Kerry Rawlinson
Circumstances find me pared down, reaching for performative art as an outward confirmation of the business of surviving, of being alive. I'm processing how that looks: not inserting my presence into the space, which performs continuously with or without me? Or manipulating the space with my presence? Or manipulating my presence into a manifestation of space? I photographed the lowliest of bodyparts: the feet. These images I manipulated into imaginary desert landscapes--hence my body has become the terrain. It's sterile and lifeless--yet a mysterious energy suggest we explore further, and walk in...
I'm mindful of Eliot's Wasteland
ReplyDeleteHere is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
How to transcend the bleakness / the exhaustion / the loneliness
thank you for such haunting words
DeleteMakes me think of a Johari Window; known and unknown self...such a landscape...
ReplyDeletethank you!
DeleteJust to put a name to my comment about the Johari Window, I am saying you are welcome, with my name attached! :)
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