Exercise 3

Dance is a world I don't frequently frequent. I took ballet lessons when I was eight, but I didn't much care for the shoes. 

I was immediately fond of Andy Gambrell. He was so down-to-earth and relaxed. If somebody had to tell me the worst news of my life, I think I'd want it to be him. 

Witnessing Andy Gambrell and Susan Gingrasso interact before and after the dance was really charming. It's clear that they have a tender, creative relationship and mutual admiration. Co-creation is akin to parenting, I suppose. 

Regarding the dance performance, initially, I struggled to “get it”. I promptly gave up trying. Once I relinquished my quest for understanding, I began to enjoy it. The rhythm of the feet on the floor. The delicate movements. It did echo Yvonne Rainer’s Minimalism. Dance is a kind of communication I sometimes struggle to understand, especially when there is no music involved. But with Yvonne Rainer's work as well, I found the longer I watched, the more intentionality I could see between the lines. No, they're not just doing stuff.

It became clear that the dance really was Susan Gingrasso’s interpretation of the paintings. This is a very obvious observation. But I was struck by how much movement she could see in paintings that to me felt like quiet and still memories. If I were to make an interpretive dance of the same pieces, I don't think there would be much dancing involved. 

To me, the work felt less like an interpretation of space and more like an interpretation of interpretation. 

It created this sort of chain of interpretations. Andy's work, interpreted by Susan, Susan's work, interpreted by the dancers, the dancers dance, interpreted by the audience. 

love, Mathilda

Exercise 2

For my installation, I am searching for a space that's not much in particular. Not much light. Not much inside of there. Not much going on. Not much space. Not much window. So I got up in the morning and began my search for very little. 

I'm drawn to spaces below ground. Buried. 

They said, "Raise your standards!"

I replied " " not much at all... 

I roamed from dorm basement to dorm basement. Most dorm basements have a few common rooms. Abandoned card games and DVDs. Artifacts. Relics of a devoted CA on duty. Somebody's mother now. 

I visited Art House, Trevor Hall, Sage Hall, Kohler Hall, the Mudd Library, Ormsby Hall, Colman Hall, Steitz, Youngchild, and Memorial Hall. 

Colman had the most not much going on going on. Nestled beneath the quaint "North Wing" of the building are three little completely nothing rooms. They hold mismatched furniture and a table or two. No windows. Not much to remember. Four blank walls in each. They're perfect. I can't even remember which one I like best, because there's nothing to like about any of them! 

In order to use a room in the north wing of Colman, I suspect I should speak to a Colman CA and start from there. My potential challenge is moving the furniture out of one room, I could just shove it all into one of the other three, granted permission from the lovely CA of course... I may also want to play with the idea of using all three rooms because they are so similar.

I found a few other rooms that were nothing in particular, but they were just too big. The three little Colman crannies are cramped. I want it to be stuffy there. 

Too many people. Too much going on. 

link to video documentation

Three Objects

I began this project by collecting three or more real-life, portable objects that meant something to me in a provocative way. 

I keep a box on my shelf. It's dark green and metal. About the size of a complete Webster's dictionary (Webster, 436). Big enough for all of the words. I keep all of my most potent possessions in there. It's big enough for all of my most potent possessions. Love letters, bullets, promise rings, knives, teeth, empty little bottles. A box of stories from that one time that I... 

I harvested some sentimental secrets from that treasure trove. I don't have much of a statement about them, though. 

I started to be consumed with the endless potential of certain things. Even packaged consumer goods. Even a can of soup can evoke consumerism. A pack of Jell-O, already opened, already consumed. What's the story there? The possibilities are as endless as something that lasts forever. 

I wanted to make a comment about spirituality, so I decided to include a cross. Happy Easter (God, 268). In conjunction with the packaged consumer goods, I thought I could evoke a sort of worship of consumerism. Totally true, wow. "At the altar of the self-checkout line, we kneel and eat a gumball" (Nietzsche, 16).

I wanted to take us to a sort of 'desperate quest for beauty' place... I didn't want the altar to be completely barren; however, to keep it in line with the themes I'd already curated, I decided to go with some flowers. Flowers are often on religious alters I guess, but to add a superficial element, I thought fake flowers would work better. I plucked a few out of a vase, where they had been pretending to drink water. 

I decided to round out my altar with some trash. I think it worked with the theme of orthodox consumerist lifestyle of post-postmodern American all you can eat idolatry... and whatever comes after...   

Works Cited 

Merriam-Webster. Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. Springfield, Merriam-Webster, 2014.

God. Holy Bible. ESV ed., Crossway, 2001.

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. The Genealogy of Morals. New York, Boni And Liveright, 1918.

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Final Project Reflection

    For two and a half months now, I have been collecting the ingredients for this meal you see before you. Some of the elements are stale, some sour, some fermented in their jars. I stole some of it, from the birds that sang late at night, from my father's voice, from sirens that rang through the city. I found some of it in my lower abdomen, in memorabilia, in my unwashed pillowcase. I threw it all in this pot, it congealed, it came to a boil, and it sat there cold overnight. So now you can eat it if you want. Or you can throw it against the wall and watch it drip down into the floorboards. 

    Watching you look at it makes me lose my appetite.  I think I'll just look the other way while you eat it, your chewing makes me sick. Mulling over it in your half-open mouth, it looks nothing like it did before. Enjoy yourself, I guess. 

    Swallow, down the chute. Are you full? Would you like another serving? What will you say about it once you've left the table? What will you still be craving? When will you eat again? I could make you something else. I could give you more. I hope you're quiet. I hope you're satisfied. I hope you're full.

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1CAzndK_RQcNWj9cZOArtmbX0M4hj43jW?usp=sharing

    

reflection

For many moons now, I have been fascinated by Elvis as a work of American culture. “The king of rock and roll”, a true male sex symbol, flamboyant, masculine, immortalized in roadside figurines and cardboard cutouts. Until about a year ago, I had never consumed his work, for the text overshadowed the art. On social media, I witnessed discourse surrounding his repackaging of black artists' music and style to a white audience and his relationships with women. It seemed he'd fallen out of favor in the current political climate, which I found intriguing in contrast with his original controversies in more conservative circles of his time. He sits between liberation and conservatism, so I began to consume his art to explore that grey area. The music remains insignificant in regards to his image; in the context of Image Music Text, I found that Elvis himself is the artwork, rather than the artist. 

He speaks to the country conservatism wants to identify with. Loud, strong, Christian, hot-blooded, and free. The “again “ in “Make America Great Again” is referring to the turn of the century, when Elvis was in his prime. As America declines, as Elvis did in the 70s, we long for the years when we were undeniably the king. Before we had to acknowledge that we built our kingdom off the backs of marginalized groups. The modern denial of Elvis as the king of rock and roll goes hand in hand with the acknowledgement of the United States as the symbol of freedom we crave to be. Elvis was created as a mascot of America, and his image changes as the image of our country is reevaluated. 

My project for this class has been about the difference between the self and the persona. What lies between my outward identity and my personal essence? Elvis, as a symbol or a piece of art, created by American culture and record companies, has no personal essence. Any identity he possessed as a man was as mortal as any human being, but the identity that was crafted is immortal.

Presentation1.pptx

Journal Entry 3

"The artist is in search of his 'truth'" (Barthes, 151). 

The project I've been forming in this figurative womb of mine is an ethnography of myself. An attempt at my truth. Truth is a tricky thing sometimes. It often reveals itself in unexpected places and inconvenient times. The truth is rare, and when I see mine standing there, a moment of reverence is declared. I make gentle eye contact with it, and when I blink, it disappears. 

When I look for my truth, it hides in shadows, under makeup and baggy clothes. It's running from me! I chase it down alleyways, through crowded courtyards, and parking garages. It's gone. I give up. As I turn to head home, a piece of me breaks, something fundamental, and I fall to the ground. It's humiliating. But the truth is right there. And it's humiliating how close it was the whole time. It's all so humiliating. But I kept looking, with a limp that slowly healed day by day. 

As I chased after the truth, I left footprints and chalk drawings on the sidewalk. I described it to strangers in hopes they'd seen which direction it ran. I recited poems about it to them, to glazed eyes and vacant expressions. They told me the truth was right there, standing on the sidewalk, in a long black coat. I couldn't see it anywhere. So I kept looking. I continue to look. 

But the chase is a delight! So what if it's futile? My legacy is the attempt. So what if my project is born, and seems dishonest? The attempt is my legacy. 

Journal Entry 2, The Artistic Dictator

    From the moment that something came from nothing, the materials for everything have occupied all that there is. All there is is a long story of all of it becoming something else. Art is the curation of everything into something. Concentration of essence into one point of focus. Choose your weapon: camera, brush, pencil, gun. Whatever it may be, the artist is the great dictator of change. 

    For my current work, my weapon is the camera. I can't take the whole world in through such a tiny little lens. Not enough time. Not enough room in that rectangle. So I will violently and perversely select the angles of my own curation. My collection, my world, my country. I was not elected by anyone but myself, but I will elect each aspect and steal it from everything else. My piece will be bloody and raw, stuck together with a ticky tack and sealed with sweat and bile. 

    Oh, but I must be gentle with myself. A violent display of my something makes it finite and hardened. Easily digestible, summarized, and skittish like a stray cat. I want to hide it from my lens, I know it's reductive and violent. I know I'm dirty, so I must stop pretending to be clean. 

    I did not create my own identity; I curated it by virtue of my dictatorship. This beautiful item, this turn of phrase, the black nail polish on my pinky fingers. My art is my collection, my persona, my exhibition of a piece of my something. This rotting altar I call myself, on display for whatever wants to see it. My something made of all that there is pointed at the focal point of me. I taste it on my tongue, like sweet gasoline.