descollages dans le marais, paris.
Posts Tagged ‘self portrait’
descollages dans le marais, paris.
I’m testing out the app Guidigo that lets you make a guided tour of just about anything. I created one to collect my recent street work during Mois de la Photo in Paris (The Month of photography, it happens every 2 years in November).
I’ll be adding stops in the coming days, and perhaps some audio. I had some trouble uploading sound, so decided it was a sign I should stick to writing. Let me know what you think!
I am getting much inspiration from Odilon Redon today.
Tout se crée par la soumission docile à la venue de l’inconscient.
Everything is created by quietly submitting to the arrival of the unconscious.
– Odilon Redon, 1898
I had a great time in Arles this year. Most of us have likely read the reviews by now, and while the “In” festival may have been underwhelming, Arles was, as always, a great place to network and spend time with people I don’t often get to see in person.
And the “off” festival is getting bigger and better every year. This year I decided to continue in Arles, the work I began last October during les Rencontres Photographiques du 10e in Paris.
So on most nights, after vernissages, dinners, projections, and parties, I took my broom and bucket out and pasted up my street exhibition in the off-off festival. In the process, I met Isabelle Chapuis and Alexis VI, who were pasting up (with admirable precision) their series Blossom (love it) and watched the evolution of Delphine Henry and her group’s series “Parade,” titled after François Hebel’s name for this years festival. I loved the silent collaboration, placing my work among theirs.
Last night in Arles.
The Rencontres festival did not take risks, it largely stuck to the usual suspects,
this is a shout out to the festival-off, and off-off.
It’s the most labor-intensive business card I’ve ever had.
Business cards for Arles this year.
The photo festival, Les Rencontres Photographiques du 10e, continues for another couple of weeks in Paris, and I’ve been out again enlarging the circle of my street exhibition.
There is a map here: DesCollages Map
(though it now includes rue Bichat, near metro Jacques Bonsergent, and also farther west to the Passage des Petites Ecuries, great place to go for drinks and dinner btw.)
La nostalgie pour ce qu’il reste toujours hors de la portée
I have just put this short series of photos online,
please check them out –> here.
People keep asking, “Why homesick?” “What do you mean out of reach?” The title is the most apt description of the way I was feeling, and these photos were happening at that same time. They belonged together.
I think it’s about the ache. The desire to create something that speaks honestly of who you are, what your experience of the world feels like. The places you look for nourishment. Looking with such intensity, almost desperate for a sort of x-ray vision, to understand the experience of the sky, the changing light on the sea, the time twisting in the tree.
I’m inside this singular mind, seeing through these two eyes, aching always to see farther, to a place I haven’t been, yet is somehow familiar.
and… I was listening to Bob’s Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie almost every day.
God bless ’em.
It seems that in every apartment I move into, the full moon shines across my pillow. Tonight I turned out the lights and saw a dagger of bright silver light and it took a moment for me to realize what it was. These nights, with the moon such a presence, are almost always restless.
He’s the kind of friend that brings laughter to the task of moving all your worldly belongings across town. Again, and again, and again.
How many flights of stairs this time?
In the end
I was just thirsty
The other night, I was on the Island of Elba when the moon was almost full. Earlier that day, I told my friends I’ve always wanted a big rock garden to play with, then looked down and saw the gravel garden below us was the perfect blank canvas to give it a try.
I once bought a dress that made me look like a cupcake.
I remember standing in the tiny shop feeling ridiculous, artificially-sweetened, looking at my friend and the shop-keeper and telling them, “It’s not really my style.” To which I got, “Oh but it looks so good on you! You HAVE to buy it.” Surprised by their enthusiasm for something so fluffy pink, I said, “well, maybe if it were black…”
“It’s a great color, it suits you, you need more variety in your wardrobe.”
Pulling at the sides of the dress, I said “It doesn’t have much of a structure, I look like a potato.”
So why did it go home with me? I suppose it was cheerful enough that I thought it could brighten a grey day. But for two years, it has stayed in the closet, not tempted me once. Maybe I can turn it into a lamp shade.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, I lived with the artist Monica Millan in Buenos Aires. She is from the subtropical province of Missiones in Argentina and often works with communities in Paraguay. This is why, when I told her about a scary spider I saw in the bathroom one morning, and she asked me how big it was, after showing her with my two fingers making a small circle, she said, “Ah, no es nada!! En Missiones…” then she put her two hands together to make the largest circle she could, to show me the size of beasts they have up there.
She reassured me they were harmless and wouldn’t bother me if I didn’t bother them. The usual speech. Then I remembered some strange marks I had found on my arm, in a circular pattern, and I showed them to her. “Ah, si. De una araña…” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. So they do bite! And likely while you’re sleeping!
It was then that I noticed the spider tattoo on the back of Monica’s neck, and also the spider on the tank top she often wore around the house. Living with someone who revered what I feared, I had some work to do.
Some weeks later, when Bergitta moved out (a tango-dancing Swedish painter who had been living there) I changed bedrooms. I moved into the wood-paneled room with a window onto the garden. The one with the orange light, magenta mosquito net and the spider painting hanging on the wall.
One night there was a full moon. I went to sleep with its silver-blue light shining directly on my pillow. Sometime in the middle of the night, straight out of a deep sleep, I abruptly opened my eyes. And I opened them WIDE. What I saw, was a fat-bodied spider dangling right above my face, back-lit by the full moon. I heard my voice whisper, “ooohh…my god,” as I slid horizontally off of the bed, out from under gravity’s pull on that 8-legged body, and switched on the lights. I inspected the hell out of that wood-paneled room and found nothing but my own fear.
Standing in the middle of the room, now having put on my tennis shoes, I asked, what the hell just happened? Was that real? And even now, I’m convinced the sequence of events began with opening my eyes and that it wasn’t a dream. But like a big baby, from then on I slept with the lights on, so that during the night I could wake up and immediately scan the room for anything menacing. Though after that, I didn’t see another spider. The only pests remaining were the mosquitoes.
“My reflexion scares me when I see it in the metro window. Some people are staring, some raise their eyebrows when they see my face. My head feels hot then cold. I wonder if my scalp is blushing.”
I wrote this in a notebook I carried with me in Paris, in the weeks after I shaved my head. It’s not an easy city for a woman to be bald. It showed me how conservative Paris is, how much I prefer to be the one looking rather than the thing looked at, and made me start writing with a vengeance from this new perspective.
Today at 2pm I’m giving a talk in Cincinnati, at the Iris BookCafé & Gallery, where I have a show of three series of self portraits, together entitled
FEMME. It’s the first time I’m showing my work in my own country.
“The timeless communicating to the time-bound.”
This photo is part of a series that I’m editing, taken during my residency at the Halsnoy Kloster, and today it makes me think of this sentence above, by Steven Pressfield and inspired by William Blake, in The War of Art.
This tree is 550 years old. She (because I call her the mother tree) was struck by lightening around 1850. She’s protected by Norway and has a plaque nailed to the side of her that faces the Kloster Fjord, but her trunk has grown around it so you can’t see what it says. Her roots are tangled in the stone wall that runs along side of her, and because the lightening ripped her open, she can shelter you from the rain. Her trunk bulbs out in several areas that make very nice places to sit or nap. I visit her daily, and last night decided to light her up while the sky was clear and the moon was bright. For scale, I sat in my usual spot inside her trunk, and lit myself with a flashlight.
This morning I was up before the sun. It doesn’t happen often.
I work very well long after the sun goes down so I rarely see it rise.
From my kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew and the bread to toast, I watched the light on these buildings change. I could see the sun, reflected in one small window over there on the other side of the canal. I grabbed a camera and just when I was about to take the photo, André Kertesz came flying by.
He’s been on my mind since seeing the retrospective at Jeu de Paume.
Is it possible to miss someone you have never met?
not sleeping and not sleepy . . .
New explorations with found objects…
Every day in Paris you find treasures thrown out on the street. Yesterday it was windows and doors.
It’s now week three of my informal residency at 59 rue de Rivoli, where I’m working on portraits of the approximately 32 artists working in the “aftersquat.” I’ve photographed 19, 20 including myself, which I do every day. Originally just to test the light, it’s evolving into something more.