Spontenaity- Improvisation/ Object/ Image.

'Mapping The Familiar Streets' (2010)

After visiting the 'Lost in Lace' (2011) exhibition I am inspired by string. I have this urge to wrap myself in string. String restricts, holds, suspends, frees. String is extensive in terms of its uses and also creates an aesthetic image in a performance space.







'Perhaps we are like stones, our own history and the history of the world embedded in us'.

I begin with loss and memory and I can't get it out of my head. A carcuss, the lumps and bumps engage my senses with each step and with each step a new lump or bump moulds my feet. I can not piece it together but perhaps, perhaps it does not fit. The rocks together, standing the strength of time and weather. It suddenly becomes about breath, in and out, in and out and I am concious of it. The song still plays on repeat always at the back of my mind, revolving for weeks. The blood pumps so fast, in-breaths are short, out breaths are long, circulating air as fast as possible. It is the same content. I can not think. Stamped upon every thought is a smiling face another etched thought.  Emotions are muddled, thoughts moulded. My breath is like his breath, my breath is a struggle. And the song still plays on repeat in my head and I can't get it out 'Running bear loves little white dove'. I begin with loss and memory. The computer is always broken making me all the more thankful to reach the top.

I am pondering on the past, on the objects of the past passed down through generations eventually into my own hands. The trace of being, what is left? The transitional objects of the dead become symbolic of the lost loved one. The objects we cling onto in order to reignite memories of specific lost loved ones.  

A bear belonging to my Great-Grandma. A little worse for wear but still a bear. Its inners spilling into the space.

A solid silver mirror once belonging to another Great-Grandma. Generations reflecting in its glass. Mirrors reflect images, they tell the truth, they make things visible. Generations reflecting in the glass.

How do these objects enhance the performance space? What do they bring to the existing material.



The loss of loved ones prompt a challenge to the meanings of the objects. 'Death reconstructs our experience of personal and household objects in particular ways: there is the strangeness of realising that things have out-lived  persons, and, in this regard, the materiality of the body.' (Gibson.)

 

'The Hankie Project' (2011) is an art performance event which explores the relationships which develop between grieving families and the transitional objects. In this case a handkerchief becomes representitive of the father. The project invited others to share similar stories and objects. (The handkerchief is a transitional object for many.)

Spontaneity- Movement/ Improvisation/ Text

A weekend in the studio.

I am realising a lot about the way I make work, the way I compose and the strategies which work best for me. I am also  beginning to recognize a 'dramatic' element in the way I perform. I am not regarding this as a negative point and plan to play on my dramatic performance skills to enhance future performances.

Do you know I am loud, my french teacher used to say "Kirsty you are like a Light-house." I think she actually meant fog-horn but had not quite mastered the English language.

I have a tendency to over-think when I am attempting to make material, usually resulting in poor material, which I am soon bored of and wanting to disregard. Automatic/ Improvisation techniques are providing me with what I consider suitable matererial for development. I speak of suitable material as texts and movement sequences that continue to excite me outside of the studio space.

This weekend I have been working collaboaratively with artists Moji, Holly and Beth. Developing automatic writing alongside movement sequences.

Take several action words to develop a movement sequence.


Knotting. Crumpling. Forgiving. Arguing. Persevering. Zooming. Paddling. Breaking. Neglecting. Leaving.

The following is developed with the choreography of Meg Stuart in mind. This particular style of minimalist choreography attempts to structure language through movement based sequences. The Solo guitarist singing alongside the movement sequences in 'Damaged Goods - Maybe Forever.' (2007) is considerably useful in relation to my staging of
1) 'Running Bear Loves Little White Dove' on a kareoke machine.
2) 'The Stories of Willie Wankie Woo Woo' on tape recording.

Backward fast, left arm signal wave. FSR - BSR. -  Right leg wrap round left leg, arms stretch to touch floor (balance lost) BSR. -   Sprint fast diagonally, chest jump up. BSR - FSL. - Bang hard attempting a conversation with the floor, monkey like. FSL - Fall to CS. - Attempt floor star sideways. Stand turn to side, lift left leg, point foot, place to floor, lift right leg, point foot, place to floor, repeat. CS. stand, mimic 'oar sequence.'

Finally a text.
Based on automatic writing sequences in relation to the movement.

She reversing like a ticking clock, explosion - tick, tock, tick tock.Vines entwining with a defiant struggle against the bottom. Pulling she down. She pulling... Free. She banging, like an ape, melodic, rhythmic. She exercising. She's daily routine. Scared to dip a toe in the fish tank fight strongly defiantly.

A Poem by Carol Ann Duffy

I happened upon this poem by accident.

Elvis's Twin Sister

In the convent, y'all,

I tend the gardens,

watch things grow,

pray for the immortal soul

of rock 'n' roll.

 

They call me

Sister Presley here,

The Reverend Mother

digs the way I move my hips

just like my brother.

 

Gregorian chant

drifts out across the herbs

Pascha nostrum immolatus est...

I wear a simple habit,

darkish hues,

 

a wimple with a novice-sewn

lace band, a rosary,

a chain of keys,

a pair of good and sturdy

blue suede shoes.

 

I think of it

as Graceland here,

a land of grace.

It puts my trademark slow lopsided smile

back on my face.

 

Lawdy.

I'm alive and well.

Long time since I walked

down Lonely Street

towards Heartbreak Hotel

Feeling Guilt - The Stories of Willie Wankie Woo Woo.

And I begin to feel guilty, because the real one has been disregarded. They were similar. Far too similar. Cut from the same cloth and promoting the same ideologies. How would he feel if he knew?

It is him who provides the childhood memories, he is blood. Another story plays over and over like a tape recording on repeat. Only this time it is a tape recording. There is a voice but no image.


(In a low Croaky Voice)

The Stories of Willie Wankie Woo Woo. I am Willie Wankie Woo Woo.

'I am going to go out shitting myself with fucking fear and cancer that god so kindly provided. Without that we wouldn't have a way to die would we? Fucking good of him not to torment us with being eternally young and being able to fuck everyone - no he gave us this great gift of fucking cancer. I wouldn't of thought of that if I'd been creating a universe would you? Bung in cancer? No I'd of left that out. '

An Old Man on a Mobility Scooter Zooms By (Station 1)

The following is the edited outcome of a simple Augusto Boal exercise which involves talking without stopping to think about what you are talking about. I found providing a starting visual image for the exercise helpful so began this exercise with a window in the minds eye. The text has been broken down with physical interruptions.

The window is wide open, anybody could get in. There is a fish tank. One toe goes in the fish tank. It's hot. It's really hot. (Pick up flask. Unscrew lid. Pop the top. Pour coffee into lid. Spill a little on the floor. Drink coffee in one. Replace lid.) An old man on a mobility scooter zooms by the window. The ashtray, filled with cigarette butts, so full there is ash overflowing on the carpets. Trapped here in a web spun by a spider which I swear had ten legs rather than eight. (A sharp intake of breath so the wheeziness of the throat is heard.) An old man on a moility scooter zooms by the window. He is wearing breathing apparatus and there are wires coming out everywhere. There is an elderly lady holding a stack of papers. She looks exhausted. Yellow nicotine hangs from the ceiling. And I am stuck on a supermarket slide. And my shoes are missing. And my feet hurt. And I am bleeding to death from a fish bite. (Pick up Flask. Unscrew lid. Pop the top. Pour coffee into lid. Spill a little on the floor. Drink coffee in one. Replace lid.) An old man on a mobility scooter zooms by the window. He is wearing breathing apparatus and there are wires coming out everywhere. He holds his hand up.  (Lift hand into V sign, swearing) The room is quiet.

Running Bear Loved Little White Dove

A real Romeo and Juliet Story. The song tells the story of two Native American's whose love is prohibited by their fighting tribes and also the raging river which stands between there lands. The pair's fate is told at the end of the song as they jump into the river to be with each other they both drown as they are pulled under by the rivers currents.

A Questioning of Self and Agenda

What material makes suitable performance material?

I really am beginning a soul searching exercise. But how can I search a soul I do not know well enough myself? How do I know myself?

I have this fascination with the unknowable and the space between knowing and not knowing. Where does my inner expression become my outer expression and vice versa. I mean this in both the physical and psychological sense. I have already explored the physical site, the scar as a borderline between the inner and the outer and I am well aware that bodily orifices provide another borderline between the inner and outer. But how do psychological scars and feelings present themselves on the outside?

'In performance you squeeze out yourself you dredge it up from your unconcious. It is a process of giving it a form, from the inner to the outer. The process can not be frivolous but must be deep, a deep commitment to yourself.' (Rachel Rosenthal: The Power of Feminist Art

I am entering what feels like an era of digging and playing or so it seems. Searching for stimuli which will eventually materialize but to make sense of it oh such another volume. The inability to explain. Can I explain? Can anybody explain? How do I begin to explain?

'We have no physicalized forms for mourning - the comfort we need to recieve or give. It's all in our eyes, staring straight ahead, quietly, tearful. We sit like hot stones.' (Carolee Schneeman: 1994-1995)

I am using grief as a performance therapy in order to create a fragment for performance. Memories, letters, songs, images - the things that imprint themselves in the mind. Those specific moments that are attached like tape recordings on repeat.

There is a danger of this becoming too selfish and self-indulgent.

I must make this work relevent to an audience in order to share it as a process.

Another story.

This story starts in Year Five, I am Nine. This story ends in Year Five, I am nine.

On Wednesdays I participate in training for Moorfield Junior School Netball Team. I am in A team. I play Goal Shooter. I am actually quite good at netball, particularly shooting. Emma-Jayne, a close friend at the time and probably still my closest friend, and I went along to Moorfield Junior School Netball Practice on this particular Wednesday to find Carly Rounding bragging to everyone about how she had been to visit Chalky the homeless man who lived adjacent to the school in a shack. She talked of eating bread and drinking milk with him.

Not wanting to be out-done by Carly Rounding, me and Emma-Jayne decided to visit the shack after school to see what all the fuss was about. We had been warned to stay well clear of the shack and the school were taking proceedings to have the homeless man removed from the property.

Moorfield Junior School Netball practice dragged that day. As soon as it was 4.30pm me and E-J ran off still sporting our Netball skirts, red polo's and matching socks. At the top of the alley leading to the shack we quickly made a plan, we were going to sneak down to the bottom of the alley and say hello to Chalkie. We had a bit of a debate over who was going to go first and as usual I lost and was made to go first.

So down we crept in our Moorfield Junior School Netball Practice uniforms. Me creeping first and E-J just behind me holding tightly onto my rucsack. The alley was long and it took us a lifetime to reach the shack. Down the Alley almost at the door to the shack a figure appeared, we speculate to this day whether Chalkie was holding a shotgun that day or whether it was just our childish imaginations running wild.

Everything happened quickly. We both screamed "CHHHAAAALLLKKIIIEEE"
Threw our hands in the air and began pushing each other to emerge from the alley, we ran straight across the main road almost getting run-over in the process. And continued running all the way through Tesco's car park even though E-J wasn't going that way. We did not stop until we were sure he was not behind us.

A Story.

If I had told this story a few weeks ago I am certain it would not be the story I am about to tell, for it is only recently that the events have reached a logger-head (for a way of words).

I think it began in 2005, although its often hard to determine the beginning of a snowball.

Nana White was a party animal, with her spiky bleached blonde hair, tattoos and piercing she was not the "normal" Nana. When I say normal I refer to the stereotypical Grandma, hair in rollers, sitting at home watching casualty on a Saturday night, munching mint imperials.

In 2005 Nana ran away with an Elvis lookalike from the 'New Inn Kareoke Bar'. Off Nana went in the middle of the night, taking only a bin-liner of clothing at the age of 62. Gramps was in pieces, with just a note of explanation. There was talk of who she had ran away with but to my ears people could only speculate. It could have been anyone.

Nana dissapeared with no contact with any of the family for three years. Nobody knew where she was but we knew from Gramps that divorce proceedings were on-going.

I remember being annoyed, angry. Not because she had done it, her and Gramps had slept in seperate rooms for years, but by the way it which she had done it.

Time passed and I reached milestones, milestones we should have shared and moments we have lost. Nana who had always been there was not. I remember being annoyed, angry that i could not share my G.C.S.E results with her.

Out of the blue, a few weeks before my 18th birthday, there was a knock on the door. The postman, nothing unusual, who was carrying a small package addressed to me. I ripped open the packaging to reveal a small ringbox, it it two rings, one a wedding band the other a blue stone set around a flower of diamonds.

They were Nana's rings, panick began rising inside of me. why was she sending me these rings? Had something happened to her?

Inside the package was a small note folded several times, Nana's handwriting. I remember my heart racing, this was the first anybody had with Nana in three years. In the note she explained she had remarried in a small ceremony to a man called Ian and she was happy but first and foremost sorry for what she had done. The rings, she explained, were for me. My Great-Grandma's wedding band and the other a gift she had recieved from her father for her eighteenth birthday.

I remember being annoyed, angry. But I also remember crying. She wasnt coming back and the family that was once so close was to remain ripped down the middle.

But this isn't where the story ends because a year or so later Nana made a call to me revealing her address close-by in Pocklington. It is there I met the Elvis lookalike from the local Kareoke club. True to the word he was a dead ringer for the style of Elvis. I remember him, I remember his song from nights out with Nan, one line, the only line I remember, plays on repeat in my mind. "Running bear loves little white dove". The Elvis lookalike from the local Kareoke club was ill, although I couldnt tell you one thing that was wrong as I didnt dare to ask. It was evident he struggled with his breathing, but chugging away on 60 cigarettes you would never of guessed.

He made Nan happy, and who could deny her happiness. Her trademark Nan looks were gone and in replace a "normal Grandma" look. Her tattoos well and truely hidden. The room was filled with dolphins. Nana loved dolphins and had one tattood on her shoulder. She had obviously been busy re-building her ornamental collection. I had my Nan back and I remember feeling great, so what if she had changed a-bit.

But this isnt where the story ends because it's Wednesday and I'm well into my daily routine and the phone rings and it's my Nan. The strong female constant (minus three years) and she is crying, the first time I have ever heard her cry. The head-strong Nan vulnerable and widowed. It was my turn to be the strong one and without hesitation left work and began the drive home, my home town. I remember feeling shocked, I knew the Elvis lookalike from the local Kareoke bar wasnt well. Three weeks prior he had been diagnosed with fatal cancer, again I had been protected by the details. The Elvis lookalike from the local Kareoke bar had been given Twelve months to live, not three weeks. Nan had twelve months not three weeks. I remember feeling robbed, arriving at Nan's it was dark, almost eight o'clock. Her windows wide open and the television on. But there was no answer to the buzzer, just her dog barking. I keep buzzing, I can hear it on the other side and theres no answer. Surely she hasnt gone out. I remember panicking. So I buzzed the lady upstairs, who is severely deaf in hope that she might hear me. I stand buzzing both buzzers for almost half an hour, finally the lady upstairs opens the door. Shouting she asks how long I have been buzzing, I politley smile and reply 'Not long.'

Everything is as it should be, exactly the same as last time I was here, with perhaps a few more dolphins, it is hard to keep track of the collection these days. Nan is fast asleep the dog sat growling protectively by her side. I remember panicking, looking for a sign of her stomach rising and falling. She was fine. I closed the windows and curse her for leaving them open. Then I sit and remain sitting surrounded by fond memories. I dont want to leave so I sit and wait for the sun to come up in reflective silence. The line "Running bear loves little white dove" melodically on repeat in my mind.