Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Kip's Final Thoughts, August 2012

What is this Beast? It seems to be constantly shifting evolving, morphing into disgustingly beautiful shapes, that i cannot quite grasp or normalise. But 'tis a beast that is anchored firmly in the past experiences of the group and the varying present feelings of each of us on this topic. And indeed, somewhat influenced by our heady and weighty discussions on this tangential subject.

I have had a week, to step back from the world of 'Motherland', and like a dream seemingly pertinent images and thoughts have begun to slip from my head, to leave the gristle and the gold that really made an impression on me.

If my eyes were a polaroid, many images have been burnt onto my retinas and left to develop in the pink blob behind it, Here they be:

Black dresses.Open legs

Small blood stained footsteps

Anxious trusting feet. Before the jump into open arms.

Writhing black shape in the corner of your eye

Clatter of heels

Following hands map out landscapes. Listening to words that slap you in the face.

Women have the choice not to get pregnant.

Flag waving.

Shadow of a person

Hope rhymes with Pope. Indeed it does Liz.

A child in heels

I am evacuated

I am a child

I slept on the Heath.

The improvisations that happened throughout the week, created some hauntingly poignant images that materialised like an accidental jigsaw falling into place. But what was most interesting is how these came about and at what speed. A concentric concertina was bellowing saturated busy images, then focussing into a small moment/tableau, that either juxtaposed with other happenings in the space or concluded it by framing a simple action or picture. A sensitivity in the group allowed space for these moments to sit. A breath was allowed.

I feel these patterns in the improvisations may be coming from where the piece sits and how it is possibly viewed by the audience. At present for me it lies in an interesting purgatory of Installation/durational and live/performance art. Ritualistic actions and slowly developing images, made me question how to enter and leave the space. At times it seemed intrusive and voyeristic to enter someone elses frame. An intergrity was being built and it often felt the image would be jarred or diluted by another prescense in the space. And then at times the space felt like a bubble, and all reference of audience was forgotten, you were on your own personal exploration, and when this reached a close. A feeling of immersed submission rose in me. Just to sit/lie small and watch the others lose and find themselves in the Labyrinth of the subject.

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