sep02.2022 | rackham
Thoughts from this interview with The Pool:
How can subtitles/captions be used as poetry? How can "supporting text" stand on its own?
"I realized that the sound of the ocean was coming from the freeway" : finding other false associations. Translation of sound to artificial source.
Language as expelled tongue, Kim Hyesoon* saying "that she had no mother tongue because the language she is expected to write in is regulated and prescribed by men." Challenging conventions of language as challenging conventions of structure (political/national/social). Find further examples/possibilities
"Structural inequities...propel and nurture the idea of a 'genius'." How have attitudes on strength/intelligence/resilience specifically in my family been changed/viewed/lofted/hidden across different levels of privilege over time/generations?
Thoughts from this interview (Links to an external site.) with Paul Cunningham
Idea of "replanting" lines/ideas to see what grows and dies. Find other artists who come back to previous work, find failures.
Contemporary history: when is start/end, where are the boundaries of time and place, investigate overlaps across distance/time/generations
Kim Hyesoon's "obsession is expressed or woven very tightly, often entangled with her body, her existence." as a poet!! Find more examples of bodily/existential expression through non-performance/portrait means
Investigate invisibility of translator (across contexts). Go back to mediation by programs/materials/machines. Collaboration with tools rather than control over. Change in collaborative balance over time (slide projector vs. overhead projector vs. digital projector and encompassing programs). UNSEEN LABOR across stages (MoMA anatomy of ai, etc)
[As a translator] "I’m that tongue that has licked and groomed every word and punctuation. So whether you see me or not is not my problem. The real problem is the slimy saliva my tongue has left behind which you will be or are already in contact with." Investigate different translations of source text that I can also understand (German/English), return to NELP idea of [verb]ing an existing text. same passage/spoken recording translated as [decayed] or [calcified] or [sprinting] or [crying]
*Kim Hyesoon is a Korean feminist poet whose work has been translated by Don Mee Choi.
to read: Maria Kreuzer; Hans Mühlbacher; Sylvia von Wallpach: Home in the re-making: Immigrants' transcultural experiencing of home
aug28.2022 | ann arbor, mi
we are nearing. sentences and sketches to be made. piano comes up through the air outside the window, where the screen does not close and bugs occasionally stick their (lack of) noses in to say hello.
personal speech as (un)intentional occlusion to others' involvement. impersonal taken personally, is a focused absence of a figure not a statement on the figure itself? have we not been told that silence, too, is a political statement? it is a conscious choice of Sarah Orne Jewett's to omit the narrator as much as possible from The Country of the Pointed Firs. it is a (sub)conscious choice to write a journal entry in second person so as to shy off the active tense of your (see your) self from the reader's mental focus. Upon realization, however, such an attempt at evasion becomes a bright burning lighthouse beam at the moment the gears line up to shine thousands of fires' worth of heat's twin directly into your two eyes—one if you close the right and squint the left as you might when the fresh roads not yet darkened by tires shines as a thin cloud veil does. the loudest sight makes eyes do unconsciously what earplugs and pointer fingers or pressed palms do with thought. you have noticed the tangent. distraction from the actual product of the poster.
Adam Harvey's CV Dazzle, 2010
hair, makeup, algorithmic learning
Dries Depoorter's Jaywalking, 2016
live surveillance footage, code, button, email
American Artist's A Refusal, 2015-2016
social media (performance)
Team 3 (Fee Christoph, Matthew Shannon, Cayetano Wagner, Hao Wang)'s Stop Watching Us, 2021
webcameras, robotic arm, code
Hito Steyerl's How Not to be Seen: A Fucking Didactic Educational .MOV File, 2013
Ondi Timoner's We Live In Public, 2009
Trevor Paglen & Kate Crawford's ImageNet Roulette, 2019
ON (FARMOR’S) TOD/(UN)WRITING PERSONAL HISTORY
Micah Weber's No stories can be told - all the deals have already been made., 2015
Okwui Okpokwasili's MoMA Artist in Residence, 2022
Do Ho Suh's Home Within Home Within Home Within Home Within Home, 2013
Joana Hadjithomas and Khalil Joreige's Lasting Images, 2003
Don Mee Choi's DMZ Colony, 2020
Jon Verney's Angel, 2018
archival pigment print, 47" x 47"
Laurie Anderson's O Superman, 1982
Camille Casemier's Work Has Made It, 2019
Nora Turato's pool 5, 2022
Bread and Puppet Theater
Rirkrit Tiravanija's Untitled (Free/Still), 1992/1995/2007/2011-
Refrigerator, table, chairs, wood, drywall, food and other materials. dimensions variable
Jill Magid's Tender, 2020
Linda Montero & Tehching Hsieh's Art/Life One Year Performance, 1983-1984
So many of these precedents fall into categories for multiple ideas/projects. Everything is a mass. Who am I to hack my brain into thirds or quadrants or sections at all?
aug27.2022 | ann arbor, mi
Why is it that now seems to be a time of death? I had thought September held that title, but August is opening before business hours and closing shops statewide, mine was not the first to go nor does it seem it will be the last. We are sending back and forth things we hear and learn and think about because the questions arising are not as individual as we imagine and are often the nth iterations of wondering that ancestors before us have also grappled with. Is it a grappling? To grapple implies high stakes and immediatism (not necessarily in the form of immediatism, i.e. holding events in present moments in which the performers and audience are blended and presence becomes the focus) with the possibility of injury or death: whether by falling or being bludgeoned, climbing or wrestling. It is, at least in the case of myself and my friends, only the few that personally face the tunnel. Farmor did, though. Holding on for five days, refusing or unable to pass that final threshold and give up control. Doctors say that, when the food stops going in, some folks may take two weeks to die. Others two hours. You cannot know. Oma would wait until the room was empty and then let go, always hiding the most pain and not wanting to burden anybody with her own ailments. Farmor needed a hand held, a comfort. Just sitting and waiting. What more can one do?
I like that: to sit with others. I often find I am little to no good with words, but to sit is simple enough. Finding a common purpose or goal. Poetry parties. Let us look at the same images and tell one another what comes to mind. The back and forth is implied. It is not, nor has ever been, my idea. I simply stole it from Camille Casemier, after I had been invited to a poetry party of hers my freshman year. Work Has Made It. Responses she had on separate occasions made their way into Daryl, her digital book I can now no longer access since her website went down. That is the kind of communal experience I crave. Rallying around the random, familiarizing ourselves with strangers' photos. Building a new form of history/community/relation to art-making. Along with the ego, I'd like to kill the idea that the artist is a solo enterprise.
My friend sent me Micah Weber's thesis/dissertation, among other things a recalling of death and attitude towards, laced thoroughly with other thoughts adjacently related.
Everything becomes performance, doesn't it? Everything connects as the sprouts take hold of one another and graft into one, vines wrapped around themselves so tightly they give a stronger illusion of a trunk than the sapling they used as their first hold. Farmor will be buried under a tree, one planted and grown in Germany but known to native Norwegians who may have never left their land, ashes in a compostable urn under a ribbon of yellow or blue. In what, two weeks? The same amount of time I was in Germany for longer than expected, and even with the window enlarged I never made it to her. O infectious disease, even with you finally gone five or six weeks later you are ruled the cause.
I do not know enough to make an ode. I was not close enough to hold her hand, I could not say I remembered the time seven years ago. Her daughter-in-law claims she asked a single question about theater.
Much of what I make ends up centering on death.
Is there a difference between thinking about the death of ancestors and thinking about ancestral history? Does it lie in the abstract vs. the concrete? To ruminate on death is most likely to center myself in that thinking, contemplating my own mortality by way of others'. Their solidification of an abstract thought. My father could tell, apparently, the moment his mother died, because it became clear from one moment to the next that she was a husk. The soul is a real thing. Even as it forgets names and faces, even as it comes out on the other end of five weeks with nothing in neuron's conversations pertaining to what might have happened, like the blackout of total anesthetics such that sleep itself seems a long road, it engages in some form separate and yet connected to what meat it drives.
How stupid this sounds.
I did not check to see if the quarters and dimes I have picked up since then have had their heads skywards or if they were staring into concrete like brick-headed ostriches. Perhaps only pennies matter when it comes to luck. I have not encountered further candles. The closest was a joint passed past me as fast as possible so that it could attempt to make the rounds twice through. What is it to be lapped? I lollygag when I go for walks. Reckless danger, slick-tire night rides, are reserved for false processing; still a release of sorts, still healing, but in a way totally contrary to the three,two,one mile per hour pace of rubber soles. My tires clocked thirty today, meandered to a garage sale where nobody was home. The picture dad sent of her jewelry still sits amidst blue and grey bubbles without a response.
How does one deal with grief of a person they should have been closer to?
COMMUNALITY | ON (FARMOR'S) DEATH/(UN)WRITING PERSONAL HISTORY | PRIVACY
^The three ideas. The second is the strongest, though all of them hold bits and pieces of each other within themselves.
aug26'5.2022 | ann arbor, mi
When a pillar of familial knowledge/experience crumbles (by which I do mean a slow, noticeable decline into rubble), how does the son of a son try to bear that loss? He who has been detached for a lifetime, who grew in a pot far away from the garden from whence his seed had been plucked and planted. He who knew near nothing about Norwegian woods and flowers, trolls more story than reality, though their shadows of their shadows stood proud in his quarter not occupied by the smaller, more potent German rhubarb. The family split in two and on its one side split again and again, lumberjacks of dissonance slamming the dulling blades lengthwise with the grain so that the roots themselves split like hair let grown too long and then snipped off by careless or precise scissors depending upon whose council you've called. Branches cannot look through the soil to see their roots, or these branches cared not to look at the sprawling web, so often photographed and held in the form of pages by others, laid bare above the knotty crabgrass of a riverbank. These branches saw instead the gnarled singular knot on the opposite side, further from the fjord edge, and spoke with it and it almost alone. These branches brought their wrists down to hover just low enough to embrace the knot without crushing it, even and especially as it tied itself further like an unknowing sailor mooring a paddleboat for all eternity. All the while neglecting the web, even though it was all there, even though these branches come just the same from those exposed roots as they do from the knot, but these branches have been trained by shade not necessarily to pull away from the bank but at the very least have been led towards the solitary knot, a family of individualists raised by an estranged sister of sisters who would ask for little more than trust but cannot trust trust enough to find herself comfortable without clutter or control.
Part of the web has broken off, battered into thin leather forgetting faces and greeting the kind holders of brewed beans without recognizing their relation to her, that they are made of the same wood as her though their bark has not yet folded in on itself to the extent that hers had, creasing and gathering in layers to cover her eyes so she may need not to feel sunshine's burning, so she may be cared for in a facsimile of what is to come, or maybe its opposite. The light at the end of the tunnel inverts itself upon release, light is dark and dark is light, matter becomes energy and loses the noun form of itself in full absolution into the verbiage that had shared space with physicality of soul up until this point. It is the lost that hold the space between marked positions.
The night before, a man on a bike asked us, as we sat surrounding a backgammon table in Redhook, whether we used candles, to which none of us replied in the affirmative. If the man wanted money, he could have some, but we had no use for candles. We do not own high end restaurants. We are not expecting power outages. Three out of five are on the road, traveling in cars that burn gas. We do not burn candles.
I should now be burning a candle, just as the nursing home and my mother started to do the day after the man asked. I should have bought a candle. Had I known that the twenty first was to be the fourth or fifth day she could not and did not eat or drink, I might have changed my answer to the biking man. I might have recognized the string between him and her. The sixth sense that my other grandma has was not passed on to me, or if so, it did not help me. I am blind to the dark matter. I only wish I could see what is (not) there.
I had traveled to Germany anticipating bringing back as much of my maternal grandmother's artwork as could fit in a suitcase, prepared to record conversations to uncover some aspects of family history on my mother's side that I had not known before. Trying to build up as grand or thorough a web as possible, since the Norwegian side of the family—my father's—was documented to the point where I felt I had close to no interest in it growing up. Even now, I make clear that my dad's mom died. I could not say much of where she came from or what she did. Hospital work, a microscope gifted to my sibling, late stories of fostering dogs, questions of continued theater. She and her husband could celebrate his birthday together for the first time in nineteen years the day after she finally made it. Such a strange phrasing.
"hat es endlich geschafft"
Es fuehlt sich falsch, mehr Woerter als die vier nochmal zu tippen oder runterzukopieren. Alles weitere ist zu persoenlich, ausserhalb meines Reviers und deshalb lieber ungefasst, lass mich fassungslos, fass bloss nichts an, selbst in den Bildern mit Optionen, jetzt Schmuck und Besteck, wo ich und die drei Anderen alle Bescheid geben sollten, was sie gerne haben moechten und ich bei den ersten vier Bildern, Schulter and Schulter mit Mama die Schulter and Schulter mit Coby sass und auf Teile zeigte, waehrend ein Gefuehl von Gier und Scham in mich kroch. Wer bin ich nach etwas zu verlangen, nachdem ich jahrelang keinen oder wenig Kontakt mit ihr hatte? Wer bin ich, jetzt nach sieben Jahre vor Gesicht, zu weinen? Wer bin ich? Ihr Enkel im Namen des Gesetzes schon, im Spur Blutes auch, und doch davon getrennt. Zwei Seiten im Vergleich. Nimm es bitte nicht persoenlich, Sie haben mir und meinen Geschwistern oft die Entscheidung getroffen. Ich kann es Ihnen nicht sagen, wie anders es gewesen waere, waeren Sie nie umgezogen. Ich kenn nur das, was ich vor den Augen und in den Armen genommen habe. Mein Bruder braucht Liebe gezeigt, indem man ihn in Arm nimmt. Die Arme klemmen. In Momenten des grossen Gefuehles kribbeln meine Handgelenke als wuerden sie abgewuergt werden. Taubheit schleicht sich in meine Palmen und mein Gesicht. Dies ist nichts fuer die Welt zu sehen. Ich will es raushaben. Ich will es aufgeschrieben haben. Aber nicht in einer Form, die gelesen werden kann. Eine Art Geschichte und Verdauen, ohne Zuschauer. Ohne Publikum. Jetzt ohne Farmor.
"So maybe I’m trying to create a tradition that I’m supposed to have been a part of, but never was." - Okwui Okpokwasili
^ MOTIVE/MEDIA || PERSONAL HISTORY
I will make a story, in a form unfollowable by any but myself and even then not fully. I want to investigate my families’ past. I do not want to bare that to the world.
Nora Turato's pool 5
METHOD || PERSONAL HISTORY
"she gathers pools of text from disparate sources and with no order or logic, accompanied by spoken-word performances based on the books"
"I’m sifting through the culture and performance is the fine dust left at the end, stuff that stuck"
jul19.2022 | aachen, de
Ich suche etwas, was ich ganz leicht in Unterhaltungen finden koennte. Probiere aber stattdessen, alles selber zu machen. Typisch. Oma hat Geschichten zu erzählen, ich habe Geräte zum Aufnehmen. Doch halte ich mich davon zurück. Fragen kann ja nicht wehtun. Gerade ist sie auch krank, dann lieber weniger sprechen. Beide Omas mit Corona. Beide Omas. Die Eine werde ich weiter nicht gesehen haben, sieben Jahre plus wer weiß nicht, wie viele mehr. Die Andere werde ich am 26. zum letzten Mal für eine Weile sehen. Es kommen mehrere Geschichten mir in den Kopf. Vor allem von ihren Eltern.
Ihr Vater hat im Krieg gekämpft. Im Osten, an der Fronte gegen Russland. Das Einzige, was er jemals erzählt hatte, vom Krieg, war, dass die Russen in Linien standen. Die ersten Soldaten traten vor und schossen, bis sie geschossen worden sind, wonach die nächste Reihe die Waffen der gefallenen Ersten aufhoben und es nochmals so weiterging. Eine Reihe nach der nächsten. Er erzählte sonst nichts. Man kann sich ja nicht vorstellen, was alles er sonst gesehen hat.
jul18.2022 | aachen, de
I wanna be selfish. I am not the only one detached from my family tree. Broader context right there, baybee.
privacy! i can't trace it all back without my data going everywhere. 23&everybodyelse
jul(17/18).2022 | aachen, de
Continuous thought on the disparate nature of ideas. Webs tied, anchored in thin air by sheer will alone. The sun sets to my right and fairy lights through tree lines hold what sun once was, stretched and swaying in the same patterns the fire took day for day for day. Snapshots.
The combination of poetry, film, and space. Stillness and noticing.
Do Ho Suh's Home Within Home Within Home Within Home Within Home
fabric, 12m x 15m, 2013
MOTIVE || PERSONAL HISTORY
I've reached out to Fee, trying to find a video of a performance of someone who spoke as the voice of god but left her voice unchanged, making god more personable and human than most representations of god's voice. Blessings be, Fee gave me more! Links galore!
I have almost no doubt the video I had in mind was of Laurie Anderson. This is not it, but I will continue searching for what I have in mind.
Possibilities of similar effects with TouchDesigner or MaxMSP for video form?
Opacity! Note to self: come back to this, preferably printed to write on with pen.
as well as the recommendation to look into Afro-futurist re-imagining of past to unlock different potential futures.
I will need to dive into these further. Most have been dropped here as a repository, to be returned to at a later time.