Plans for reinstallation of TRP must stop. Everything must stop. There is no way–no way–the body refuses–the air refuses–to occupy any space in the ordinary way. The body refuses. The air refuses. It isn’t that TRP is beside the point now that Trump has won. It is that no action can be other than reaction. If I have a space to fill, it must be filled with outrage. Out. Rage.
As I consider how to install TRP at Feast, I am thinking about the nature of space and place. I can equate space with the unrepresented world–everything in the world as it is and has been–and place as the narrativized world–a selection (or selection out) of specific elements of the world in order to describe the world. Meaningless and meaningful.
The humanist geographer Yi-Fu Tuan writes that space requires the move from one place to another. I developed all of the elements of TRP for the Salon Refu space in order to transform it into a place. Now as I relocate it to a new space, as I consider how to transform that space into the place that is TRP, there is then a gesture–a motion–that describes/inscribes a new, larger space. Can that space also be a place? The space described by the gesture…can it be a place? And can that place be TRP?
I spent the weekend packing up index cards and patching tiny map pin holes. Salon Refu is restored to emptiness. The criss-crossing wires of The Archive no longer contain the space between floor and ceiling, transforming it into object. No redaction pattern shadows on the floor. No sentient, skin-prickle flutter of words as the door opens.
It all fits nicely into four boxes.
I listened to Krista Tippett’s interview with Ann Hamilton (On Being, November 2015) as I took The Instance Cards down, feeling very keenly the impossibility of anyone other than myself having the experience of time rushing out of the room in that hour. Hamilton said some of what I have said and felt about the banal and incremental nature of large works, about the experience of being in the room with my own work…getting to know it only having made it. I feel very fortunate to have had long hours alone in the space. It has given me a chance to understand some of what I was doing all these years. And then my understanding shifts.
Hamilton also talks about not knowing. Not saying. Waiting as long as possible to fix a thing to a name. I hope I remember this.
Here I am in the awkward place again of searching for sticks…or perhaps I am not at that point yet. At the beach in Maine, we always made little homes for inch-tall avatars. It started with an idea of the home formulated long before that moment. So it seemed the first thing to do was find enough sticks of the right size. But really the first thing happened with the idea of home, the perfect shape of shelter. Or maybe the first thing was before that first thing. Maybe the first thing was the need for shelter. A need so powerful, it dominated imagination and play.
What is my new powerful need?
What is the new shape of shelter?
Where are the sticks?
Three months of intense production, and The Redaction Project is finally installed and open at Salon Refu. Contact for information about purchasing installation artifacts or the show catalogue.
Spent the last five days sequestered in the Oysterville cottage of a dear and generous friend who fended off the world while I completed a polish of The Warmest Season screenplay. I can feel this story. I can see it perfectly. Sometimes I think it should be a picture book for grownups.
The island location that seemed so right has gone wrong. Alas, the good folks of the Anderson Island Historical Society have decided that it’s bad timing for us to use the Johnson’s Farm for filming Islanders (aka Alternate Endings) this summer. So it goes with production: one day your ducks are in a row, the next they are paddling off in different directions.
So late in the game, we have decided to postpone production. We are pushing ahead with planning – script development, budgeting, casting, and looking for a new location – while also taking this opportunity to put more energy into Sophisticated and The Warmest Season.
I was discouraged for two grey days, but then rallied. Much thanks to Marilyn for her patience and support during the lag time between half empty and half full. Check out the newly updated look books for Sophisticated and The Warmest Season (password “Agnes”).
Islanders is a feature film scheduled for production late summer of 2015. Written and directed by Anne de Marcken, it is her first feature-length project since the award-winning and groundbreaking Group came out in 2002. She is again teaming up with Marilyn Freeman to tell the story, and their production company Wovie, Inc. will produce.
Islanders is about two women – one old, one young – and the way life can begin and end when you least expect it. The movie is a happy accident. Having secured the perfect location for a different project that is still in development (keep an eye out for The Warmest Season in 2016-17), de Marcken decided to push ahead and take advantage of the opportunity by writing another script that could be developed quickly.
It is all part of her determination to make movies that are by and about women. After an extended hiatus during which she focused on her own writing and also taught writing and media at The Evergreen State College, de Marcken looked up and was shocked to discover that little has changed for women in film. They are still under-represented and still narrowly portrayed, they are still underpaid, and they are still more often found behind desks than cameras…on the telephone instead of on set. She doesn’t think she can change the world, but de Marcken does believe that as a woman filmmaker, it is in her power to make a difference by simply doing what she does with full commitment; women directors are so uncommon that even one more in the field shifts the balance.
This is the first of what I hope will be a regular series of posts that feature things I find online that I like.
Connie Sun’s daily cartoon practice: Connie to the Wonnie.
Tradition is an effort. It crowds the schedule. It feels like “thou shalt.” You consider being sick. You worry about what to wear. You get angry at the people who are putting you in this position. And you do it anyway. You grumble the whole way there. You have at least one fight with your person.
Then it begins. And it carries you along. And you carry it along. Tradition. You somehow both ride on its shoulders and carry it on yours at the same time.
I regret saying I would teach in the fall. But maybe even if I hadn’t, I would still be feeling this urgency, this sense that I am at every moment letting something irreplaceable slip away with too little notice. This day is the only this day ever. I will never get this back. There will never be another. That is the feeling once the air changes, once the light changes, once it is sharp.
I talked on the telephone to Mum and she said she’d smelled fall in the air the morning before. I said it hadn’t happened yet here. And then the next day it did. Fall. Fall. It is the right word. There is flail or there is surrender, but there is only one way it will go. Fall.