A stile is an opening in a fence that is not a gate.

Narratives

I’m thinking of this “real” world as the play of consciousness.  Consciousness itself is invisible, outside of time and space. Therefore my attempts to make objects which represent it are doomed to failure. But I’m doing it anyway.

I’m using installation as narrative. Right now there is an emergent storyline of balance-imbalance, trees as beings of consciousness, surmounting obstacles, and precarious glass spheres. Consciousness is not fragile in the least, but its creations are ephemeral. A sledgehammer lurks among glass spheres. Juxtaposed contradictions. I haven’t decided whether the glass spheres will be secured so they don’t break, or in imminent danger of falling.

The obstacle will be a stile at the doorway. A low one, with a teeter-totter to negotiate.  Enter at your own risk.

1/11/13

Installations play with time as well as space, putting objects together that are not connected in the natural world. I intend to perform the art as I always do, only the performance will be preserved. It always is preserved, even in marble. What else is Michelangelo’s David? Why then?

I do not perform this art to make anyone feel any way. You are how you are. I am who I am.  Whatever that is. Consciousness. I do this art to play.

The room, I saw the closet that will be art. I wanted to inhabit it, curl up in a blanket. I measured it, sketched it.  The door is 40” wide jamb to jamb. I will stay in there, do more sketches. Play music in it. Sing and dance. It’s very small. How odd. I’m dealing with how claustrophobic I feel in my life and I’m working in a little closet. I think it’s 72” long. It has a window covered with brown paper. I see work spilling out of the closet into the room.

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