Everything changed a little bit to the left.
I wake up at the subway with no idea of where I’m going. Who was I when getting on this train? I look out the window. We create this hard world. Then we create shoes to walk on it without damaging out feet. Lights passing outside in the dark while I’m trying my shoes against the floor.
Everything will move back again to the way it was and they will tell me what station to get off at.
Shellac and fabric box
Collapsing cube of bandage and shellac
Bloated cube of raw hide and concrete
Skin on a tree. I started stitching. Stitch by stitch and piece by piece I started covering something once living with something now dead. A branch lost from the tree needs another layer of protection.
Day 1. Where it used to belong to the tree.
Day 1. Connecting pieces.
Day 2. The first fork.
Day 2. The hide is drying as I sew.
Day 5. There is always another fork.
Day 7. Almost done now, only the tips left.
Day 9. Finally done! All dressed up, the next step will be to remove the branch and let the skin remember it.
I find the most difficult part of a project to be when I’ve finished one part and it’s time to start over again with the next. It is this strange situation of being done and not even having started at the same time. To get back into the process I usually just start doing something, anything, trying things out without so much thinking. Maybe take an element from earlier in the process and play around with it to see if it gives any clues.
Like stacking bags of concrete side by side
And let the light shine through the cracks
Or making thin layers of silicone and shellac
Just to see if it leads anywhere.
We sometimes get stuck in definitions. Definitions can help us see our next step but it can also shut us in. We are shaped by our textualized culture to want to understand everything. We loose the point of the things we don’t understand but that does something else to us. It has been a mistake to see knowledge as immaterial. Nothing can be separated from material.
Is it just these people I’m outside of, or is it everyone?
You raise us as islands and teach us to see ourselves as individuals, separated from the rest of the world. You isolate us in little compartments, stacked close together in big buildings, but separated so completely as if existing in different dimensions. We live on controllable islands of sameness in an ocean of otherness.
But you’re forgetting that there is no word for the difference between me and the world.
Or am “I” that word?
Doubtfully, The Introvert
Stack of concrete compartments
Stack of velvet compartments
Group of cages/city scape
Stacking compartments close together
Where do I end and you begin? Everything is just the same kind of materials, repeated over and over and reused over and over. How can a division ever be made? Or is it the division that makes the materials relevant? Without division no change, without change no time and without time no life. Without you no me.
Yours truly, The Inside
Drying raw hide, sewn on to cast concrete
Dried hide, revealing the structure of the concrete underneath
You’ve told me that no one is an island. But also that everybody dies alone. Which is it? I’m finding it hard to figure out if I am an isolated container of life or if we’re all just reflections of the same thing, whatever that thing is. And you seem to be of every opinion. You probably don’t know either and in the meantime we keep pulling in both directions, drawing lines between people but doing almost anything to be allowed to belong.
Love, The Reader
“Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out.
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall”
Where you ever empty? Who filled you with me? Somebody claimed your space and filled you with their own content, that’s how I got here. These borders that surround me are your definition and my division from the outside. Why do I let you? You insulate me and protect me against unwanted influences. I worry about, and long for the isolation you promise to give me. But can you really? Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. What is it then we’re shutting in and shutting out – to make something or someone into an island?
I am documented and filed, so I really do exist. But where you ever empty before me?
Always wondering, The Contained
Iron fabric and branch.
Red velvet and branch.
Testing materials, finding surfaces.