The first impulse is to surrender the space. To make room. To not fill white gallery walls with more work by a white person.
The next impulse is to take responsibility. To make work. To not shift the responsibility–response/ability–to the people who already most bare the burden of whiteness.
And so I wade in–not stripped down and smeared in lard, but fully clothed and prepared to drown.
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?
While not writing…
Though it doesn’t usually feel like it until months later, the time I spend avoiding my desk or avoiding the page is essential. If only I could remember in the moment that procrastination is part of my creative process. Instead, I agonize and judge. Maybe, though, the agony (and judgment) are as essential as the distraction.