I am a performance artist, but what am I performing? Lots of objects and costumes, but what of them?
I have mostly been static in my work Singing has been the most movement I have done, apart from a little bit of morris dancing. Or moving slowly on wheels. A procession. I wouldn't want to process in Wellingborough. Only by the viaduct.
Perhaps I need a procession trolley. Some sort of vehicle. Something that would fit through the kissing gate.
I'm a bit torn about this. I am very unlikely to repeat this performance but it still pains me to pack it away as the packing requires a sort of flattening of the paper globes that makes them deteriorate a little further. I wish I could afford the space to preserve all the artifacts as they were, like a costume museum. But I'd rather this than throwing the away or even reusing them.
I'm using pieces of sheet material from the Tree Dress as the bag/box.
It's the paper globes that are beautiful and fragile, even though they are bursting apart and held together with crisping sticky-tape.
As a token of hope, I'm assigning each globe their own white balloon, so that they can each be inflated back into shape and reattached with velcro to their white satin nightdress.
In tying the flattened, fragile, bursting paper globes to their little virgin balloons with white ribbon, I'm also linking them to the previous performance "Teardrop". My embroidery documentation of the sketch features the same ribbon that represents the music box paper.
It's all like a wake, a melancholic celebration of a successful but fragile performance and its artifacts that need to be buried or archived.
My current interests are embroidering my past work onto calico.
Slowly slowly planning and gathering for my album.
I'm slowly slipping into better habits and a better pace but nothing is getting my full attention. I long to immerse myself, submerge myself in art.
connecting with others.
I feel like I don't have enough of myself to give to others. I don't quite have enough to give to myself.
I want to make an enormous black velvet dress against which items can be displayed.
Lots of gathers and puffs.
We are now in the era of the Uncanny and have been since March 2020. We live our lives in it. While the scientists help to save our lives we can either struggle against the Uncanny or embrace it. It's time for creativity to step up and help to save our souls and spirits with both high and low technology and everything in-between. How to work to a feasible schedule when time and energy are scarce. How to ignore the Protestant work ethic. Value space and time, family connections, music, art, conversation. Locality.
How to make low-tech Zoom
Look to Roussellian solutions.
My bed is my study.
I want to make art all day at my own pace. There's so little time for me now. I feel trapped in nighttime and I'm so tired by then. I have lots of ideas to complete, lots to start and lots waiting to be planned. I'd like to exhibit myself in a space that can have visitors. If I think about [The Funcanny] as an exhibition space I can hang my sconce, hang up my masks and dresses, show my music boxes...my lampshades
Last Sunday's performance event at Brigstock's "Funcanny" gave me a great feeling of elation, euphoria, that continued to resurface during the following week.
Our collaboration, work, in sequence and together (parallel? Like Christmas fairy lights?) was so well gelled, and had room/time to thrive, take stock, reflect, assess, enjoy camaraderie...
Not sure how this translates to viewers - what's their experience?
I don't understand where all the time goes. What I think was yesterday was 3 weeks ago. Is this time travel? Is this the wormhole?
From lots of production at night I have gone into a sort of waiting: for materials, money to buy materials, time...
I'm also waiting to do my performance. This will break some sort of spell and let me catapult myself forwards again.
Looking back a couple of years ago I was thinking of phonograph recordings of myself, looping and overlapping. But I was also hooked on shouting dark jelly, overflowing. I also used the words post-apocalyptic. Is this a slow apocalypse?
What's happened to drawing on my face? The local wetland wildlife walks? The richness has vanished. Now: isolation, lack of time and space, just a looking in on myself.