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Getting back into the process

Distance is key.

Moving away from intense emotional involvement with a piece of work, focusing elsewhere, will often reveal unexpected omissions and surprises both good and bad.
This is a process I like to be in control of, so when I feel myself being torn away by random circumstance, I cling on desperately until I am forced to admit the untimely break.
I make, I write, I draw to feel sane, to feel alive and in communion with something other and far greater than me.

There are always gut-churning moments when I doubt what I do. And there are moments when I need the work to talk back at me, to claim some kind of independence.
Choosing my moments to back off, to put work on hold, to see-saw between the apparent contrasts of words and visual images, I still have a tendency to not really let go.
To not actually allow stuff to hibernate in my subconscious where it can reap the benefits of all kinds of hidden connections. I know this, I know that I am impatient and that for me the process takes much more time than I imagine.

I make much of use of my subconscious with each start, but then reach a point where I cannot carry the work lightly.
I get so absorbed in the close-up, the zoomed-in pan where the background is merely a blur and of course, the continuity.
And still it comes as a surprise to discover that there is only ever one work. That any kind of distancing, willing or unwilling, is mere punctuation in a conversation that documents and illustrates my efforts to make sense of why I exist as a sentient being.
How could I have journeyed so far and discovered so little?

I am the artwork I create.
Letting go, allowing my inner child the freedom to explode, needs so much practice.


These introspective interludes;
these opportunities to tick
box items in my kitbag,
provisions for adventures;
signs of promise, of awareness,
of knowing that leaving base-camp
might require tent-pegs maybe,
or a chunky knitted jumper;
but above all, confidence and curiosity.

 

Posted by Gini, 3 February 2013

Last modified by Gini, 3 February 2013

The Incredible Presence of a Remarkable Absence

Lila Dance.

Saturday 10th November, Peter Catmull Theatre, Hythe: instepdance.co.uk

Thursday 29th November, Pavilion Dance, Bournemouth: paviliondance.org.uk

 

The Incredible Presence of a Remarkable Absence is the wonderfully apt title of Lila Dance's new 50 minute re-imagining of the world created by Samuel Becket in Waiting For Godot.

Entering the black cube of Salisbury Arts Centre's Main Space after the interval, the semblance of low mist at early dawn swirled from the dust covered floor. Four characters entered in hats of the pork pie/trilby/tweedy type and carrying small hessian sacks that spoke to me more of migrant hopefuls than Becket's shabby-chic end-of-the-roaders.

But the patterns on the floor as these eloquent bodies moved through the space, drew me in. The dancers connected with individual audience members, growing an intimate sense of involvement as they each revealed their peculiar personalities. Solemn or sad faces and sudden mood shifts created the uncertain atmosphere, but the Hat Dance made me smile and soon I too was involved in the waiting.

Swung between fragmented text and incredibly fluid, connected bodies I was drawn ever further into the stillness that is my own personal mode of waiting. The burden of these four uneasy characters killing time before my eyes, became my burden. I felt somehow in danger of loosing myself under the weight of it.

Disability, interdependence, manipulation, tenderness - issues that fought for attention while I watched, waited and absorbed movements that bypassed any kind of reason or rational thought, linking directly to my instinct and emotions.

By the end it seemed I had journeyed somewhere precarious and was not sure I would find my way back, my headspace now haunted with supplementary images of Munch's Scream and Kierkegaard's slightly odd love-letters.

Heavier than the pre-show handouts indicated, it really needed single billing. I needed to create space around it and in so doing, risked loosing sight of the humorous and sensual 'Not About Love' duet that had entertained me before the 20minute interval.

 

 

I am changed

or am I? Is it

my love that

changes me,

or your love

that sees me

changed?

I am changed

or am I? No, or

Yes. And yes

I am changed

without knowledge

of how or why;

only certainty

of having

changed.

 

 

Posted by Gini, 10 November 2012

Last modified by Gini, 10 November 2012

London 2012: 3

Cultural Exhaustion eventually overpowered our group and a relaxing trip down Regent Street was prescribed to restore our energy. Out in the commercial world Chinese texts popped up here and there, 'made in China' clothes and objects brought soothing familiarity and the stress of strangeness receded somewhat.

Unable to help with the search for typically English food, I accompanied my friends into PizzaHut, where we battled our way through the complexities of ordering food we might recognise and possibly enjoy, from an unnecessarily complicated menu and a stressed waiter.

Pizza proved to be remarkably similar to a Chinese dish that is folded and eaten with the fingers, but the cups of tea that accompanied and preceded our meal did cause our frazzled waiter some confusion.

Arriving back at Waterloo we presented me to a man with the label 'assisted travel' on his fluorescent jacket. He accompanied me to our train and instructed the surprised driver/guard to get a ramp and let me on to the train: job done.

The same driver/guard took on the responsibility for getting me off of the train when we arrived at our destination. He did have other duties to perform first, luckily it was the end of the line.

 

 

Stuffed crust fingers wave modestly,

not daring to venture far from the plate,

but still adamant in their desire

to be noticed. Their small cheesy

claws protruding from stubby fat digits,

they hesitate, wave from the wedge

that is tidily folded and eaten

with gusto.

 

 

 

Posted by Gini, 23 July 2012

Last modified by Gini, 23 July 2012

Waiting

The Dawn Chorus seeps into my consciousness with liquid joy. Night brought sleep, so I open my eyes with a question.

These days play out on a yo-yo string, some are stretched out towards the promise of wholeness; some like this one are curled in on the pain. And waiting an unfocused kind of waiting, between moments that I try not to fritter away. Yesterday comes like that when I wedge myself against the garden wall and paint a long view. And later I watch the birthday flags waving from terracotta pots and take a rain check on chocolate layer-cake.

Days, moments, that leave no memories, just quiet folds in the chronological order of my life. Out on the pleated edges is where the sun shines and creation swirls; and where hope still has a cheeky smile.

I know of no way to acknowledge the value of hours devoted to breathing through pain; no way but waking and living. No way to honour love and life, but living; being; creating.

Sensuous lines swirl
white on white, kissed
by the glass walls
of my house; embraced
by the Nouveau frame.
Day by day, week by week,
I wait
pressed against the glass
while the sun rises
Klimt gold
and a squillion snowflakes
dither and refrost.

Impatient for my
jewelled garden to emerge,
I stuff
armfuls of silken narcissi,
fistfuls  of fake muscari
into the waiting canvas.
Beardsley morphs into Mucha
waiting melts into spring.

Posted by Gini, 22 April 2012

Last modified by Gini, 26 April 2012