I have been staring at the cursor for quite a while trying to gather my thoughts. The blinking line on this blank computer page is filled with so much more expectation than if I just had a piece of paper sitting quietly in front of me. It seems to be prodding me into action, and simultaneously lulling me into a hypnotic state. This will probably be the most coherent one of these things that I ever write. Just thought I would warn you now, whoever you are.
Historically, I have saved these types of thoughts for tiny notebooks kept in the bottom of an overfilled shoulder bag, brought out in moments of inspiration, usually over a cup of coffee. Completely secret from the outside world. I always imagined these notebooks to be the same size that Kafka used when scribbling down thoughts into what would later become his “Blue Octavo Notebooks.”
Over the past 3 years my creative process has slowed drastically. My stuff has always had a tendency to creep, rather than spring forth. I guess that is what happens when the medium which I most often choose to work within requires so many little stitches in order to become. Hundreds and thousand of tiny movements, minuscule gestures, that take months- years- to evolve into fully realized forms. And now, my very slow process has become even more slowed by the small human that has arrived to accompany me and my husband in this world. I laugh at myself, how I held on to the thought that I would still have endless hours to contemplate and mull… these are things that now take place in stolen moments between imaginary games and diaper changes. I know that these new actions will merge with my old actions, and that one day they will worm themselves into my work in some unspoken way.
So. Keeping all that in mind, I tried not to get too worked up recently as I slowly dismantled a sculptural object that I had been working on for two years. Two. Whole. Years. That’s longer than it took Henry to form in the womb. I lived and fought with that sculpture for so long. Attempted to coax it into existence, to mold it into the vision that I had been holding onto in my mind. Only to realize after so much labour and time that it was an object completely foreign to me. Alien. It had evolved with a mind of its own and decided to go in another direction. How annoying. I looked at it lying there on the ground, and wondered why I hadn’t stopped a year earlier. I bent and twisted it. Stretched it over my head, my arm, a tree, in a vague attempt to will it into the something of my imagination.
As I type this I am thinking that I should try working in a different medium for a while. Maybe something that could give me a little feeling of instant gratification. Maybe I should just go kick a can of paint over somewhere. My own version of Pollack-style action painting. How did I end up working with such a slow-boat material, anyway?! Ugh.
I ended up having Henry help me unravel it (almost) out of existence, closely watching the string twist and tangle its way across the floor, pulled this way and that by my 2 year old in the most ecstatic way. A truly wonderful mess that I only slightly regretted instigating. And I had new thoughts.
ant colonies
space- time structures
lace
points of intersection
distance between objects
artifact / remnant
vacuum
Wow. The photographs were great,the text equally great. Thanks for a great read.