Response to Meg’s Presentation and Liz’s Pictorial Response.

YES.  The art object is dead in that it is inanimate but was it ever alive?  The process of creation is live, and moment of reception and interpretation is alive too, the inanimate object lies dead in between.   (Strange thought)

Creation = dead = experience.

Literature students endlessly ponder Roland Barthes essay The Death of the Author which states that the moment the word has left the pen of the author the minute the book has been printed and bound and lies in the hands of the reader the author dies: Sudden Death.  In the hands of the reader / interpreter the work takes on a new life, that the author has no claim over.

But Liz’s marks look full of life.  The patterns bob and bounce off the page below a donkey – they remind me of Japanese characters that have been predetermined and repeated again and again.

I can see the strokes where the brush went down I can’t help but think there is evidence of life there the impression of it – where there was white space nothing before now there are witnesses.

I can see that galleries are like morgues,

that we are expected to wonder silently through

and in a joyful way, identify those we can claim

as our own in some way.

Even in the hushed dark of the theatre we are waiting

passively for moments of resonance we understand

performance is “live” and it is the experience

that is the product we wish to export.

The experience you can’t get in the shops

yet a product that can’t quite be recreated ever again.

The experience is a negotiation ½ by the spectator and ½ by the creator.  A shared transaction.  Or, to move away from fiscal terms, where two people meet face to face in the middle of a bridge.  Or, go and stand on completely different bridges, and see the other, a lonely figure, further down on another bridge.  And are angry or, at least, regretting that they aren’t on the same bridge as the other person staring out into another pair of eyes.

If performance is (only?) representation then experience is equally repeated and we have as Nietzsche suggests lived our lives ad infinitum, repeating each moment infinitesimally: 

The greatest weight – What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you:  ‘This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence – even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself.  The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!

            Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus?  Or have you experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: “You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.”  If this thought gained possession of you, it would change you as you are or perhaps crush you.  The question in each and every thing, “Do you desire this once more and innumerable times more?” would lie upon your actions as the greatest weight.  Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate confirmation and seal?

“I know you are but what am I? I know you are but what am I?  I know you are but what am I?  I know you are but what am I?  I know you are but what am I?  I know you are but what am I?  I know you are but what am I? Etc ”

I WANT THE EXPERIENCE (At this stage in life, long may it continue!)

We are, according to Jung, made up of archetypes.

Archetypes are an original model of a person, ideal example, or prototype, upon which others are copied, patterned or emulated; a symbol universally recognized by all.

Archetypes are present in mythology often transcending cultures, times and place present in folklore, and pre-historic artwork, in recurring archetypal images taking priority over language.

Jung suggests the existence of universal forms that channel experiences and emotions, resulting in recognizable and typical patterns of behaviour with certain probable outcomes.
“We come into the world bearing with us an archetypal endowment which enables us to adapt to reality in the same way as our remote ancestors.”

We experience this inheritance of collected consciousness or humanity in ways that unique only to ourselves, but nevertheless they perform the same functions in human beings everywhere.

If we are all archetypes then isn’t resonance in art or performance a moment of us identifying or remembering something similar we see in something foreign. 

It is not just on Face book and the virtual world where we frame ourselves.   According to Jung there are 5 archetypes:

The Self: the regulating centre of the psyche.

The Shadow: our unacceptable traits that are hidden and repressed, traits that are not even recognizable by our ego but possibly present in our deepest nemesis or enemy.

The Persona: the “face” we present to the world; how we codify ourselves in a form we hope will prove acceptable to others.

The Anima: whom you love: the feminine image in a man’s psyche *

The Animus: the masculine image in a woman’s psyche. *

*Although this is slightly different when applied to homosexual desire.

vegans

Jen pokes at her salad warily and says in her warm kiwi drawl.  “Of course the thing is when you’re doing a detox the trick is to treat it like a relationship –“ She looks up at Phil flirtily and fixes him with an arched expression.  “You can’t cheat.”  Phil shifts in his seat.  She continues.  “It’ s hard!  It’s really hard – I know - but the benefits are just amazing.”  Phil blinks. 

“I’m doing an amazing diet right now.”  She continues leaning forward confiding in him breathily.  “It’s fin-testic.” 

“How long you been doing it?”  Phil asks, hearing his own voice sounding strangely bumpkin-ish against her antipodean lilt. 

“Oh you know a couple of weeks , but I’ve noticed heaps of difference already – heaps!  And like, I’ll probably be doing it –“ Jen pauses as if signing off the years above her head “well maybe not for the rest of my life – but for at least the next year.”

“What do you do?”  Phil asks.

Jen takes an important breath.  “Well it’s no fruit, no sugar” she lists, “no dairy, no wheat – you have to be really careful.  I mean even in a place like this.”  She presses her nails delicately on the rim of the table, “you have to be. So. Careful.”  Her eyes are beyond him now furtively peering at the lanky man behind the food counter, his dreadlocks packed bulging into a hair net, reading a book.  “Places like these seem benign” she fixes her eyes back onto Phil and leans in with such secrecy that he has to bend his head to hear her, “but there’s no guarantee!  Greenwash is everywhere!  All it takes it one little inorganic mushroom grown on the shit of a dairy farmed cow and it’s over: you are directly contributing to the meat industry.  DyouknowwhatImean?”

Phil looks at her, she thinks a little helplessly.

“Don’t get me wrong!” She smiles brightly,  “I’m sure that tofu lasagne is spot on!  It’s just – if you want to be 100% on what you’re eating then to be honest – and this the best piece of advice I can give you -”  She reaches out and lightly pats the top of his hand, “the best thing you can do, when you eat out, is Go Raw.”  She nods at him with large brown eyes willing him to understand.

Phil looks down at his half-eaten tofu lasagne a little disappointed.  It was mostly lasagne sheets pressed together anyway, some tangy tomato sauce lining the dense wedge of pasta in his eco-box.  He’s fucked up, made the wrong choice – he should have had the cous cous.   “I drink smoothies.” He hears himself say a little too quickly. 

“Ah yeah!” enthuses Jen “that’s a great thing to do!”  Her hand is on his again and he feels a little squeeze of encouragement.  He looks up and Jen’s face has split into a wide grin, “I used to do that too!  All the time!” And then the tiniest shadow crosses her expression, like the smallest passing of trapped wind, “That is, until I stopped eating bananas.”

Ludic: def

an adjective literally meaning playful derives from the Latin ludus play.  The term is used in philosophy to describe play as an act of self-definition; in literary studies the term may apply to works written in the spirit of festival.

Homo Ludens: the concept of the ludic self as fundamentally defining human beings can be expressed by the Latin phrase Homo Ludens “the human who plays” (compared to Homo Sapiens the human who thinks)

Ludic philosophy has also influenced the study of literature.  Works such as Don Quixote and Seven Gothic Tales are considered ludic texts because of their absurd nature.

Professor & Crow

The Professor sat in the early morning light on the common bench, a shaft of sun had struck him full in his face and he had closed his eyes and softly exhaled into the warmth.  He was dreaming.  It was a cold morning, Mary was off the lead, had seen a squirrel and had gone of dashing off into the shrubs rustling and snuffling with excitement and interest.  He would just wait for her here, in this warm, sunny corner, an old man – dozing on his stick. 

He had got up at first light, and washed and shaved, pressed his trousers and shirt, two pairs of socks these days, two jersies, cup of tea, an egg, toast and marmalade.  Give Mary had a bowl full of biscuits and off up to the common, their morning ritual.  It was barely 7.30, and not many were out.  It was early Spring and clear.  He could hear a waning chorus of birds that had dwindled to mostly the alto section of crows cawing to each other from the treetops.   He suddenly felt exhausted, life’s catching up with me, he thought.  So he’d sat down rather than his usual exercise of swinging his arms about and jogging-on-the-spot and swiveling and touching his toes, he’s sat rather heavily on the bench and was now breathing regularly ignoring the familiar view from the hill the whole of the city stretching out before him, the warm sunshine on his ancient brow. 

His thoughts were interrupted - A shadow flitted across his face – and he heard a caw quite close above his head.  Crows.  He thought, Mary would see it and come running over.  Again it flitted and cawed it must be circling – perhaps it thinks I’m some kind of carrion - must be getting there, he admitted.  He wondered if he should open his eyes, but the sun was getting stronger and warmer and to break this happy doze  would be – Whumpf!  Something heavy hit him on the crown of his head knocking his hat off.  The force of it sending his head rolling slightly forwards out of the sunlight.  He opened his eyes, expecting the counter motion to send him back again, but the heaviness did not lift, rather it remained and juddered causing more shadows and a rush of air.  The professor could feel cold rubbery points on his crown.   A single black feather floated down past his nose and settled on his knee. 

With his head bent under the unshifting weight the professor could see his shadow in the sun to the right of him, awkwardly crooked under the form of a rather large crow.  An alarmingly close caw confirmed this and the Professor feeling the five or six points on his head – were they talons? – looked at the shadow of the curved beak and wondered what to do.

how to hang a door

Measure the opening

Purchase a door that is 2” less than your opening

Mark the door for trimming (use a pencil) and trim (with a saw) sand the edges until smooth (use sand paper)

Check if the door fits.  Get someone else to help you – it must be perfect a second opinion is always helpful.

Place the hinges: determine which way the door will open (usually into a room), take note of where the light switches are and place hinges on opposite side accordingly.

Draw around hinges with a pencil and cut out hinge recesses with a chisel.

Drill pilot holes and then screw on the hinges

Position door and mark out where the hinge falls on the door frame.

Cut out hinge recesses with a chisel on frame.

Drill pilot holes and then screw on the hinges onto the frame.

Kneeling figure Taken from Epic Gilgamesh

So  Endokin

was tamed through a

 skilled harlot named Shazah

who emerged from a Babylonian

  Temple in the city and went out onto  the

    wild mountainside and made love with him

for seven days and nights in a cave among

the sheep and Endokin                          who

         was more animal than                              man                      

 felt soft perfumed                                      skin for

             the  first time against his                              own rough hide               

              and tasted sweet fruits                                  and refined sugars

                       from the Babylonian city he                            followed Shazah back

                                       between the dry deserted canyons                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

back to the gardened walls of the city 

                     where the bustling heat of 

                         strangers set him on edge  

and it was only her gentle humming in his ear

that stopped him from striking out back to the windy

mountainside among the dusty goats and scrub.

seafaring

As a nation of sailors we have lost our way.  At one point in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth century nearly every family had someone who was away at sea.  Many men never came back.  Often there families weren’t told for months sometimes years after. There was a rich reward for whoever could construct a timepiece that could work out at sea so the sailors could calculate their position in degrees of longitude and latitude in the open sea. 

World liner cruises became popular in the early twentieth century.  For the best part of 50 years cruising enjoyed a hey dey among our island people, who congaed late into the night across the Mediterranean, through quoits at targets along the Atlantic and enjoyed the queues for sunny, outdoor buffets serving local delicacies as well as the more familiar fare, which meant one didn’t have to dress for dinner.  Another reason cruises were popular was that alcohol was served at a quarter of its original price.