Rhythm!
A mixture of shadows of each individuals stretches across the room. They seem to be dancing in their own rhythm. It fluctuates between big and small, short and tall, thin and thick. Much like the diversity of dancers between male and female, young and old, hairstyles, skin tone, body mass and so on. We practice Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Friday, Saturday Saturday to Sunday. Round and round, Up and down, around the clock.
Relax!
My heart is racing yet i exude calmness and steadiness. The voice instructing myself to not look down echoes in my head. I reserve to a much more serene mindset, like taking an afternoon nap on a sandy beach. And i tell myself "Tonight is gonna be a good night". I wanna live it up. I let go all skepticism and fear as i take my first step. My feeling of exhilaration had me wanting to go out and smash it at any moment! My sudden outburst of emotion to "smash it" might be easily misunderstood and result in me in a confinement like the three Americans who were arrested by Iranian border guards on Friday afternoon.
Reach!
I've abide to the laws of gravity all my life. pulling me downwards. But today i defy that law. I defy logic. For logic complicates art by killing the independence of the artist, just as Tristan Tzara describes in his manifesto. The weight of my feet feels light against the cold cold wall. I've never felt so much pressure lifted from my feet as i walk. However the side of my face feels like its being stretched across the room. My sense of up, down, left, right have been distorted. I follow the path that everyone else around me is taking. I gaze in their eyes as they stare back at mine, and i know that they can feel everything that i am feeling at that moment.
Rough!
My muscles grew tired. But i've practiced long and hard for this dance. Is it just that I'm nervous? Nervous that Elaine Summer is recording this on film? Nervous that Trisha Brown, our choreographer, is watching our every step? The straps were killing my circulation, making me feel light-headed. My vision turn to blur. Then curiously, the first image that comes to my mind is Sophie Tauber-Ar's sculpture, a blend of red, white and blue. Perhaps a propaganda? What kind of message is she sending? I can hardly call it a face for i cant remotely distinguish the eyes or the mouth, but there is a sharp-angled part that resembles the nose, I presume. And just like that sculpture, I too am art.
Real!
I am for an art that is neither framed nor static. My body is strapped and harnessed to the ceiling. Im am free from logic but enslaved by the cruelty of gravity. The strap is my life line, it decides my fate. If it breaks i break, if it holds so will I. But on look on the brighter side; the strap is the hands of an artist guiding me, the paintbrush, to creating a moving piece of art on the wall. The room is no longer a museum that is confined to the system of the norm. The room is art.
Hi David,
ReplyDeletePlease consider my revision to your text.
Also, please go the library and take out a book on Glenn Ligon. Please bring that book to class on Tuesday, August 25th.
Rhythm!
A mixture of shadows of individuals stretches across the room. The shadows seem to be dancing in their own rhythm. The shadows fluctuate between big and small, short and tall, thin and thick. The shadows follow the diversity of dancers: male and female, young and old. The dancers have different hairstyles, skin tone, body mass, and so on. We practice Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Saturday to Sunday... round and round, up and down, around the clock.
Relax!
My heart is racing, yet i exude calm and steadiness. The voice instructing me not to look down echoes in my head. I reserve to a much more serene mindset, as if I am taking an afternoon nap on a sandy beach. And I tell myself: "Tonight is gonna be a good night". I wanna live it up. I let go all skepticism and fear as I take my first step. My feeling of exhilaration had me wanting to go out and "smash it" at any moment! My sudden outburst of emotion to "smash it" might be easily misunderstood and result in me confined like the three Americans who were arrested by Iranian border guards on Friday afternoon.
Reach!
I've abided by the laws of gravity all my life, pulling me downwards. But today, I defy that law. I defy logic. Logic complicates art by killing the independence of the artist, just as Tristan Tzara describes in his manifesto. The weight of my feet feels light against the cold, cold wall. I've never felt so much pressure lifted from my feet as i walk. However, the side of my face feels like it's being stretched across the room. My sense of up, down, left, and right have been distorted. I follow the path that everyone else around me is taking. I gaze in their eyes as they stare back at mine, and i know that they can feel everything that i am feeling at the moment.
Rough!
My muscles grow tired. But i've practiced long and hard for this dance. Is it just that I'm nervous? Nervous that Elaine Summer is recording this on film? Nervous that Trisha Brown, our choreographer, is watching our every step? The straps were killing my circulation, making me feel light-headed. My vision turns to a blur. Then curiously, the first image that comes to my mind is Sophie Tauber-Arp's sculpture, a blend of red, white, and blue. Perhaps the sculpture is propaganda? What kind of message is Arp sending? I can hardly call it a face, for i cant remotely distinguish the eyes or the mouth, but there is a sharp-angled part that resembles a nose, I presume. And just like that sculpture, I too am art.
Real!
I am for an art that is neither framed nor static. My body is strapped and harnessed to the ceiling. Im am free from logic but enslaved by the cruelty of gravity. The strap is my life line, it decides my fate. If it breaks, I break. If it holds, so will I. But, look on the brighter side: the strap is the hands of an artist guiding me, the paintbrush, to creating a moving piece of art on the wall. The room is no longer a museum that is confined to the system of the norm. The room is art.