Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
what happened? (artist statement)
For my final video and sound project I wanted to document the near death experiences of my friends and acquaintances and explore the way these events impacted their day to day lives thereafter. I was interested in the withdrawn and passive tone with which many of the interviewees discussed their dramatic or traumatic experiences, and I found the the reoccurring tone of indifference and/or indestructibility both scary and inspiring. I chose to use the collage format because I thought that it best reflected the overwhelmed feeling I got when presented with so many powerful experiences.
Some issues that came to light in the process of stringing interviews together included the issue of sorting the material out and creating transitions between samples of video and sound, a problem I solved by creating "video haiku's" or sections of three video and sound samples which incorporated two near death experiences and one nature (spring) image. I chose the spring imagery to reinforce the idea of survival, or rebirth, and incorporated image of children and child-craft books to convey the idea of innocence, or innocence lost and to make a reference to the limits of storytelling, or art in general, to truly capture a moment.
Some issues that came to light in the process of stringing interviews together included the issue of sorting the material out and creating transitions between samples of video and sound, a problem I solved by creating "video haiku's" or sections of three video and sound samples which incorporated two near death experiences and one nature (spring) image. I chose the spring imagery to reinforce the idea of survival, or rebirth, and incorporated image of children and child-craft books to convey the idea of innocence, or innocence lost and to make a reference to the limits of storytelling, or art in general, to truly capture a moment.
Friday, February 26, 2010
we used to have a mountain
"The famous Zen parable about the master for whom, before his studies, mountains were only mountains, but during his studies mountains were no longer mountains, and afterward mountains were again mountains could be interpreted as an alleory about [the perpetual paradox that when one is closest to a destination one is also the farthest)."
— Rebecca Solnit (Wanderlust: A History of Walking)
double click to go there
"When someone doesn't show up, the people who wait sometimes tell stories about what might have happened and come to half believe the desertion, the abduction, the accident. Worry is a way to pretend that you have knowledge or control over what you don't--and it surprises me, even in myself, how much we prefer ugly scenarios to the pure unknown. Perhaps fantasy is what you fill up maps with rather than saying that they too contain the unknown."
— Rebecca Solnit (A Field Guide to Getting Lost)
Double-Click To Go There
For my site-specific project I have a series of photographs of my grandmother’s childhood home taken from an image I discovered on GoogleMaps. (This is probably a violation of copy write laws.)
What I did was conceptually simple. I took a picture of her house on my computer screen, uploaded that image on to a computer, then photographed that image from the monitor, and uploaded that image on to the computer and repeated the process several times.
I was interested in the effect of camera lens on monitor, in the distortion that occurs in an image when these two media meet; how in the process of viewing, capturing, then reviewing and re-capturing the image changes- morphs from a nostalgic sunny day into a sort of digital nightmare.
For me, the pattern that emerges almost reads like a finger-print, evoking the idea of a crime scene investigation, like looking for clues somewhere after the fact. Also it reminds me of the patterns you find in wood that indicate that tree's age, or the ripples that occur when one body of water enters anohter.
Key Themes: Memory, Ownership, Longing, Nostalgia, Copy Write
— Rebecca Solnit (A Field Guide to Getting Lost)
Double-Click To Go There
For my site-specific project I have a series of photographs of my grandmother’s childhood home taken from an image I discovered on GoogleMaps. (This is probably a violation of copy write laws.)
What I did was conceptually simple. I took a picture of her house on my computer screen, uploaded that image on to a computer, then photographed that image from the monitor, and uploaded that image on to the computer and repeated the process several times.
I was interested in the effect of camera lens on monitor, in the distortion that occurs in an image when these two media meet; how in the process of viewing, capturing, then reviewing and re-capturing the image changes- morphs from a nostalgic sunny day into a sort of digital nightmare.
For me, the pattern that emerges almost reads like a finger-print, evoking the idea of a crime scene investigation, like looking for clues somewhere after the fact. Also it reminds me of the patterns you find in wood that indicate that tree's age, or the ripples that occur when one body of water enters anohter.
Key Themes: Memory, Ownership, Longing, Nostalgia, Copy Write
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Site specific installation ideas/themes
1. Avoid any radicalized identification with either clean or messy space. -Mooney, "Looking for History's huts"
2. Public transportation: See Die Hard III
3. Stone Soup
4. Noise (as wall), wall as noise
5. smokes: "would it be illegal if my weight were being supported by a train bridge?"
2. Public transportation: See Die Hard III
3. Stone Soup
4. Noise (as wall), wall as noise
5. smokes: "would it be illegal if my weight were being supported by a train bridge?"
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
"Some Ideas About Color" by Olafur Eliasson
http://www.olafureliasson.net/publications/download_texts/Some_Ideas_About_Color.pdf
Monday, January 25, 2010
wanna grow up to be, be a Debaser...
Adulterate \A*dul"ter*ate\ properly one who approaches another on account of unlawful love
1. To defile by adultery.
2. To corrupt, debase, or make impure by an admixture of a foreign or a baser substance; as, to adulterate food, drink, drugs, coin, etc.
"The present war has . . . adulterated our tongue with strange words." --Spectator.
Syn: To corrupt; defile; debase; contaminate; vitiate; sophisticate.
adulterated \adulterated\ adjective
1. having been made impure by addition of inferior ingredients; -- said of substances or foods
Note: used ususally of articles of commerce, dulted with less costly materials so as to enhance profit; -- usually imlying that the dilution is surreptitious and unethical
Syn: adulterate, debased
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Alice Notely: The Beaded Horse
A small white horse from another planet wishes to talk to me.
It is only a few inches in length. Its skin is composed of white beads
White-beaded it speaks, hesitantly, in English
It has vocal chords. It has a pink mouth and tongue.
Heavenly seedpearls for horsehair? Try not to reach a rationale
Only to myself on welfare and in public: for I came to you
when you least expected new knowledge in your candled reality,
frying squash blossoms dipped in batter, on the courthouse lawn.
Leave this town. Oh one cannot go back on a planetary promise.
You never promised the earth your skeleton, it assumes it
I hate this cajoling universe, these passionate black-winged moths
telling my eyes to perceive nothing but their sisterly claws.
Can you find the Law in this town? An infidel possesses my voice.
Who are they to degrade me, they so easily imagined?
Only a dream could make them be of interest.
My sister the Fury had told me, I couldn’t get over heartbeat.
Or break she said heat of the orange rift, chimera of our alphabet
The girls fly screaming above the moving walkway.
Listen to the horsie—too white. You’re painting the walls of heaven
too white, says the African dropping his teacup I catch it
Where are you going? Anyone? Stop telling me things, staging events,
trying to focus on agreement, in our corner of this constriction,
room of no landscape and filthy apron. This is what I have against
heaven.
The desert of minutes remembers us well, so do We have to?
The people whose care was enslavement. Your drug addiction
in my kitchen? A haunting tenant plots to take over
a street gang in this afterlife; and her passivity and nicer still,
his manicure
flashes dutifully across the skies. I took a bullet for you.
We are the reminiscing convicts—One way or another, one would kill
that was our ideal. Our desperation, our incarnate bread.
Some people are called perverse for the audience’s pleasure.
I just don’t want to be here, though you have lovely qualities.
The horse isn’t of this nature, being magical
struggling to speak to us; hasn’t it come from its own revolutionary
land?
The superior man had said, Look at these white walls we’ve painted.
I can’t stay, I said,
I have a problem. Effects, he said. Yes, effects. Personal
and consequential. But we’ll meet in the living room again, to look
at the flawless drawings. I awoke and remembered my own priceless
art work was ruined. Where grace overdue doubts you
generations of satellites clank above the trees, bringing satisfaction
from the vacuous regions
Out of the dark confinement, out of the more moneyed arts.
The horse’s tiny tongue is working again
Twisted to shape you, tulip of assignment. It could be about
heroin or shamanism. I could sing your ravenous adherences
The woman was cut into three pieces, accompanied by successful
yields,
retrieval of indulgences, and a movie star’s penchant for charity.
Horse says they always promise to make it up to you in other ways.
For example as you grow old they’ll wipe your dribble with a tissue.
I speak as someone having trouble with a foreign language—Look
the girls are back! The Furies divebomb us shrieking.
You must accompany me to complete beauty.
Don’t return to the ugly projects, mount their stairs—
elevator danger. Heaven has always been characterized
by the gap between the rich and the poor. They
know how to rise. The oligarchs mean to be nice.
These are the figures of diction and the figures of thought.
An open-minded bird erupts from my forehead; we are going away
from lustful reversals and all ‘man’ has ever held dear. What’s there?
The same gibberish, customs, drugs? No way
It’s where the Law is clear. The silver malevolence
streaming down on the ocean was projected by realism, riches, psychic
vibrations of hierarchy. I am going for your heart.
I had wanted out but I kept returning for my purse, I tell the
horse, it contains my effects—have I left them this time?
Riding you away from the countries of age, are we the traveling souls
I’ve got to get there, do I need my passport,
my name, and everything I’ve done, to myself and everyone?
No, says the horse, not now, and No
ancient foibles, diaries, roulette, Greek drama. Orange malicious
boulevard
a diet of flames reflected on my white beads’
cadenzas: Hell brought us here. There was nothing to learn
by following rules: this is the Law. Clamorous beauty of courage
Sunflowers everywhere clotted black centers. The tremors
of your legs have ceased. No fear now, there was so much of it.
Those who are contrary to the old empire, you who hated have
arrived.
Heal more than one. We’ve arrived here with nothing,
not even what we thought of us. We are more deadly and savage,
more exalted than they’ve ever known;
Here we are the City, that indelicate miracle
not your manners or your children
did you really think you knew how to organize us
body after body, our deaths twisting in the wind? Here, in
our city, we don’t please anyone.
Out of the orange snow and the legality of disaffection; out of the
somber, broken crescent, and the overdue soul; out of the
streaming forelock
from our omniscient minds: this liquid dimension has awakened
out of barbary and stretchers.
It is only a few inches in length. Its skin is composed of white beads
White-beaded it speaks, hesitantly, in English
It has vocal chords. It has a pink mouth and tongue.
Heavenly seedpearls for horsehair? Try not to reach a rationale
Only to myself on welfare and in public: for I came to you
when you least expected new knowledge in your candled reality,
frying squash blossoms dipped in batter, on the courthouse lawn.
Leave this town. Oh one cannot go back on a planetary promise.
You never promised the earth your skeleton, it assumes it
I hate this cajoling universe, these passionate black-winged moths
telling my eyes to perceive nothing but their sisterly claws.
Can you find the Law in this town? An infidel possesses my voice.
Who are they to degrade me, they so easily imagined?
Only a dream could make them be of interest.
My sister the Fury had told me, I couldn’t get over heartbeat.
Or break she said heat of the orange rift, chimera of our alphabet
The girls fly screaming above the moving walkway.
Listen to the horsie—too white. You’re painting the walls of heaven
too white, says the African dropping his teacup I catch it
Where are you going? Anyone? Stop telling me things, staging events,
trying to focus on agreement, in our corner of this constriction,
room of no landscape and filthy apron. This is what I have against
heaven.
The desert of minutes remembers us well, so do We have to?
The people whose care was enslavement. Your drug addiction
in my kitchen? A haunting tenant plots to take over
a street gang in this afterlife; and her passivity and nicer still,
his manicure
flashes dutifully across the skies. I took a bullet for you.
We are the reminiscing convicts—One way or another, one would kill
that was our ideal. Our desperation, our incarnate bread.
Some people are called perverse for the audience’s pleasure.
I just don’t want to be here, though you have lovely qualities.
The horse isn’t of this nature, being magical
struggling to speak to us; hasn’t it come from its own revolutionary
land?
The superior man had said, Look at these white walls we’ve painted.
I can’t stay, I said,
I have a problem. Effects, he said. Yes, effects. Personal
and consequential. But we’ll meet in the living room again, to look
at the flawless drawings. I awoke and remembered my own priceless
art work was ruined. Where grace overdue doubts you
generations of satellites clank above the trees, bringing satisfaction
from the vacuous regions
Out of the dark confinement, out of the more moneyed arts.
The horse’s tiny tongue is working again
Twisted to shape you, tulip of assignment. It could be about
heroin or shamanism. I could sing your ravenous adherences
The woman was cut into three pieces, accompanied by successful
yields,
retrieval of indulgences, and a movie star’s penchant for charity.
Horse says they always promise to make it up to you in other ways.
For example as you grow old they’ll wipe your dribble with a tissue.
I speak as someone having trouble with a foreign language—Look
the girls are back! The Furies divebomb us shrieking.
You must accompany me to complete beauty.
Don’t return to the ugly projects, mount their stairs—
elevator danger. Heaven has always been characterized
by the gap between the rich and the poor. They
know how to rise. The oligarchs mean to be nice.
These are the figures of diction and the figures of thought.
An open-minded bird erupts from my forehead; we are going away
from lustful reversals and all ‘man’ has ever held dear. What’s there?
The same gibberish, customs, drugs? No way
It’s where the Law is clear. The silver malevolence
streaming down on the ocean was projected by realism, riches, psychic
vibrations of hierarchy. I am going for your heart.
I had wanted out but I kept returning for my purse, I tell the
horse, it contains my effects—have I left them this time?
Riding you away from the countries of age, are we the traveling souls
I’ve got to get there, do I need my passport,
my name, and everything I’ve done, to myself and everyone?
No, says the horse, not now, and No
ancient foibles, diaries, roulette, Greek drama. Orange malicious
boulevard
a diet of flames reflected on my white beads’
cadenzas: Hell brought us here. There was nothing to learn
by following rules: this is the Law. Clamorous beauty of courage
Sunflowers everywhere clotted black centers. The tremors
of your legs have ceased. No fear now, there was so much of it.
Those who are contrary to the old empire, you who hated have
arrived.
Heal more than one. We’ve arrived here with nothing,
not even what we thought of us. We are more deadly and savage,
more exalted than they’ve ever known;
Here we are the City, that indelicate miracle
not your manners or your children
did you really think you knew how to organize us
body after body, our deaths twisting in the wind? Here, in
our city, we don’t please anyone.
Out of the orange snow and the legality of disaffection; out of the
somber, broken crescent, and the overdue soul; out of the
streaming forelock
from our omniscient minds: this liquid dimension has awakened
out of barbary and stretchers.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
In a curved universe, a strait metric line
is floundering in a rut
you must give it multiple meanings
A work of art must hit you in the gut.'
I strike an attitude and knife a pig
and tough-guy that I am, I bring out his guts
'Three dimensions of space, one of time
dreams, memories, senses,-your meager tools
-and tradition that is portly
Can you fashion reality with these tools?'
I agree. I will be starting
a sausage-factory shortly.
-Daruwalla
is floundering in a rut
you must give it multiple meanings
A work of art must hit you in the gut.'
I strike an attitude and knife a pig
and tough-guy that I am, I bring out his guts
'Three dimensions of space, one of time
dreams, memories, senses,-your meager tools
-and tradition that is portly
Can you fashion reality with these tools?'
I agree. I will be starting
a sausage-factory shortly.
-Daruwalla
The first questions we should ask ourselves when looking at a work of art:
From Nicholas Bourriaud's Relational Aesthetics
1.) Does it give me the chance to exist in front of it, or, on the contrary, does it deny me as a subject, refusing to consider the other in it's structure?
2.) Does the space/time factor suggested or described by this work together with the laws governing it, tally with my aspirations in real life?
3.) Does it criticize what is deemed to be criticizable?
4.) Could I live in a space-time structure corresponding to it in reality?
Drawing by Leighlane Solie Versaggi (aged 3)
From Nicholas Bourriaud's Relational Aesthetics
1.) Does it give me the chance to exist in front of it, or, on the contrary, does it deny me as a subject, refusing to consider the other in it's structure?
2.) Does the space/time factor suggested or described by this work together with the laws governing it, tally with my aspirations in real life?
3.) Does it criticize what is deemed to be criticizable?
4.) Could I live in a space-time structure corresponding to it in reality?
Drawing by Leighlane Solie Versaggi (aged 3)
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