on how or wherefrom I’m doing what’s done then
Because I tend to read all markings, all traces, as approximations toward form, I am always glimpsing–– and meaning, making record of those glimpses of–– becomingness; attempts to impress upon the radically uncontainable as if it were (because it sometimes seems so) (temporarily) contained. The most unintelligible, illegible, unspeakable or otherwise smudged of these that bear allusion to meaning, that are in motion, what we attempt to slow in order to utter them, to guess at. They are being becoming, and in so doing, annunciating the curious transparency of that indistinction. An indeterminable burst is not the equivalent of nothing; it is something even while its sum is unlikely a recognizable as anything apparent. It could be a hole there– ontologically, anatomically – that inconceivably holds limitless expectancy. Expectant of what? To never be sure is in part its own initiative, but also to be a carrier for whatever it may.
So, my work is drawn out of this mystery of making, and likewise, rarely emerges unproblematically. I make operas/videos/objects/installation/sound/conditions whereby language-as-matter is sought like a distant star that flinches and twinkles upon scrutiny, as language that “knows how to efface itself.” Like a card on a string with two opposing pictures that conflate when spun, advancing a strategy of neither/nor. I work to de-form a thing by dizzying it into a fit of ecstasy so that it might be released from its mark and subject to engagement from within. I find myself breathless when the mold and its impression are rendered indistinguishable from one another. An action that implies both the actor and the area acted upon. An open mouth offered to feed from.
Like a dancer laces up her red shoes, but once they’re on her feet, they usurp her feet–– they are both subject to her volition and to a force beyond her–– and she dances through till death. Or Brer Rabbit who puts all his weight behind each punch and, in the transaction of hitting his target, the motionless baby molded from tar, both hand and his punch are different then than they were; both Brer’s moral & physical fortitude wholly altered. It’s the same with holes (if there is such thing). The shafts we fall into are the same as those that curl and fold and fill the insides of our bodies.
This is the incessant tune of the container and the contained that the oracles go on and one about. That I know so well. If I sing a song, it is as much for the space it leaves as the one it enters into. If it can be sung, then it is made of (or by) that passage–– the interstitial arrangement between recto and verso, recalling and foretelling–– concealing and revealing in fervid urgency, undoing as it does.