Chaos 1
First day of the Chaos project here in Victoria with Open Space. Tonight three artists talks at Camosun College (sp?) — a full room of students and community. The artists Sinead O’Donnell, Pauline Cummins and Sandra Johnston gave engaging talks on their work. The prolonged physical component in Sandra Johnston’s work fascinated me and I discussed it with her in the bar afterwards. Both Sandra and Sinead have made actions where the performance takes place in a public place and sometimes people are not aware a performance is even taking place. There were several slides from actions/performances in Romania that were particularly compelling in this regard. It made me think of performance within documentary. Except the documentary is otherwise undocumented moments in life. There was a hearty discussion at the end about documentation and its interference with performance.
But the extent to which these three artists engage in collaborative processes was extraordinary listening and I can only imagine how extraordinary some of this work was to witness. Also hearing Sandra talk about Belfast still operating with an artist run ethos (artists supporting and encouraging other artists, spaces etc) reminded me of how much has been lost on this coast in that regard.
More from my notes tomorrow.
Myself and the small man have watched an episode of GLEE.
We watched an episode because almost everyone watches it.
Since we do v little everyone does this is a necessary gesture.
We do not understand who the characters are, but agreed that the matter of a whole season back story watched in reverse could be a boon.
I think the chips and ginger beer improved matters.
I do not think our telly would cope with repeated viewings in this current series. It’s a bit patchwork looking on the screen. I don’t know what’s happened to TVs since it’s been about six months since we turned it on. I think a new system is established and our telly is now in the fuzzy felt zone of blackbirds tweeting in the dull of night and unable to receive a signal.
The 4 decade mystery of the act of swimming may come down to the legs. I thought it was all in the lungs, but there was much hiccuping on the legs in this evening’s lesson. I am beset with a deep desire not to get into the pool as soon as the lesson begins. I actively want to just run away. I’ve decided to do everything they tell me in this lesson in the hope that I never have to another set of lessons. Usually I have my own menu and refuse to do 40 per cent of the instruction.
Old me:
Get in the dive tank.
No thanks.
Get in the dive tank.
No thanks. You get in it. I’ll watch.
Get in the dive tank.
Thanks v much, but I am quite happy here on the stairs.
New me
I have not yet been requested to get in the dive tank.
Long may it stay that way.
If I am asked to get in, I’ll ask for a set of shoulders to stand on.
**
My son tonight remarked isn’t it strange these really sporty kids who end up with the least sporty parents?
I couldn’t quite fathom his drift til it was clear he was talking bout himself and moi!
Wha! Who! Wha! says I but I do gymnastics.
“its not a sport” he says firmly and uses badminton as an example of a much more demanding sport before a lunar landing on the word Hockey. Hockey he says triumphant. Case closed.
Saturday morning I had been up to the lads in the garage to talk car and had to head below the garage to wait out the time for lads to fix car with a stack of work.
This impending (or is it upon us) winter season will be a reclusive one by my note in the change of it. And by the matter of a great mountain of reading I must undertake.
I had heard Eileen Myles was reading along with Lisa Robertson at Emily Carr that day and had heard of Eileen through someone — who, who, who, who are you? — was it Lora? last year telling me to read her essays with Iceland in the title. I’d tried and failed to find them in the leabharlann and here would be a certain chance to get them. When I arrived there, there the essays were but beside them — a novel — and up from them an even more curious single copy of an earlier novel. I had to leave the essays behind and take on the two novels once I’d gandered them.
Lisa Robertson read from her new book of poetry with the words R’s Boat in the title. She’s much livelier and more engaging when she reads her poems than when talking on art and macademia. I spent some time last winter reading her books out in the library and for some reason I associate her work with mapping and walking and I may be wrong because I am forgetful these days. And the weather. And dress making! Because last year she did talk about sewing or cloth I thought or was that Maxine?
And then there was Eileen reading from the novel Inferno. Ritalin to our West Coast slumber ! But for me the physicalizing of the text into the voice and body and back. You can hear how it got on the page and she’s giving it right back at ya! This aint-no-abacus-bead-counting-calculation ! It’s auditory absoluting!
I suppose you could conclude I was at home in it. I’ve had enough of this restraint, and prose prune clipping, and middle management telling us what the reader can and cannot handle. We don’t live inside tupperware. I don’t want to read inside it.
Reading those Juan Butler books to which I must return — I had to wonder Christ how or when did everything get turned down?
100 years later, the episodic prompts questions on pacing and narrative? Er? While we are at it let us straighten every horse track into lines and grids.
CHAOS
I’m thrilled to be performing mischief with performance artist Lori Weidenhammer, this week, at Open Space in Victoria, as part of Chaos, along with four women performance artists from Belfast and Iraq.
This week I will be finding and uploading links to the artists work: Sinéad O’Donnell (Belfast) pictured, Sandra Johnston (Belfast), Pauline Cummins (Dublin), Poshya Kakl (Iraq). I will also be posting from Victoria as the performances and artist talks and events unroll.
To read more about Chaos click here
Thanks to Lori for inviting me to collaborate with her. Thanks also to Phoenix Gymnastics and Jeremy for video footage and Peter for photos.
When the night is short, the day is dittery dithery too.
There was a moment today in an alley, my attention diverted to a man toppling from a unicycle, when I nearly dipped into my own metal led calamity.
My eyes, later on, could not find the letter b (B) on my phone, which is coincidental because I was rereading a book with the word Be significantly in the title at 3am when by rights I should have been asleep.
When are we finally going to organize a charter/manifesto on insomnia?
I propose:
Article 1.
24 hour swimming pools open for those who cannot sleep.
Article 2.
A special hat with cushioned ears for no explainable purpose whatsoever.
Article 3.
Coming soon in the comments section.