Deconsecration: Maria Francesca Tassi and Francesca Lazzarini
Curated by Sara Falanga
Salisbury Arts Centre, 13/01/2012 to 25/02/2012
My image has been progressing slowly, old pens do get scratchy so I have bought new ones and they glide smoothly over the paper, quickening the drawing that finds itself as we work together.
Am I turning my back on digital expression? Am I sulking because the technology seemed beyond my control? Or just retreating into the comfort zone while I figure things out?
I have also visited Deconsecration, the exhibition that has replaced The View from Here at Salisbury Arts Centre, but found it disappointingly superficial.
Paper blushed pink with saints
and legends; cut and formed
to please without a story
of it's own. Adrift like
pollen on the wind. Too late
to fertilise the squiggles
and swirls that pattern papers
pinned precisely to the walls.
Rooted images seeking
history and cultural
reference pale into the
grey walls, danced upon by
older scriptures. Hints of
warmer spaces fail to heat
the emptiness; shy away
from Latin fire with a quiet
of another culture,
Without Con.text I hover uncertain of my direction. I feel like my bones have been picked clean and a howling gale whistles through me; it snatches everything and yet still leaves me here. Where to now? I'm working and wishing that my inspiration will take flight.
I miss my muse, I miss my heart.
Today there is nothing to say.
Slow moving marks on a blank page
say nothing yet, and nothing yet
I have been playing in vain with
big, bold charcoal and flirting with
inconsequential words: yearning.
Hiding what might be the real me
to avoid contention; bland is
the new black. I feel too broken
to make waves, but who is it I
am trying to mend with tiny
points of black ink on blank paper?
Dots that take days, weeks to reveal
faces, reveal secrets conceal
more; yet fail to clothe my gipsy
bones. Flight, the flame that consumes
me, playing with fire and finding
my way home from mistakes, without
obliterating love. Is this
flying? In these bare, heartless bones
I am yearning, aching to fly.
When my computer died I consoled myself with the hope that my work could be recovered from the old hard drive. My current project exists there, as well as all my previous writing and graphic workings. Over Christmas I discovered that this was not the relatively simple task I had imagined. The old hard drive is split over two discs and recovery depends on being able to access both simultaneously.
The distress I have been holding at bay threatened to overwhelm the Christmas spirit, but somehow hope still prevails. Working on 'Con.text' has been a wonderful distraction, and in a sense, a new start which I hope will inspire future projects and fresh ways of working with my new technologies.
Of course I'm cross with myself for neglecting to back up files on a regular basis and how ironic is it to feel that some of my best work was created while struggling with so little computer memory that even saving while I worked was problematic.
Is it time to face up to the prospect of losing the lot? And where do I go from here?
Didn't you always want straight hair?
Brown-gold skin; grey-green eyes?
The stuff you didn't have?
I always wanted roots;
anchors and solid foundations.
My practice echoes this.
I work well with volumes
of background stuff to refer to.
Yet I live my life, mime
the dance, without knowing
who I am; only how I feel.
The View from Here finished on 23 December 2011 and I miss making Con.text - the title of my conversations and writings.
Just as Con.text took me by surprise,
grabbed my attention and offered rich
food for thought; I am all at once faced
with the view of an abrupt ending.
Like a Looking Glass, The View from Here
pulled me into an alien space
with strange perspectives from other minds.
I travelled delight and confusion;
well-worn and unfamiliar paths;
I went no-where and yet travelled far.
I’m not ready to leave,
but there’s suddenly no time to go.
Back here, on this side of the mirror,
I carry all the words.
Con.text, both finished and unfinished,
ends and continues in my head and
in my plans for the nearest future.
This time next week Christmas is over
and The View will be gone forever.
There will be a brief and empty space.
Space of memory: memory of
spaces awaits Deconsecration;
and this Con.text will need some kind of
finishing off; some kind of ending.