of interest

traveling. two weeks. paris, berlin, the spanish pyranees, london. again a lot of art. with mountains and air in between.

of interest:

Paris
Women's art exhibition at the Pompidou. Jenny Holzer. (again.) She had printed some typed statements on neon paper and plastered a wall with them. six or so columns, each column a different color, a different statement. Statements of dominance, pleasure in oppressing another, playing messed-up mind games. pleasure in another's pain. the unspoken undercurrent of society. This made me think: what if we say things we don't mean, we don't feel? what if we say them, these things that are part of our experience, that drive a society's way of life, but are never spoken about? what if they're so awful we know that she's just pointing them out? and what if it still hurts?
we must confront pain. keeping words and attitudes hidden, unspoken, in the realm of silence just perpetuates silence, a blind eye. we can keep on being silent. at some point we must speak. we must confront even that which we do not like, what we do not want to believe in because it is there. neon. look at me look at me. drawing attention, making an announcement of what we dare not say.
we must confront pain.
Ana Mendieta. (again. and for the first time in person.) I stand with my arms raised in awe. I bow. a gesture of prayer, of gratitude, of submission (submission to what? to whom?) red draws down from her arms on the white canvas, a single motion of bringing togeher, bowing down. the red of body, pain, death, life. red of sacrifice, vulnerability. bow of sacrifice, vulnerability.
there is pain.
we cause eachother so much pain. we cause ourselves so much pain. in the end, what is left is not our body but a mark, a mere remnant of a gesture. her gesture moved through time to me.
there is pain.
we must sit with, stand with, hold our pain. embrace it. bow to it.
in another, she holds a chicken. she held that chicken. upside down, blood rushing to it's head, flapping, must get away. then the calm settles in (as it does). I have held a chicken like this. (is this my body?) it tried to get away. it didn't want to be held. with a head. then layed down, an axe. without a head. and she holds it again. flap flap. jerk. twist, coil, spasm. then the calm settles in. blood all in it's head. blood all out of it's head. blood all out of it's body. (is this my body?) and her there, holding it. she didn't do the chopping, but she initiated it's killing. and she held it. her naked, mourning. (is this my body?) holding it in it's pain. which was her pain. her body naked, vulnerable. no distance or shield between them. could she calm, could she settle? could she relax like the cicken? I didn't want to watch it. I knew it as it was happening, I knew what would happen. But to see it. to not shy away.
there is pain.
we might as well face it. embrace it. hold it. we do not want to cause it, but we do. (she didn't want to do that. but she did.) and she was with the bird as it died. she held it. she took that pain in. (I took that pain in. is this my body?) we know no boundaries. we know no bounds. we bind. we are bound.

there is pain.


(again.) because
Jenny Holzer is:
IT CAN BE STARTLING TO
SEE SOMEONE'S BREATH,
LET ALONE THE BREATHING OF A CROWD.
YOU USUALLY DON'T BELIEVE THAT
PEOPLE EXTEND THAT FAR.

Ana Mendieta is a silueta in the earth. the echo of a body. a body as affecting, a body as affected. a body with thin bounds. (peau si fine.)