friday 9th january 2009
The view (the ability to see something) is lovely from up here...
with a view to... with the hope, aim, or intention of.
vieue: feminine past participle of veoir 'see', from latin videre (consult for fuller or further information).
I know I am repeating myself
the root is the seed in the source in the essence in repetition(s)
'this is where the phenomenological doublet of resonances and repercussions must be sensetized. The resonances are dispersed on the planes of our life in the world, while the repercussions invite us to give greater depth to our own existence' - Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space
in miniature moments,
small deaths
(are there such things? death of a thing of a love of a person of a dream of everything is momentus, vast, imeasureable, it ripples out and expands, to howl, it wants to repeat over and over again in new to explore, unexplained ways that remind us of life, an edge, to make a sound that breaks it, you, me and all open and is siren.
The small death; to watch it from far away, to crawl into the nook of a fold, to abandon the trying to someone else, to somewhere behind or out front, to be slowly, to be dense in movement, to find forgotten lines and let them follow you, hopelessly.
Simplicity... the terrain of abandonment to the unknown, the milieu (middle place), the moment in whatever shape it fancies to take, the liminal plane that makes no sense; it is wonder-ful and free of fancy, fuller and further. It is not about understanding, standing here.
'Liminality is an ambiguous state... the breakthrough of chaos into cosmos, of disorder into order... the milieu of creative interhuman or transhuman satisfactions and achievements.' Victor Turner, From Ritual to Theatre: the Human Seriousness of Play.
repetition
echo
chiasma
chasm
crossing...
thursday 8th January 2009
there is a room
in it are folds and curves and dark places
it is deeper than it first appears
it creaks
it cannot be touched but the texture of it is tangible
the skin of it is warm, molten heavy
and at the same moment so cold in some small way
that makes it both cavernous and metal sheened
wings, weathering.
it is a film of a moment that cannot be held
but can be witnessed in the palm of a hand (if you hold the one)
it is denser, weightless and not of this world but feet folded in
earth and sky and water
breath floods in upon the other
there was no thing before or after it
nothing tick tocks.
never has there been a shade
more dear and lovely or more gentle.
wednesday 7th january 2009
I'm trying not to miss everything
I'm acting as a magnifying glass
I am Alice
the 'drink me' bottle has enticed me
I have drunk and shrunk
in miniature I can sit upon the large white bird as I would a boat
tuesday 6th january 2009
Because “You have to find a way for these startling images you
like so much to appear to emerge out of everyday reality,” said
my theatre professor, when I wanted the startling images to be
or is this the inside workings of grappling with something essentially ephemeral and distinct?
the root: the swans
the message: the last song, a dance, presence
the intention: to see what is just out of the corner of my eye
the reconnaissance: the texture and weight of the skin
gently holding a large space (depths)
what lies beneath what is seen
monday 5th january 2009
the essence...
Armed with a large loaf of bread and my camera I swan visit. I forget my gloves and my hands seize into still, unmoving things. I throw bread and then pass the loaf to a French man who is watching the party of swans, gulls, pigeons and the funny honking brown bird, how they gather in numbers and momentum. I'm starting to feel familiar here. I film freely for a while.
The French crowd move along and I finish emptying the bag of bread. The small gulls are getting brazen and begin diving at me, grabbing the bread in my hands with their sharp beaks, wings a hairs breath from my face. I feel the beaks, a thrill of the wings so close and a view of their faces, the all of them mid air, poised and begging for food. I throw small chunks up and they swoop in closer, catch the bread and fly off. More come in to hover so very close to my face, I am beginning to recognise their features, to distinguish one from another. Some are braver. One gull has a dark face and big eyes, he looks like a cartoon character of a bird animated and turned back into flesh.
I recognise this is a moment.
I cannot capture that essential thing that I grasp for with the camera,
I cannot witness and be present to the moment if I am removed from it or distracted by the camera
I need to be there, present
I receive something and it resonates, it magnifies, ripples out and repeats itself
an echo
Where the echo is, is a place
a place initiated by a new moment, a reflection of the initial happening
a reflection of a thing that is essential.
I notice there are key resonances that reoccur
There is a texture of this film that is beginning to surface
textures, colours - a skin.
The song is still a silent vibration that hums underneath not quite at the surface, lingering.
I want to hear the Quay Brothers Institute Benjamenta, to leave it playing in the background whilst I edit, a point of sound that is far away. The voices, the breath, the haunting strings and sense of space (a depth of vast rooms and silence that is swimming about in them) gives a weight to what it is I am doing even though I am not sure what will be the final outcome.
There is an echo, an essence
It lies just below the skin.
sunday 4th january 2009
dawn walk (walking in the shade)
I meet Huw at 7am on the bridge by the Arnolfini
it is dark and extremely cold
my fake fur is out for the first time this winter.
we walk in silence for the full length of the walk -
from here at the bridge to there, the 204 gallery on Gloucester Road.
I want to be by the river and head straight for the place where I know I will get my (quiet) view of the swans
we find them asleep.
all are mirrors of one another
their necks curved in the same shape, the same direction
to tuck the head into the nook between the wings
they are still
hanging in the dark (on water, on wood)
out in the middle of the river all alone are small icebergs.
I want to stay here but I am committed to the walk.
As I go I remember
I remember my last night time walk
my walk in the (Tycannol) woods with Jo and the tree and the laughing and the dancing
I remember how I loved that she was following some internal compass,
some instinct that pulled at a core sense of what moved her right now
pulled her to this place, this pause point
following the edges, the owl, the water.
I remember walking in the woods and how there is something 'other' that is followed
some thing that pulls you to it and you are aware of being pulled
to what?
not until you find it.
This is another walk
another way to walk
and I wonder at walking here
and if it will move me.
This dawn walk is a 'from here to there'
the start and stop point is marked
We walk in silence (my boots chitter chatter)
I allow the route (root) to surface as we go...
itinerary:
lurking shadow figurine
icebergs
story-tale park lights
bullet holes
vertically challenged railing
rooftop solo song
sail (upto 70% off)
smoking boots
time illuminated and living large (4x4)
black corridor corner
chewing gum street (pockmarked)
wall painted mermaid
ice rink for impossible tasks
cars (loud and louder)
stick it notes for semi-naked mud wrestlers
letterbox nosing
cold thighs
closed cafe's
Sponge Bob Square Pants cheese toasty
saturday 3rd january 2009
Swan: derived from the word Swen, 'to sing'
Aria: song for solo voice
Swan: soul, spirit, breath
Anima: from the Latin mind, the soul (feminine). In Greek the spirit is feminine. The term adopted by Carl Jung for the concept of the female archetype.
the myth is that the swan is mute
until the moment it is about to die
when it sings a beautiful song
a funeral song
the song of its life
the swan song
friday 2nd january 2009
Observation creates Magnification:
everywhere there are the dances of birds
I am drawn to them.
The birds appear to know that I am watching, I am able to witness something small
Everyone around me appears to walk, drive, cycle past, to pass and not to notice
the three rooks circling together, marking out a space to walk around together, again
the two seagulls stamp on the hill of grass,
stamp
skinny little legs stamping
stamp stamping
the worm dance.
I walk at dusk, follow the light and my legs
back to the water
the vein that defines where my curiosity wants to be
somewhere vivid
of feathers and skin
a little tactile that comes through the film
a touch
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