life with them, they are magical objects to me, and are tied into happy childhood memories. But still, they are art. So why can I support ownership of those and not works of visual art? Is there any difference? Perhaps it bothers me less because there are often thousands, if not millions of the same copy of my book floating around? Because anyone can go to the library, find that book, and read it for free (Unrestricted access)? And libraries are depositories of ALL books, not just some. I realize not every library will have every book, but they don’t actively seek to curate their patron’s visit by limiting their selection, to say the 200s (Religion) in the Dewy Decimal System. Or perhaps they do, and I am just unawares.
And what about music? I’ve never been one to obsessively collect albums. I’m perfectly content to turn on Spotify/Pandora/insert-other-internet-radio-here and listen. I don’t need to own it. But there are some who make it a priority in their lives. And in some weird, conceptual way I find it more acceptable to collect that form of art. Again, perhaps it’s because theoretically anyone has access to this art form, and there are millions of copies laying around. Perhaps because someone else could then learn that piece of music and play it for themselves (or others), whether it be in a replication of the original, or in a new interpretation. Its tough. And I’m not sure I can justify my ability to accept owning those art forms but not others… Maybe I just need to give up my book collection. *insert wide eyed emoji here*
Rant: Part 2 (In Which I Get Back on Track, and Rage at the Consumption of Art)
The other side of the issue of owning art and locking it away, is that we also treat it like a commodity to be consumed. We pack large rooms and entire buildings with vast collections of “precious” art objects for people to pay to see. Often times these collections are so enormous, it could take you days if not weeks to view just what was on display. For instance, according to CNN, it would take you SIXTY-FOUR DAYS to see everything in the Louvre if you only looked at everything for SIXTY SECONDS. Let that sink in for a minute. Sixty-four entire days, looking at roughly 35,000 works of art for exactly sixty seconds each. Forget actually studying, appreciating, or processing a work. And that is only what they have on display at any given time. Their entire permanent collection is around 460,000 objects (You do the math on that one). So it’s no wonder that with museums like MOMA in New York charging upwards of $25 or more for an individual admission to just the permanent collection, people are going to want to get their money’s worth. They are going to rush through, trying to take in as much as possible (which is the worst possible way to view art), making it into a sort of scavenger hunt to find the most famous, or popular works of art. All so that they don’t feel gypped, so that they can say they saw the Mona Lisa, and of course, so that they can snap a selfie. What. The. Fuck. World? It’s so angering.
Art is not meant to be consumed like that. It’s meant to be experienced. It’s meant to leave us thinking, in awe, or some how impacted. The final chapter of Ward’s book is Art as Meditation, which address works of art that require time for reflection and processing. He writes that some artworks need contemplation and a sort of extended digestion. I would argue that this is every work of art, because art can change in meaning over time for you, depending on any number of variables… Circumstances, experiences, knowledge, relationships. All of which are dynamic, and subject to change in and of themselves. Ward continues this line of thought, saying:
These shifts in perception or changes of heart require time. They need time to reveal themselves, to create an atmosphere, to warp the here and now, and –maybe– to formulate a new universe… This kind of contemplative situation, or ‘Art as Meditation,’ as I’ve called it, is not about conceptual art, or anything necessarily related to the 1960’s Conceptual art movement (with a capital C). Nor is it about seeing something that isn’t there or posing more thoughts that can only live in your head. It relates to the ability to better appreciate or more deeply engage with a work of art without succumbing to the bite-sized nibbles of culture offered elsewhere or having our heads turned this way or that by any number of other tempting distractions.”
These are things I’ve been trying to get at in my own work for a few years now. I want my audience/participants/viewers to have an experience rather than simply look/see/consume what I have to share. I want their lives to be impacted, for them to think about what they saw for years to come, and for that experience of the work to evolve as they themselves change and grow. Otherwise, what was the point of making the work in the first place? Sure, it fulfilled a selfish need of my own to create and express myself, but it doesn’t mean anything until someone else enters into the picture. Otherwise, why look at art at all? If you’re only going to spend sixty seconds staring at it, only to move on to the next piece immediately, and instantly forget what you saw just moments before. Everything then becomes a blur, and nothing sticks. Nothing makes an impression. And I’ll have done all this hard work for nothing…
I realized this week that I might be fighting my own expectations again. While yes, I’ve been in Chicago for two months, it still might be a little unrealistic of me to expect myself to be totally acclimated and to have built a steady routine and become productive. (Especially having added a new relationship into the mix.) It takes time to readjust, to find a solid groove and balance. I cannot expect myself to have mastered that in such a short period of time. Realizing that has helped quash some of my anxiety about getting work done in the studio and feeling overwhelmed by my job. It’s frustrating to me that I still do this to myself… Try to conform to my own unrealistic expectations. Particularly when it comes to the studio. I seem to be able to curb it elsewhere in my life, but the studio man… It always sneaks up on me. The important thing is that I’m trying, and I’m making progress. Even if it is slow.
Despite the minor anxieties, I really cannot, and should not, complain though. I am, by leaps and bounds, the happiest and most content I can remember being. My bills are paid, I have my own apartment, I have a really good (if sometimes frustrating) job that is actually in academia AND pays well, I live in an amazing city with a million opportunities for me, and I’m part of a we with a really fabulous bloke. I’m actually sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop, but not enough to let it spoil my joy at this moment. In the last few weeks I have gotten to shoot with an amazing Sigma art lens, learn all kinds of new things about printers, I’ve gotten to see an improv show, explore Chicago’s architecture, FINALLY go apple picking and to a pumpkin patch, eaten all kinds of ethnic foods… I just, I feel very fortunate to have gotten my job and to have things going so well that my anxiety over not making more art, faster, seems really silly. And I think that’s a good attitude for me to have.
I feel though, that my art thoughtz have been coming pretty fast and hard lately and I haven’t been particularly apt at keeping up with them or making steps to make things. Never the less it’s exciting that I’m having these ideas. It’s been awhile since the ideas came so quickly and in any quantity. It’s almost overwhelming, but in the best of ways. I’m excited to get my white board up and running in the studio so I can start sorting through and keeping track of my ideas. That’s something that’s sorely been missing in my practice the last year and a half. It will also be nice to get all those notes out of my sketchbook and into the computer so that I can collate them with my whiteboarding. Super duper excited!
I have several ideas that are really vying for my attention right now but I think are a diverse showing of my artistic interests. Both in terms of media and in terms of concept, and I think it will be interesting to watch them develop. I’m really kind of curious about an idea that I had just the other night, which I envision as being totally photographic. Perhaps even a photo book (totally eating crow on that one, if it happens). I wonder if I’m going to get bored with it as I tend to do with any type of straight photography, and if conceptually, I will feel as if it is accomplishing it’s goal. I tend to be disappointed by straight photography because I feel a lot of it is: Photographer takes picture. Photographer tells you want the picture is about. OR: Photographer takes picture. It is pretty/technically proficient/”compelling”. There isn’t an experience to be had, there isn’t something to interact with or explore. Ugh. Vom. Super boring (TO ME! Let me stress that… SUPER BORING TO ME.) Yes, my Period series was straight photos, but always with the end goal of a massive installation in mind. (Which! While I’ve had no traction on finding a place to make that happen, I have decided I want to print life sized stickers and plaster them around town!)
In any event, this idea for a photo series struck me the other night in the shower. I turned and happened to see a hair on my bathroom tile, which was not mine. Ok, fine, it must be Matthew’s, since he showers at my place a few times a week. But somehow that got the random synapses firing as I was finishing my shower. I started thinking about how I really love living alone, and my place here in Chicago is really the first time in almost 8 years that I’ve actually had a place of my own, by myself. It reminded me that I was in a romantic relationship for almost 6.5 years, most of which we lived together, and nearly 3 of which we were married. Our lives were totally linked and wound together on every level. But then the divorce. It was like a perfect, sterile break that I truly rejoiced in because I suddenly things were always where I put them last, there were no arguments over how something should be done. Everything was the way I wanted it. And I embraced that. But now that Matthew and I are a “we” and he’s at my place and in my space pretty regularly, I think there’s going to be a period of adjustment while I get used to the traces he leaves behind. Stray hairs discovered on my shower tiles, rumpled blankets, extra pillows on one side of the bed, double the dishes… I want to use imagery to investigate these invited trespasses and my re-acclimation to it. I also like the parallel (conceptually) between the fact that I really have no idea where our relationship will/is going and the fact that I really have no clue how this whole straight photography thing is going to play out. We’ll see…
I’ve also really been feeling the need to do some performative work. I have this idea to attempt to walk a straight line down the sidewalk here in Chicago. I need some assistance with this one though because in order to film it, I will need someone to babysit the camera while I do the act. I think I want to try a few different variations of this act. One that is sort of unapologetic and unwavering, where I do not stray from my course, one where I just stare at the ground as I walk, effectively ignoring any potential collisions, perhaps one where I try to avoid any and all collisions… Variety might be a good idea. I’m not quite sure what I’m trying to say with this, but I sort of see some parallels between the act and my anxiety and stubbornness.
The third idea I’m trying to pin down and figure out right now I’m referring to as Grandmother Spider in my head. (I needed some kind of working title I guess…) It’s me reading an essay (Titled, you guessed it! Grandmother Spider.) from Rebecca Solnit’s book Men Explain Things to Me. It’s essentially an essay about how women are “disappeared” from history and society. I think this is an especially pertinent issue right now. Younger generations are rejecting feminism, reproductive rights are under serious attack, and of course there’s this whole thing going on with Hillary Clinton and the Benghazi nonsense. Basically, women are still not on equal footing. My thought here, is to record myself reading the essay, then periodically fade my own voice out (so you only see my face/torso), or fade out my physical presence (so you only hear my voice). I had also thought about having a male read the same essay, with the sound on that channel subtly escalating over my own reading of the essay. But I’m not sure if the male should read the same essay? Or perhaps if he only read the parts that pertain to men? Or changed the genders of what Solnit originally wrote? I think though that there is something nice about the idea of a cacophony of voices trying to be heard. Men often talk over women, so its not like it’s a stretch. There needs to be a visual component that echoes that though… Perhaps split screen with me on one side and the male on the other? And his side slowly gets larger and louder? Not sure, but I like this idea. It’s simple in terms of execution and the visual, but complex conceptually. I shot some test footage for this the other day and I plan on looking over it later today.
I’ve got a few other project ideas kicking around that I’ve made varying degrees of progress on, but I think I just need to let them lie right now. One is Adrift which is the second part of a live performance I did back in May. It’s supposed to be video and photo documentation that calls the veracity of the performance into question, but I’m not sure how to put the documentation together to get that across. Also, I always drag my feet when it comes to video editing. It’s the worst. I’ve also started what I hope will be a massive photographic installation revolving around the birth control pill, but I started to get really frustrated with the images I was getting. The pills are so tiny that getting nice, sharp images of them that are well lit is difficult using the gear I have. But I also don’t want to invest in a single lens or something silly like that JUST for this project. Besides I really only need a handful of shots to make the entire thing happen. I’m letting it sit on the back burner right now until I can resolve the best way to capture those images.
I am at the 92 Day, 23 hour, 58 minute and some odd second mark until my thesis show opens.
And I am struggling. But what’s surprising about that?
You see, I have once again gotten myself into the difficult situation of having come up with this insane idea, but of having no clue as to how to pull it off. Aren’t I nice to myself?
My initial proposal went something like this:
For my thesis show, I would like to create an archive of a performance through documents and artifacts. The performance which is evidenced through this archive may or may not have taken place. There is potential for the archive could be created out of found objects, repurposed materials, etc. These materials would then be presented to the audience in such a way that they are then required to piece together the “narrative” of the event. Conceptually, I see the performance revolving around the themes of failure and success. Preferably, I would like this to take the form of some type of universal failure or experience with failure, something which would compel the audience to invest time and energy into discovering the story. The main idea behind the archive and its manner of presentation to the audience is that, while it documents and shares an experience for which the audience was absent, it also mediates and distances them from that same event. This inherently creates misunderstanding, miscommunication, and potential meandering in meaning. In this way the archive in the traditional sense, fails performance art, in that it cannot provide a clear or concise replication of the principal happening for posterity to experience. Nor can it hope to truly preserve artist intent or meaning through time. As our cultural references and understandings evolve, the documents themselves remain stagnant.
The contents of this repository will be as wide ranging as possible, but operating within the traditional confines of an archive. I intend to include photographs, video, sound recordings, writing, any props or objects used for the performance, as well as any artifacts created through the performance itself. These documents will be incomplete in someways, forcing the viewer to use all parts in conjunction with one another in order to obtain the “full picture.” These various parts will be displayed throughout the gallery, almost in “stations,” to both explain and mediate the performance for the audience. I also anticipate providing the audience with some sort of takeaway which could function as a map, a treasure hunt, or something which would help them to tie together the various pieces of the performance. This takeaway could then become an additional piece of documentation. Photographically speaking, I am considering two options. The first is having images which change periodically, and the second is presenting images that were supposedly printed with disappearing ink. In the first option, images could be rotated on a time table, or a small group of images could be displayed on a screen or projected for a finite period of time before changing, never to be seen again. In the second option, the images could be printed in disappearing ink, or just be stated to have been printed as such. The audience would then be forced to rely on written captions or titles, or another individual to describe to them what was in each frame. Similarly, the video component would be designed so that it could not be relied upon to share the narrative in its entirety. I see it as either taking the form of a soundless video, projected or played on a screen. Or it could also simply be a glitchy video which periodically drops out, or becomes pixillated so visual information is lost as well, similar to the way that Digital TV received via antenna is unreliable. When it comes to any objects included in the archive, I’m anticipating these being presented much as traditional art objects or historical artifacts in a museum. Moreover, I plan on incorporating some type of sound or written element to supplement the object. This could take the form of an audio track variously describing the original object, the history of the object, discussing the use of the object within the performance, or maybe just the sound of the object being used. Alternatively, this could also be accomplished through a written placard accompanying the object. As a final piece of the archive, I intend to have an audio feed that provides audience members with a general interpretation of what the performance and show were about. To accomplish this, at some point during each viewer’s experience at the gallery, they will have the opportunity to enter a sort of “confessional,” in which they can share their interpretations, impressions, or experience of the performance. This will then simultaneously be recorded and broadcast into a “listening station,” where others may go to hear this second hand audio archive of the performance. As with the presentation of the objects, this could also take the form of a written archive if the audience were uncomfortable with speaking or being recorded. Additionally, I would somehow like to incorporate other audience generated archive materials, such as pictures they took, or social media posts they made relating to the show. This could then be incorporated into the presentation of the performance in the museum after the opening….
And then it goes into discussing research routes and technical challenges. Sorry if you read all of that.
There are several problems with this idea, despite the fact that I am so excited about it and have the support of my committee to take this risk. The first of which being, I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT THE PERFORMANCE IS GOING TO BE. And I can’t piece together anything else until I nail that down. Frustrating! Like I mention in the proposal, I want it to related to failure, but how do you make failure completely universal? It’s pretty crucial in this situation I think, to make the performance something that is relatable and understandable in terms of theme and content. Otherwise I feel like there would be NOTHING for the audience to grasp since there are several layers happening here, and I’m not 100% certain that everyone in attendance is going to understand that as I look at it, archives are failure… Something, something, something, something?
I submitted that proposal in December, and have approval to attempt this madness, and ever since then I’ve been thinking about what my performance might be, if it were going to be live, or take place before hand, how I might engage the audience in piecing together the archive…On and on.
For quite sometime, the only conclusion I had come to was that there had to be a live performance (the night of my opening at least), so that the distinction between experiencing the archive and having a first hand, potentially participatory experience could be made for my audience. But then, how do I make sure that ALL visitors to the show can experience that contradiction? I can’t perform in the museum the entire time the show is up. I can’t afford to pay performers to perform in the museum the entire time the show is up. Do I make my audience become the performers? And how do I keep the performance hidden, secondary in some ways, so that the audience could experience everything else first and THEN discover the live performance? Should I make some sort of scavenger hunt, where the performance becomes the pay off in the end? And how do I ensure that my audience complies?
Then over the last few days, I’ve started to think that I’m attempting to combine too much into this show. Trying to use too many ideas simultaneously, and that I should try to simplify where possible. This also made me think that maybe I should try to really simplify my intents for the performance itself, and maybe attempt something on a smaller scale… But I still didn’t know what it would be.
But I think I had a small break through today. In one of my posts from November, I talked about how I was thinking about playing telephone (almost literally) for a performance, and shared my discovery of an essay titled The Viral Ontology of Performance Art. Something else I read today (also out of Perform, Repeat, Record) started to make me think about performance telephone and Viral Ontology again.
“Documentations magic lies in its explosive power, it shatters the reclusive planet inhabited by the once-lived into a radiating galaxy of astroids. Each astroid carries some memories of the once-lived, each in turn extends, renews, or replaces the vitality of the once-lived; each has the potential to grow into a different planet. Thus, the once-lived lives again and lives on not as itself per se, but as itself altered: dismembered, redone, augmented, partially replicated, diminished, burned into ashes, or consumed as legends.”
Suddenly I remembered a game a member of my cohort taught me and that I would frequently play with the kids at Lafayette Art Camp. It’s called Telephone Pictionary. To play this game, you sit in a circle with the other participants (as with traditional Telephone, the more people, the better), and each player has a stack of paper or note cards. On the top card, each participant writes a word or phrase. They flip it over and hand it to the person sitting next to them. That person looks at the word or phrase and attempts to draw it on the back of the same piece of paper. The drawing is then passed to the next individual who looks only at the drawing, and writes out a short phrase or word that describes what they think the drawing is of. And so on and so forth. The pay off obviously comes once the cards have made the full round of the circle and come back to the original owner, where the evolution of their original word or phrase is seen.
And I thought… Why can’t that be the performance?! It’s so perfectly simple. It doesn’t require anyone to constantly be performing. It’s wholly participatory, but un-agressively so. It creates it’s own archive by default. It’s subtle enough that it doesn’t make a spectacle of itself and could be taking place in a self contained room… It’s so flipping simple and perfect, it’s brilliant. It embodies the very idea of viral ontology and audience centered experiences I’m so keep to explore. It is also sort of the very definition of failure, and I don’t even have to manipulate the situation to create the failure! Why am I so obtuse sometimes!?!
I’m not entirely sure how this all fits together into my crazy scheme yet, but I think I’m going to test run this idea at the 621 Cabaret in a few weeks. Every year 621 Gallery does a fundraiser in which local artists and performers create an act and then put on a cabaret style show, and since I’m sitting on the board this year, I got suckered into performing… But I think it might be a good venue to explore this idea, if I can make it happen with in a 10 minute time frame… Always gotta make it hard on myself.
It’s been a lazy, kind of busy holiday… But I’m back and better than ever. Fired up to finally pop out this thesis and the accompanying arts. An update on that another time. Today I just quickly want to share with you all the press release for the Live Amateurs exhibition I’m participating in, which opens this Saturday! Feel free to share it around. 🙂 See ya kids soon.
It’s obviously been quite some time since I’ve been around here. I can’t even say that it’s been time well spent doing things to post on here. So instead, I’m going to pretend like I was never even gone… Yeah.
Anyway. I (finally) did a performance last weekend at SMALLS here in town. The idea for the performance sort of came to me randomly, and as a bit of a joke. Recently I’ve been contemplating the reasons why I love photography (the process, but not the product) as well as the way our culture depends upon photography to record our memories. The thing however, is that most of us, with our super smart phones and the dozens of photos it takes every day, NEVER LOOK AT THOSE PICTURES AGAIN. We literally mediate our experiences in order to create these photos, and then forget them. Oh, sure, maybe we might see them when we flip through quickly to find pictures to delete to make room for more pictures, or we might see them briefly when we look at their comments on Facebook, but we certainly never print them, or cherish them in a photo album. So then, to me, the question is, do we even need the photograph to remember that moment? No, I don’t think so…
So I set up a mini photography studio at this local alternative space, and invited people in to have their photograph done. Using a 4×5 camera, I created portraits by working with each individual, asking them how they wished to be photographed. I then issued them a number and told them I would get them their image before they left. Additionally I took copious notes on a post-it with their number on it, about what they were wearing and what happened during our abbreviated session. What my subjects didn’t know, was that my film holders were empty, and that when I went in to the “darkroom” to process their images, I was simply pulling out a sheet of undeveloped film from a box and placing it in an envelope along with a hand written note from me. The note was a summation of our experience together, culminating in the phrase, “You do not need a photograph to remember this experience.” I then signed and dated it. Each participant was given a sealed envelope with “their picture” in it to open at their leisure. At first people were confused, but in the end, I think a lot of people really enjoyed it, even got a kick out of it.
I chose a large format camera for a couple of reasons. First of all, this allowed me an individual negative for each person I photographed. Secondly, it never fails to impress visually, and people automatically take it seriously. Along with this, using a view camera is somewhat more time intensive. You can’t simply point and shoot. Finally, and this is a piece that really only I knew about, but am amused by nonetheless… I used Kodak Ektachrome slide film. A totally obsolete technology. I only happened to have some (which was outdated), because a professor of mine donated a couple of boxes to me in undergrad. I’ve been hanging on to it for years, thinking I would find some really good reason to use it… But never have. I think this was a perfect use. 🙂 This amuses me because people were so excited when they found out they would be getting a picture very quickly. We most certainly live in a culture of instant gratification… and I gave them not that.
A lot of this plays on the importance of the experience I try to emphasize with in my work. I think that as a whole, people have forgotten to live in the present. We live in the future, we live in the past, and we live our lives digitally mediated through various devices. We put those devices between ourselves and the experiences around us. For me, this performance was just a way of reminding those present that they don’t really need a photograph, or to make a photograph, to experience or remember a given moment in time. All they have to do is live it.
Alright. In several places on this blog, I’ve mentioned in passing about my shoes. My stupid shoes. The flipping Converse that I’ve been wearing incessantly since mid-January. I hate them.
Basically these Converse are a durational (Thesis vocab, what?!) piece I started back in January. When I began the project, I had this idea that it was going to be something about being worn down by anxieties and the fear of failure, but the fact that the shoes would be damaged by my wearing of them was not a failure, but rather a success on the part of the shoes in protecting my feet and doing their job. A work about letting oneself get caught up in small trivialities that eventually exhaust you. My intent was to wear them all day, every day (no smart asses, not to bed, and not in the shower… And yes I really did have cohorts ask me that), any time any one might normally wear shoes. I planned to wear them until it was unsafe for me to do so any longer (ie the bottoms completely wore through and I couldn’t wear them while riding my scooter without shredding off the soles of my feet). I planned to photograph them every week, once a week, more as documentation than anything else, and that was as far as my planning ever got. I figured that I would decide on display and what not later on down the line.
So I started the project. Mind you this is out of the ordinary for me to start something without having everything planned out or answered (at least for the time being) a head of time. But I was trying to just “go with it” as they say. Well, whew, what a hot mess that was. I got distracted by the photography aspect, starting thinking that it was a photography project, got a lot of silence and strange looks when I talked about the project in studio visits and reviews. I got very lost along the way.
In any event I’ve been photographing them every week since I first put them on in January. I only missed one week, when I was out of town in Chicago. I’ve watched them deteriorate. I’ve noticed small changes from week to week that one would not normally see in their shoes. I saw the first bit of rubber fall off the heel of my shoe, watched the backs break and the supporting plastic erode away. I’ve been watching the laces slowly unravel and stain, the tread wear away… I’ve been hiking in them, wore them to the beach, went camping in them. I wear them on my scooter, doing yard work, going dancing with my friends. I wear them with completely unlikely outfit combinations (like my black lace cocktail dress)… I’ve witnessed drastic alterations that happened quite literally overnight, like the pink spray paint incident. I have 60 gigabytes of images. SIXTY GIGABYTES. I am hyper-aware of my shoes. And maybe it’s because of this hyper awareness I think about the aims and intents of this project daily, and I’m coming to realize that it’s something other.
I will spare you the majority of the drama that ensued around me trying to figure out that my visuals (the photo documentation) didn’t really do much for me, that my initial concept didn’t really make sense, and that I never really did resolve how to display this project in it’s original conception, and my general confusion about art and instead give you my resolution:
In a very loose, round about way, this project is still related to ideas about failure and anxiety. I see it much more as a meditation on the constancy of change and the idea that maintaining the status quo, or rather the inability to do so, is not failure, so much as the way of life. Evidence that one should not fight the inevitability of change, but accept it rather than wearing oneself ragged. Also, if I should ever exhibit this anywhere, it will be just the shoes and a brief statement about the piece. Forget the photos (blasphemy!). Forget making an installation. Forget anything but the point, which is the shoes.
The only problem is that now I’ve figured that out, I’m sort of over the whole thing. I pretty much just want to chuck the project and get on with life (and start wearing other shoes again), but this point in the project, I’m too stubborn to give it up, even though it’s driving me nuts. All this actually having to go to the studio and to photograph something. It’s like I actually make art or something. I think I need to keep going though, until my original stop point of un-safe-ness. And yes, continue photographing them. Gah. I never want to edit all of those RAW files… SIXTY GIGABYTES PEOPLE! And I’ve got more on the way. Sometimes I’m not as smart as I’d like to think…
While I’m pretty certain that this project will never be exhibited, it has been incredibly useful in allowing me to accept my conceptual-ness, and in helping me to see the connections between failure, anxiety, change, and life.
Anyway, I’ve also reflected on several other things in relation to this project. Most boringly of all, consumerism. I’ve worn the same pair of shoes for six months people, with only the notable exceptions of the gym (because my body cannot withstand exercising in support-less Converse), two days when I was in Chicago (due to snow and my extreme dislike of wet/cold feet), and a handful of days where my shoes were just too wet to wear (again, my total hatred of wet/cold feet). And for the most part, NO ONE HAS NOTICED. I’m not joking. I was expecting funny looks and comments when I started rolling up wearing my Converse EVERYWHERE with EVERYTHING, including to the beach with my swimsuit. But no one has said a thing up to this point. Interesting, in light of our consumer driven, external appearance focused culture.
And sorry for the ridiculous What’s Eating Gilbert Grape allusion, but I kind of love that movie (Johnny Depp before he got weird and Leonardo DiCaprio before he got hot!) and I do frequently refer to my shoes (any of them) as “shoedas”.
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